I frequently think about madness as well as the ironic disconnect between what I write about in my dissertation and what I sometimes face, when it comes to my meatspace interlocutors. Justine Larbalestier’s excellent post on “mansplaining” and “whitesplaining” spurred other tangential thoughts in me. I’ve been wanting to write this post for several weeks now, but some part of me balked at being so public about it. But, what the heck. Tons have been written about madness and silencing, from Gilbert and Gubar’s now-canonical The Madwoman in the Attic, to the idea of articulation or the lack thereof, found in texts such as Trinh T Minh-ha’s Woman/Native/Other and Ketu Katrak’s The Politics of the Female Body. I spend days, nights earnestly poring over passages in my primary texts and my secondary sources, contemplating these things, contemplating the struggle to communicate and the great gulf between our internal selves and societal expectations/norms. So I feel that, if I don’t voice these things, I will become a victim of the very things I write against.

I come from a country where censorship is accepted and pretty much considered a virtue by the general public. If you’re a writer, you don’t write certain things. It is to keep the “public peace”, because saying too much would incite “civil disturbance”. If you write/say too much, you may be detained, although this has been addressed in various plays. I grew up with this reality.With an awareness of this, at the age of 13 or 14 years of age, I decided I was going to write within the sf/f genre(s). My rationale was that there would be no danger that some stray detail/curiosity within my text or truth that I wanted to articulate would land me in jail, because for crying out loud, it’s frakking fiction! After all, the slammer can’t be a comfortable holiday destination. This may give some of you some framework of the ramifications arising from our national political drama towards the end of the `80s. A major newspaper was shut down and various people shunted off to detention. I am always afraid to talk about these things. Even writing this blog post feels like stepping off some imaginary precipice, even if this blog isn’t prominent enough to make a difference. So. That was one form of censorship and silencing. I got used to it, I understood where it came from. I understand what keeps me censoring myself. I know there’s always some struggle between individuality and public responsibility. I knew my country’s history, I knew what was at stake. I love my country, and I know how easy it is for certain things to be magnified outside of cultural contexts. In many other ways, I was free to talk about other things, a luxury I enjoyed and sometimes miss these days. The freedom to critique the politics of other countries, the freedom to discuss certain peculiarities between cultures, even the freedom to gripe against the government. Within certain parameters. No one ever told me I was mad for being outspoken. I was just outspoken when I wasn’t quiet or demure. Most of the time I was quiet, because I came from a family of loud, larger than life and outspoken overachieving females.

There were always certain truths that were too private to be shared, but I became used to articulating others.

So. I came here. And I found I had autonomy and independence in a certain way. I enjoyed it. I still do. But in other ways, I found that I wasn’t able to say things. My Asian politeness became interpreted as “dishonesty”, even if I hadn’t said anything in particular, even if I hadn’t even reached the stage of judging or pigeonholing because I was enjoying the experience of being in a new country, enjoying learning about new people and standing on my feet. A lot of that was based on intercultural projection and people’s misreading of my facial cues, which tends to happen when you’re an INTP and the rest of the known universe is some other personality type. Anyway, inevitably, I began to speak my mind. This is when I learned the pitfalls, sometimes hilarious, sometimes frustrating, of cultural construction. I began to learn that being a writer who is expressive and who may have a peculiar blend of Asian reserve/forthrightness can be misinterpreted in so many ways. What I considered ironic was translated as “depressive”, what I praised, became a “subtle insult”, and oh, heaven forbid if I actually admitted to having a bad day! It didn’t help that I didn’t always do things the way they were supposed to be done, and I’ve always been a little eccentric. I make no apologies for this, I like myself and I’m comfortable with who I am and the fact that I constantly evolve and am changeable. In the end, I came to a conclusion, not about this city, which I love, not about the people, whom I’ve gotten used to and am, in my own way, quite fond of. No, my conclusion is about Westernised mainstream culture and how “madness” has become a code for “speaks too much about things we’d rather you not speak about”. It’s about the whitewashing of home truths, by prescribing therapy for everything. It’s about how much money the mental health industry must be making out of these mainstream schematas. I reacted, of course, by just concentrating on work, socializing only with other geeks, because geeks aren’t as susceptible to mainstream projections. Well, not most of them.

In short, if I’m isolating myself, or seem to be isolating myself: (1) I’m not mad/angry (2) I’m not depressed (3) I’m not antisocial (4) I’m just busy and don’t have patience for silly people (5) Touchy-feely emo comforting gives me the heebie-jeebies, though I won’t say no to a good, friendly hug (6) There’s nothing wrong with me apart from phd-related stress and monthly, hormone-related moodiness due to the feminine ailment.

It’s no great coincidence that both of my writers, in their own way, write about madness. It’s no great coincidence that this is linked to that place in between where we struggle, oh how we struggle to be voiced. Because there’s always something at stake when you speak up. There’s always something someone wants to protect or keep under wraps. Something political, or personal. But the personal is always political, isn’t it? Perhaps this should explain why platitudes annoy me, why whenever someone suggests to me therapy or tries to explain things to me that I already know, I get rather irritated. I see some conversations as acts of negotiation or dominance, when they shouldn’t be. Usually it occurs where one party or another fears what you may say. To which I generally say: Why fear?

Be open. Listen with open minds. Nothing I write here is meant to be malicious, it is out of a simple desire to communicate, to voice things that should be voiced. Because I need to voice myself, and this is my space. And yes, perhaps the teacher in me hopes that some of what I write will be of value to someone, out there. Grow up. This isn’t about anyone. This is about the big picture. It’s about the forest. It’s about all the trees in the forest, and how they connect to each other. These words should serve as a reminder. If you’re talking to someone who is saying what you don’t want to hear, either tell them they’re making you uncomfortable, or try to address their points in an honest, forthright manner. Do not suggest they need therapy or give them unsolicited advice about how to handle their internal states of being. Especially if you haven’t been made privy to those states of being. It’s rude and disrespectful.

There is a cure for this ailment of “hysteria” or “madness” with which they still like to accuse outspoken women, of any color, shape or size. It’s honest communication, as opposed to dominance games.

Whenever I have one of these conversations, where there is unmalicious honesty, my heart is a little lighter, and I walk with a spring in my step, because it gives me hope for the world and for the promise of solidarity amongst creative types. Such souls are rare and a breath of fresh air. Whenever I encounter the other, strange, mainstream creatures who try to talk me into unnecessary therapy and dish heaps of unasked-for homilies, I think of the Victorian method of therapy for hysteria. Do note that not all of them are quite as, ahem pleasurable as the one method that has been making the rounds in steampunk writing. Thinking of that one method does enable one to laugh internally, rather naughtily at said creatures. If I’m mad, I’m no madder than most, and if you’re going to be prescribing therapy for me, it damn well be something pleasurable.

I’m talking about chocolate ice cream, of course! Tsk.