Self Harming, Masochism and Control | Shrink Tales

I realized i wasn’t ready to talk about my weight problems and eating habits. I was just not ready to put it on the list - of things to address. And guess what, i came back home and at night my partner showed me a video from film school where i was dancing in my room and i realized that i had put on weight. Since then my mood has shifted back to those from the dreadful times when i couldn’t stop eating. When i couldn’t walk because i had too much food inside me, when i just couldn’t do anything. Oh my god. That time when i went to a gym in Kolkata. That time when i tried exercising. Even as i type i am welling up. Just because i saw an earlier video of mine in which i appeared thinner. I am now going to on Facebook and delete the recent photo i uploaded when i was so happy that the Hadiya case was moving in a hopeful direction. Probably will end up deleting all the photos in my phone too. 

Ish asked me to remind my psychiatrist of this weight issue when i mentioned how i kept two weighing scales at home. That reminds me. Let me re-re-re-check my weight in the second weighing scale. 

The most hopeful part of that day's therapy was when Ish told me that depression could be shut off forever. It came up because i had been shocked the week before when she had said that it was also her job to make surethat it didn’t come back. It was possible, she said. Usually people kept conditions like ‘i won’t take pills but i can be at therapy’ – this one is just like Mother. She also stopped going for therapy later. In fact people, like how Mother did with me, might even discourage people from doing it. She was very upset when she heard that i had gone to a therapist in Kolkata. The issue was my eating habits at that point of time. There was nothing wrong, that was how all people were, she had said. No, Mother, all people are not like that. We are all, as a family, used to such abnormalities and self-punishment that we feel that it is normal.  

We did a flashback session in which Ish spoke about the major developments in each of our sessions so far. There was a turning point where i realized that the repeated abusive relationships could have come from the normalization of violence in my childhood and life. In fact, i am very thankful to Ish for having recognized that as a serious problem. She herself was surprised, she said, that it was not enough for me to have got abused once, that i went back again and again to different forms of violence in different relationships. I feel so much relieved every time i think of the moment from my first session with Ish, when she said that she would like to start by addressing my recurring abusive relationships. It was an area that only Inji had touched till then. No professional had correctly identified that problem. It was always as if i was waiting for them to identify it and make it go away but when they didn’t figure it out themselves, i deluded myself saying it wasn’t probably important. I thought of Mother’s and Sister’s opinion that it was happening because i had ‘a thing’ for older men. These are educated women, one, a journalist who even writes about abuse. Imagine the horror! 

She also reminded how i always looked up to my sister and how, i always wanted to be like her. Yes, i copied her handwriting, her words, her way of speaking and everything i could because she was the best. But later, when i saw that she was doing things that i couldn't copy, things that i didn't want to copy, it occurred to me that i no longer had anyone to copy. Maybe that's why i stuck to inji like a magnet. Today, i pursue inji's character with the same vigour i pursued my sister's character. That made me wonder why i always wanted someone to emulate. Was it common? 

This reminded me of Mother. While growing up, after puberty, when i started voicing my opinions, i used to find it really annoying when Mother said that she didn't want us (me and Sister) to be like her. I remember getting angry with her even, for always speaking like that. I selfishly wanted a mother who asked their children to be like her, because she was the best. I hated that she had no respect for herself. And look at me now.

 

I think in the next session i should talk about my sex life that got affected. [If it is okay to speak about it during therapy.] The way i am ashamed of being sexually aroused by things that were part of abuse and i got introduced to because of and during abuse. It’s dreadful. I remember a victim of child sexual abuse once telling me that it was a common phenomenon, after i made the film in solidarity with Memories of a Machine. This may also explain why i feel a lot guilty in my relationship with my partner. Sexually. 

Over the sessions we had also touched upon the kind of love i wanted. The kind of love i had. Spoke about Appan. Who never hurt me. About what i thought was motherly love and how i broke that stereotype by understanding that was just a name i had given the love i wanted. 

She asked me when my self hurting methods had started. I told her about the time when i had scored 85% in math in high school and was scared that Mother would beat me or yell at me for that. That was when i firstran a razor blade over my wrist. I remember going home and making some more superficial cuts. I also just remembered that i had the habit of doing stuff like that for apparently no reason too. I remember dripping wax from a candle on my fist to experience that pain. I remember striking my thumb with a stapler just to ‘see if it would hurt.’ These had no triggers, like a poor score in an exam or sadness. 

The next time i scarred myself like crazy was when i heard of Appan. He was losing his memory. I knew that this was the first in the series of things that was going to lead to his death. I thought of him, sitting in the room where i had stuck some of his sketches on the brick wall and scarred my wrist – all superficial cuts, just enough to let me bleed. That was the day i started preparing for his death. 

I remembered how i had broken a bangle and scarred myself in front of Mother when she and i were having one of our arguments. Ish asked me what i felt during those. Frustration. When i thought of it, even though i don’t even remember what the fight was about, i got that feeling i get when people don’t understand what i say. She said that it could be because they weren’t yet there. That made sense to me. I too, have come a long way. I do understand things i never understood when i was younger. It could also be that the other person was shunning me. Could that be intentional, i asked, thinking of Mother. ‘Could be,’ she said. They could be doing it also to protect themselves. From the truth or pain of realization. 

I totally loved that. I no longer feel frustrated. I no longer feel like wringing my body like a cloth till every word that will help others understand how i feel will drip out of my body. Instead, when i think of people who have put me in such positions, i feel sorry, that i even tried so much. Every time i tried, maybe Mother was getting hurt. Or trying hard, not to listen and tried to shun me in ways that hurt me. I feel like hugging Mother now. [Maybe because she isn’t here now. Why don’t you call her, i ask myself. ‘No, that wouldn’t make any sense.’ I will write a mail. I know. Hey Gmail, are you hiring?

I also spoke of how i viewed therapy. How i could see and feel changes. Like how i laughed more, or joked more. There is no desperation about the sexual harassment battle or any battle. There is no thoughts of giving up. How i felt happy that my partner was less burdened with my sadness. Feeling responsible for Mother. The way in which i was handling the situation. 

Ish then said that hurting my body was part of human beings’ strategy of being hard on themselves. All our social values and morals etc. taught us to be kind to others, loving to others [Was Jesus a conspiracy of moral science?] It does not teach us to love ourselves. When she said that, my hopes diminished. It was true. If there ever was a lesson called ‘love oneself’ i was absent in it. Or, it could also be that it wasn’t taught properly. Facebook is always flooded with images of women who say ‘in love with myself’ i don’t think i can ever do that with my whole heart. I got scared that i wouldn’t be able to solve the self harming problem because i was sure that i wouldn’t succeed in loving myself in the manner that Ish was talking about. She further explained that we turned to our bodies because that was ALL WE HAD. That made perfect sense to me. 

Mother, sister, abuser, venomous words and verbal fights could only help so much. Beyond that, i would have to turn to something i had absolute control over because i possessed it. I HAD my body. I could do anything to it. I clench my fist as if to hit someone when i think of it. Get visions of a knife running through my leg exposing blood and flesh. Many more bloody images flash. To think that i had something that i could do stuff to, the power it gave me, it must be really soothing to my brain that i had control over something. That there was one thing i could abuse. For once, i could be nasty as abusers were to me to someone. Something – my body. Whenever i write ‘my body,’ you know what i think of? A sack. Filled with potatoes or something. It’s just a thing i carry, i feel. 

[Read Raya’s update the same day. Commented there.]

Ish’s method of joining feminism in therapy was really good. I thought of NN's mother who she said was a therapist. Her views on things had scared me. It's not about feminism either. It is about dealing with victims. Professionally. Even when i am an atheist i should be able to deal with Mother's problems regarding her faith. 

The sketches i had made for Sanghadita upon Inji's request got published. One day Mother abused Inji and pappu and baby and i thought it was because she had seen those illustrations. I felt horrible and the wound is sore. I need to get out of the frustration to be able to help Mother. I am the strongest and i have the most love. I really long for Mother. There is just this wall in between. I should start making tools to break it. 

One of the sketches i made for Sanghadita on the theme 'Mother and i'. Even though the picture here is not from my life, i added elements from my childhood and filled it with the same love i feel for Mother. The task is to make Mother understand that i love her and that my love is perhaps different from hers.

During the week i thought of an abuser’s psychology. Wouldn’t it be great if i could figure them out? I think it is important to understand their psychology just as i try to understand all aspects of a victim's psychology.

Shrink Tales #2: In Which i Told my Shrink That it was Okay and That it Happened Sometimes

Hospitals scared me. No real people. No home. No smoking zones.
I thought of her at hospitals. I thought of myself four years ago. Had anything changed?
I hated being sick. Sickness was when my body was not under my control. I hated that. When Calico spoke of his migraine of two decades i was enraged. How could a sickness do that to a human being. And yet there i was in a mundane room. Over exposed and good for nothing but sick people. Like me.

When it was time for the second visit i chickened out. I had a screening to attend at 6 p.m and thought i would be late if i went to the hospital. Sethuvamma said that the doctor visited the hospital only once a week and that i would have to go. That did it for me. I became irritable. She said she wanted to take a cab. I wanted to go by auto(rickshaw). Slammed doors and tears later i was at the whiteness of the hospital. I had Derrida for Beginners with me along with the previous session's prescription where she had asked me to try out 'self soothing methods' which involved ice cubes and scribbling in red. I had done none. There had not been an occasion. I was happy the entire week. I had got a new bicycle. Sethuvamma was going to buy me a phone. I asked for a bicycle instead. It was cheaper too, i added. I had wanted one since i sold my earlier Hero when i was hard up on cash. We went to Bentinck Street [that's where you should go if you want to buy a bicycle in Kolkata] together and bought one. I rode the thirteen or more kilometers back to the institute. When i reached the room i found three big cartons with Amazon written on it. She had sent me lots of goodies. She later told me that she wanted me to have a new beginning. She sent a lot more things of which i liked a pair of earrings the best. Golden, it was a leaf.

None of that helped me at the hospital. Tears poured down as Sethuvamma stood guard at the door of Ms Mullick, my psychologist. I couldn't concentrate on the pictures in the book let alone its deconstruction. I stared at the fish. A fish tank was the silliest thing to be in a hospital. What purpose did it serve anyway! I went out to have a smoke. Sethuvamma followed me because she thought i was going to leave like the one time i had. I was sulky and hurt her by saying i was going to smoke. There were more packets arriving at the hostel. I was even getting a new phone. Buddi had sent it when he got to know that my Samsung was getting switched off without provocation. I was numb to everything.

Ms Mullick asked me how the week had been. I suppressed my tears and said that it was fine except when it was time for therapy. She asked me if i were in similar situations often. Where i felt that i was being forced to do things. I realized i was when she asked me that. It was like the time when your room was always dirty. There would be one moment where you decide to tidy it up. That would be when your mother walks in to tell you just that. Then you wouldn't want to clean the room only because she asked you to. To this problem of mine she said that i would have to practise self soothing methods again. Also asked me to set goals. By then i had started crying again.

She asked me what the matter was. Then i told my shrink that it was okay and that it happened sometimes. Only after saying that did i realize how stupid i sounded. She was easy on me. Thank heavens that i am not a psychologist. If it were me i would have laughed out loud. She said she knew it was okay and that she only wanted to know what my thoughts were at that moment. Damn! What was i thinking!
Oh. That was what she wanted to know.

I said that i was feeling bad that i was being changed. She asked me how that was. I said i felt that the world was not a place for a person like me and that i had to do what she asked me to do so that i could belong. So that i could be happy. Said that my pain was also what made me me and parting with it would be sad. It was like when you had a break-up. When it hurt badly you were also happy somewhere because it also meant that you loved that person so.
She thought for a long time. She said that the fact was that the world was not a place for anybody. I didn't get what she meant by that. Nor did i try understanding. What she said next caught my attention. She drew three blocks with 0, 50 and 100 written in them. She said that my pain was at 100. She said that a happy person's pain was at 50. And that 0 was how much pain a person in comatose had. She said that she couldn't even help me be at 50 and that she was only trying to make me be at around 80-90. That was because at 100 my pain was asking me to harm myself.

I was relieved. I paid attention. Like in school. The class was interesting you see. I had to feel that the teacher/professor knew something i didn't to pay attention to them. Ms. Mullick seemed to know things i didn't and things i could understand.

So when i thought i was losing control i had to think of my goals. She went back to the situation of Aalayam losing the memory card which contained a day's footage. That was what she remembered of me, she said. So when a person was in such a situation they had to think of what the immediate goal was. That would be to shoot it again. What could be done so that it could be shot again and such.

It sounded easy. Only it wasn't. If i had seen the footage (reviewing dailies in film maker's parlance) and saw that it was bad i would easily have scheduled a re-shoot. Why then was i not able to even think of such things when Aalayam lost the card? She then took me to stress levels. When stress levels were at its peak and it overflowed one lost their sense of logic. She said lose and wrote loose. The prescription now has 'loose sense of logic' written on it. It was true either ways, i thought.

Back in the institute i spoke to her. I had received all of her presents. She said she wanted me to even start smelling new. Toiletries imported from Paris, my dream land, shampoo and soaps that i had seen only with NN, badminton rackets, an oven-toaster-griller and what not. When i spoke to her i started faltering for all the new beginnings and material comforts i then had. I spoke of my end. I spoke of the hotel room i was going to die in. For the first time i tried the 'self soothing methods'. I scribbled in red in the book Emm, my neighbour had gifted me. It didn't soothe my self.

Later when i looked at those pages i felt really bad that such a nice book was being wasted that way. So i tried converting my scribblings in red to some sort of sketches. Came out very badly, but it was okay. I felt i was doing something.

The first one is me leading myself on. There is a bigger me and a smaller me. I followed myself on, balloons and all.

me, myself and balloons

The second one is a self portrait. That was how i was most of the time. She said she sometimes wished she could wear her pain on her sleeve. I don't wish that. I wanted everyone to see and touch what my pain wasn't, what i wasn't. And my pain, my baby, i would nurture. A potted plant, like the only clitoria on campus which sits smugly in my balcony. Brought all the way from Kozhikode, Kerala to Kolkata, West Bengal. Along with it what people didn't see board the train was that bitch of a pain mantled in laughter and sunshine. Mine. Mine. Mine.

On Pain

Pain is.

I always feel like writing about pain. Never do. May be i don't have the audacity to. I feel if i write about it she will lodge a more severe attack on me. Or may be i fear that writing might take her away from me. That would be suicidal. But then again, to survive, i have to write. So i thought about the other pain. The one some people skilfully overlook all the time. Physical pain.

Some people are like that. If it is happening to your body, you let it be. Some people are masochists. Some people think that by punishing the body with pain they are getting back at what their minds did to them. I would like to say that it is hard to explain. But there is nothing much to it. Some people simply supply a lot of pain to the body. Like how some people like NN, my roommate, ritualistically take vitamin pills.

When my body hurts i let it be. I wallow in the pain. Curse it and love it at the same time. I like to hide it. Define it and build theories around it. Like when i used to get migraine attacks in high school i would define it as a yellow cube sitting right in the centre of my brain. To kill the pain i would have to break open my head and pick it with thin tongs. When it was pulled out, it would make a click. Then the pain would be gone. It was only after practising this methodology for a long time time that i asked Sethuvamma to take me to a doctor. One month of pills and it was gone. Not fully, but the frequency was much less.

I am curious about the scope of it. I feel like trying out pain like clothes in a store. May not buy anything at the end of it, but just see how it looks on me. Like how once i saw a stapler and thought of how it would feel if i were to staple my skin. I tried it. Pressed it on my left thumbnail. It pierced through my nail and went a little into the flesh beneath. Good, i said, looking at the mirror in the trial room. Trial rooms are quite intriguing, you know. It's a closed space within a space which is not yours at all. Outside are people you don't like. The trial room is all that you have at a given time and space there. You cling on to it like it was your favourite doll from childhood.

When she wrote of Pain she wrote of songs. About strangers who left her with their songs. Of a lone sock which was left behind and never reached the laundry bag.
When i write about hospitals i will write only of them because her sock is still waiting. And my pain is only skin deep and a trial room reflection.

The first time i went to Medical College, College Street, Kolkata was to see a gynaecologist. I had not taken medicines for any of my petty ailments for a long time. Had not been to a hospital let alone a government owned one for my own consultation. And not alone. I had long gotten used to doing things alone. Walking, watching movies, shopping, eating out, i was only comfortable when i was alone. When i went to Medical College i felt cheated. I wanted someone. Not someone to guide me around places, just someone i could crack jokes to or bitch about bengalis to. Speaking of Bengalis the first thing which will piss you off here in Kolkata as a non Bengali is the truth that they only speak in Bangla. In Kerala, even if you look remotely foreign, people would try and answer you in English. Foreign is a relative term. If you were a girl and were wearing shorts or had your hair cut short people would like to believe you were a non mallu. Been there, done that, it's just silly anglophilia but during most of my first year here i was feeling happy about that situation at my native land. Here even if you asked for directions in hindi you would get a reply in Bangla none of which you would understand. You would have to repeat your question several times and tell them a couple of times that you didn't understand the language for them to start speaking in hindi. It all started to become easy when i slowly picked up the language. I can understand most of it now and can read if i take some time. On my first visit to the gynaecologist at Medical College i just got kicked around like a ball by a lot of people who showered me with instructions in Bangla. The doctor herself made me feel like shit. My depression was at its peak then and i lost a whole week to that experience, brooding.
[Then she called. Don't have to say more.] 

Today's visit was a cakewalk and made me realize how much i had acclimatized. I could read all of what was written on this board.

I learnt bangla script by comparing the writings on sign boards, buildings etc where it was written in both english and bangla. I walked a lot last year because i had a camera with me and this task was quite easy. So looking at the board i understood that my orthopedics department wasn't on it. So i asked around. When they said shoja i understood it was straight ahead.

Orthopedics because i had hurt my knee. The week i returned from my vacation was the worst. I couldn't sleep at night. It went past the standard 3 am barrier till sunrise. I would be starving by then. That's when i get out to have tea. A biscuit or two with it and then i would be able to sleep, tired. But i had forgotten it was winter. Weeping winter, not meek, not mild. When i got out and walked i thought it was better that i ran. That would keep me warm. So i ran. During summer sunrise is at 4:45 a.m here and during winter at 5:45 a.m. So after whole sleepless nights i would just run for an hour and head back, tired, around 7 am. On one such day i felt pain in my knee while running. Cute, i thought. It shot up while i walked and became milder when i ran. I was okay as long as i was exerting myself. After i got up i learnt that it was impossible for me to take a step without getting hurt. I had to shift the whole of my weight to my left leg and limp. I decided to punish my pain by walking normally. At night i played badminton. I ran for another day with the aching leg. By then my left leg had started aching slightly because of the weight. I stopped running but kept playing badminton. By the next day i had a conspicuous limp. People were surprised to hear that i was in pain. I felt good. I had done a great job concealing it. Then my schedule for the upcoming shoot was out and i realized i would have to run around a lot in the coming days. Hence Medical College.

This time at the hospital i looked around. Saw people. Quarreled with a guy at the mortuary when he refused to give me directions to a place, saw a dead body being taken away and felt nothing. This woman was there with two others and was in the X Ray room with me. It was saraswati puja day (it's always some puja or the other here) and may be that was why there were very few people there. Kolkata Medical College is a red bricked building which does nothing to me like what Medical College, Calicut does. But i like it now. I like it all.

I thought of my best friend who is a doctor now. (We talk once a year and meet once in three. No wonder i don't have many friends). She is in Medical College, Calicut, now and must be examining some patient like me there. She must be thinking of me too. The hypochondriac i am. I secretly want her to be a gynaecologist. So that there will be one good gynaecologist i know who doesn't treat patients like sinners in catholic institutions. 

I hate doctors because of the power they hold. I don't even know how to approach this problem. Will try to explain it. Everybody approaches a doctor because they want to live. Most people think they are going to die if they get sick. If not escape death, they go seeking help. With help comes a power relation. Ideally this shouldn't happen. Activists who get involved in issues shouldn't be about power, their involvement should be only regarding the issue. Likewise doctors shouldn't be bothered about the relationship with the patient. The illness and that alone is their concern. People don't feel obliged to a mechanic at a garage for having repaired their automobile. But in most cases patients are ever thankful to doctors for curing them. Even before the cure the mindset of a helpless person seeps in. Doctors are only human beings and are with all the flaws that fact entails. Many families even have a doctor whom they worship like god. My dream is a world where diagnosis and treatment of diseases is mechanized and when human beings have only to press buttons.

On my part i take efforts to never be thankful. Not just to doctors but to anybody who has ever helped me. Love is a different thing altogether. It's okay not to love too. What's important is to not confuse love with gratitude and obligation.

It was a muscle injury, the doctor said after examining the X Ray. I got three pills and was content. They were of different colours and looked good. Pain killers, something to make my muscle all right, cold compresses, and rest for a month. I took them and went straight back to court where i flirted with everyone and cracked jokes apart from playing poor badminton. I love the court and its people because it's fun. It's again a space i carefully found out from among all the rubble and ruin in this film school which almost killed me. Last week some of my playmates from Tamil Nadu celebrated Pongal. They made pongal in the badminton court. I scraped coconut for them. I consciously avoid being happy about Onam because the malayalees make a big deal out of it. Spreading malluness is something i hate. But anything for food is the general motto. Look at the poor tamilians with no human strength on court trying to make pongal.

When the effect of pain killers wears off i feel like slicing off the aching portion of my knee and pouring hot oil on it. Then put it back and stitch it back together. When around people i know i walk with a straight back. Otherwise i limp. To set my foot on ground takes effort. I won't rest. I press the area hard sometimes when i am resting. To remind me of the pain. No cold compresses. Not for a bad girl like me.
There ain't no pain which is unbeatable. There ain't no heartache which is forgotten. Pain is, therefore i am.