A depression survivor Ananya primarily writes about mental health, intersectional feminism and society.
When she is not working or traveling, she spends her days in a quaint little town of Northeast India with her husband and two cats, sipping red wine and writing poetry.
- The truth about G-spot, nipplegasm & other things they didn’t tell you - January 3, 2021
- My therapist asked me to redefine love, here is my mediocre attempt at it - September 20, 2020
- How Congress paved the way for communal politics & Modi’s Bharat - August 5, 2020
This is not a fun story, this is not a happy story with an inspirational quote at the end. So if you are looking for something to cheer you up, keep scrolling.
I write this in an attempt to accept, embrace my reality. For it took me a year to realize that not talking about my disease is not going to take it away.
Last year, when I was diagnosed with an auto-immune bone disease which has the potency to slowly erode my bones, and cause the bones of my spinal cord to fuse into each other, potentially leaving me disabled and in excruciating pain, I did not know what to do with that information. I remember feeling numb, absent, inert. I wanted to cry but I was smiling. I don’t know why, maybe because I wanted to upkeep my pretenses of a strong woman. Or maybe because I was in denial. I think it was the latter.