“You Are the Daughter, I Expect You to Remain Silent.”
MY STORY - LAVLEEN WALIA
TRIGGER WARNINGS: Mention of depression, anxiety, emotional turmoil, and mental health struggles. Chronic Illness and Pain: Discussion of chronic physical pain, medical treatments, and the emotional impact of living with a chronic condition. Domestic Violence and Abuse: References to physical and emotional abuse within a family setting. Self-Harm and Suicidal Ideation Family Dysfunction and Neglect: Depictions of challenging family dynamics, including neglect and manipulation. Bullying
In the quiet aftermath of turmoil, my story began. Each unshed tear—a silent witness to the pain endured and the resilience forged in the hidden chambers of my mind. I am Lavleen Walia, standing not as a victim of my circumstances but as a testament to a profound truth: within us lies an indomitable spirit, a will that our conditions cannot define. From the depths of despair to the peaks of triumph, this is my odyssey through the fog of mental battles, fought without fear, without hate, and with a heart unyielding to the storms that sought to break it.
From my first breath, my journey was cradled in an embrace far removed from the gentle welcome anticipated. Enveloped in a cloak of pain, a companion whose name and nature were mysteries to me. Before the world’s colors could imprint upon my eyes, before its sounds could shape the beginnings of understanding, there existed only the raw, uninterpreted sensation of pain. My voice found form in cries, an unarticulated plea for solace from discomfort I had no words to describe, no context to understand. This was my introduction to existence, a dialogue with an unseen force that spoke in a language of pure sensation, long before I could grasp the fabric of what it means to be human. My life was immediately woven with an intensity of experience, silent yet profoundly articulate in the lessons it would come to teach.
The earliest memories I have are not of laughter or play but of relentless pain that seemed to consume every part of me. It was more than just a physical sensation; it brought with it a shadow of fear that darkened every moment, especially at night. With every attempt to close my eyes came nightmares, so vivid and recurring they felt like a second reality, an unwelcome continuation of my day.
In those days, swathed in the ceaseless ache that was my constant companion, I saw my family through the lens of my own turmoil. My mother, always a flurry of activity from dawn till dusk, seemed worn. Her exhaustion often crested into frustration, an atmosphere that became the backdrop of my earliest memories. Despite her love, which I never doubted, her weariness made me fear, in moments of childish misunderstanding, that she harbored resentment towards me. One of my clearest memories is of being cradled in my older brother's arms, my tears soaking his shirt. Though he was 13 years older and unsure of how to ease my suffering, he held me tight nonetheless. In that embrace, even without words, I found an odd comfort, a silent acknowledgment of my pain. It was a simple act but spoke volumes about our bond, one that was still undefined but palpably present, or so I thought. Amidst this family tableau, my father was a figure of contrast. His presence was like the sun at dusk, mostly absent when the shadows of my pain lengthened. Yet, in the waning moments of the day, he emerged to play and laugh, bringing brief respite and fun into my world. This duality puzzled me; his absence during my moments of need stark against the joy he brought. My grandmother, despite her own frailty, was a beacon of unconditional care. She would rush to my side, her presence a soothing balm against the chaos of my existence. Her strength, seemingly drawn from depths unknown, was a testament to the power of love over physical limitations. In her care, I found a sanctuary, a place where the pain receded, if only for a moment, allowing me a glimpse into a world of gentleness and compassion.
This mosaic of family interactions, viewed through the haze of my constant pain, taught me about the complexities of love and the multifaceted roles we play in each other's lives. Each gesture, each presence or absence, wove into the fabric of my early understanding, teaching me about connection, resilience, and the silent ways we communicate care.
Discovering my diagnosis—a genetic migraine condition—felt less like an unveiling and more like placing a name to the constant companion of my youth: pain. This revelation, while significant, didn't shift the ground beneath me. After all, what's in a name when the experience itself has been your world since memory began?
My home life was a tumultuous symphony of high emotions and louder voices. My parents, locked in an endless cycle of arguments, seemed oblivious to the way their disputes amplified my physical torment. The walls of our home, rather than offering sanctuary, seemed to reverberate with the intensity of their disagreements, each shout and sharp word slicing through me, leaving me to wonder if peace was an alien concept not meant for me.
In the midst of this, my relationship with my mother felt like navigating a minefield. Her patience was worn thin, frayed by the demands of daily life and perhaps, by the invisible weight I carried. Small mistakes, the kind any child might make, seemed monumental in her eyes, drawing forth a frustration that felt deeply personal. I began to harbor resentment, a seed planted in silent misunderstandings and watered by our growing distance.
School offered no reprieve. My shyness was like a beacon, attracting bullies with unerring accuracy. Their taunts etched themselves into my psyche, each word a reminder of my perceived flaw. Coming home with a desire to share, to find solace, was met with a simple directive from my mother: "Be quiet." It was as if my very existence was a burden, a constant reminder of despair in a household already teetering on the edge of chaos.
Evenings were spent in the company of my father, a stark contrast to the day's earlier trials. He had his own views about my mother, painting her in broad strokes of negativity. While he spared me from such criticism, it left me bewildered. How could I, the girl who felt invisible, who couldn't even hold someone's gaze without a surge of anxiety, be seen in a different light by him?
I often wondered if our family's roots in India contributed to this chasm between us. Maybe my parents struggled to guide me through a landscape so vastly different from their own upbringing. Yet, as days melded into years, the search for meaning within this life became more pressing. What purpose did this existence hold, marked by isolation at school, silence at home, and a pain that was as much a part of me as my own heartbeat?
Despite everything, a part of me always tried to see the good in people—the bullies, my family, everyone. It was as if this belief was woven into the very core of who I was. However, the environment at home often made holding onto this belief incredibly challenging. Witnessing the intense arguments between my parents became a regular part of my life. The cycle was always the same: harsh words, my mother in tears, and then me, trying to console her, only to be shushed by my father’s quiet plea, “Quiet Lavleen, please don’t interfere.”
It always puzzled me why I was the only one who felt compelled to intervene. My grandmother and brother seemed to accept the chaos as normal, staying away, but I couldn’t. I was drawn to the turmoil, even though it physically pained me. My migraines seemed to feed off the stress, becoming more frequent and intense. Nights were the worst. I’d lie in bed, sick, the same nightmares replaying in my mind. My health deteriorated to the point where my rib cage became visible, a clear sign of distress, yet no one around me acknowledged that this wasn’t how a child's life should be.
No one told me it wasn't normal to feel this way, to live this way. Surrounded by voices that never really reached out to help, I learned to retreat into myself, to suffer in silence. But inside me, the hope of finding goodness in others didn’t die. It was my silent resistance against the darkness, a light I held onto, believing in a possibility of a world filled with understanding and kindness, far removed from the shadows of my childhood.
Then there came a moment that stood stark against all others—a moment that would redefine fear for me. This fear was not just a whisper in the dark; it was a shout that echoed through every corner of my being, paralyzing not just my body but my very ability to think, to react, to exist in any recognizable way. My senses, overwhelmed to the point of numbness, left me questioning the reality of my existence. It was an experience that, unfortunately, I would come to know all too well in the years that followed.
During one of my elementary school years, I witnessed an act of physical violence that would forever alter the way I saw someone who was once part of my family. My brother, whom I can only bring myself to refer to as the creature, displayed an anger so intense, so devoid of humanity, that he no longer seemed human to me. A simple request from our mother to clean up after himself escalated in a heartbeat. The scene unfolded like a nightmare: items from the table hurled to the floor in a fit of rage, egg yolks painting the carpet in grotesque splatters, and then, the physical pain inflicted right before my eyes.
This pain was unlike any migraine or emotional torment I had endured before. It was a multidimensional agony that wove together the physical, emotional, and mental into a tapestry of suffering. And then, as abruptly as it had erupted, the violence ceased. My mother, without a word, gathered her things and left for work, leaving me in a state of shock, rooted to the spot, struggling for breath yet paradoxically alive. In that moment, something within me fractured, a crack in the foundation of my reality that could never be repaired. I remained there, physically unscathed but forever changed, with a newfound understanding of fear and a question that haunted me: how could such darkness exist within the confines of what I once called home?
When my father finally came home, a flicker of hope ignited within me. My mother was now at work, and I remained paralyzed. Then, unexpectedly, the creature—my brother—approached me. He emitted a cry that seemed devoid of genuine emotion, hugged me briefly, and then let go. The touch was repulsive, confirming a discomfort with him I had felt since childhood, an instinctive aversion I could never quite place.
I waited anxiously for my father, longing for his comfort, for the assurance of his arms around me. Yet, what I received was anything but comfort. His words, laden with frustration, cut through me: “This is what you wasted my time for? Don’t you see I was working?” I was stunned, unable to process the dismissal, the lack of concern. Before I could muster any response, he added, “Lavleen, stay quiet, and clean this mess.” The blood, I was expected to clean up the blood from the carpets, a task so surreal in its normalcy amidst the chaos. Meanwhile, the creature faced no repercussions, standing by as if he were merely an observer to his own actions.
At that moment, a harsh truth settled over me. The reality of my life was starkly different from the fantasies and dreams I harbored. It was a realization that the safety, understanding, and love I yearned for might forever remain just out of reach, confined to the realm of imagination. This was the beginning of accepting a world where dreams felt disconnected from the tangible, often harsh, realities I faced.
Oftentimes we humans try to find an escape, some safe haven to help us cope with our realities. The school, a place I once thought could be my refuge, quickly proved otherwise. I harbored this faint hope that maybe, just maybe, my teachers could offer the support and understanding I so desperately needed. But that hope was shattered when I realized that some of them were, in their own way, contributing to the bullying. The sting of betrayal was sharp, especially when one teacher publicly disclosed that my parents had contacted the school because they weren't speaking to each other. Exposed in front of my classmates, I felt my already fragile world crumble a bit more. The embarrassment was overwhelming, fueling the fire of bullying and solidifying my role as the outsider, the one whose life was so evidently different, so evidently less.
In the wake of this, I found myself in school counseling—a mandated attempt at intervention. Yet, even there, understanding and empathy seemed just out of reach. The counselor, lacking any real grasp of cultural diversity, judged the emotional expressions within my family through a narrow, Western lens. Her well-meaning suggestion was journaling, a practice she believed could offer solace. And while I found some value in reflection, in the act of pouring thoughts onto paper, it was a solution that barely scratched the surface of my turmoil. The suggestion to create a collage, an activity that might have offered a creative outlet for some, felt almost laughable in its inadequacy. Tasked with assembling images on neon blue paper, I remember feeling a mix of confusion and frustration. What could such a trivial task possibly contribute to my understanding of the complex web of emotions and experiences I was navigating?
It also made me laugh how the room designed for students to escape to during moments of pain, to take a break and find some peace was anything but relaxing. It had bright, hospital-like lights and an uncomfortable bed, making it clear that comfort wasn't a priority in its design. It felt like it was put together because it had to be, not because there was a genuine effort to create a comforting space for us. The whole setup seemed off, reminding me more of a sterile clinic than a place to relax and escape the stress of school life. This was the only escape I had for the 8 years I spent in that school.
This phase of my life, marked by isolation both at home and at school, and by well-intentioned but ultimately superficial attempts at help, deepened my sense of being fundamentally misunderstood. It highlighted a stark realization: genuine understanding and support were rarities, precious and hard to come by. My journey through these trials, though lonely, became a testament to my resilience. Each failed attempt at finding solace outside only reinforced my resolve to seek it within, to navigate the labyrinth of my thoughts and experiences with nothing but my own spirit as a guide.
High school brought with it a glimmer of hope, a faint light in the enduring darkness of my life. Despite carrying the weight of my past, I saw high school as a chance to reinvent myself, to carve out a space where I could belong, even if I didn't fully grasp the importance of authenticity and true self-discovery at the time. I craved a fresh start, a way to escape the turmoil that had become my norm.
This desire for change wasn't misguided, but perhaps naive. I believed school could be my sanctuary, a place to find the solace I so desperately sought. And in some ways, it was. Achieving academic success and making my teachers proud brought me moments of happiness. I found connections, friendships even, that seemed to hint at a life beyond the confines of my chaotic home. Diving into leadership roles and school activities, I sought to prove to myself that I could be fearless, that I could make a difference—even if I struggled to see my own worth.
Violence and discrimination persisted within the walls of my home, a constant reminder of the battles I faced. My attempts to assert myself, to find my voice, were quickly silenced with a harsh "be quiet, Lavleen." My father's neglect in response to even the smallest infractions was a bitter pill to swallow, teaching me the harsh realities of neglect and the painful understanding of being invisible.
I sought help, reaching out to the police in a desperate attempt to escape the violence. Yet, I quickly learned the harsh truth about our justice system and the cold reality faced by victims and survivors. My father's swift action to protect "his precious son" over me, his daughter, was a painful betrayal. It underscored a feeling of powerlessness and the realization that those causing harm often wield the most power. The mere fact that these institutions ignore the pleas for help as if they are just some external noises not to be understood, is aggravating beyond belief.
Throughout high school, my father's absence and neglect only deepened, leaving me to navigate my teenage years feeling overlooked and unimportant. Even when I voiced concerns for my safety, I was dismissed, my fears trivialized. The message was clear: my wellbeing was secondary, an afterthought in the greater scheme of my family's dynamics.
Additionally, the shadow of my genetic migraine condition loomed large, subtly undermining my aspirations. It was during these formative high school years that the true extent of my condition's impact became starkly apparent. Tasks and lessons that should have been straightforward were mountains I had to climb. I found myself lagging behind my peers, taking longer to grasp concepts that seemed to come so easily to them. Memorizing and understanding new information was a Herculean effort, further hampered by the side effects of the painkillers I relied on. These medications, while offering temporary relief from physical agony, seemed to cloud my mind, affecting my cognitive functions in ways I couldn't fully articulate.
Frustratingly, despite numerous visits to physicians and specialists, I was left without a clear understanding of my condition. The medical professionals I turned to for help seemed more focused on treating symptoms than educating me about my condition and its broader implications on my life. This lack of guidance left me navigating a complex educational landscape with no compass, trying to balance the pursuit of academic excellence with the reality of a condition that demanded so much of my mental and physical bandwidth.
Amidst the struggles and aspirations of high school life, a more insidious battle was being waged within me—one that I was barely conscious of at the time. The relentless pursuit of academic excellence and the fleeting moments of validation could not mask the growing sense of disconnection and isolation I felt. It was as if the very fabric of my being was fraying, thread by thread, under the weight of unspoken anguish.
This internal turmoil manifested in ways I couldn't ignore, even if I didn't fully understand them. Nights spent crying into the silence became a routine, a release valve for a pressure I couldn't articulate. These episodes of uncontrolled tears felt like the embodiment of depression, a term that might have explained my state but was then just a word, not a reality I recognized as my own. During these moments of vulnerability, my mother was there, yet not there. She would listen to my cries over the phone, a silent sentinel on the other end of the line, offering no words of comfort or guidance. Her inability to bridge the gap between us only deepened my sense of isolation, reinforcing the feeling that I was truly alone, invisible even to those who were supposed to care the most.
This period marked the beginning of my awareness of my own mental and emotional health—or rather, the lack thereof. I was living a dual existence, managing to suppress and hide my suffering from the world while barely keeping myself together. Acknowledging this part of my story is crucial, for it underscores not just the resilience it took to navigate my circumstances, but also the profound impact such experiences can have on one's psychological well-being. It highlights the early stages of a journey toward understanding and healing, a journey fraught with challenges but also filled with the potential for growth and self-discovery.
Before continuing with my narrative, I wish to share a passage from my UBC application, reflecting deeply held beliefs that I stand by to this day. My aspiration is that we embrace these principles, advancing through compassion, empathy, understanding, and by advocating for agency among those especially underrepresented, marginalized, and vulnerable. I demand a collective effort to nurture a community that values mutual care and engagement, allowing stories like mine to propel us towards fostering a more inclusive, supportive, and empathetic society.
"As humans, we possess the capacity to understand life to an enormous extent. Nevertheless, I find it important to nurture curiosity about all that surrounds us in order to truly gain more knowledge. From an early age, I have been drawn to the vastness of our world and universe. Undeniably, our existence holds many secrets. Much of our time here is spent unraveling those mysteries. Yet, we might only understand life on a microscopic level. What if the knowledge we currently hold could be counteracted in the future? By desiring to know more and striving to push the boundaries of our understanding, we can analyze and invent. We must wonder, to gain a strong understanding of nature's creations, and only then will we know the measures to take to better our planet. In fact, we ought to question ourselves.
This constant desire to gain knowledge and explore our curiosities becomes most apparent when I consider humanity as a whole. Perhaps our morals and values are not adequate. For example, those born into abusive relationships may come to believe mistreatment is alright. This kind of brainwashing is a strange concept considering humans do it to one another; yet, we see it around us. Why do people subject others to that? Witnessing harassment compels us to assign value to human rights because we question our own behavior. We observe the suppression others face and step up to do something about it. To understand if our actions cause pain, we must assess them. We must continue to strive for a better understanding and for better access to other people's perspectives in order to facilitate change.
Ultimately, I believe that if all of us were inquisitive in our everyday lives, we would push ourselves to be our best versions."
In the final chapter of my high school journey, I was enveloped in a profound sense of disconnection, a feeling so intense it seemed to hollow me out from the inside. This sense of being adrift and untethered was so evident that even my teachers took notice of my distress. It was as if, suddenly, the very fabric of my existence had shifted, leaving me floating through life as a spectral presence, devoid of emotion and vitality. My soul felt as if it had been carved out, leaving behind nothing but an empty shell.
The tears I shed were devoid of the emotions that once fueled them; they were merely the physical manifestation of an internal agony, disconnected from the heartache that should have accompanied them. My existence had been reduced to mere survival, an endless battle against the shadows that clouded my reality. Despite the turmoil, I clung to my academic achievements as a lifeline, the one aspect of my life over which I felt some semblance of control.
That summer, I sought refuge in art, pouring my pain and struggles into a mural in my teacher's classroom. Art became my sanctuary, a space where I could transform my suffering into something tangible and beautiful. Yet, this escape was fleeting. The weight of my past, the ongoing battles with my own well-being, and the interventions by the police underscored a growing despair within me. Questions about the value of my life began to surface, amplified by the physical and emotional torment that plagued my every moment.
I believed that moving away to university would offer a fresh start, an opportunity to redefine myself just as I had in high school. But my time at UBC was short-lived; within two weeks of starting my first year in 2019, I dropped out. The transition to university life with my existing circumstances was like dragging a boulder chained to my soul. Every day was a struggle to find purpose, a reason to continue amidst the pain that grew exponentially, clouding my vision and dulling my senses. The world around me became a blur, untouchable and distant.
Conversations with those around me felt like echoes from another life; I was there in body but not in spirit. The decision to leave was as inexplicable to me as it was inevitable. Nothing made sense anymore; I was lost in a fog of confusion, grappling with a reality that seemed to slip further and further away with each passing day.
The realization that I needed more than just a break from university wasn't immediate or simple. It dawned on me through a series of moments so agonizing I wouldn't wish them upon anyone. As time passed, my internal torment seemed to intensify with every tick of the clock. There was a particularly harrowing evening in my dorm room when I found myself contemplating self-harm, questioning the very essence of my will to live. The desperation had reached a zenith; I was on the brink, grappling with the notion of hope and its existence in my life. At that juncture, I recognized that it wasn't my life I wished to escape from, but rather the relentless suffering, the pervasive confusion, and the profound sense of purposelessness that enveloped me.
My spiritual beliefs, or the lack thereof, compounded my turmoil. Despite having a cultural backdrop rich with spiritual guidance from our revered Gurus—a heritage I respect and continue to explore—I couldn't align myself with the concept of a higher power overseeing our lives. This dissonance left me feeling more isolated, pondering the fairness of a world where suffering and prosperity seemed arbitrarily distributed. It was a moment of profound vulnerability and helplessness, feeling as though my existence amounted to nothing.
Driven not by a coherent thought or a heartfelt desire but by a sheer automatic response, I found myself seeking out the dorm supervisor, an older student. Our conversation on the floor of her room was a pivotal moment; for once, I broke the lifelong habit of silence and composure. I divulged my deepest despair, admitting my desire to not exist in this state of anguish any longer. Her response, offering resources, helplines, and suggestions for seeking help at facilities like the UBC hospital, marked a turning point. Although initially skeptical—jaded by previous encounters with a seemingly indifferent justice system and professionals who appeared to lack genuine concern—I took a step I hadn't considered before: reaching out to helplines.
In retrospect, this act of reaching out, despite my doubts, was a sliver of light in the darkness, a testament to the part of me that, against all odds, sought a flicker of hope amidst despair. It was a moment of profound acknowledgment of my suffering and an implicit acknowledgment that perhaps, just perhaps, there could be a way forward.
In an unexpected twist, laughter became my response at what was supposed to be the lowest point of my life. This was not the reaction one might predict when considering a moment filled with contemplation of ending one's own existence. I had high expectations of the support structures in place for individuals grappling with mental health crises. What I did not anticipate was the reality of reaching out to helplines, only to find some unresponsive, and the one that did respond, operated by volunteers rather than professionals—a fact I was unaware of and still find quite astonishing.
The conversation that ensued when I finally connected with someone was paradoxically disheartening yet illuminating. The volunteer on the line echoed my words back to me with a tone of enhanced despair, acknowledging the gravity of my situation but offering little in the way of comfort or support. When I expressed my urgent need for help, hoping for something—anything—to alleviate my anguish, I was met with a question that struck me as profoundly absurd: "Do you have a plan to hurt yourself today?" To which I replied with the essence of my call—I had no plan, only a deep desire to end my suffering, a sentiment that at that moment felt overwhelmingly powerful, beyond my capacity to assure my own safety.
The conversation came with the volunteer's response to my admission. Rather than offering empathy or immediate support, I was advised, "Okay, well, feel free to call us back once you've come up with a plan or if you've come up with a plan." The call ended.
The expression you have on your face as you read that is exactly the expression I had as well…
Needless to say, it left me in a state of shock, disbelief, and ironically, a sense of purpose ignited within me. The absurdity of being advised to reach back out only after formulating a plan to end my life catalyzed a realization: perhaps my purpose lay in aiding those who found themselves in the depths of despair, as I did. Despite not knowing how I would embark on this path to improvement, or even begin to address my own struggles, I was struck by an overwhelming conviction that change was necessary, not just for myself, but for the inadequacies within the system that was supposed to offer help.
That same day, I returned home, where my struggle and pain could no longer be hidden just between my mother and me. Discussing my ordeal only led her to suggest it was merely stress from university changes—an explanation that, while disheartening, didn’t surprise me given our distant relationship. My father, on the other hand, was someone I had learned to simply obey, to mold myself into the daughter he envisioned, albeit unknowingly. When they both came to bring me back home, I was at a loss for words, only able to express my feelings of disconnection and struggle.
While my mother might have had some inkling of understanding due to our shared domestic tribulations, the concept that my turmoil could stem from my upbringing was something my father would never acknowledge. To him, everything at home was ideal; life was as it should be. This denial only reinforced the silence that had defined much of my existence.
Determined for change, I sought out support clinics, initiating a daunting journey through a healthcare system that seemed to dismiss my urgency at every turn. The quest for help felt dehumanizing, with laughter and indifference from those meant to offer aid. Yet, this journey led me to a therapist who shared my cultural background and finally offered the understanding and support I desperately needed. This marked the beginning of a profound transformation, an awakening to a self I had never known, buried beneath the weight of my father’s expectations and the distance he fostered between my mother and me.
My brother, or “the creature”, remained a figure I chose to disconnect from, his actions mirroring the manipulation I had started to see in my father. The realization of my father’s manipulative tactics, and my conditioned guilt and fear, starkly contrasted with my brother’s disregard for consequences, a behavior unchecked by our father, underscoring a household where abuse was not condemned and our safety was trivialized.
My path to healing led me to hospitals and therapy sessions, unraveling diagnoses like somatization, attributed to the chronic stress and its physical manifestations on my body. At one point, hospital doctors suspected pneumonia due to the severity of my symptoms, only to be met with clear tests and their ensuing frustration, thinking I wasted their time…
Before continuing, I'd like to reflect on an incredibly vital point that resonates deeply through personal experiences and observations: vulnerability attracts exploitation. This truth, though widely acknowledged, becomes profoundly impactful when experienced firsthand. At times of greatest vulnerability, I encountered situations where trust was betrayed, and intentions were far from benevolent. These experiences ranged from unsettling to downright terrifying, involving individuals and authority figures alike, whose roles should have epitomized trust and safety. Instead, they exploited their positions, masking ulterior motives with a facade of concern. Such duplicity is particularly insidious, as discerning genuine from feigned support is almost impossible amidst personal turmoil.
This reality underscores a harsher aspect of seeking help—it's not just about the courage to reach out but also navigating the complexities of trust and self-preservation. The lesson here isn't to deter seeking assistance but to advocate for vigilance and self-compassion in the process. These added layers of trauma complicate the healing journey, embedding within the already intricate tapestry of our experiences.
Transitioning to a beacon of hope in this narrative, my therapist played a pivotal role in navigating through these tumultuous waters. Her guidance was instrumental in my journey towards self-discovery and healing. Therapy, a word often mentioned in passing, became the cornerstone of my transformation, illuminating the path to authenticity—a concept much discussed but seldom fully embraced. This journey of self-exploration and understanding brought into focus the essence of who I am, beyond the shadows of expectations and imposed identities.
Embracing authenticity and working tirelessly towards self-improvement are not mere aspirations but daily practices. They involve setting achievable goals, understanding one's self-worth, and recognizing that healing is both a journey and a destination. My university experience, intertwined with challenges of chronic pain and the struggle to balance academic demands, taught me the importance of pacing and the value of mental health support.
Then, a particular incident of violence, unlike many others that faded into the recesses of my memory, marked a turning point. This event did not dissolve into the backdrop of past traumas but instead propelled me towards a different life—a life where healing, understanding, and authenticity are central themes. This story is a testament to resilience, the transformative power of support, and the relentless pursuit of a life defined not by suffering but by growth and self-realization. This wasn't merely frustration; it was a profound awakening to the systemic failures and personal betrayals that had characterized much of my life. I decided to intervene during an incident of violence, driven by the stark understanding that if change were to happen, it would start with me.
This event, only temporarily addressed by law enforcement, underscored the perpetual cycle of violence and neglect I had endured. I remember police officers telling my mother to stop overreacting when she called them out of concern for her safety, only for this very act of physical harm to ensue just minutes after they left. I had never felt so angry, and for the first time in my life, I saw red.
This episode made me reassess my feelings towards my mother. Despite the years of support I had given her, which often led to being sidelined by my father for not aligning with his expectations, I realized the depth of her own struggle. My father's inability to accept criticism or acknowledge his faults had created a rift in our family that was difficult to mend. Recognizing this, I knew I had to aid in my mother's healing process as much as my own, encouraging her to assert herself in the face of the familial turmoil we both endured.
This realization was a bitter pill to swallow, acknowledging that while I had spent my life supporting her, our relationship was marred by disappointment—hers in me for not meeting certain expectations and mine in her for not seeing the depth of my struggles. This disappointment was a barrier I was determined to break down, not just for my healing but for hers as well. My entire life, I've felt sidelined by my father, my attempts to connect or seek his approval overshadowed by his expectations and the tumultuous relationship he shared with my mother. His inability to accept fault or consider the impact of his behavior on our family dynamics created an environment where I was constantly striving for visibility, for a sense of belonging that seemed perpetually out of reach. The realization that I needed to advocate for myself, to step out of the shadow of conformity and find my own voice, was a turning point. It marked the beginning of a deeper understanding of the complex interplay between my own well-being and the familial bonds that both sustained and suffocated me.
Despite the repeated interventions by law enforcement, the creature, whom I had come to see as nothing more than a source of turmoil, continued to be allowed back into our home due to the protective actions of my father. This cycle of violence and forgiveness, devoid of any real consequences for his actions, underscored a bitter truth about the power dynamics within my family. It highlighted a deeply flawed system that enabled abuse while silencing the victims.
During this period, I confronted the reality that many aspects of my life and the systems I depended on were beyond my control, which fueled both anger and disappointment. My academic journey, complicated by my struggle with timely exam completion and ongoing health issues, led me to register with the Center for Accessibility (CFA) at my university, seeking accommodations to support my needs. Unfortunately, there's a pervasive misconception, especially within science departments, that these accommodations are sought as shortcuts or unfair advantages. This perspective overlooks the essential nature of such support: it's not about gaining an edge, but leveling the playing field, allowing students to engage fully in their education despite their challenges. With that said, opportunities to adjust our accommodations and even gaining accommodations should not be as difficult of a task as it currently is.
The reluctance to acknowledge the validity and necessity of accommodations reflects a broader issue of inclusion and empathy. It's crucial to remember, as taught by our gurus and deeply embedded in my own philosophy, that our shared humanity precedes any differences. Before we are anything else, we are human. This principle underpins my advocacy for more compassionate, understanding, and supportive systems that truly reflect the needs of all individuals, particularly marginalized folks.
In seeking support, I was dismayed by the healthcare system's approach, which often treated patients as mere transactions rather than individuals in need of comprehensive care. Upon registering with the CFA, I reached out to my neurologist, who informed me of potential treatments for my migraine condition—a revelation that highlighted a previous lack of communication and support. It was disheartening to realize that despite regular consultations, critical information about treatment options had been withheld.
My experience with nortriptyline, initiated in my second year of university, exemplified this communication gap. While the medication offered some relief from my migraines, the lack of detailed guidance on potential side effects and management strategies left me navigating my treatment in the dark. The healthcare professionals' advice was often vague and dismissive, failing to acknowledge the importance of informed patient participation in their treatment.
Despite these challenges, my academic achievements in the second year represented a high point, albeit one overshadowed by the ongoing struggle with pain management and the financial burden of medication. The increase in nortriptyline dosage to 50 mg brought a semblance of physical relief but also sparked a deeper interest in psychiatry, marrying my love for psychology and the physiological understanding of the body. This newfound passion, however, was undercut by the very medication that enabled it, as I found myself unable to study or perform academically as I once could.
Faced with these difficulties, I contemplated taking a break from university, a decision weighed down by the potential disappointment of my mother and the financial implications of such a choice. The complex interplay of my health, academic aspirations, and familial expectations underscored the intricate challenges of navigating life with chronic illness and disability. My decision to relax and take a break, despite not receiving a response to my tuition appeal, was a moment of resignation to the limitations imposed by my circumstances, yet it also marked a crucial step in acknowledging the need for self-care and adjustment to my approach towards education and health management.
During this period, I found myself contemplating my journey, acknowledging that I had done my utmost to manage my mental health. Therapy had been a consistent part of my life to the point where I felt I might not need it anymore. At home, there was a deceptive calm, a brief interlude in the otherwise constant cycle of abuse—peaks of tranquility followed by tumultuous lows, reminiscent of a roller coaster. It's a stark reminder that quiet moments can be fleeting, and the hope that things might improve is often met with harsh reality.
Motivated by a desire to return to my studies and excel, I enrolled in a summer class in 2023. Despite being physically present in class, I battled with exhaustion and an unexplained malaise that clouded my ability to focus and study. This struggle led me to question whether I was experiencing mental burnout, a notion that compounded my frustration and confusion. Why was I facing these barriers repeatedly?
Simultaneously, a threatening situation at home reached its boiling point, leading me to seek help from authorities and finally securing the removal of the creature from our household. The liberation from this immediate threat gave me a moment of pause, a chance to reflect on the root causes of my struggles. It dawned on me that perhaps my long-term medication regimen was contributing to my condition, a possibility that, until then, had been unexplored and unadvised by any healthcare professional.
This newfound clarity prompted a significant reevaluation of my medical treatment. For the first time in 22 years, with the creature finally removed from our home and my father's detrimental influence diminished, I had the mental space to contemplate the real impact of my medication. Despite two years on nortriptyline, escalating to a dose of 50 mg for the last year, I faced an ongoing struggle with brain fog, exhaustion, and an inability to concentrate, which severely hampered my academic performance and overall quality of life.
Motivated by this insight, I embarked on a daunting journey to taper off nortriptyline, a process met with minimal guidance from healthcare providers. Their nonchalant advice to "taper off however you want" left me navigating this critical transition with little support. The subsequent prescription of venlafaxine, heralded as a solution that would not replicate nortriptyline's adverse effects and supposedly imbue me with energy, soon revealed its shortcomings. Despite initial promises, the medication failed to alleviate my fatigue and only compounded my inability to focus and study effectively.
Frustrated and determined, I made the decision to stop venlafaxine abruptly, a choice not supported by professional advice but driven by my conviction to seek a better path. This led to my exploration of Ajovy injections, a newer treatment with promising results, though its long-term effects remain uncertain. The process of securing coverage for this medication underscored the challenges faced by those of us seeking alternative treatments, often necessitating proof of multiple failed attempts with other medications.
The transition to Ajovy this month, while offering hope, has not been without its own set of challenges. I am currently navigating the withdrawal symptoms from venlafaxine, an experience marked by emotional numbness, persistent brain fog, and concentration difficulties. The slow progress towards recovery is painful yet a testament to my resilience and determination to improve my condition.
Throughout this journey, the inadequacies of the healthcare system have been starkly evident. The lack of comprehensive support, the dismissal of my symptoms, and the challenge of articulating the complex interplay of mental health, invisible disabilities, and medication effects have been significant hurdles. My experiences have highlighted the urgent need for a more empathetic, informed, and supportive approach to healthcare, particularly for those of us navigating the complexities of chronic conditions and mental health.
As my narrative draws to a close, I want to express that in spite of the ordeals I faced with my own father, a critical lesson emerged: when a relationship does not serve me, I must release my grip on it. Letting go was a unique kind of mourning, one where the subject was still living yet dead to me in essence – and dead in my heart. It was after a final, decisive moment—when I was pointedly reminded with a stern finger and a stern gaze, "You are the daughter, I expect you to stay silent"—that I recognized, there and then, it was over. I vowed to myself that my voice would never be silenced, again.
As I reflect on these experiences, I am motivated more than ever to advocate for change and support others facing similar struggles. Project Mind is the culmination of my journey, a sanctuary aimed at enhancing existing support systems and fostering a community of understanding, empathy, and shared experiences. With my first Ajovy injection on March 1st, I have begun to see a glimmer of hope, a potential to bring my suppressed ideas to life and contribute meaningfully to the lives of others.
My story is a testament to the resilience of the human spirit, the importance of self-advocacy, and the transformative power of shared understanding and support. Through Project Mind, I aspire to create a space where individuals can come together to navigate the challenges of health, academia, and life, empowering each other towards a future of fulfillment and well-being, despite the hurdles we may face.
LAVLEEN WALIA
Image credits: @latteoflovedesigns on Instagram
