With this post, I risk people not agreeing with me, but that’s okay. If this sparks discussion, debate, and helps others to think from a different perspective, I am all for it.
I did not know Women’s Day existed until I came to Italy. I grew up in a country where we get time off for presidents, activists, veterans, and military, but the closest thing to Women’s Day I was familiar with was Mother’s Day. And to me, that day grew tense with each passing year.
As my mother succumbed more and more to her mental illness, I resented the fact that there was a day to celebrate her. In my teenage mind, she didn’t deserve it. I would see her verbally and emotionally abuse my father every day without fail, yet, my father would still ask my sister and I to make her a card, and he’d still show up with a bouquet of flowers just to show her he cared.
Despite his kind intentions, she would always find a reason to be suspicious of him. Or yell at him because he bought the flowers from Albertson’s instead of Raley’s.
And when Father’s Day came around? She never did anything special for him. It was up to my sister and I to let our father know we cared. That we needed him and loved him for sticking around.
When I think back to my high school days, I can’t imagine how much psychological torment he had to internalize. There would be nights she would be triggered by the simplest things. If she began yelling at me or my sister, our father would be ready, like a superhero with his shield, ready to deflect her anger from us towards him.
It would give us some modicum of peace to finish homework, but to hear her berate him for hours and hours into the night was not something my sister and I were comfortable with.
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Even with these tense family dynamics, I still grew up a “staunch feminist”. Perhaps it was my mom’s unsubstantiated opinions of men that were ingrained in me for years, but the “men are evil, fear them” “mantra” I grew up with was hard to shake off—until I learned to listen and understand the other side.
When I first met my boyfriend in Italy and we were learning about each other, I shared something nonchalantly on social media that upset him:
The whole pepper spray thing is a topic for another day 😅😅
It was supposed to be a hit at women in my circle who hinted that I need to live in fear and carry pepper spray, but the way I phrased my stance was a hit at all men, and that wasn’t fair. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but seeing how upset it made him feel led me to probe further discussions with him about the topic, which is something I am immensely appreciative for.
These discussions made me realize that gender equality is an extremely convoluted topic that is constantly vacillating from one side to the other. It shouldn’t be about prioritizing one group over another if the goal is equality, yet if we prioritize Women’s Day with flowers and protests, and laugh off Men’s Day (which, by the way is November 19th) as a “creation of jealous men”, we will never achieve the equality we all say we are striving for.
Wonder if the woman who received these mimosa flowers (Italy’s famous tradition) appreciated it, expected it, or yelled at her boy for getting it from the wrong florist 😅
Yes, there are a lot of places in this world where men have a powerful influence and women are stripped of their rights. In South Asian countries and places with similar cultural ideals, this is a huge issue. The recent, artfully-crafted Malayalam movie, Great Indian Kitchen, demonstrated this eloquently.
But even in these cultures, men still suffer. In the South Asian space, Ram of @desi_brotherhood shares relevant information via Instagram feed posts in an unbiased way, and has shared a number of posts regarding domestic violence, mental health, and suicide issues that affect South Asian women and men.
Compared to South Asia, the overall context is different in the Western world. Even though domestic violence is rampant, especially without a doubt in the USA, women in the Western world still do experience a lot more freedoms compared to women of other countries. When I see the stereotypical “Karen” complain more than she should about how “men need to be the providers”, it does irritate me. These are the same women who claim they are independent, self-sufficient, and strong, yet expect “their man” to be the breadwinner and foot the bill of their shopping sprees because “they deserve it!”. This then leads to some men using these women as excuses for not supporting women’s rights, and it ends up being a vicious cycle.
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My intent with this post is not to divert attention from Women’s Day, but to serve as a reflection. I have only a handful of women in my life who I love with all my heart. Who deserve everything beautiful in this world because they truly do deserve it, but there are men in my life who deserve just the same.
So while today is a good day to celebrate women, our love for them, and their achievements, let’s be kind, thoughtful, and empathetic women and do the same for the amazing men in our lives when it’s their turn.
At the end of the day, we shouldn’t be celebrating the chromosomes one carries, but rather the individual those chromosomes serve as roots for.
Before that night in late spring of my junior year of high school, I could not comprehend how painful a mental breakdown truly was.
I played singles varsity tennis that fall. I had been awarded the position of first chair flute in county honor band that winter. And that night, I had completed two regional competitions for Robotics as president of my high school team, bringing home an award for our website as well—-something that had been a personal project of mine finally received validation, yet it triggered my anger.
Logically, I had nothing to “cry over”, yet the dark idea that it would all come crashing down triggered the tears, guttural yelling, and body slams against the floor of my parents’ bedroom.
My mom with her own mental illness, fueled the fire with her share of yelling and ridicule that I was the one that needed help. My dad, shocked at the scene going on before him and unable to stop my incessant crying and self-harm, threatened to call the police.
But this only pushed out more tears, and at one point, my body couldn’t take it anymore. I continued to lay on the floor listlessly while my parents calmed down as well.
The police never came, but Dad thought I should see a therapist. I was resentful, given the fact that my mother had not seen a doctor in years, but part of me felt the urge to see someone, with a sprinkling of curiosity.
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I have lived with depression since then, with it popping in and out of my life at varying intensities, depending on how kind my environment was to me.
An eating disorder was mixed in as well, sometimes making it unclear what was first to influence what.
The depression, along with OCD tendencies, popped up along my PhD journey as well, with one of my darker episodes occurring at a time when so many unknowns were at play… the biggest of which was the worry of how soon my first, first-author paper would be published, if I would be able to graduate, and if it was even worth all of the anxiety and emotional breakdowns I was going through.
It was around this time I decided to see my third therapist, but also consider taking medication for the first time. When I received the news that my paper had been accepted, that itself lifted away the weight of the world that was pressed so firmly at my shoulders for the past six months, but I still felt it necessary to seek out professional help.
Dr. S was an immense help through the first half of 2019. It may have helped that my environment suddenly turned friendly, but she helped me battle the ennui I was now experiencing as I inched towards a summer graduation.
At first I saw her once a week so she could get to know me better and monitor me as I started taking Lexapro for the first time. I was on 5mg initially, but was bumped up to 10mg. Beyond a few headaches and fatigue, the pill got acquainted with my body and lifestyle, although I personally didn’t feel any changes.
Especially since I stillfelt cyclical anger and irritability.
Dr. S was a trained psychiatrist, but would not continue writing prescriptions for patients unless paired with counseling sessions. I enjoyed our sessions in the beginning, since I was able to vent to her about my desire to start anew outside of SoCal. She knew about my plans to apply for a fellowship in Italy, and how I yearned to have the opportunity to meet new people and travel all over.
When my plans were starting to gel by November 2019, I began to grow tired of my sessions with Dr. S. Like with the therapists of my past, I had hit a plateau with her. I felt like I didn’t need her anymore, and that my depression had retreated once I received confirmation about Italy.
Of course with COVID in early 2020, my plans changed dramatically. I was “stuck” in Tulsa (although now I see it as a blessing I wish I could relive again). Being with my family definitely played a key role in mitigating stress. I was still taking my Lexapro, but popping a pill each day without knowing if it was truly serving its purpose was beginning to irritate me, to say the least.
Dr. S wrote me a prescription for 90 days to take with me as I settled down in Milan, but who’s to say if it got me through my two weeks of isolating self-quarantine?
Because my mind was already set on starting fresh and throwing myself into a different world, I felt ready to stop the Lexapro. I didn’t want to rely on medication to modulate my mood for the rest of my life, especially if it wasn’t doing its purported action in the first place.
Things seemed to be going wonderfully at work.
I was finally opening up and starting to date for the very first time in my life.
In fact, I was lucky to meet someone so early in the “game” who I clicked with instantly.
And with all of this new-found happiness, I wanted to see what my body could do on its own…in an environment where I felt in control and eager about navigating through.
So I stopped taking Lexapro in mid-August 2020. I informed my Dad and a close friend of my decision, both of whom knew of my recent depression history. My Dad, knowing the obstacles I have faced when it comes to doctors and their diagnoses understood why I chose not to wait until I found a doctor, but my close friend was more concerned. While I acknowledge it would have been helpful to see someone within weeks of arriving in Italy, I knew that with the painfully frustrating administrative system in place—especially in regards to healthcare—it would have been a nightmare to wait for a second opinion.
In my battle with depression over the years, I quickly realized that when it came to my body and mind, only I could be the one to decide what felt right for me.
I felt “normal” for about a week, after which painful, throbbing headaches began to make an appearance on a daily basis. I was starting to feel easily triggered by what I would normally see as minor inconveniences. On my early morning runs, I would have to stop mid-run because I would be on the verge of tears…
Things started to feel uneasy at work. I found myself silently hyperventilating at times, and I often had to duck into the bathroom to let myself had a good cry.
I knew fully well I had nothing to be upset about. I stopped taking the medication because things were going well. I wasn’t too concerned about these symptoms arising because I was expecting them as part of the withdrawal process.
Everything would be better in a few weeks…
But it seemed as though things were slowly retreating and heading in the opposite direction. The throbbing headaches did stop after three weeks. I wasn’t crying uncontrollably everyday either, but my mood was no longer at the same elevated level that it has been in mid-summer.
And perhaps it was because my environment, the one I thought I had control over, was starting to become more overwhelming than I ever imagined it would be.
Having the patience to learn and speak Italian was becoming a stressful chore.
Work was becoming something I was slowly starting to dislike. I resented the idea that my position wasn’t as flexible as I thought it would have been. I felt like my skills weren’t being appreciated. And having these feelings woven through a five-day work week was an feeling that grew unbearable by the minute.
As fall turned into winter, I thought time would make things better, but with the rise of COVID infections, we were back in a lockdown in late October. I was resenting the fact that I had yet to travel outside of Milan or Como, and I was counting on the winter holidays to make my Rome trip a reality.
But that of course didn’t happen.
At least I wasn’t alone during the holidays, but my anxious thoughts and depression still would not leave me, even though I knew I had a full week off from work to take in the last of 2020 (although, what was really there to take in?).
I kept thinking about how I was “wasting” my time off because I wasn’t able to travel. Or ruminating over what experiments I should be planning my first week back at work, even though that was the last thing I wanted my thoughts to dwell on…
Castel Baradello hike the day after Christmas. It was a beautiful sight, but my mind was gripped with anxiety about my week off ending soon…
And with the arrival of 2021, things still seemed to not “feel” any better. Yes, I was finally able to move into apartment that wasn’t the size of a claustrophobic closet, and with a balcony (something that was a top priority), but I still felt unsettled 😔
I thought I would appreciate a long, cold winter after months of painful humidity and encapsulated heat, but I guess I didn’t know what I was asking for when it came to an Italian winter. The weather became piercingly cold, and the sky always seemed to match my mood—gray, dreary, tired, depressing…
I tried to keep my mind away from the gray by appreciating things I knew would bring me joy.
Like, (finally) buying a Nespresso machine so I could have coffee on my terms.
Or stopping for adorable cats that ‘meow’ back and don’t mind being coddled.
And even trying to shift back to daylight runs vs. the nighttime runs I had a habit of partaking in during the summer. Because every ounce of sunlight helps.
Work continued to aggravate me. I still felt like I was doing tasks that weren’t adding to my skill set, and that what I was doing had no relation to what I thought I had signed up for.
Looking back, I find it ironic that in the phone calls I had with my Dad during this time, I’d semi-joke about having a breakdown at work given all the emotional turmoil that had been building up for the past several months.
And, then it happened right on cue 🙃. Before I broke down into a solid cry that drenched even my blue disposable mask, I was having a meeting with my boss, during which she expressed her disappointment with how things were going (I would later learn that she had been described by others to push people to their breaking point in an effort to get the most work out of them). I didn’t have the energy to explain my situation, so I let my emotions do the talking.
She seemed to understand immediately, and offered help where she could. At least that situation got me into a doctor’s office for the first time in Italy 🙄. I knew counseling had helped me in the past, but this time, I already knew what my trigger was.
A stressful, overwhelming environment.
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Since my breakdown as a junior in high school, I have accepted that depression will always be a condition in my life, and that it may need managing from time-to-time.
When I felt out of control with where I would be going to college and troubles at home with mom, diving into an eating disorder was my solution.
When I felt deep anxiety about the fate of my PhD, and the paper I was anxiously trying to publish for a timely graduation, Dr. S and my willingness to try medication for the first time was my solution.
And I thought Italy would be a long-term solution. Especially for the irritability and ennui that popped up in recent years, but it turned out that Italy was an issue of her own.
COVID has been an obvious key player in this, and it’s hard to say how things would have turned out if I had arrived in Italy back in early 2020 as originally planned, and if the world had not been shaken by COVID.
But ongoing events have made me realize that the biggest trigger of my current depression “flare” is directly associated with the very reason I came to Italy in the first place. And how do you manage and cope when the very thing that is your livelihood causes so much distress?
Recently, I’ve been fortunate to have possibilities open up. Knowing that there may be a way out has put my mind at ease, but at the same time, there’s no guarantee that the solution to cutting myself off from the triggers here will help me somewhere out there.
That’s why I’m trying my best—with whatever ounce of energy I do have—to take things day by day. Making sure to sip my coffee, savor a relaxing dinner at home, and pet that furry cutie before each run…
When it comes to using medication to manage my mental health, I personally do not want to get near it ever again. I’m sure it works wonders for some, but that doesn’t mean it works favorably for everyone.
Managing my depression has led me to prioritize my happiness no matter what. I acknowledge that what I may constitute as happiness right now in life could change over time, but even so, I believe that if we make it a priority to live in ways that ensure balanced levels of happiness, we can encourage the same from those we interact with on a daily basis.
An infinite loop of happiness, wouldn’t that be nice?
Looking down on Como from Castel Baradello, two months after Christmas ❤
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.
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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…
