I will not apologize for the words I wrote before, and the words I write today.
There’s nothing to hide, and nothing to be ashamed of here.
I never developed a “normal” relationship with my mother, because schizophrenia doesn’t deal such fair cards.
Now, I am 28-years-old, and our relationship is more like what is found between acquaintances. The figurative rocks we threw and threatening words we spewed at one another are a thing of the past.
But, boy what a past it was.
There were so many questions she left unanswered. So much guilt I had to internalize. Chronic days of pain I had to endure…
I am not responsible for the aftermath of my upbringing. I never asked to be born into this world. It was her responsibility to make sure I grew up to be the “good desi girl” society expects…
But instead, we fought battles. We shouted until our lungs collapsed. Played mind games until my head hurt.
I couldn’t keep up when I was drowning in a lake of my own tears…
To this day, she doesn’t know what I do for work. Who my friends in LA were. What caused me pain or joy or fear or hate in the past five years. What medications I’m taking. Why I decided to do a PhD.
And eventually, I learned to be okay with that. I was lucky and fortunate to have an amazing father—who pretty much took on the role of “mom” and “dad”. Honestly, as I got out of the house at 22 and began a new life away from “home”, I didn’t want to fight anymore. If it meant not putting in the energy to fight with her demons, that’s what I needed to do.
To preserve every ounce of sanity that I could.
But every young girl—from her pre-teen years through college especially—would no doubt thrive with mom at her side.
————————————————– 𝕊𝔾𝔻 ————————————————-
Unlike those around me—who believe ignoring the issue will make it disappear—I choose to showcase the words that came pouring from my heart 7 years ago. During a life-changing weekend connecting with other South Asians, I built up the courage to share so much about a rocky home life that I kept in for too long.
I felt a strong urge to pen down the words I used to describe to the group about how she made me feel. I wrote a literal letter to my mother, but never gave it to her.
I knew that her paranoia, obsessive-compulsive, and erratic, nocturnal behavior would not disappear on the command of a few words on paper.
But for me, it was a release.
And I do not apologize for verbalizing what was in my heart, because these words were the truth of my experience…
This was a post I wrote back in February 2018, and it was featured on Brown Girl Magazine’s website. It was a piece I put my heart into, so I wanted to give it a home here on SGD, where it fits perfectly.
For six years of my life, from the formative years of 18-23, my soul had disappeared. I’m not sure what was left in my weak, thin shell, but I carried on, day by day, in tortured isolation not knowing any better.
In the years that I needed a mother the most, I was losing her to schizophrenia. I spent my years in middle and high school playing a live version of Minesweeper, and no matter how many times I adapted to the rules of this challenging game, something always set her off. It would have been easier to follow her bizarre rules and give in to her unrealistic demands like my father did, but I put up a fight and collected wounds as a result.
I’m not sure what was left in my weak, thin shell, but I carried on, day by day, in tortured isolation not knowing any better.
My mother began to stay up late into the night, her eyes glazed over a fluorescing TV screen, constantly rewinding 30 seconds of a Dora the Explorer episode and scribbling into her notebook the messages she was receiving. We would have shouting matches too, almost like siblings, and my younger sister coped by retreating to her bedroom and locking the door. I was losing the strength to keep up, and the schizophrenic side of my mother was winning.
Fighting her was proving to be worthless, but internalizing my emotions seemed to be something I could manage—something I could control. Assigning myself a daily calorie limit and keeping a detailed food journal may have begun as “a fresh start” and a way to “regain control” of my dysfunctional environment, but the numbers soon began to take a hold of me.
There is a way out: July 2015 -> February 2018
The amount of calories I allotted myself each day was barely enough for a toddler to be sustained on, and I was forcing myself to divide that number up into meals throughout the day. It was a challenge turned obsession, and it was the driving force of my isolation. In college, my roommate was out with friends playing soccer on the intramural team and returning at 2am from a frat party, while I swallowed two pills of melatonin and was in bed by 8pm, pressing on my concave stomach in vain thinking it would stop the hunger pangs.
My morning ritual required measuring tape and a mirror. I never worried about my arms or wrists, but when it was time to examine my lower half, I double and triple-checked the circumference of my thighs: upper, middle, and right above the knee. My hands would land on my hips and I would sigh over the weird dips and curves they seemed to make.
An eating disorder may have overshadowed my life, but depression was laced through it. There was one day in particular I collapsed onto the kitchen floor, tears falling down my cheeks, but not feeling one ounce of sadness. Perhaps it was my body’s mechanism of trying to release something that just wasn’t there. My stomach grumbled from the lack of food inside of it, but I lay on the floor motionless. I was under a rain cloud I could not take cover from, and I could not shake it away.
There is a way out: August 2015 -> December 2019
When something causes you to become so inert that your insides are physically, mentally, and emotionally wiped clean, it’s hard to imagine coming back to reality. For six years, my good days included saving enough calories for a meager 300 calorie dinner, or being able to treat myself with a protein bar alongside black Splenda-sweetened coffee for breakfast. In contrast, I experienced too many bad days waking up at 4am and consuming my daily intake in cereal and yogurt because the feeling of hunger was too strong. Too many moments of hunger-fueled anger and regressing into a child, shivering on the couch while my Dad feverishly worked to prepare the only meal I would allow myself to eat for dinner.
I consider myself to be an optimistic person, but I never thought a full recovery from an eating disorder could ever be possible, and so it was hard to believe that my epiphany happened gradually in October of 2015. I came across blogs and Instagram accounts of young women who had chosen recovery, as well as scientific articles describing the necessity of weight restoration, refeeding, and intuitive eating. I was intrigued, and curiously thought what would happen if I embraced recovery…
When I did embark on recovery road, it was as if an alien had entered my brain and everything was on autopilot. I found myself willing to eat double the amount of the daily calorie intake I was used to, but as the months went by, I realized I was going to be hitting road bumps very soon.
There is a way out: May 2015 -> December 2018
2016 was rough, and now being weight-restored, I didn’t feel like I could justify eating “crazy” amounts of food. I felt tight in everything I wore, and I wanted to blame it all on water retention, but most of the pounds were real and necessary weight gain. And while I felt like I was constantly battling myself in regards to food and body image, I made one of the best decisions in my recovery journey and sought out therapy. I was lucky to find a therapist and group therapy that focused on recovering from eating disorders, but it seemed like the battle would never end. Oftentimes it seemed like my body image was the worst it had ever been, and it left me doubting my decision to recover. I had days where I “missed my old body” and looking at pictures—even from months prior—left me feeling so upset with myself.
But eventually, I was able to grow. People, and my relationships with them became more important. Laughs over lunch replaced calculations. Attention was something I used to crave, but not verbally request, and while it feels nice to be thought about, it is no longer something I desire. I can look at myself in mirrors and reflective surfaces and be content with what I see. The moments I harangue myself over the thickness of my thighs or the curves of my hips are few and far between. Take it from someone who never thought she’d be happy with her hips, who doesn’t have a nurturing relationship with her mother, and feels disconnected from her Desi heritage in most aspects: a complete recovery from an eating disorder is absolutely possible. I may have had what many still refer to as a “white girl’s disease”, but it made me a stronger brown woman.
STRONGER BROWN WOMAN.
My fellow SGD ladies (and gents)—if you pictured yourself as you read this, my heart goes out to you so, so much. Reach out to me. There are ways out of this. Just don’t give up 🧡
Uh-huh, life’s like this Uh-huh, uh-huh, that’s the way it is ‘Cause life’s like this Uh-huh, uh-huh, that’s the way it is
-Canadian Kween, Avril Lavigne
Back in the early 2000s, I thrived as an outgoing, bubbly third-grader, known to her peers as a funny, friendly girl with tan skin and long, straight black hair. My laugh was infectious, and I remember picking up mild sarcasm from my Dad, as well as a fascination with puns.
Needless to say, Spongebob was the man.
One of my favorite things about going to elementary school in northern California those days was the fact that seasons had their appropriate weather. On a cold, rainy day in winter 2002, we were blessed with rainy day recess. I was so excited to play “Heads Up, 7UP” or some other fun game that required the sequestering of 8-9 year olds in the same room, with no outdoor activities to distract the more “rambunctious” kiddos.
“I HAVE ARRRRIIIIVVVEEEDD!!” I remember screeching as I entered the room giddy with excitement.
I wasn’t expecting the cold look from my teacher, however, and what followed.
“Priya! That is no way to enter a room! Walk back out RIGHT now and enter appropriately!” she yelled.
I was absolutely shocked. Here I thought my vivacious demeanor would be received with laughter and warmth from my “favorite” teacher at the time. Instead, I was left feeling like a fool and ashamed for my actions.
Seriously, Mrs. K?
How dare ya, bitch.
I did exactly what I was told. I didn’t dare question why Mrs. K reacted that way. Perhaps she was having a stressful day that day, and wanted to be anywhere but in a classroom filled with loud, sugar-hyped kids. Still, no reason to take it out on a kid…don’t they teach you that when you get your teaching degree?
I wouldn’t say that it was a life-changing moment, but it made me more cautious in my interactions with others as I grew older. This was also around the time that my mom began to show signs for schizophrenia—remarking about voices telling her to do things, distancing herself from people, finding ways to blame others for occurrences that impacted her world—and even as her close family, we were not immune to the effects of her disease.
I had to quickly learn her triggers. Not bring up things to her that involved birthday party invitations or look like I sided with my Dad during arguments they had. Anything to prevent her from yelling at me for hours or sending me to “time-out”.
I wanted peace and happiness more than anything, but I quickly had to master the art of walking on eggshells.
This feeling has permeated into my social life, for sure. As I approached middle school, I hid away the “extrovert” side of my personality—wrapped thickly in a blanket and tucked away somewhere in my heart—until I could fully trust the person enough to share that side of me with them. Instead, I quickly adopted the adjectives of “quiet”, “shy”, and “introverted”, from classmates and teachers alike.
These girls were the only ones in my life who were able to see all sides of me. I could truly be myself around them. No worries about eggshells 🙂
I realized that I hated being asked questions that involved “favorites”, unless it had to do with food or color. Why did it matter what my favorite music or actor or movie or TV show was? Whatever my answer was, it was quickly responded with depreciating laughter from my peers. I didn’t want to explain, and I had no energy for it…
The easiest thing to do was say, “I don’t know”, “It always changes…”, or the classic “Hehe, pretty much everything except country! Eww, country…”
Little did they know that Shania Twain was my lady, and that country music was a part of our family’s roadtrip playlists along with Fleetwood Mac and Celine Dion 🤷🏽♀️.
As I got past high school and my college years fighting with the same issues, I naively thought things could change as I planned my leave for graduate school. Given the opportunity to live independently and have full control of my life matters, I thought that I could easily transition into being myself again and feeling comfortable in front of a more general audience. Little did I know that out in the real world, especially Los Angeles, decency towards one another was just a minor recommendation.
After living in LA for the past 5.5 years with roommates and crazy-ass landlords, as well as having to navigate how to handle the crazy personalities of the people I often came across, I learned that a) I have a very high tolerance for dealing with irascible people and b) life is too short to not surround yourself with genuine and caring people.
In my first two years living apart from family, I was graced 🙄 with the presence of quirky roommates. Oil-splayed-stove-top-messy, passive-aggressive young ladies who I’d have frequent air-conditioning wars with.
I’m sorry, but who is able to sleep comfortably in a room 80 degrees Fahrenheit?!
At the time, I wasn’t one who was quick to jump aboard the confrontation train. I tried to compromise at times, and even though we agreed to keep the room at a balmy 75, no more or no less, my roommates were not quick to adjust the thermostat when the number steadily creeped up during the unbearably hot LA summers.
So I thought I hit the jackpot when it came time for my lease renewal, and I found an “out” through a room rental in Santa Monica. Just my luck that it was in a house owned by an older couple my Dad and I nicknamed the “The Onions”, due to their wrinkly, purple-tinged skin 😬.
My close friends are bewildered by the fact that I lived there for two years…surviving on crockpot dinners that were a source of drama when I first moved in (apparently, cooked broccoli made the older man recoil in disgust, yet I didn’t say a word when they cooked smelly fish…). I was used to weird house rules like squeegee-ing the shower door immediately after use, specifically stacking my 3 cups of yogurt on the left side of the fridge, and not using the kitchen for “heavy cooking”…my mom trained me well not to be so shocked by odd-ball orders 😛.
I was given a year of reprieve when my sister and I had a chance to share an apartment in Anaheim soon after, and boy did I cry when she left for Austin. Thinking I would soon be out of SoCal anyways due to post-doc plans elsewhere and graduation, I opted for another room rental to save money.
As luck would have it, I ended up with Cruella (name obviously changed, but well-deserved…), who seemed normal—but was she? Even she seemed like an odd-ball in her texts—writing in caps, misspelling my name even though my signature and rent payments gave her a blatant clue—but I didn’t let it bother me since my rent would be lower than ever before, and I wouldn’t have to leave Orange County.
I was used to weird by now anyways. Heck, I should have gotten my PhD in “handling weird-ass people” because that became my side-job once I moved to LA, unbeknownst to me. As months went on at Cruella’s, I realized that the weirdest aspect of it all was the fact she would only communicate through text. Even if she was in the house.
Uh…come again?
Again, I didn’t think too much of it. I’d say “hi” to her if I did see her, chat with her in the kitchen if we were there at the same time, and as usual, I kept to myself to avoid any drama. Most importantly, I paid my rent on time without fail.
Damn, I’m the most perfect tenant. Landlords be lucky to have me 🙄.
But then, the most bizarre thing happened. After coming home from work one day, I came across Cruella and her small dog, said hello, and made my way into the kitchen to prep a quick salad to eat in my room, per usual. Her dog came over to sniff me, which I have no issue with because hello, #DogLover right here.
Without thinking of what was to come, I took my dinner up to my room and began to mentally unwind from my exhausting work day when my phone buzzed several times. I didn’t think much of it, until I swiped to find scathing, accusing texts from Cruella saying I had kicked her dog.
Where. was. this. craziness. coming. from.
Where was she getting this from?! My heart began to race, even though I had nothing to be guilty for. My attempts to rationalize with her and figure out why she would make such accusations were futile. To drive a blade even further into my flesh, she left a threatening audio message driven by vitriol and anger, absolutely convinced that I would do something so uncharacteristic of me.
I tried to get her to come out to talk to me, but she wouldn’t budge. What can you do when you try to rationalize with irrational?
The only other way I could think of communicating with her was via a third-party, my hugest advocate in life, my dad.
My poor dad was the recipient of verbal vitriol as well. My heart sunk when I came back into the house after calling him outside in almost tears. I could hear Cruella yelling into her phone—calling me everything from evil to a brat to conniving to mean—these were words that were not describing me, but the bitch that was her. And yet, I felt defeated.
Miraculously, things did cool down. My dad having dealt with his share of bipolar, schizophrenic, mentally-ill people in his life, was able to get her to calm down and “reconsider” kicking me out. She didn’t apologize, but she was willing to “tolerate” me until I was able to move out…
Seriously, what just happened.
For the next six weeks, I did not come across her in physical form at all. Needless to say, the whole situation was freaky, and the definition of walking on eggshells.
Oddly enough, but not surprisingly, she made her appearance again slowly weeks after the debacle had passed, acting as if nothing had happened of course. I still thought she was a psychotic bitch, but with the impending crisis of corona and my new post-doc plans still delayed, I didn’t want unnecessary drama to spark too early…
I didn’t have to worry about that though, because Cruella’s mind was churning. The coronavirus hysteria was definitely freaking out the bipolar bitch…
She began to worry, and her voices probably started talking to her again. The incessant text messages bothering me about one thing or another would not stop.
Also, what is a BATHROOM waste basket if not for things like, um, sanitary pads and I dunno, things you would use in the bathroom 🤔
The reason this message ticked me off? Because I was doing everything in my power to be a good tenant, to NOT cause drama, and most of all, to not have to deal with her psychosis. The way she assumed I don’t like to clean when ha, I’m a stickler when it comes to cleanliness and organization? I was sick and tired of her berating me and having to “put up with it”.
I had had enough, and I tried to respond to her in a professional manner which also expressed my annoyance with her:
The clap back 👏
Despite the professionalism, you can’t expect that from someone who has already exhibited signs of CRAZY. She responded with an audio message calling me all sorts of names (not worth typing out…) and a “30 day notice” to leave.
I gladly accepted. I was absolutely done with her. Couldn’t have happened at a better time.
I didn’t respond to her last comment. The immaturity threshold was beyond off the charts at this point. As much as my blood was boiling, tears were streaming, and emotional trauma stirring. I tried to let it go…I’d be with family soon enough.
It’s true when they say that trying, challenging times bring out the best and the worst in people. Unfortunately, I was a victim of the latter. These situations have made me quite wary of people in general, but at least I have mastered the art of walking on eggshells 🤔? In a way, I’m motivated now more than ever to, going forward, secure long-term financial stability to ensure I can live alone and not have to worry about clashing personalities.
Through all of this, the most important lessons I’ve learned are to be unapologetic for who I am, and that if anyone questions my integrity, you better believe my fighting side will come out.
And yours should to, because no one has the right to judge—or even worse— make false accusations about you.
I don’t have time for impatient, mean, judgemental, crazy bishes ✌🏽
