42 – In The Beginning…

It’s funny what the mind does when it’s trying to avoid pain and trauma. And when I say funny, I mean funny-funny, not funny-ha-ha.

Today, I meditated, bathed, washed my hair, washed my bedsheets, did my morning prayer rituals and Sadhana, read some of Om Swami ji’s blog posts, responded to some emails, cooked my lunch, cleaned the kitchen, vacuumed and mopped the apartment, then spent a ridiculous amount of time walking around, setting up my writing area with my laptop and notepad and pen (yes, I still use those), moving them from the table to the sofa, to the bean bag chair, checking Wildr, opening the patio door, closing the patio door, opening the kitchen window, checking emails, eating my lunch, making a green tea, lighting incense, opening the patio door again, settling down on the beanbag chair and checking Wildr… again.

And even though everything was done and in place, and I was in place, and all I had to do was open my laptop and begin tapping at the keys, the resistance my mind kicked up was astounding. I was appalled by its obstinacy, which was much like that of a toddler throwing a tantrum.

I finally started writing hours later than I usually would. My mind did not want to cooperate, for it knew what was in store from the tears had I shed here and there over the past week. Every time I allowed a memory of this time in my life to resurface, I would jot it down in my notebook ready to refer to on writing day; the emotions momentarily came tumbling back with it, bringing a few tears, but I bounced back swiftly.

Gosh, the number of times I wanted to get up off this chair, go outside or get lost in Netflix and not write this, not re-visit those memories…

But, you know, it’s a blessing to have an awareness of this.

This experience makes me understand even more why most of us will do almost anything to escape facing our minds head-on.

Whether it’s talking, working, shopping, eating, reading, hobbies, social media, music, TV, sports, games, intoxicants, partying, gambling, sex, or any activity that distracts us from what our minds are dwelling on. It’s all a distraction, an escape.

And devastatingly, for more and more people these days, I have come to realise, the mind rebels so much, it’s so desperate to protect itself from stress and traumatic memories, that it simply breaks; it short fuses.

It’s as if the mind is so clever, it has the best defence army who know that if they fire signals the wrong way, the brain will get so confused, it won’t ever find those memories again and deal with them.

Instead, these people become mental health patients, suffering from all manner of disorders, psychosis, and the like.

It’s why Swami ji stresses the importance of meditation, solitude and silence.

For it is when we are alone, and all external activity ceases, that we really see what the mind is up to and how much it is affecting our lives.

It is then that we can learn to rein it in and stop it from falling into negativity. I remember Swami ji saying along the lines of:

If we can’t sit with ourselves and do nothing for barely an eight-hour stretch without feeling restless, negative or depressed, how can we expect anyone else to live with us or be in any kind of a healthy relationship with us.

It was during my months at a time of extreme solitude that I learned to look at my mind, to be aware of my thoughts and still them. It’s with a minute-to-minute, well actually, a second-to-second awareness of what I am thinking and bringing my mind back to the present, that I have healed from the past. I no longer allow thoughts to derail me.

I’m alright 99% of the time. My mind is quiet and doesn’t rebel anymore. But this Monday, as I knew my mind was going to face the hardest memories of my children in detail over these next few chapters, I could acutely see its restlessness and desperation to escape.

Swami ji’s most recent blog post The Witness, comes at the perfect time for me and reminds me to observe my emotions and the memories attached to them from an objective perspective.

This awareness was such an eye-opener.

The same me, 20+ years ago, didn’t have this wisdom, and I didn’t know how broken I was. It did not cross my mind then to seek therapy, learn meditation or go into silence and solitude to understand my mind and heal from the circumstances I was in.

I did the total opposite. I got wasted.

From the very first night at Milli’s house, I started drinking regularly. It was ‘normal’. I was 21, in England, in a student house, a time and place where hitting the pubs, bars and clubs and drinking at the house were absolutely normal, expected even.

It was in the first few days there that I stopped taking the antidepressants I’d been given for my post-natal depression. 

The doctors told me I was supposed to taper them off slowly, under their guidance, but I didn’t. I stopped them cold turkey and refilled the void with booze.

The weird thing was, although my situation was dire, I began to feel free. There was no more expectation on my head all day from my in-laws, there was no husband to resent and argue with at night. I felt hope. I envisaged a future, no longer the daughter-in-law of that household but living my own life. I wanted to get my education, get a good job and have my own place where Jai and Veer could have their own rooms. I saw Maanav and I living separately but being good friends and co-parenting the children. Jai and Veer were the most important aspect of all our lives.

No matter how awful I felt about myself, no matter how much I was suffering, they should be happy and content, they were always my priority.

When my in-laws returned from India with Jai (I think it was a few days after we came back), Maanav and I finally talked. I talked to my parents too. We invited both sets of parents to a meeting at the house. I saw Jai and Veer for the first time since the India trip and my heart did somersaults. All this while, I’d been hiding out in High Wycombe, feeling ashamed. I was dreading seeing my in-laws and parents again. Maanav and I held hands on the sofa and told them all that we were going ahead with the separation.

And there was no mention of Abhay from Maanav or his parents. That seemed to have blown over, thank God. Perhaps they believed that I was telling the truth about him after all. I’d spoken to Abhay on the phone but hadn’t seen him since I returned from India.

The family heard me out. I told everyone I wasn’t happy. I didn’t feel like myself. I told them how Maanav and I were not getting on. Our bickering and arguments were escalating. I didn’t want my children to grow up in a household full of tension like I did. I felt I had tried for long enough, but it wasn’t working.

I blamed myself. I told my in-laws that they had been great and that I was the problem. I had to sort myself out.

Again, nobody offered help. Nobody seemed to understand I needed professional help, therapy, support and understanding, not just antidepressants and goodbye and good riddance. It felt like the belief that it was all my fault was reconfirmed. My in-laws seemed relieved that I was on my way out. Perhaps they finally got what they wanted after handing me the blue folder.

We agreed the children should continue to live at the house so they had as much stability as possible. I knew I couldn’t give them everything they needed if I took them with me. I could barely take care of myself, and I had no intention of uprooting them to live in a student house or state-subsidised housing. It was obviously out of the question. It was agreed that I could pick Jai up from school a couple of days a week and spend some time with both children at their house afterwards as Maanav would be at work, and that I could take the children to my parents’ house for the whole day on Saturdays and Sundays. Although I still detested my father, the kids never knew. They loved him. It was important to me that my children spent time with their grandparents and the rest of our side of the family. They had a close bond, and I would never take that away from them.

Veer, at barely 6 months old, was too young to understand anything at the start, but I would repeatedly explain to my three-year-old Jai that Mum and Dad both loved him very much.

I told him that although we all loved each other, it was difficult for Mum and Dad to live together. We wanted everyone to be happy, especially Jai and Veer, so that’s why Mum lived somewhere else from now on.

I told Jai I would work really hard for them and have a house one day where he and Veer would have their own rooms that they could decorate exactly as they liked, and they could have their names on the doors. I told him they would be the luckiest children in the world because they would have happy parents who loved them so much and two homes to grow up in. Two of everything! I just had to sort myself out first.

The children never saw me cry.

In front of them, I was always happy and smiley. But when I dropped them off and said goodbye, some days, I would break down into such a state that I couldn’t drive. I’d have to pull the car up around the corner from their house and cry it out until I was able to drive again. When I went back to High Wycombe, I would spend the nights drinking and passing out or crying myself to sleep, missing them. In the afternoons, I’d be sobered up and drive the 45 miles again to see them.

My car was expensive to run, and the frequent round trips of 90 – 100 miles were taking their toll. I needed to trade my car in for something cheaper. I needed to find a job and somewhere to live, closer to the children.

In the beginning, Maanav allowed me to use his credit card for petrol. In the beginning, Jai and Veer would spend the whole day on weekends with me at my parents’ house. We’d take them out for lunch or cook together at home. Sometimes we’d go to visit our other relatives or go to the park or an adventure play area which they both loved. My mother and I bathed and massaged them at the end of the day and put them in their pyjamas and blankets so they would cosily fall asleep in their car seats on the way home.

In the beginning, when I picked the children up, Maanav had no problem with me going into the house to collect their bags, extra clothes, bottles, nappies, milk, drinks and snacks etc.

In the beginning, Maanav didn’t have a problem with me calling my children every evening to say goodnight.

But this was before he met Maya, before he heard my car was parked outside Abhay’s flat, and before I represented myself and won the first court hearing.

This post is one small chapter in my series, but a huge victory over my mind. In the past, my mind would have come up with a million excuses not to write this. I would not have been able to face thinking about this time of my life, it would have sent me into depression. I certainly would have ended up getting high or drunk to forget it. 

Today, before I sat to write, I prayed to Swami ji to help me through it, and with no plan how to begin, I started typing whatever came into my mind. Now it’s written, I sit here, smiling; eight years sober, a little wiser, with a quiet mind, and I can recount whatever I am able to, objectively and truthfully. I can sign off today with a heart full of gratitude for the peace I feel and a prayer of love and wellbeing for Maanav, and my Jai and Veer, wherever they are.

If you or a loved one are struggling with painful past memories, here is some wonderful practical advice from Om Swami ji to heal and overcome. It’s pretty much what I do each time I revisit difficult memories and let them go. Instead of an audio recording, however, I have my Merry Monk blog. Each chapter I write is a journey of healing. It’s happening because of Swami ji, His Grace and everything I am learning from Him, and because of all of you lovely people who read my posts and comment.

Thank you for coming on this journey with me. I pray it is helpful for you too. God bless you!

No matter where your pain comes from, no matter how deep the recess is, if you can win against your mind, one small step at a time, one chapter at a time, one memory at a time, you can overcome anything.