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 :)

True stories from just one day last week-the blessed day I asked for. ASK & YOU SHALL RECIEVE

As we're not all facebook friends, I'm going to repeat a story I shared last week on my wall, plus a couple of others. All true :) 

Just a few hours ago, I jumped on a tram. Feeling I didn't need to sit, I gave up my seat and stood at the back. Along came three older men, (who also chose not to take up empty seats), who were in great spirits, laughing, chatting loudly (slightly inebriated ;) ). 
I was sending a message on my phone, and they joked about kids always being on there mobiles. (Oddly, when I boarded the tram, I'd made a conscious NOT to pull out my phone so I wasn't distracting myself from the life around me-it didn't even phase me when I then, absent mindedly pulled it out, only few minutes into the ride).
One of the fellas said something to me which I partially understood (all in Slovak). I responded as best as I could, and hurriedly finished my message, and proclaimed, "skončila som/ I'm done!" And shoved my phone in my pocket. That impressed them and they continued laughing away, and winking every now & again. ;) The whole lot of us were all smiles.
Finally, my stop had come, and I wished them all well, but one of the gentlemen got off too. I looked over my shoulder to see him coming along, slowly behind me & sensed he wanted to chat so waited for him. Between almost gasps for breath, he told me that he was 79 years old, and that he and his buddies, had been together like that for 20 years.
We had but a few seconds left to chat as we were heading off in opposite directions, & he held one of my hands in both of his and wished me all the best in this country, with happy tears, looking back as he both walked away. I kind of just stood there and took it in for a few seconds...

Immediately after, I called my other half and excitedly told him what just happened and how beautiful it the encounter was. He agreed, also being immersed with his own blessed events back home. We were both feeling pretty lucky.

What happened shortly after nearly blew my mind again, in the best of ways.

I had an impromptu dinner with a couple of friends, whom hadn't met one another before. Neither of us three knew how strong those few hours together would be, and it seemed the intensity of blessed events was increasing, although none was more important than the other.

I'd been to Bemba, a raw food restaurant a couple days prior, and liked it so much I had to go back. There the first time, I got to chatting with the (sole) waitress, a lovely young girl. We'd got on the conversation about meat as she's assumed that we were vegetarians, and I exclaimed that I am indeed an omnivore. I saw her eyes kind of drop, and I sensed she didn't like the fact that I ate animals....I told her I'd been a vegetarian for years and it hadn't worked for me, and we all must do what we feel is best for our spirit, and if vegetarianism suits her, that's great, it just doesn't suit me. 

She was working again the second evening, and was buzzing around us, as the three of us were having an intense conversation about the mind, body, spirit, and a realm outside the physical.

Not that it affected me, but I thought I'd dropped a few notches in this young girls mind, not being a raw food purist/ or vegetarian/vegan etc., but eventually she approached our table and now spoke fully in Slovak to my friends (as she felt more comfortable).

After the already beautiful experience with the dear older man, when this happened I felt like Cupid had struck me with something or other that day.

Young Kikuš, asked my friends to translate, that normally what she was experiencing doesn't happen to her. She exclaimed that she was getting an a huge, positive aura coming off of me...I was surprised and touched.

She was so inquisitive, so thirsty to for information on the things we were discussing and asked how I could have such an aura...It's love I said, without giving it a seconds thought.

Without asking, she had an understanding that I must have gone through a lot to get to this point, and I professed that indeed I had, that life hadn't been easy to me.

One of my friends then asked, "but you must get angry, no? What do you do...?"

I'm not perfect, but I try to be mindful of my actions so as to not hurt anyone. Exactly what do I do?
If I can, I go away and meditate, which doesn't mean putting on yoga clothes, lighting candles and going into a lotus position. It can be as simple as going into the bathroom, sitting on the toilet, (lid down so as to not allow my already low energy to flow down the toilet), closing my eyes and reconnecting with myself, reminding myself that I don't need to take on the emotions/stories/programs of others. I have my own, and just have to go back to my light.

If the situation isn't too bad, I can usually press play to a song in my head. These days it's a beautiful tune from the Argo soundtrack by French film composer, Alexandre Desplat, where a woman is simply humming. That or I literally picture myself hanging from a cloud, by white silky thread, wrapped in soft white cotton, eyes closed. I feel fully protected and secure there.

It's amazing the difference we can make by preparing in advance for adversity, because adversity will come, and it can smack you in the face, or you can prep a soft landing, and get out unscathed.

Leaving the restaurant that day was like walking on clouds. Again I called my other half and told him what had happened. I was so full of love and wanted to carry on sharing...


You know, that specific morning, I'd woken up and said out loud, "universe, who are you sending my way today..?" I'd had such beautiful encounters in previous days, and I wanted them to continue.
The first encounter of the day, was equally as special to the later ones, running into a friend by chance, who I'd never really had a heart to heart with, but in the moments we chatted, we reconnected deeply.

Ask and you get, but ask with your whole heart.

xxM

Autobiography installment # 1

It was from an early age that I knew that I somehow didn't fit in.

Perhaps it was the numerous sanctions laid upon us, there, in either one of our beautiful homes, my father was working so hard for.  Sanctions, not unlike a dictatorship. Freedom, individuality, love, friends, affection...None of those existed for me, not until way later in life. I was a loner, spending my time designing and sewing my own style of clothes, drawing, painting, dancing, and working out, between either binging on junk food or not eating at all.

My junk food addiction began quite early on, and I believe it was a subconscious response to moving to Canada when I was four, and also having left my love, my older sister behind. Although she would join us a year later, its only been recently with the help of a dear friend, that we possibly uncovered the root of my eating disorder. To see my own words in front of me now brings on a flood of emotion, and I can't imagine what my four year old self went through in those days, believing, hoping, wishing that somehow her idol, her big sister, could see her, and be next to her. The year that passed without her was like an eternity..

What I can tell you is that I used to regularly think that I was going to wake up in my bunk bed in England, that we'd all be togeher again, that this was all just a dream. For years I'd wanted to, and even begged my parents to move us back to the UK. It was a betrayal of all sorts to have been ripped from the root of the rest of our family, cousins, aunts, uncles, everything I knew at such a tender age.

I'm entirely grateful to my father for not giving into my begging, not that he ever would. A Canadian education is what I was to have, despite the fact we were living in the prison of little India, which extended to the boarders of our lawn.

As if adjusting wasn't difficult enough on its own, it become apparent that something was really wrong with mom, as far back as I can recall.  She often had migraines, which debilitated her. I can't remember how old I was, but once I was sent home from school, at around the age of five or six, to take care of her, (my father was working out of town at the time).  She would have called the school in a state, asking for me in her very broken english. Bless her soul, the migraine was killing her. Vaguely, I remember arriving home to her bawling her eyes out, even whaling, in excruciating pain, looking as though she would pull all her hair off her head.  I tucked her into bed, and perhaps laid with her, although I can't fully recall, but for sure I knew she wasn't ok, that much was for certain.

I worried about my mother often, with her constant migraines, crying, moodiness. I remember thinking more than once that while the rest of us would be out, this time when we returned home with dad, she would have done it, that she'd have taken her own life.

Right now, my mind takes me back to a specific time when we were coming back from Punjabi class on a Friday evening.  I had a very strong feeling that she'd left us, and went straight into the house looking for her.  Thankfully, there she was, sitting cross-legged in the living room, atop a heater, praying, as she did often...Thank goodness for her faith in God, faith which often kept her hanging on by a thread.

Earlier on I mentioned how I didn't quite fit, which will come up later, but looking from the outside in, there was something very abnormal about our whole family. Sure, no one family is perfect, but we were the kids who got chased down the street by our mom, with a broom stick, or she'd show up and drag us away from a friends place, that's if we were allowed to play outside. I remember my first time in a swimming pool of a neighbor, mom found me there and ordered me out. When we got home, she chased me around the house with a wooden spoon. She nailed me on one of my legs, before I locked myself in the bathroom, which was a regular routine.

Before carrying on, as I'm letting you into my life's tale, I feel compelled to share something with you, present time. Today, the fifteenth day of April, 2013, marks my parents 40th wedding anniversary, and I just sent my father a message:

        "Dad, I just wanted to wish you and mum a very happy anniversary, from us. 40  years in union is a long time, and less common these days, and I'm proud that you both made it through the toughest times. I have so much respect for you both, in a life long partnership. Cheers to many more years, and even happier than the past. Lots of love, xoxoxo Munjeet."

He called me pretty much immediately, and as always, passed the phone to mum. See, my father is very much like The Wizard of Oz, he's there, hears and sees everything, but doesn't often make himself seen.
We chatted briefly, he and I, and I feel blessed to have connected with them both, and more importantly, to be connected with them, a process which took a number of years, patience, FORGIVENESS and a whole lot of love.

It would be a number of years still before mom was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, and that's when our family started to make sense to me. Not all the puzzle pieces have fallen into place, but it was then that the two people whom I chose to be my parents, became exactly that, my parents. Dad became dad, instead of dad&mom, and the woman sitting in front of me in the psychiatric ward, for the first time in my life, started to blossom into the mother I know and love dearly today.  I can't speak for my brother or sisters, but that's when the healing process between us three began.

The day I'm talking about was sometime in the summer of 2002. My dear friend, and soon to be ex-husband, was working somewhere in the world, and I'd gone home to visit mom.  The details escape me as to when she was admitted to hospital, but she'd  had a major breakdown sometime after my older sister's wedding.

You may or may not beware of bipolar disorder, but essentially it's a mental disorder, whereby one experiences periods of being high, then falling really low. It's incredibly difficult to diagnose, and one can suffer for their whole lives without ever knowing that they can be helped, or diagnosed. By the time mom was diagnosed in 2002, she'd already suffered (at least), the length of my existence, 26 years, bless her soul, and thank the powers that be-God, the Universe, her angels- her final "episode," was witnessed by our family doctor, and she was admitted.

The first time I saw her after the diagnosis was made, began like any other day. I made the two hour drive from Toronto to London, pretty happy go lucky. I even remember what I was wearing, because mom had noticed and complimented me.

Doon Drive, was stop number one, home, to greet whomever was there, and to find out the details of where mom was. I hadn't planned on going with anyone to see her, but my father insisted he come along. That was a bit weird for me, because as far as I could remember, we'd not done anything together in a long time.  You see, I'd been disowned, for running away from home some years before, and for too many years before that, to say that our relationship was turbulent, would be an incredible understatement.

...installment #2 will be next Sunday..