The Way We Bleed

A young lady called me up a couple of months ago. She didn’t know me but somehow, she had gotten the idea that I was a poor sad kid who has been quite depressed and needed a bit of sympathy. She introduced herself as someone who has been in the same shoes for quite a long time and guess what! The first thing she asked me was: “Are you sure you are not playing the victim card, or maybe, doing all this to gain attention?”

Well, well. Now that’s a great start! In fact, a grand start!

I felt a punch of laughter kicking at my tummy.

I didn’t know how to answer her, or whether to answer at all.

 

Well, suppose someone confided in you that it was not going well for him/her. That he/she wanted to kill himself/herself and maybe even let’s suppose that he/she told you so, to gain attention.

Suppose, someone did attempt suicide and however ridiculous it may be, did so to gain attention. Would you go and ask him/her, ‘Hey! Are you playing victim card?” Would you do that as someone who had been in the same shoes for a long time?

See, here’s the problem. People don’t usually ask a cancer patient, “Did you smoke to gain attention?” Nor do they ask one who had been in an accident, “Hey, did you do this to play victim card?” or “Are you sure you are hurt?”

They believe scars that can be seen. They believe in what is visible and tangible. As for us, we bleed within. We have scars, deep within us, scars, which, maybe, we could never confide in anyone. “Who would believe, anyways?” “Who would understand this pain?” We ask. And in rare weak moments, when we do confide in someone (because frankly, people have this undeniably irritating nature of poking distressed people to hear their curious stories –‘Tell me, na’ ‘Believe me, I won’t disclose it to a soul’ ‘What’s wrong, dear? I am here. Tell me everything that’s bugging you.’, till you feel like hurling eggs at them), we have to listen to this shit. What they don’t understand is that at moments like these, you don’t need someone to poke you or worse, hoard you with diverse advices for free. You only need someone to sit beside you, look into your eyes with love and compassion and hold your hands. But then of course, in this horrifying world, if you can always have something free of cost, that’s advice. Whether you are on the busy crossroads, the maddening thoroughfares, the bazaar, a quiet park or a roadside dhaba, there will always be these guys. The unsolicited solicitors.

Then, there are those, who will lash out at you when you somehow try to drag yourself to work. “People are in worse situations. People labour for days and nights to earn a morsel of food, people thrive like animals in slums and on streets. People who have no food or shelter. You’re so privileged! You have things that people would die to get. You have no real problem. You live in your world of fantasy and weave sadness to escape from reality.”

That sucks, doesn’t it? It makes you feel rotten from within.

We respect our privilege, if we have any. We are sorry for the deprived mass. But that doesn’t help our situations. Our world remains clumsy, musty and messed up. After all, you don’t need ‘Mani Square’ or ‘Mio Amore’ to be happy. You need love, kindness, sensitivity and understanding, and neither of them cost a penny. I am pretty sure, many of the slum-dwellers, peasants and workers are happier than us. I can bet on that.

How do they draw comparison anyways, I often wonder. There are people from all possible strata, race, language, background, socioeconomic position, attitude and psychological pattern, with hardly any two of them being completely identical. Each one of us has our own strengths and weaknesses, our habits and persona that make up our individualities. The way we respond to situations is different. The way we express our emotions is different. The way depression affects us is different. How can we be even considered for comparison?

Every year I come across more and more depressed people - people crumbling under despair, loneliness, anxiety, insecurity and stress. Each one, I discover, has a unique pattern of suffering and dealing with the crisis. Each one bleeds within but they way they cry – it’s different.

Every year, the vibrant red and orange blossoms bloom in the trees in front of my room. I sleep to the howling of the buses and trucks and the faint chirping of crickets.

Every day I keep hoping it will get better.

Say whatever you will, victim card, or self-obsession, it rarely gets better.

The orange-shaped planet whirls in leaps and bounds around the ball of fire. And waves of salty water thunder on its shores every moment, with all its glum and mirth. Boom. Boom. Boom.