Life is What You Make it

Life is
What You
Make it

Books by the same author

34 Bubblegums and Candies

Tea for Two and a Piece of Cake

The Secret Wishlist

The One You Cannot Have

Preeti Shenoy

Preeti Shenoy

A story of love, hope and how to determination can overcome even destiny.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the

product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance

to any actual person living or dead, events and locales is entirely coincidental.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or

otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, circulated, and no reproduction in any form,

in whole or in part (except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews) may

be made without written permission of the publishers.

Life is What You Make it, quotes

“I am the master of my fate; I am the captain of my soul.”

― Preeti Shenoy

“If I pretended to be "normal" and behaved just like everybody else, if I masked my emotions and smiled a lot, even if I felt disconsolate, nobody would be able to tell”

― Preeti Shenoy

“The world is indeed a better place when there is love, friendship, acceptance and hope. Powered by these you can indeed overcome anything including destiny.”

― Preeti Shenoy

“Physical pain is far easier to bear than mental agony.”

― Preeti Shenoy

“We are what our thoughts have made us. So take care what you think. Thoughts live. They travel far.”

― Preeti Shenoy

“Once you know what direction to take, finding the path to it becomes easy.”

― Preeti Shenoy

Contents

Dedication

Invictus

Prologue

A new world

Nothings gonna stop us now

Election Selection

Girl on a Motorcycle

Life is what you make it

The needle swings

Destiny changes in moments

Ready to fly

Never Belittle Love

Racing ahead

Dancing in the dark

The descent

A stop gap relationship

The day something died

Deeper down the bottomless pit

The ink blots

The light goes out

A plan for a final exit

No way out

A tiny ray of hope

Faith is a powerful thing

One step at a time

I am the master of my fate

Epilogue

Author's Notes

INVICTUS

William Ernest Henley

Out of the night that covers me,

Black as the Pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance

I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate;

I am the captain of my soul.

Life is What You Make it, "Prologue"

I wait my turn on the chair outside the doctor's office. The psychiatrist, to be

precise. The so-called expert. We have travelled all the way from Bombay to

Bangalore to make this trip. Getting an appointment here is like getting an

appointment to meet the Pope at the Vatican City. I don't know how many months

one has to wait to get an appointment for that. I am told many months. For this

visit, dad had to pull a whole lot of strings. Finally one of his oldest friends

managed to get it. It is one of the best mental health care centres in India. Or so I

have been told. Perhaps it is. Every magazine and every newspaper seems to

mention it and quote its expert doctors on anything to do with mental health.

The drive to this place itself is beginning to seem ominous. The road lined with

large trees, spreading their branches covering the place with gloom, as our hired car

makes its way, it makes me want to get down and run. But I do no such thing. I sit

and watch my surroundings. There is a blue board with large white letters

proclaiming the name of the mental health institute, which is spread over a

sprawling campus of ten acres, full of old buildings with fading yellow paint, dingy

corridors, trees, bushes, even a cafeteria and scores of vehicles in which patients

arrive with their families in search of hope. In me, there is none left. There is only

despondency and an increasing feeling of frustration.

We pass a large building brandishing a board which proclaims it is some kind of

a guest house. I notice the peeling paint again. The car passes the other buildings,

the Psychiatry ward, the Casualty and Emergency services, the De-addiction centre,

the General ward, the Observation ward and the pale yellow cottages called units

for some in-house patients. It looks like any other hospital and there is nothing to

suggest that it is a mental hospital, except of course if you observe the signs and the

people. I hate it all. It fills me with a kind of dread. I don't belong here. I ought not

to even be here in the first place. But I am, and there is nothing I can do about it.

The driver parks the car and we enter a building which is an out-patient

screening block. It has more than a hundred people and their families, all waiting.

The faint stench of human odour which emanates when bodies are packed

together, hits my nostril and I hold my breath involuntarily. My dad approaches the

counter and joins the serpentine queue which seems to be inching forward at the

pace of a snail and I read the board at the entrance on which the following is

written in bold letters:

“Patients visiting National Mental Health Institute for the first time are

requested to register themselves at this block for consultation/ treatment.

Registration is carried out between 8:00 A.M and 11:00 A.M on all days except

Sundays and certain specific holidays.

Please observe queue.”

I realize with a sinking feeling that the patient now refers to me. I feel helpless. I

feel lost. I feel angry.

And in my mind I think that the whole mental health institute thing is bull shit.

Hype. They talk nonsense and have no clue as to what they are doing or saying. I

don't want to be here. I don't want to see any psychiatrist or doctor. My opinion

now does not matter anymore. I had my chance and I screwed it up badly. Now I

have no choice except to listen to my parents and go along with whatever they

suggest. So much for my attempts at being independent. So much for my attempts

at being an adult.

I sit between my mother and father. I feel like a kid but I am 21, a full grown

adult. At least technically. The chair is made of metal and feels cold. I try to hide

the scars on my wrist, and adjust the broad leather strap of my watch, out of habit.

Curious stares and worse, the looks of pity irk me. I don't want any of it. Especially,

not now. Especially, not today. I don't regret my past actions at all. Physical pain is

far easier to bear than mental agony. To be really honest, if I had another chance I

think I would do it again. I look at the anguish on my dad's face and the look of

constant worry on my mother's brow, just like those unwanted notices stuck on the

roadside walls. I don't feel sorry for them at all, though I am supposed to be. I don't

even wish I could erase them. I don't want to comfort them or make them feel

better. I am helpless. Beyond caring. I don't give a damn. I want it all to end. I don't

want to see yet another doctor. I am tired of it all. What is this doctor going to tell

me that others haven't?

I loathe them all. The whole lot of them. They know nothing. My face is

expressionless. I am incapable of feeling empathy. It is as though my heart has

turned to wood. Rotting, festering wood that gnaws at the core of my being and

threatens to drag me in. I was not like this. But that was then and this is now.

I look at the other patients waiting their turns outside. There are at least one

hundred and sixty or maybe more. The waiting room is actually a long cavernous

hall about fifty feet by thirty feet and there are iron chairs arranged in rows, one

behind the other. It seems like the waiting room at a railway station and just as

crowded too. There is a guy sitting on the chair with his arms round his legs,

rocking back and forth, back and forth. There is a girl who looks around my age

staring listlessly outside. “I am not like you. I won elections in my college. I used to

be the Secretary of the Arts Association. I was doing my management from a fine

business school. I am not like you all.” I want to scream at all of them. I want to tell

them that I am a somebody, at least in my world which consists of college, home,

friends, fun, movies—the normal world, not this hospital where people who cannot

cope come to seek help. I am ‘educated’, superior, knowledgeable, and smart. The

pathetic, helpless situation that I am finding myself in is somehow making me want

to prove that I am better than all of them. But it feels like somebody has stuffed a

cloth in my mouth to prevent me from talking. I am unable to say anything. At the

back of my mind I also realize that in reality, maybe I am in no way better than

them. I am a nobody. Here I am just a patient, waiting in turn with scores of others,

waiting simply to see the doctor.

My gaze becomes transfixed on a middle aged man who cannot stop making

small circulatory motions with his thumb. The air is dry, suffocating and oppressive.

Outside, it is bright but shady. The psychiatrist inside will assess me and decide the

next course of action

What does he know? Can he look into my head? Does he even know what I am

going through? Does medical school teach you to feel another's pain or step into

their shoes? Most of the doctors I have spoken to are impersonal and clinical. They

are trained to be so. I highly doubt if this one is going to be any different.

Eventually, the nurse calls out my patient number. No one gives a damn about

my name or what I used to be. I rise to enter his office. So do my parents. The

doctor speaks to us. My dad is explaining my ‘symptoms’. I wince. That is not how

it is, I want to scream. But I don't want them to think that I am out of control. So I

dig my finger nails into my skin to prevent me from talking. I grit my teeth and

listen. The doctor asks my dad and mom to wait outside.

Then he looks at me. He looks nice. He is young. He seems kind but that does

not fool me. He is just a professional asshole being paid to assess me. I decide to

co-operate. It is the best way.

Then he starts asking questions. I detest someone prying into my life like this. I

hate having to go through all this, again.

He starts off with mundane questions. Childhood, School, College.

I look at him dully. I don't feel like telling him anything.

“Look,” he says. “I need to enter all this info here. Do you want to tell me or do

you want me to ask your parents?”

I feel trapped, cornered, exasperated and suddenly very tired. I just want it to

end.

So I start to answer

Author’s note

This book is a work of fiction but it is based on

some real life experiences. However, all names of persons, Institutions and few

other details have been changed to protect identities.

The book is not just about bipolar disorder. It is a story of courage,

determination and growing up. It is also about how life can take a totally different

path from what is planned, and yet how one can make a success out of it. It is a

story of faith, belief and perseverance too and charting your own destiny.

Mental health issues are still a big taboo, especially in India. In the west, there is

more awareness on this condition and it is elevated to almost a status of a ‘celebrity

disorder’ with several people such as Kurt Cobain, Sinead O Connor, Mel Gibson,

Axl Rose and Ozzy Osbourne, to name a few, having admitted to have it. In India,

people still prefer not to talk about it and even if anybody suffers from it, it is

usually hushed up, like anything to do with mental health is .

Bipolar disorder is a serious brain disorder that causes dramatic shifts in moods,

energy levels, attitudes and ability to carry out everyday tasks. It is very different

from the normal mood changes that everybody goes through from time to time. It

develops typically in late adolescence or early adulthood. The symptoms are very

severe and it is usually hard to diagnose, as it is not easy to spot when it starts. The

symptoms may often seem like very normal personality changes which a person

undergoes, in the course of day to day living.

Bipolar disorder can be so severely crippling that it can result in damaged

relationships, poor job or academic performance and even suicide. It has also been

associated with creativity. People with this disorder experience intense emotional

states which alternate between a ‘high episode’ called manic episode and it is

followed by a ‘low episode’ called a depressive episode. During a manic state, the

person feels overly happy, outgoing and is bursting with high energy levels.

Creativity is at an all time high. There is a huge increase in goal directed activities

and the person is usually restless and needs very little sleep. The person is very

energetic, optimistic and enthusiastic about everything.

In contrast, during a low period, there is an increasing feeling of worthlessness

or emptiness which is hard to describe. The person feels exhausted and has trouble

concentrating or remembering things and making decisions. There is a loss of

interest in everything that the person once enjoyed including sex. Often the person

thinks of death and suicide attempts are not uncommon.

There are several variations of bipolar disorder. For more information on these

please log on to the website of National Institute of Mental Health (Web site:

http://www.nimh.nih.gov), from which the above information too has been

condensed.

In India and China alone, there are at least 12-15 million people who suffer from

Bipolar disorder. (Source: Bipolar statistics quoted by the Depression and bipolar

support alliance.)

The message that I also wanted to convey through this book, is that having a

condition like Bipolar disorder does not mean that the person is ‘crazy’ or a ‘lunatic’

which are terms which people use without even a second thought. Having a

disorder like that does not mean it is the end of the world either. It can be managed

in a number of ways and people affected can lead very positive and complete lives.

Writing, by its very nature, is such an intense and a lonely exercise. It was not

easy, writing this kind of a book, without getting into the skin of the characters,

which would often leave me drained and emotionally exhausted.

This book could never have been written without the support of my spouse

Satish Shenoy (who I consider one of my closest friends) and I feel blessed to be

married to him. He would completely take over the practical aspects in running the

house, would look after the children and would give me my space and time without

which I would never have been able to cope with being a full time mother, wife,

writer and artist rolled into one. When he finally sat down to read the entire book, I

was rewarded when I saw that he was totally engrossed in it and just couldn't stop

reading it, till he had completely finished it in just a single sitting. That was a big

compliment to me as the biggest critics are usually the ones closest to you.

I also wish to mention the role of one of my closest friends, Ajay Chauhan who

was extremely encouraging and supportive .

He would keep sending me mails, asking me when I would write the next

chapter and he compelled me to keep writing. He made me feel like I am the

greatest writer on Earth. He was there for me throughout, unfailingly when I

needed him and he remains a rock-solid, dependable pal. I am grateful and happy to

have him in my life.

My closest friend Cherrisa Castellino's help proved invaluable as she read

through numerous drafts and re-drafts. I cannot imagine life without her and she

remains one of my biggest emotional anchors.