i.
They were the times of the pandemic. Circumstances forced us to lock ourselves up with our demons, the worst ones, the ones that control our minds and deepest desires. The silence imposed on the streets opened the door to the deafening noise within us. A few days before the lockdown I had agreed with my psychologist to get an appointment with a psychiatrist to try to avoid what seemed like an imminent hospitalization. I still remember that consultation like a bad dream, as if everything had been experienced by another person who looked like me. I arrived there after appointments with a cardiologist, a gynecologist and a physiatrist whom I went to rule out that the pain that was passing through my chest, like unexpected lightning bolts, was not something serious. When each of the professionals saw me, they warned that the pain was real but not caused by a physical problem. I never made an appointment with the psychiatrist. It was the beginning of March 2020. I felt like my world had ended, but I didn't imagine that it would also end for millions of people.
ii.
In confinement I felt peace. Not having to force myself to go to the office, serve clients, visit my parents or go to friends' birthdays was a huge relief. I breathed again.
I came to believe that I had healed. Instead of Prozac, the words of Rumi, Thich Nhat Hanh, Brother David Steindl-Rast, Mike Boxhall, and the accounts of Morgan Harper Nichols and Yung Pueblo, among others, were my medicines.
iii.
It was during this period that I learned the story of the separation of John Mulaney and Anna Marie Tendler. I didn't know who they were. I was only struck by the fact that the event was headline news. I began to follow Tendler on her instagram account and for some reason, which I only now understand, her publications, photos and words touched me deeply. I felt like I saw her and she saw me. The announcement of their separation was at the end of 2020 and at the end of 2021, she wrote:
My own brain is well acquainted with the elusiveness of hope that materializes in sporadic and ephemeral waves. I suppose, in part, this is what it means to live with depression and anxiety. That said, melancholia is often amplified by circumstance and the circumstances of my year have been harsh and punishing. I find myself asking, "when will I feel normal?" but in reality I recognize that the normal from before has expired; "normal" is an impossibility, there is only "new."
So how does one digest grief? How do we metabolize trauma, collective and individual? How, precisely, do we sit with, in order to move through? We call our friends; we allow ourselves to laugh. We cry in parked cars. We work; we rest. We throw plates just to watch them break; we make things with our hands. We write, we read, we watch movies. We listen to music. We run, or walk, or sprint, or dance. We ask for help or learn to ask for help. We love or learn to love again.
Her words filled me with strength and company. They resonated. By then I had finally started another round of therapies, this time with psychiatric and pharmacological support and I was feeling good. But when one has hit rock bottom, getting back afloat is a slow process, full of curves and traps. Reflecting on what you have experienced, accepting losses, claiming the space to describe it and looking to the future is a good sign, but it is not a painless process. Even when I remember those days of pain, my hands sweat.
iv.
Men Have Called Her Crazy is a memoir by Anna Marie Tendler, just published by Simon & Schuster. When I read about the book, I not only pre-ordered it immediately but commented below the announcement on Tendler's Instagram account:
She without knowing it carried many of us to the other side.
I am so ready to read her book.
From the beginning, it was reported that the book would deal with Tendler's voluntary admission to a psychiatric hospital and the women she met there, the professionals who cared for her, all interspersed with scenes from her childhood, adolescence and early adulthood. From the beginning it was also clear that the book would not be about her marriage and divorce from Mulaney. And so it was.
On other occasions I have written about the importance of reading other women who embrace the most absolute vulnerability, the one that leads you to write, publish and share your most intimate and heartfelt issues with thousands of strangers. Men Have Called Her Crazy joins my list of favorite books of that style. Tendler is brave when she reveals episodes of childhood abuse particularly at the hands of her mother, when she reveals the dramatic way in which she ended her professional relationship with her psychologist of five years, when she reveals how her relationships with men were riddled with her fierce fear of rejection. She is brave, more than anything, for writing and daring to see herself irremediably through those of us who read her. She knows that not all people will be able or willing to understand her and she knows that the reflection in the mirror will not always be pretty. Still, she took the risk.
Mental health continue to be taboo and constitute a hot topic, especially when we women are the ones who bring it to the table. Since we were children, women have fought against the patriarchy's desire to pathologize our emotions. We are not hysterical, we claim, when we fight against discrimination and gender violence. Defending ourselves against misogyny often forces us to remain silent so much that we end up, in effect, sick. However, depression, anxiety and eating disorders are not hysteria. Our pain is not hysteria and deserves to be addressed.
Men Have Called Her Crazy requires a lot from its readers. If you know what Tendler is talking about when she says “I hate men”, you know that she does it to give a common thread to her life, which helps her identify the social short circuits that cause the breakdown of so many women. If you don't know what Tendler is talking about, you will have to practice empathy and read without judgment about the pain of a woman and her struggle to navigate life's challenges without dying in the attempt. Not all women have survived to tell their stories. I invite you to celebrate and support those who have.
Please read.
***
Versión en español
i
Eran los tiempos de la pandemia. Las circunstancias nos obligaron a encerrarnos con nuestros demonios, los peores, los que controlan nuestras mentes y anhelos más profundos. El silencio impuesto en las calles abrió la puerta al ruido ensordecedor de nuestro interior. Pocos días antes del encierro me había comprometido con mi psicólogo en obtener una cita con un psiquiatra para intentar evitar lo que parecía una hospitalización inminente. Aún recuerdo esa consulta como un mal sueño, como si todo lo hubiera vivido otra persona que se parecía a mí. Llegué allí luego de citas con un cardiólogo, una ginecóloga y un fisiatra a quienes acudí para descartar que el dolor que me atravesaba el pecho, como rayos imprevistos, no fuera algo grave. Cada uno de los profesionales al verme advirtieron que el dolor era real pero no originado por un problema físico. Jamás busqué la cita con el psiquiatra. Eran los inicios de marzo de 2020. Yo sentía que mi mundo se había acabado, pero no imaginaba que se acabaría también para millones de personas.
ii
En el encierro sentí paz. No tener que obligarme a ir a la oficina, atender clientas, visitar a mis padres o ir al cumpleaños de las amigas fue un alivio enorme. Volví a respirar.
Llegué a creer que había sanado. En vez de Prozac, las palabras de Rumi, Thich Nhat Hanh, Brother David Steindl-Rast, Mike Boxhall, entre otros, fueron mis medicinas.
iii
En este periodo fue que conocí la historia de la separación de John Mulaney y Anna Marie Tendler. No sabía quienes eran. Sólo me llamó la atención que el evento fuera una noticia de titular. Comencé a seguir a Tendler en sus redes y por alguna razón, que solo ahora entiendo, sus publicaciones, fotos y palabras calaban hondo en mi. Sentía que la veía y ella me veía a mi. El anuncio de su separación fue a finales de 2020 y a finales de 2021, ella escribió:
My own brain is well acquainted with the elusiveness of hope that materializes in sporadic and ephemeral waves. I suppose, in part, this is what it means to live with depression and anxiety. That said, melancholia is oft amplified by circumstance and the circumstances of my year have been harsh and punishing. I find myself asking, "when will I feel normal?" but in reality ! recognize that the normal from before has expired; "normal" is an impossibility, there is only "new."
So how does one digest grief? How do we metabolize trauma, collective and individual? How, precisely, do we sit with, in order to move through? We call our friends; we allow ourselves to laugh. We cry in parked cars. We work; we rest. We throw plates just to watch them break; we make things with our hands. We write, we read, we watch movies. We listen to music. We run, or walk, or sprint, or dance. We ask for help or learn to ask for help. We love or learn to love again.
Sus palabras me llenaron de fuerza y compañía. Resonaron. Ya para ese entonces, finalmente había comenzado otra ronda de terapias, esta vez con apoyo psiquiátrico y farmacológico y me sentía bien. Pero cuando una ha tocado el fondo, volver a flote es un proceso lento, lleno de curvas y trampas. Reflexionar sobre lo vivido, aceptar las pérdidas, reclamar el espacio para describirlo y mirar hacia el futuro es un buen indicio, pero no es un proceso indoloro. Aún cuando recuerdo esos días de dolor, me sudan las manos.
iv
Men have called her crazy es una memoria de Anna Marie Tendler, recién publicada por , Simon & Schuster. Cuando me enteré de la publicación, no solo la pre ordené inmediatamente sino que comenté debajo del anuncio en la cuenta de Tendler en Instagram:
She without knowing it carried many of us to the other side.
I am so ready to read her book.
Desde un inicio, se informó que el libro trataría del ingreso voluntario de Tendler a un hospital psiquiátrico y de las mujeres que conoció allí, los profesionales que la atendieron, todo entremezclado con estampas de su infancia, adolescencia y temprana adultez. Desde un inicio también fue claro que el libro no trataría sobre su matrimonio y divorcio de Mulaney.
Ya en otros momentos he escrito sobre la importancia de leer a otras mujeres que abrazan la vulnerabilidad más absoluta, esa que te lleva a escribir, publicar y compartir con miles de desconocidos tus asuntos más íntimos y sentidos. Men have called her crazy se une a mi lista de libros favoritos de ese estilo. Tendler es valiente cuando revela episodios de maltrato infantil particularmente de manos de su madre, cuando revela la manera dramática en que terminó su relación profesional con su psicóloga de cinco años, cuando revela cómo sus relaciones con los hombres estaban atravesadas por su miedo feroz al rechazo. Es valiente, más que nada, por escribir y atreverse a verse irremediablemente a través de quienes la leemos. Ella sabe que no todas las personas podrán o querrán entenderla y sabe que el reflejo en el espejo no siempre será bonito. Aún así, arriesga.
Los temas de salud mental siguen siendo tabú y constituyen un tema caliente sobre todo cuando somos las mujeres quienes lo traemos a la mesa. Desde niñas luchamos contra el afán del patriarcado de patologizar nuestras emociones. No somos histéricas, reclamamos, cuando luchamos contra el discrimen y la violencia de género. Defendernos de la misoginia nos obliga muchas veces a callar tanto y tanto que terminamos, en efecto, enfermas. Sin embargo, la depresión, la ansiedad, los trastornos alimenticios no son histeria. Nuestro dolor no es histeria y merece ser atendido.
Men have called her crazy requiere mucho de sus lectoras y lectores. Si saben de lo que Tendler habla cuando dice “I hate men”, sabes que lo hace para darle un hilo conductor a su vida, que le ayude a identificar los cortocircuitos sociales que provocan el quebranto de tantas mujeres. Si no saben de lo que Tendler habla, tendrán que practicar la empatía y leer sin ánimo prevenido sobre el dolor de una mujer y su lucha por navegar los retos de la vida sin morir en el intento. No todas las mujeres han vivido para contarlo. Celebremos a las que sí.
Leer, por favor.
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