Autobiography- Installment 2

Off we went and unbeknownst to me, what was to happen in the next short while would change my perception of my parents, my family, and my role in it. 

I'd been in or around a mental institution before, as mom had been admitted when I was much younger, but now I was inside, and I felt queasy about it, although I didn't allow that to show. Having my father next to me was comforting, and I understood why he hadn't wanted me to go alone. 

There's not a whole lot I remember about the moment I saw mom, besides the fact that she was pretty drugged up. I don't know the final episode which landed her in the hospital, as I was still an "outsider," at the time. I could ask family members, but please understand, it's just not something I wish to dig up in them. I do hope that one day, the seven of us will be under the same roof, and share our hearts with one another. (It's been almost a decade since our last reunion). 

There were other patients sharing the room with mom, so dad suggested we go to the (larger), common room. I was happy to oblige, and off we went, at snail's pace, because mom couldn't walk any faster. It was in the hallway, outside her room that she complimented me, especially the top I had on-a cute, black, chiffon, peasant top, with bright flowers embroidered down the front, something she or I could have easily made. (I learned her talent as a seamstress from my early days and would eventually go on to study fashion design, although I was a designer from day one). It meant the world to me that she'd noticed, and said so.  

We entered the common room where there could have been a couple other people, not that it matters. It's from here that I do remember, as clear as day what happened next. We sat down at the end of a long table, mom in front of me, dad sitting to my right, at the head of the table). We made small chat, and within a short time, mom started to cry. It took everything in me not to lose myself and cry too but I had to be strong for her, I just had to. I put my hands out across the table and told her to squeeze them as hard as she could, that she'd feel better. Continuing to fight my tears back, I turned to my father, only to see him trying to do the same, fighting his own tears. In an instant, I felt as though my heart exploded and repaired itself at the very same time. 

And that was it, that's when the past died, and they became to me who they are today, my parents, my supporters, my allies, and my friends.

Our pasts, not just mine, but yours too, are very important, and none of us would be who we are today without them. I've worked very hard not to allow my past to shape me, to use it as a crutch, or walk around with a chip on my shoulder. However, I do not forget where I came from, a virtue I learned from my dear ex-husband, whom you'll learn about later in the book.

When I ran away from home, it was he who taught me so many "things" like, being virtuous and having integrity, or the idea of taking things for granted, cause and effect etc. I desperately tried to understand those things, and would often look them up in dictionary, but they were beyond my comprehension, only words. 

After my almost 20 years, by the time I left home, all I wanted was to be a good human being, to be loving, and compassionate, virtuous and empathetic. I was the greatest of assholes, pardon my French. Only a few years ago did I learn that my sisters and brother called me "Mangry," and were scared shitless of me.

All the while though, I knew that somewhere deep inside of me, that there existed a spark. In fact going back to the my opening sentence, knowing I was different somehow was starting to equate to something else, not just the sanctions, and hardships of being a first generation Canadian, but a burning and yearning for greatness, not in an asshole kind of way. This spark revealed itself every now and again but it wouldn't fully ignite for many years.

I believe my being a loner started immediately when I started school in Canada. One of my earliest memories, was unfortunately a racist one. It was sometime in winter and I was in the school yard, waiting for the bell to ring to head indoors, with my hood on, when a girl approached me from behind to play. My head must have been lowered, because when I looked up, she saw my face said something along the lines of "ew, I don't want to play with you." I didn't cry or even tell anyone, I just let it be. 

Another time, one of the popular boys came up to me and asked, "you don't think you're pretty, do you?" Of course I said "no." 

The question was posed because another "outcast," (whom I wish I could connect with but cannot remember for the life of me), was going around telling everyone she was pretty.

What he said bounced right off me and looking back now, it seems from the early days, I had something in me which was unbreakable. 

I was so proud of myself the time one of my younger sisters came running up to me crying that someone was bullying her. I finally got to use my line, "if you're going to pick on someone, pick on someone your own size!!" I felt pretty Clint Eastwood like, even though I hated the Westerns my father liked to watch. 

My personal hero's at that age, 5 or 6, were, besides my father, none other than: Superman, Michael Jackson, Amitabh Bachan, not forgetting our family friend who used to take me to school, (whom I had the biggest crush on). I did everything to impress him, playing like a boy, fake gun in hand, shooting at the fake nemesis, "Gabbar Singh," and the like. (I was brought up on and loved Bollywood films as a young thing). 

Alas, my buddy outgrew me, and I became the annoying pest who would stalk him. Years later, together with my older sister, we would be under the intent focus of my fathers uncle, a well known classical Indian musician, who found joy in teaching us his life's passion, (an experience I buried in the depths of my mind until recently). My sister and I played the harmonium, and my buddy was our tabla guy, one of the best.  

Back to being unbreakable, more than once, it went completely out of my favor (on a physical level, that is). I was watching over my youngest sister and her best friend at the park, when they started to get picked on by an older (than them) kid. I told her to leave them alone, and she picked up a fist sized rock and threatened to throw it at me. Not at all taking her seriously, I said, "go ahead!" 

She had good aim, that's for damn sure, coupled with the fact that my reflexes were non-existent. 

Right between my eyes is where the rock hit. Immediately there was this massive protrusion which grew from my head, not unlike the ones "Wile E. Coyote, from the "Looney Tunes," used to get, when he'd been bonked by a falling rock, a loving gesture by his arch enemy, "The Road Runner." 

Blood poured out of my nose like a faucet and I don't remember the rest. Thank God, and surprisingly, the damage was only superficial.

I was home from school for a week or so, recovering, with two black eyes, a flattened nose and really, I was quite the site, looking pretty monster like. One morning, as my sisters were off to school with our neighbor, I peeked out from behind the curtain and our neighbor happened to turn around at that moment. She caught a glimpse of me and her eyes went wide. I guess I looked pretty bad, but I never worried at the time, again confirming the built in defense mechanism I had within in. 

On a side note, I must have been around ten, because I've just had a flashback to a sweet experience with my brother who was around a year old (ish). During my recovery, we were playing together, and I was looking for something under my bed, when due to the pressure in my head, my nose started to pour blood again. My brother took off and returned shortly after, with one of his wet wipes for me. Love ya kid...

That wasn't the end of me being a "tough guy." A couple of years later, in grade seven, I accidentally bumped a girl (grade eight bully), in the hallway, and she said precisely, "watch out bitch!"

I saw red, that she called me a bitch, did the whole tough guy act, and said, "what did you call me?!? Low and behold, I'd  picked a fight with her, "outside, after school!!!" 

This was before lunch and it became a big deal which everyone was talking about.  I remember the Michael Jackson looking like boy, whom I loved, offering me his brass knuckles, and all the people on my side. Needless to say, I got my ass kicked, again, in front of many, but it didn't phase me. 

I think I'll always be a tomboy at heart, but now I embrace my femininity, along with the old line, "I'm a lover, not a fighter."

Installment 3- coming soon :)