It’s crazy, the things that make me nervous. It’s really silly, little things for which I have my upbringing to thank for. You live and grow up in a particular environment; I guess you imbibe the nervous tics and habits of the people you see around you. You see your elders behave in a particular way and whether it is making sense or not, you have a tendency to integrate it into your way of behaving, which, by the way, may have been perfectly alright and functional till then, only to be thrown into a spiral of nervous dysfunction.
Thankfully, none of it is a deranged type of dysfunction like beating the person in front of you in a queue so you can move ahead faster, or spitting from my balcony to see if I can hit the head of someone walking by, or talking to myself loudly while in public places, or referring to myself in third person when in a conversation with someone else, or holding an annoying kid upside down by his ankles till he stops screaming. The things that get me on the edge are all seemingly insignificant things but they manage to tie my stomach in knots each time. The worst bit is that I know the reasons for my stress are completely, if not most of the times, irrational. But even though I know that, I cannot rationalize enough to bring my blood pressure down.
When I was in school I usually didn’t get pocket money. When I was in primary school, everything was taken care of for me. I had a bus to go and come by. I had my lunch with me. When I graduated to secondary school, I went walking to school and came back the same way. And when we did go out socially back then, we avoided taking autos and taxis. Buses or walking was preferred because they cost less. Even now it’s the same story except I now have more pester power and am very young-adult-type-ish lazy. Anyhow, this particular idiosyncrasy of my family has left me predisposed to nervousness every time I get into a taxi or an auto. I constantly eye the meter like a sleeping dog guarding the house. Beyond 20.00, every time the digits change my blood pressure jumps up a point. I intensely dislike traffic jams and I don’t have to tell you why. I have actually thought of getting down and walking because the meter was moving faster than my vehicle. I think I might have done that but like any other traumatic memory I seem to have repressed it.
Then there were the ominous warnings of the dire consequences of staying out late. Late for my parents till recently was 9.00 pm. Now it’s 11 but I have stopped caring. At least I pretend not to. Pretend, because it makes me nervous if I’m out after 10.00 pm. All thanks to my parents’ supposed clairvoyance about possible fallouts from spontaneous and inevitable breakdown of the society’s moral codes spurred on by the onset of sunset. And all this despite being caught in traffic jams at 12 in the night. I know alright, that it’s okay to be out late if you are careful and anyway things are not how they used to be 6 years ago. There are people out late these days. And it’s not like I live in New York or I venture into dark alleys all by myself because I find that one dark corner very interesting or take candy from strangers or carry a board around my neck that says, ‘Come, mug me.’ I’m not even alone when I’m out. But still, you know? Sigh.
This one is the last but not the least by far. Just like I haven’t figured out why the rainy season makes me nervous, I haven’t figured out why, if I’m still in bed and the clock strikes 11, I get nervous. It could be memories of my parents hollering at me about how half the day has gone by; the urgency in their loud voices that made me feel as if I have missed the last bus from Timbuktu to civilization. I don’t know. I’m still to figure some things out, yes.
There is a method in psychology where they tell you to do exactly what scares you so that you are not afraid of them anymore. I’m on that therapy. And I have meekly declared war.
