I always thought that showing vulnerability made you weak. It has taken me two decades to understand that true strength lies in the dark corners that I refused to acknowledge.
I was not allowed to be sad. Being sad makes you vulnerable. Vulnerable people are weak. Weak people get taken advantage of. I could not be weak. I would not be weak.
As a child, I learned that sadness was a bad thing. It made adults uncomfortable. It made them angry. I did not like to see my mother angry so I kept all my sad thoughts and feelings inside me, locked in a safe, inside a grey, steel Godrej cupboard.
If I fell and got hurt, my tears would be wiped away instantly, my trembling chin pacified with a hug and a few choice words, be strong. If I was hurt by someone’s words, a harsh rebuke or reprimand I would be sternly told to toughen up. If angry tears rolled down my cheeks, overwhelming me, I would be asked to calm down.
I had strong role models to look up to. Women in our house did not cry. So, I became strong and toughened up. But I was unable to calm down. Now that I had locked away my sadness, another emotion surfaced to take its place – Anger. Anger was safe and acceptable. It meant that I could exercise power over others who were weak. I scoffed at those who cried easily. I rolled my eyes at friends who were vulnerable and advised them to be strong and toughen up.
The world is not kind to those who feel deeply. I would not allow anyone to hurt me. But they did. I was hurt by friends who abandoned me, family who berated me and boyfriends who dumped me. Through it all, I stayed strong. I only cried when I was alone.
“You’re a strong girl,” my mother commented, with pride.
“I’m not as strong as you,” my friend admitted, in envy.
“Why do you always need to be so strong?” my boyfriend asked, frustrated.
I smiled through it all. With each comment, I grew happier believing that I had managed to extinguish all traces of sadness from my genetic framework. Soon, I would be untouchable. Little did I know that I was slowly removing the most essential part of being human.
In 2013 my father found out that he had a 70% blocked artery and needed to go in for surgery immediately. When he was wheeled in, I was surrounded by a stressed mother, worried family members and an emotional brother. We waited for eight hours, sitting quietly in the small hospital room. When the doctor came in and told us the surgery had been successful, my entire family cried in collective relief. I did not shed a tear. I was the strongest of them all.
We were allowed to see my father in the recovery room after an hour. He had a pipe in his mouth and was unconscious. He looked small and fragile. I felt a strange lump rising in my throat. My eyes smarted. I looked around. I was not alone. Surgeons, attendants and nurses were milling about. I shoved the lump down firmly. This was not the time to cry or feel sad. He was going to be okay.
I have always been the strongest amongst friends, family and peers. I can take criticism in the right spirit, fight sexism head on and put to shame anyone who dares mansplain me. What I cannot do – is feel sad for myself or others. I was never given permission.
After thirty-five years I was curious about the ball of sadness I had locked up in the Godrej cupboard. Was it still there? When I tentatively opened the cupboard, I found myself at the mouth of a dark cave. The air was heavy and damp. The walls were made of stone, the ground cold, covered with soft mud. A huge stone slab lay at the center. I stepped closer, examining its smooth, shining surface. Its edges were raw, beautiful in an unfinished sort of way. A deep sense of sadness filled me.
The cave seemed ancient, a lonely space that had neither been discovered nor visited. I was the first human to step inside. I placed my hand on the stone slab and closed my eyes. There was a gentle hum and I was instantly sucked into a void, voices whispering all around me. Some murmured, others wailed. Little girls cried and young women sobbed softly. They were many voices, they were one voice. They were all me, a collection of all my unhappy memories.
The void pulled me down to its center and held me. I squirmed and fought, wanting to run. I closed my eyes and shut my ears with my hands. The grip got firmer.
Look, it said. You must look.
Memories of my childhood flashed before my eyes. I saw myself crying as a child, a teenager, a young adult, a new mother and as a forty-year-old. In each memory, I was always alone. In each memory, I wiped my tears, washed my face, lifted my chin and got on with life.
I felt myself collapse; my body drained of all energy. I felt the weight of what I had let myself go through. I felt sad for myself. I was placed gently on the floor.
Rest, it said. You must rest.
When I opened my eyes, I was in bed, the morning light streaming through the window. I was crying uncontrollably. My husband asked what was wrong. I could not explain it. All I could do was cry – for myself, for everything I had given up, for all the hurt, all the heartache, all the failures.
I had never been strong, I realised. In locking away my sadness, I had made myself weak.
Is this what it feels like to give yourself permission?
Yes, it said. Yes, well done.