Nail Biting

I've been biting my nails for as long as I can remember.

Nail biter, that's what they would call me.

I have often thought people probably judge me because of my short, uneven, unkempt nails. I have always admired women and men who keep their nails so well manicured and clean.

I have read so many posts on nail biting and how nail biters are perfectionists and you should love a nail biter for this.

But, I don't love myself. I often hate myself. I hate who I am. I am grateful for my life, but I am often in such deep, dark fog that I can never see beyond these immediate feelings and emotions.

I have high anxiety and severe depression. I am what most people would call a high functioning.

On a regular day, no one would ever know of my mental health issues. In fact, there have been times I have opened up to co-workers or new acquaintances and they are absolutely gobsmacked when I tell them I have depression. They don't understand.

"But you're so happy all the time and you always have so much energy"

How do I explain the deep, dark void I tumble into every single day? How do I tell people that I have to talk myself into doing everything.

I think a lot of people who have mental health issues are the best actors out there. Everyday you are pretending to be someone you might not feel like you truly are.

Am I happy all the time? No.

On every single given day this is my thought process:

Something bad is going to happen today. What if they fire me? What if I don't make it to work on time. Maybe they will realize that I'm a phony and ask me to leave. I'm not smart enough. Maybe everyone will realize how stupid I am. I don't know if anyone actually loves me or if they are pretending just to be nice. I am such a burden. I don't know if my friends actually care about me. People probably think I'm so fat and ugly. I'm such a disappointment. I'm the worst wife, I'm the worst daughter, I'm the worst sister, I'm the worst friend. I should die. People would be happier without me in their life. I wish I didn't exist. The world would be better without me.

This is the thought process that I have almost every single minute during my day.

To cope, I bite my nails. On some days, I try my best not to give in. I try to cope some other way. But nail biting is such an old comforting memory. It is my own.

Next time when you see someone with not so perfect nails, please don't judge. Just listen, with an open mind and with kindness. It could change the trajectory of someone's day completely and it would make a world of a difference.

Let's talk about Depression

For a very very long time, I felt like I was in a fog. Sadness just picked away at me and I constantly felt useless and inadequate. This feeling never went away and it got worse over time. To cope, I would often self-harm. I was lucky that no one noticed the cuts or the scars, and there were times where I reached out to people but they could never help me. I definitely did think I had depression but I also thought that I was lazy(something that was often said to me) and probably making a mountain out of a molehill.

When I was in my 3^rd year of university, my uncle passed away very unexpectedly in an accident. He was 26, just a year older than my brother. I was devastated. It shattered me. I had never experienced such loss in my life and I was finding it really hard to deal with the grief. My mom and my aunt were huge sources of help and support during this time. We were going through similar emotions and felt so betrayed by life. During my last year of university, I busied myself enough so I wouldn’t have to think about my feelings, I didn’t want to let myself be sad. I filled up every single hour of every day with things to do and it worked for a while. All that came to a crashing halt about 2 months later. I started experiencing the very classic signs of depression: change in sleep, change in appetite, body pains, lack of interest in anything or anyone, lack of energy, it would take me hours to read something that would have taken me 10 minutes and I was also very suicidal. I started cutting myself a lot; a lot more than before and I was starting to get really worried. My friends encouraged me to talk to someone about these feelings and I had been seeing a counselor on and off for a little while, so I made an appointment.

When I told my counselor the different things that I had been experiencing, she told me,

“I think you’ve had depression your entire life, but you’ve just been able to manage it really well.” 

Depression

That was the word she had used. I cried uncontrollably for about 15 minutes after that. I felt such a huge sense of relief. A giant weight had been lifted and I could now say the word I had never said before. Depression. Depression. Depression. I had to repeat it over and over again to know it was true. Everything had started to make sense now: why I didn't eat after three days when I got a bad mark on a test, why some comments people would make would hit me like a brick wall, why I always felt the need to punish myself and why I never understood any of it. I was referred to a doctor and went on medication while continuing therapy. It was scary and it is still scary to think about today, but it helped and is an ongoing process.

I have learnt that my depression will always stay with me. There are times when I feel great, amazing in fact and I don't even think about the sadness. There are other times when I am engulfed in a world of pain and I have learnt to be kind to myself through it. I have a bunch of people in my life who continually help me and whose love is a huge sense of support for me when I am down. I am so grateful for them, for their unending belief in me and for always reminding me of the good things.

If you feel like you are walking through a fog, if you are experiencing an inexplicable amount of sadness, please reach out. Please know that there are other people who are experiencing the same things and that you are not alone. Find someone to talk to, you are worth it and you mean more than you could ever imagine.

REACH OUT! Pick up the phone, join a chat group, call a helpline, text a friend. 

Is it difficult? Yes.

Is it scary? Yes.

Can it help? YES! YES! YES!

Sending you all lots of love,

Aishwariya

P.S.- My very brave hubby wrote a brilliant and beautiful post (http://anthonyteles.com/depression/) on his blog about his experiences with Depression. He is someone who always inspires me and it should come as no surprise that he has inspired this post as well. Thank you Anthony, for being so open and courageous with your experiences, and thank you for always holding me, whether it is in moments of light or darkness.

to acha and amma with all my love...

Back in 2000, when I moved to Canada with my family, I never understood the gravity of my parent’s decision. Today, as a 26 year old, I reminisce about my dad’s decision and I am ever so grateful.

We used to live in Dubai, a well to do middle class family with an incredibly comfortable life. My dad is an architect, and he is the first person that I have ever known who truly loves his job. Every time my dad would come home from work with rolls of blueprints and building designs; he would try to explain to my brother and I what all the lines, squiggles and doodles meant. My brother took in the work with great admiration while I never understood what it was all about.

My dad held great positions in many of the few reputable architecture firms in Dubai. He built his career slowly over the twelve years we lived in the Middle East. He was really proud of the work he did and I was really proud of what he accomplished in his career. I admired his love and dedication to the work he did.

When my brother and I were born, my mom chose to stay home with us. She grew up in a family where her mother left early for work and came back in the late evening with little to no time to spend with her four daughters. My mom was happy about the choice she made; she never wanted my brother or I to ever feel like we were missing something or that she didn't have time for us. Later on, when we both grew older and with my dad's encouragement, my mom started working with children. She absolutely loved the kids; she loved the work and was glad she was able to do it while her own children were able to take care of themselves a little more. 

When I was about eight, my brother was sent to boarding school in India. My parents determined this to be the best course of action for him as he wasn't doing too well in school academically, and moving him from one school to another did not help either. This is a decision I personally feel was terrible on my parents’ part, but nonetheless, my brother left. This shattered me emotionally. My relationship with my brother was unlike the ones I saw of my friends with their older siblings. I remember feeling like the coolest kid ever because my brother used to show me off to his friends and was never embarrassed to include me in his plans. He was so proud of this little person that was his, whom he assumed was adored by everyone as much as he did. He was my protector and confidante and I loved him dearly. Don’t get me wrong, we fought like all siblings do, but he was always there for me when I needed him. We were pals and most importantly we were partners in crime. The day he left I felt like I had lost him; he was my first ever companion and friend.

After my brother left my school and left Dubai, I slowly started getting bullied more than usual. I wasn't skinny, my skin tone was darker than what most Indian's like( and find beautiful); and I didn't have anyone to protect me (my brother). 

The last year that I spent in Dubai was probably the worst. I came home every day and cried myself to sleep and just really didn't know what to do. I was called many things; many things that really affected my self-esteem and self-confidence, which in turn reflected in the grades I was getting. I never told my parents what people were saying to me (this included my teachers as well) as I felt that I needed to deal with it on my own. 

The day my parents told me we finally got our landing papers to move to Canada, I was light-headed. I was filled with glee and relief, just knowing that I wouldn't have to go to school anymore with people that were horribly cruel to me.

I don't think my parents know this, but I really think that moving to Canada saved my life. I remember feeling so lost and alone that last year and I had started self-harming which later on became a serious problem for me. The stress of school, and the bullying and the feeling that I was disappointing my parents all drove me deeper into a depressive state; luckily for me, that changed when we moved to Canada.

I know that for my parents, moving to Canada was not a decision taken lightly. I know my mom never wanted to move here, she wanted to be closer to her family in India and moving to a far-away foreign country couldn't be scarier. My dad was the one who convinced my mom, and so they were brave and decided to move their entire lives to a country they knew very little about at ages 38 and 49. They moved so that my brother and I would have better options and hopefully a better life; a life that was better than they could imagine for us in Dubai or India.

When we moved here, the plan was for my mom, my brother and I to start our lives in Toronto, while my Dad would go back, work a little more and then come join us a little later. It took my Dad two years to come join us permanently.

Toronto was a great place for my brother and I, we loved our schools, we loved our friends, and we both were doing much better in school than we ever did previously. I was also the happiest I had ever been in my entire life.

For my dad on the other hand, getting a job in Toronto was really tough. For the many job interviews my dad went to, people told him he was over-qualified. Some told him that he needed Canadian experience. Others told him that he would have to re-qualify under Canadian certification to even apply for jobs. All of this was really hard on my father, who for much of his career had been adored by the many firms he had worked with. My dad decided to take on a junior position, one that he had surpassed in his career by several years. He went from one company to the next, not able to move up, and resenting the underlying racism that existed in these so called 'equal opportunity' firms. Finally, my dad got a position in Doha, Qatar through a Canadian company. When he moved there, the project fell through and he had to act fast; so he applied to companies within Doha and got a position where he was appreciated and admired. This was about 7 years ago. 

For the past seven years, I have seen my dad twice a year for about two weeks each. With my dad's position in Doha, my mom never felt comfortable getting a full-time job because the job she currently has allows her many long breaks. These breaks are usually spent with my dad in Doha, keeping him company in a city where he knows nobody and is generally a little unforgiving to men who appear to be single. This is how it has been for the four of us the past several years. 

It is ironic to me, that we moved to Canada hoping to be together again. Yet, somehow this country has taken a father away from my brother and me, taken my mom’s husband away from her, and made him miss the many important moments in both my brother’s and my life.

I have never told my parents how much I appreciate all the sacrifices they have made for my brother and me. I have never told them how much their decision to move became the best thing that ever happened to me. So thank you, to the both of you; thank you for your love, your courage and your general bad ass-ness. I love you so much. You are my heroes.

To Amma: you are the strength I have always wished I had. Thank you for being so bold and agreeing to move to a country that didn't really allow your family to be together. Thank you for your patience and understanding in bringing up two teenagers in a new country. Thank you for supporting me when I needed you the most. Thank you for being this amazingly funny quirky person who with just one word or look can have a room full of people laughing.

Thank you Acha for giving up so much so that we could be comfortable. Thank you for sacrificing so much of your own happiness so we could have ours. Thank you for giving me a life that I never could have imagined if we had stayed in Dubai. Thank you for being the most encouraging father, letting me do whatever I wanted to do, even if you didn't really understand it. Thank you for being the number one cheerleader in my life, and thank you finally for letting me be everything I have ever wanted to be. I love you so much.