Big Girls Can Cry

So, after much deliberation, I decided to write about the latest goings on in India today. Too many people posting Facebook updates of being there for people if they want to talk. While all this is very noble and well intentioned for the most part, I have a real problem with it. 

Mainly because, mental health in India is the very very VERY last thing on the table. 

In between the convoluted notions of the good and bad, the beautiful and the ugly, the wealthy and the poor, it is the grey areas that stay forever in the dark. It is frowned upon to struggle, to show that you are struggling. The notions of suffering mentally is laughed at, ridiculed. Labelled crazy, pagal, retarded, insane.... weak.

A society that is so performance driven, that thrives on the outward gloss, the things, the successes and the very extreme disparities, talking about everyday struggles, depression, sadness is almost non existent. 

In a culture that encourages you to suppress fundamental feelings of love, lust, greed, envy, failure, loss and grief, there is very little room to recognize that call for help. 

A culture that is extremely judgemental, of the rich and poor, the fat and the slim, the dark skin and light skinned, of the kind of car you drive, where you holiday, the brands you shop, the number of household help you have or even if you have a head full of hair, we learnt early on, not to talk about these things that stay with us all throughout our lives. 

We only talk of accolades, successes, money, gifts, acquisitions... that feeling of being under the microscope for the way you look, act, talk, eat, walk, earn, work, is forever prevalent. Not walking that line, that our culture so vociferously imposes, has severe consequences. Sometimes physical, but most psychological. 

Crying, expressing anger, disappointment, anguish or grief is considered weak. Too often we hear the words “You have everything going right for you, what do you have to be depressed about?” Or “you should try to adjust” 

As a culture we shame people. We raise anxious kids. We put pressure on ourselves and our children to excel and perform constantly.  Throw social media into this already murky mix and it is a bomb waiting to go off. 

In the unfortunate and devastatingly sad eventuality that something happens, there is the constant chatter, rumours. media hysteria that is over the top, crass, horribly intrusive, speculative and very very disturbing. The hunt to blame someone or  something gains momentum and the circus that ensues is absolutely horrifying. If that does not deter someone to forever seal their lips, I don’t know what will. 

We all need mental health support from the very beginning of our journeys. In school, at home, in hospitals, at work. There has to be a level of trust, of presence and communication for someone to be able to talk about their struggles. Often this is a qualified and objective therapist but it can be a friend or simply a stranger. 

Our fear of judgment silences that need to talk to someone. 

After I moved to Canada, I saw the difference between how mental health is treated differently here. Each time I would take my daughter to the doctor, from the time she was 4 yrs old, he would address her directly, ask about her friends, her favourite subjects. He would ask her (directly) if she was struggling with something, if she was happy. These small things, often overlooked in a country with 1.5 Billion people make the difference between establishing trust or not.

After my cancer diagnosis, an onco-psychologist was assigned to me to help me and my family deal with the cancer diagnosis, the struggle of the disease and the aftermath. There was information given out at every step, therapy suggested for those that needed further interventions, resources available. 

My onco-psychologist did not tell me to be strong, she did not reassure me that things will be ok, she did nothing except sit there and be present. She did not say “ you should be glad this is not brain cancer”.  She heard my fears about the disease, even if it were ludicrous, but she never said I was wrong to feel the things I did. 

She NORMALIZED these feelings. She made me feel like my feelings were valid. 

That is why perhaps, I was able to make peace with it so early on. 

The thing with depression and mental health is that you cannot possibly detect it from the outside. There are so many levels to it and it takes real courage for someone to be able to talk about their struggles. 

If we really want to make a difference we need to first stop putting labels. This is psychological bullying as well. 

We need to talk of our failures with our kids and not just our successes. We need  to listen without reaction. REALLY listen without judgement. We need to be ok with failure, ok with being average, ok with taking a break and not being forced to perform. We need to keep confidences in CONFIDENCE.  We need to start showing up for our friends, for our family. Most importantly we need to be ok with being sad, angry, disappointed or overwhelmed. We need to learn early on that the inside matters a whole lot more than the outside. 

That being sad is just as valid as being happy. Because sometimes, big girls can cry.

Ça va bien aller: ishita banerjee 12” x 18”

Going gracefully into the grey

Just a handful of years after hitting the fourth decade, I see what the big deal is all about.

Gravity is never kind to the big boned girls, and we certainly won't be facebook friends in the fourth decade. Lets just say, its all going downhill from here.

My eyesight was the first to go. After more than 3 decades of 6/6 vision and having the distinction of being the only Banerjee without glasses, I couldn't read anymore. I kept sending wrong texts to people, sending my boss my whole grocery list instead of directing it to my husband, who was double parked outside the depanneur. I needed to squint to work on my computer and much to delight of my daughter, often missed elementary math mistakes.
Next was this pesky double chin. It would crop up at every angle. no matter how much water I drank, how many neck extensions i did, it refused to leave my side. I gave up wearing necklaces, since it brought too much attention to the heavy jowls. So I hid behind the fashionable folds of heavy scarves and stoles. 

Black became my favourite color and seems to be the only color I wear everyday to camouflage my widening girth. Hitting 40 was like swallowing a balloon. If I wasn't actively losing weight, I was just gaining weight. My proportions started going out of whack in a not so good way. 
My makeup stopped going on smoothly and at the end of the day, mascara would have pooled in the most unbecoming of ways around my tired eyes. So, I bought retinol cream of course. I slathered it on day and night. It made my pillow all greasy sometimes, but I'd rather have non droopy eyelids than a clean pillowcase anyday.
Shapewear became my best friend. Sucking it all in as I hold my breath while slithering into a pencil skirt after having eaten oatmeal for breakfast...just try that on for fun one day.
Next is the gap in the buttonholes of the shirt. Really, how hard is it to put little hooks and eyes in between the gaping flaps? Have a heart on the not-so-slim, bordering-on-the-plus-side segment. I stopped going clothes shopping. It was seriously getting depressing to try on a mountain of jeans in all combinations of sizes to find that NOT ONE FIT they way it was supposed to. Online shopping is infinitely better...try on what you like in the privacy of your home and not get sympathetic looks from pesky sales people.

Aging gracefully in the times of social media is a whole another ballgame. I see so many oomph worthy, perfectly pouty, doe eyed photographs of people I went to kindergarten with, cropping up frequently on my news feed. Of course they will post pictures from Bora Bora or Hawaii or Fiji, posing in their itty-bitty bikinis or hot pants while i hastily pull down my diaphanous tunic to cover my ever-widening posterieur while scrolling down my smartphone.
Not one to be left behind, for my next post, I try the Kim K style duckface to take a selfie which makes me look like Cruella de Ville. I try lifting the phone higher at a more becoming angle to get an artfully perspective shot, only to drop it straight on my eye and have a manhole sized bruise for a week. Elegant.
Then there is the slew of slim fast and detox water concoctions crowding for space on my timeline. I don't remember having gone a single day without seeing a Garcinia Cambogia advertisment or a lemon, mint, cucumber, ox tail, rhino urine crap concoctions clamoring for my attention.
My hair is the last to go. The thick beachy waves have kind of taken on a limpid mousy sheen. I shed like a  Canadian sugar maple in autumn and the girth of my ponytail is inversely proportional to my waist size. The grey has crept up so stealthily that it can put a drone in Afghanistan to shame. I toy with the idea of lobbing it all off, maybe try the unicorn color trend that's so in and chic right now, but the idea of looking like a My Little Pony wannabe seriously deters me.

All this self doubt and trying to lag behind in the age race brought me to an uncomfortable realisation that I was sending out so many mixed messages to my beautiful, impressionable tween. Asking her one day if I should color my hair, she gave me a horrified look and said " But you are my mom and that's why you have grey hair, without it, you wouldn't look like my mom" Squirm worthy moment continued when she asked me "Maman, why do you want to look different?" I stuttered a noncoherent reply and took a step back to look at how damaging my behaviour has probably been for my daughter. 

To prevent any possible long term damage and therapy bills, I will happily resign myself to the chub rub and the flabby arms. Goodbye forever, smooth eyeliner and blemish free tight lifted skin. Self-esteem, confidence, tenacity and determination are the qualities I am going to focus on instead. I'm going to laud a beautiful heart instead of a beautiful face. I'm going to give integrity, grit and dreams more importance than success and resources.  Its going to be an uphill task in this insanely disposable and plastic world we live in, but i've never been afraid of a little hill ( or a couple) before. 
My skin may sag, but the eyes will twinkle. My girth may be a problem, but i'll position it in the audience when my daughter performs. Let the sun add a few more freckles and coats of tan while we chase butterflies in the sun and let the sweat drip off my limp hair while I go gracefully into the grey, holding tightly onto my daughter's hand.