I am in that high of having finished a whole book. The reason behind the high comes from the fact that it’s been ages since I finished an entire book in minimum sittings. The last time I did so (which I remember) was when the once-in-a-century deluge hit Chennai and I was holed up in my auntie’s apartment in the city. The feat this time too happened here. There’s something about reading and my auntie’s apartment. I digress.
It was a non-fiction book this time though. ‘No Straight Thing Was Ever Made’ by Urvashi Bahuguna. I enjoyed the book. At least, most parts of it. It did get a little cumbersome towards the end, but that’s okay by me. The book was 97% done by then. “It tug at my heartstrings” was the exact phrase I told my auntie, sharing the euphoria of discovering that book. With succinct notes of personal anecdotes of how mental illnesses affected the various facets of her life, Urvashi Bahuguna has managed to paint a beautiful picture that is only too familiar for anyone who grew up in a typical Indian household. From how many of us screw up our romantic relationships by being needy to being subjected to denial by parents when it comes to mental illnesses, the book has it all. It weaves like an image that is too well-known for someone who has a diagnosed mental illness.
As I lounged around reading it, the several chasms of my heart were comforted by tiny bits of comfort. That it is futile to expect parents to come to terms and be completely open and comfortable about our mental illnesses; That it is normal to have parents deny it (not invalidate it, btw); That is okay for them to not understand it; That it is okay to speak to them about it; That it is okay to be the way you are around them etc. It does, however, make a marked difference when they acknowledge and comfort us about our mental illnesses. It does make things easier. But has anything been ever easy?
One thing that I found that worked in my favour in this realm is that I started being unabashed in the family WhatsApp group that has only me, my parents and my brother. I started forwarding articles and stories about mental health. I opened up the topic, in the desperation that SOMEONE would click on it and read. It was basically shooting in the dark, hoping at least one arrow will hit closer to the target. It did. It took its own time, but eventually it did. My mother, a voracious reader herself, read all of the links I posted on the group and acknowledged my pain. That has definitely eased my pain. But the journey is far from being over.
For now, I choose to count my tiny successes. For now, this is enough for me.