What Gets You Through the Night?

Thoughts on addictions (at the gynaecologist), and a birthday request

Running to the gyno this morning, I suddenly remembered where I live, and slowed down.

After all, I live in a country where, as my friend says, “Being two minutes late is early.” No one expects you to be on time here ever, but I still try.

I recalled the story below, of a gyno visit past, which was also a harsh reminder if what life is like for many people in this country—a reminder that is coming to the forefront across Turkiye these days.

My gyno here in Fethiye is a man. He is quite a lovely man, with tattoos on his arms and a gentle way about him, so different from many gynos I’ve had, most memorably the one in Montreal who swooped into the room as I waited, strapped into that awful chair with my legs in that awful position, and snapped,

“What are you here to complain about today?”

It’s been ominously, appropriately windy here. I rode an electric scooter most of the way to my appointment, so my hair was pointing in 13 directions when I arrived. I was fumbling with my headphones as I raced up the stairs, and somehow, video called someone. I couldn’t see the name on the screen, I could just see my face and that it was ringing, and then I suddenly realized I was calling my ex partner, with whom I am no longer in contact even though I love him a lot, because it’s too painful, and I start hissing “fuck” loudly and stabbing at my phone screen.

The gynaecologist’s receptionist opens the office door.

“Hello!” she says, smiling, as if I am behaving like a normal human being.

The call ends. I go inside, completely flustered, but luckily my doctor is also his usual kind self. He leads me into the examination room and makes sure I’m comfortable (ha) before he does his thing.

I lie there, looking at the ceiling, my heart pounding, telling myself that it’ll be over soon.

I’ve been reading and learning of late about how we store trauma in our bodies. I want to be able to work with trauma survivors as a meditation teacher, and with (most) survivors of war and genocide, there is obviously a language barrier. There is also not the luxury of time to spend sitting in meditation. But working somatically with people bypasses a lot of those issues. Working with the nervous system can help people process trauma without understanding it or reliving it through conversations.

So many of us have become wired to live in our heads, with little or no connection to what’s happening in our bodies.

One therapist I’ve been following said that it is necessary for most people to “leave” their bodies in order to survive trauma. As controversial as this view may be, drinking, drugging, compulsive sex, self-harm, self-judgement, social media scrolling, worrying, gambling, obsessing over a person or persons, jumping out of planes or other adrenaline-charged activities, overeating, or purposefully underrating: these are not choices. These are what people do to deal with the state their nervous system is in. This is how they—we—stay alive.

So it makes sense that working with the nervous system is how these harmful coping mechanisms can be processed and transformed into healthier coping mechanisms.

As I lie on the examination table, I realize that right now, I don’t want to be in my body. In fact I want to be as far away from my body as possible, preferably in an underground bunker with a highly alcoholic beverage.

And if that’s how I feel, imagine how tens of thousands of people feel. People who, who as we speak, are being forced into horrifically painful situations—women, involving their women parts—and how they must equally want to flee their physical beings and possibly never return.

This is the world created by the people currently in charge.

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They are marching in the streets of Turkiye today. Protests have been banned, and yet they protest. They unite over the way they have been treated, he rights they are repeatedly denied, the system that keeps them chained to jobs 6 (sometimes 7) days a week, barely scraping an existence together, allowing them no time for thought, contemplation, or reflection on the system itself.

Much like another country we’re talking about a lot these days.

In the meantime, I leave you with the OG gynaecologist story. And a request. It’s my birthday today. If you feel called to, here is a list of links of ways to help Palestinians, researched and vetted by a trusted source. $5 to just one of these places from all the readers of this substack would make a huge difference.

Thank you.

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I am late for the gynecologist.

Not late like, “I should have had a yearly check-up by now”, although there is that.

Late because my appointment is at 2 o’clock, but I’d convinced myself it was at 4, and it’s now 1:49 and I’m racing through the streets of Istanbul.

This gynecologist was rated by someone on Facebook as “the best gynecologist I’ve ever seen in my life”. I call to let her office know I’m late, while simultaneously trying to hail a taxi.

“Where are you going?” the driver calls out.

“Fulya,” I pant, which is about a 20 minute drive away.

“Call an Uber,” he says, and drives off.

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The more people I speak to, the more I understand how difficult life is right now for anyone earning the Turkish lira.

The working week, whether a labourer or a lawyer, is at least 6 days, and for far more than 8 hours a day. Having your boss call a meeting late at night or on a Sunday afternoon is part of life. Meanwhile, inflation rose over 50% in May, with energy bills soaring by 121% and food at 92%. The majority of while collar workers in this country can’t afford to take a week’s holiday.

sezginistan

A post shared by @sezginistan

My friend Emily shared that she’s losing friendships she’s had for decades because the general mental health is so impacted here. I see the effects of this in the poet, too, who works for a startup. When he puts his phone down for an hour, he’s greeted by a waterfall of messages that would make me weep. A taxi driver we met last weekend told us that he works about 18 hours a day, and brings home roughly $25 Canadian for it. Because of this, his wife has just left him.

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I jump on the metro, and by the time I get back up onto street level, I’m pouring sweat. It should be a 20-minute walk to the clinic, but Google maps has decided to stop working. I come from a culture where being late for a medical appointment is ethically akin to punching a small animal, so I huff up and down the steepest of hills, trying to situate the blue dot skidding all over my phone, swearing at the taxis passing me in the streets.

By a miracle, I find the gynecologist’s building.

I head into the elevator, which stops on the way up. A woman walks in in a head scarf, sunglasses, and an almost completely bandaged face. The economy here might be batshit here for locals, but Turkey still holds its own as a medical tourism hotspot for people from wealthier countries. It’s not uncommon to see noses in splints in the street, or shaved heads covered in the tiny dots of a hair transplant. This woman seems highly anxious, and bolts back out of the elevator again before the doors close. I look at my reflection in the mirror: my halo of hair frizz, mascara-ringed eyes, my shirt soaked, and wonder if I’ve scared her. I was told recently that my decision not to have botox at the age of 45 is “charming”.

Photo by Teslariu Mihai on Unsplash

The elevator doors open, and I step into a plush, carpeted hallway, nicer than something you’d see at most hotels. The waiting room of the gynaecologists office has floor-to-ceiling windows and furniture too modern to sit on. The receptionist beams at me, waves off my apologies for being late, and hands me a form to fill out.

“Marital status”, it asks.

I hate this question, especially in this country. Why does “divorced” get its own box? Maybe because it also assumes “has had children?” Am I going to be judged for not having done my womanly duties? Cringing, I tick “single” and hand the form back. Less than a minute later, the receptionist beckons me to the doctor’s office.

She is, in fact, the best gynecologist I’ve ever seen in my life.

She’s polite and funny, and doesn’t show a smidge of judgement about the state of my womb or the reasons I’m here. I’m sent to a sparkling white bathroom, and given a pair of soft hotel slippers in a plastic package and a disposable towel to wrap around me. I return to the examination room. The receptionist uses sign language to tell me how to sit and puts a gentle hand on my foot to guide me. It’s the most compassionate experience of this variety you could ask for. I have to hold myself back from hugging them all goodbye.

Also, if I were earning minimum wage in this country, it would cost the equivalent of half a month’s salary.

Back out in the street again, I notice a woman in a ripped dress sitting on the ground next to a dumpster. She’s picking stale bread buns out of a plastic bag. I wonder which box she would tick on the medical form, if she ever, in her life, could be privileged enough to visit a gynecologist. Will she die young because of this? Will anyone care? Has she had children? Was it because she never learned how not to? Where are they now and what are they doing? What chance do they stand if things in this country don’t change?

As I pass her, an arm reaches out from inside of the dumpster. It hands her a carton of juice, and disappears again back into the darkness.