In praise of hitting rock bottom
I know I’ve been silent on my newsletter for a few months because of certain developments that compelled me to regard the writing I put out into the world with shame and critique. I’ve always dealt with shame and guilt growing up (like any Brown woman on this planet), but writing was the place where that noise seemed to fade away. Gabor Mate, Hungarian-Canadian physician and author says, “we’re living in a time where there’s a genocide of authenticity. This society loves you to be addicted so that you try to meet other people’ expectations, it loves you to try to fit in instead of being authentic to yourself. This path towards wholeness is not supported by the culture, it’s undermined by it. We have to take it on for ourselves— not just as individuals but in the face of cultural programming and propaganda.” Something happened that made me simply stop and regard my own work with suspicion— what did I stand for? What was I attempting to promote with the world? Why does my writing make so many squirm with discomfort where they either love it or despise it? Why can’t I bring myself to talk about lighter things, more optimistic things, why am I so terrified of one-dimensionality?
I believe it’s impossible for me to talk about an experience or a situation without plugging into its deepest, darkest rock bottom. In exploring what happens in this cavernous space not found easily, in the shadow self, in the parts we actively work to hide from others, in the spaces where shame, guilt, self-doubt grow. I suppose, it’s because of the idea of authenticity. I don’t believe I have many answers to provide to the world so my form of authentically engaging with it is to share my deepest experiences, in the hope of recognition, commiseration. In the hope of alleviating a singular, anxious loneliness that plagues everybody. I think the rock bottom is a glorious place to be. A place where the sense of self stands completely annihilated, because it’s only there you can reach the absolute truth. You can recognize what bits of you are in rebellion with your conditioning, with what’s expected of you as a human being, a woman, a man, a lover, a professional, a cog in the larger capitalist machinery, a consumer. Different communities have different terms for this experience. In the spiritual community, it’s called ‘being conscious,’ of our choices, of our patterns of thoughts, behaviours and consumptions, our relationship with our bodies and others. In Islam, it manifests as the Prophet’s teachings, as diktats which in essence are just a way to be a better person, in service of a more absolute truth which is that the self is a sum of other parts. In Buddhism, it’s the practise of detachment. Whatever term it make take, for me, it’s simply the practise of authenticity.
I want to talk about shame. For me, there’s two varieties of shame. One that arises when I feel like I’ve disappointed or failed to meet the expectations of others. This can play out in professional, social and familial circles. And another, the deeper kind, is the shame that arises from when I’m unable to stand up for myself, when I know I have forgone authenticity for approval. A deeply examined life will prove that this happens more often than we’d like to believe.
As children, we’re rarely taught the importance of being authentic, of saying ‘no',’ of voicing our disapproval, distaste, disagreement about a person or a situation. Whether it’s in school or larger family circles. In insidious ways, these systems meant to protect and support us, becomes tools of oppression. In Eastern cultures, placing the importance we do on family and community acts as a double-edged sword. Are we going to be rejected if we don’t comply with the larger norm? A tough endeavour when acceptance is what we most crave. But acceptance at what cost?
Fairly early on, I was certain about one things, which is that I didn’t exactly fit in. Child of a Hindu-Muslim marriage, immigrant kid, a young woman who didn’t fit the predominant beauty standard, a writer by profession, unmarried at 30 and so on. My rebellions were also quite pedestrian and expected, although bringing with them a fair share of shame and guilt and looking back, I realise I internalized it because they weren’t conscious choices. They were simply a reaction to the feeling of being oppressed or put into a box or the feeling that love and acceptance would only be granted to me on the basis of certain behaviours. It’s only now I realise those meaningless rebellions created a vortex of alienation around me that led me to seek professional help and people who could actually validate me for who I am and not for who they want/expect me to be. Naturally, that was an ugly process, kind of a second birth, as trite as that may sound but pain turned trite is still pain, as is deliverance.
Deliverance, to me, is the other side of hitting rock bottom. I know a lot of my friends right now are going through a major transitional shift in their psyches. We’ve just turned 30 or are at the cusp of it— we’re more sure of what we hold true or sacred, less prone to abandoning ourselves in unsafe interactions, more iffy about caving into the desires of others without examining their intentions, more suspicious of the world as we’re more sure of our place within it. There is a definite loss of innocence, as some might see it, but to me, it’s simply the illusions falling away. It’s the desire to show up authentically for ourselves and in the world at a time where authenticity is regarded with suspicion and disapproval that’s causing the innate tension we may be experiencing.
For me, this tension culminates into rock-bottom. The rock-bottom doesn’t look as sexy as certain films or TV shows will have you believe. I don’t sit out on my couch in sexy lingerie, drinking and smoking myself to death with smudged-mascara. Rock-bottom looks like being unable to get out of bed for an entire day, not doing the things that I know will make me feel better such as exercising or having a home-cooked meal or brushing my teeth or eating at all. It manifests as irritation with all my loved ones, the need to hide myself from the world because my sense of self feels splintered, fragmented into various bits seeking approval from various others. It’s a terrifying, and a familiar place. And in that familiarity and terror also lies the truth.
The truth is that authenticity will always remain a deeply lonely pursuit. And any kind of movement will feel sluggish, any belief half-baked. The brain will invent lies to protect me in the short-term, but will manifest as disease and depression in the long-term. In these moments, I have no choice but to listen to myself, to start the process of integration where I can return to the world battered, but lighter. Tired but more sure of myself. Lonely but not alone.
All of this is to say that if you, like me, find yourself grappling with the rock bottom, don’t be afraid to plug its depths, knowing that you will emerge a different you. A new you. It happened for me. I’m back on here, doing what I do best, knowing that this is all I have to really do, before the rest falls into place.