I was discovering the astonishing powers of consolation that objects held – Orhan Pamuk
The girl planter was sent to me by @kaizen_cavalier with a note “I owe you for your 831 Instagram stories. I’ll tell you some other day.” My therapist, I believe, is mainly trying to communicate with, if not knock some sense into, the 4, 8, and 12-year-old Prachis who were suffering through their mother’s schizophrenia with no explanation and no help. One believes she would be lonely all her life, one thinks she has schizophrenia, another thinks the whole world is out to get her, and all of them to feel unloved and scared. In times of crisis, I believe it is them who cower in the corner and hold my lungs so I can’t breathe. To deal with them I take medicines, therapy, and a lot of help from my friends.
When I am having a particularly hard time with PTS, H reminds me to think and name:
- 5 things I see
- 4 things I can touch
- 3 things I can hear
- 2 things I can smell
- 1 thing I can taste
She says it’ll help me deal with the overwhelm. I don’t know if it works but I keep good smells, touches, and sounds close all the time- postcards, photos, pots, candles, everything in the hope that they will help too in the depressive episode after the anxiety passes. And in this attempt, the otherwise material things become so much more than just capitalistic material to own; it becomes a solid, concrete proof that I am visible, that someone cares, that I am not alone. I have come to depend on them- the handknit scarf, the sketch of my hands, the speaker, the books, the shell from the shore, the photo of your favorite lake, the self-help stickers, the jokes, the songs- to see, to touch, hear, smell and hold onto till the current passes.