A Confession
I am a kleptomaniac. I get this urge to pick up things that don’t belong to me. Things which I don’t need, or use, or even, after the urge passes, I like or want. I am the sweetest, most harmless looking person on the outside. You would trust me with your life. And it’s not going to be trust misplaced. Just don’t trust me with your things which I might like.
It started when I was in school. I didn’t always have everything a child could want. There were times when someone else had something which I really liked. Wasn’t necessarily hankering after it, but I really liked it so I picked it. But didn’t get caught. So did it again. And it went on. From small erasers and fancy pink pencils when I was about 5 to pencil boxes when I was about 8 to a notebook filled with answers to homework when I was 13. It was the notebook that did me in. I obviously got caught. The girl called up my mother and all teary-eyed related how I was a bad girl who took advantage of her friendship and did bad things like stealing notebooks and could aunty please send back the notebook?
No one said a thing to me. They just looked disbelievingly at me. This wonderful girl with curly hair, a dimpled smile and lovely eyes – could she actually have done something like that? I couldn’t meet their eyes. I couldn’t explain it to them either. How could I justify it? That every time I saw something I liked, my heart thumped faster and louder? That till such time I did not have it with me, I would keep hankering after it, forgetting everything else, losing my concentration? And that once I did pick it up, my heart would beat louder and faster, but this time out of fear. And then I would feel rather guilty, and would also try to return it quietly, but if I couldn’t, I’d throw it in the bin? They wouldn’t understand it. So I didn’t say anything. But for the longest time I fought my urges very strongly because every time I would get the urge, I would remember the stricken, deeply hurt look on my parent’s faces when they heard of what I’d done. This was only one instance that came to their notice. What would happen if they knew of all the other occasions? And so I thought I’d conquered my “bad habits”.
And lived a little happier because all I needed to fight was the urge. And not the guilt.
And then one day, it happened again. I couldn’t resist it. And I started off again. Small unnoticeable things. And the sweating started. And so did my trembling hands. Once the urge got over, I would stare at the object, loathe myself and ask myself what pleasure I derived out of what I had just picked up. None, would be the small voice that dared come from inside me. I began to hate myself, my self esteem hit an all-time low.Till some time back when I read somewhere that this was kleptomania – a disease and not a bad habit. No chink in my values, this, but actually a small disorder that a lot of people the world over suffered from. Hell, Prince Charles was a kleptomaniac!
As for the urges, my psychiatrist is helping me with those.
I no longer hate myself.
This article was inspired by an article I read on kleptomania a few days back. The title is inspired by someone who was thought he was pulling a smart one on me. Matter of opinion of who pulled the smarter one. :D The story of the notebook, however, is true. I have never been more ashamed in my life as I was then, though that lone incident had happened because I had been lazy enough to not finish my homework and just borrowed the book. The intention had been to return the notebook the next day when I came back to school, but my hyper friend had already called up my mother by the evening, so I got branded as a “thief”. I can vouch for the fact that it’s a horrible feeling when you know it was unintentional. I can only imagine it must be worse if it’s something you can’t control!
It started when I was in school. I didn’t always have everything a child could want. There were times when someone else had something which I really liked. Wasn’t necessarily hankering after it, but I really liked it so I picked it. But didn’t get caught. So did it again. And it went on. From small erasers and fancy pink pencils when I was about 5 to pencil boxes when I was about 8 to a notebook filled with answers to homework when I was 13. It was the notebook that did me in. I obviously got caught. The girl called up my mother and all teary-eyed related how I was a bad girl who took advantage of her friendship and did bad things like stealing notebooks and could aunty please send back the notebook?
No one said a thing to me. They just looked disbelievingly at me. This wonderful girl with curly hair, a dimpled smile and lovely eyes – could she actually have done something like that? I couldn’t meet their eyes. I couldn’t explain it to them either. How could I justify it? That every time I saw something I liked, my heart thumped faster and louder? That till such time I did not have it with me, I would keep hankering after it, forgetting everything else, losing my concentration? And that once I did pick it up, my heart would beat louder and faster, but this time out of fear. And then I would feel rather guilty, and would also try to return it quietly, but if I couldn’t, I’d throw it in the bin? They wouldn’t understand it. So I didn’t say anything. But for the longest time I fought my urges very strongly because every time I would get the urge, I would remember the stricken, deeply hurt look on my parent’s faces when they heard of what I’d done. This was only one instance that came to their notice. What would happen if they knew of all the other occasions? And so I thought I’d conquered my “bad habits”.
And lived a little happier because all I needed to fight was the urge. And not the guilt.
And then one day, it happened again. I couldn’t resist it. And I started off again. Small unnoticeable things. And the sweating started. And so did my trembling hands. Once the urge got over, I would stare at the object, loathe myself and ask myself what pleasure I derived out of what I had just picked up. None, would be the small voice that dared come from inside me. I began to hate myself, my self esteem hit an all-time low.Till some time back when I read somewhere that this was kleptomania – a disease and not a bad habit. No chink in my values, this, but actually a small disorder that a lot of people the world over suffered from. Hell, Prince Charles was a kleptomaniac!
As for the urges, my psychiatrist is helping me with those.
I no longer hate myself.
This article was inspired by an article I read on kleptomania a few days back. The title is inspired by someone who was thought he was pulling a smart one on me. Matter of opinion of who pulled the smarter one. :D The story of the notebook, however, is true. I have never been more ashamed in my life as I was then, though that lone incident had happened because I had been lazy enough to not finish my homework and just borrowed the book. The intention had been to return the notebook the next day when I came back to school, but my hyper friend had already called up my mother by the evening, so I got branded as a “thief”. I can vouch for the fact that it’s a horrible feeling when you know it was unintentional. I can only imagine it must be worse if it’s something you can’t control!
posted by ShaluBhuchar at
11:55 PM
2 Comments:
Well written!
Very well written.
Inspires me to write about one of my closest friends at college turning out to be a compulsive kleptomaniac.
Should be writing that...
Thanks Shaluu!
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