Finding Home

I found myself struggling somewhere in the midst of my 4th year as a doctoral student. A position I dreamt of being, in a field I loved. I looked around. People were dropping off, like zombies. Mental health crashes have signs, a big one being: disassociated presence. You can see them. They are present in their default behaviour mode. Publishing. Planning. Polling. But their presence lacks the soul that makes them human.

I was in my default behaviour mode too. But I could not relate to the other zombies' reason for shutting off. They found the ordeal of getting a PhD a soul sucking endeavour, with, shifting goals posts and increased isolation. I could not relate to this pain. It took me 2 mental breakdowns, 3 hospitalizations, 26 sessions of Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT) to understand the source of my pain.

I could not find a place to call home.

In Arabic, we call home 'Bayt', in Hindi, its 'Ghar', in Malayalam, its 'Veet'

I grew up in the world of 'Bayt', 'Ghar', and 'Veet' but now life demanded me to find my 'Ghar' in a world where 'Houses' and 'Homes' existed. Of Course I struggled.

The ingredients that went into building a 'Veet' includes family, not just your mum and dad, but their mums and dads as well. The cement that went into building a 'Ghar' has a husband and at least two children. The aroma of seasoned food often is essential to tie a 'Ghar' together. The bricks to put together 'Bayt' has faith in a higher being that demands you to be kind to one another, no matter the circumstances that test you.

I was missing not some, but all of the ingredients needed to build a home.

All humans are born into homes. No matter the design (i.e., broken or blessed) , your brain picks up, as they interact with the world, the ingredients you need to create a home of your own. Boys, grow up observing men earning the medal of manhood when they marry and become a parent. Women, too, observe and internalise 'husbands and children maketh a home'. Interestingly, the cues the subconscious brain picks up as ingredients required to recreate a feeling of home: a sense that you are safe, comforted and loved are less obvious, and, forever evolving. These can be random like the taste of toast with jam on an empty stomach, a forehead kiss, the smell of a familiar cologne, the sound of unbridled laughter.

I was stuck because the cues my well-meaning conscious brain had picked up (e.g., an upward career for self and a competent husband) was at odds with the cues my subconscious brain registered as essential to feeling a sense of being at home. For me, home should feel like a place I yearn to return to at the end of a long day. A place where it is safe to take off the cloak of performance. A place that nestes all things that make my soul dance with joy. A place that elicits a sense of peace. I knew my brain was in conflict with itself, but I did not know how to fix the dissonance.

It became evidently clear to me that the drive to be the best in my chosen field, living off of scraps of junk for food and transactional relational dynamics where people connect out of boredom, as opposed to curiosity, could not be used to purchase a home. However, after 2 mental breakthroughs, 3 casualty visits and 26 sessions with a psychiatrist, I learned, these raw materials could be traded over time to find the materials that would eventually help me find my way home.

My prince charmings came in different forms. At each of their departures, I felt more at home with myself. My need for friendships to follow a strict script of emotional distance waged war with many humans, the ones who stayed, taught me that the demand for depth is reciprocal. I learned that I cannot command their depth without offering to show parts of me that I wasn't yet friends with. The anxiety around finances also evolved as I pushed myself to show up weekly to see where my money went shopping and where I can do better next time. In this process of generating adulting report-cards to self, I discovered that I like cooking. I like shopping for groceries, I like spending hours discovering our inner worlds with friends, I like getting lost in writing. I also learned that of all people's company, I loved mine the most.

On New Years eve, 2 years since my first mental breakdown, I find myself at home. The home is humble. It is alight with three lamps. Two portraits, one of Frieda Kahlo, another a sarcastic illustration on patriarchy, hang side by side, above the cabinet where I drop my keys. Moonriver plays in the background. The smell of sweet potatoes roasting dance into my living room, where I pen this essay. I am wearing my favourite red turtle neck jumper. Gold loop earrings and my favorite ring on the finger that usually signals an engagement to a significant other.

I am home.