by Rifa Tusnia Mona (Dhaka, Bangladesh)
Stigmas Have Power! You might wonder why I say this as an IBD advocate. After all, stigmas are often baseless and untrue. But when they come at you from all directions—constantly, persistently—they start to wear you down. That’s when the real distraction, aka destruction, begins.
Imagine this:
One morning, you wake up feeling like something is coiling and twisting inside your stomach. You can’t eat. Or if you do, your body refuses to digest. Nausea takes over. You vomit again and again. The cramps hit without warning, stabbing, vanishing, then returning like waves from a storm. You feel trapped in a body that’s turning against you.
At first, people think it’s temporary—just a bug, maybe food poisoning. But then, something changes. The concern fades, and in its place, they start labeling you.
One morning, your mother decides to take you to church. If you’re Muslim, maybe it’s a hujur or a Sufi healer. Neighbors drop by. They don’t bring comfort; they bring unsolicited advice. "Have you tried this doctor?" "You should pray more."
Later, one morning, you find yourself lying in a hospital bed. A nurse enters and says, “Ask God for forgiveness.”
It hits differently. You’re not just battling a disease anymore—you’re battling judgment.
That’s the thing about stigmas: they’re powerful because they echo from everywhere. Different mouths, same message. And it always seems to come when you’re at your weakest.
But the hardest part?
When it comes from the people you love—your friends, your family—the ones who’ve always stood by you. That’s when the real confusion begins. You think, They care about me. They’ve never meant me harm. So maybe… maybe they’re right?
And just like that, you start to question yourself—not your illness, but your worth.
It took me a long time to realize that human minds are incredibly complex. I used to carry the weight of every cruel word, every dismissive act, thinking I must’ve done something to deserve it. But over time, I began to understand: most of the time, it’s not about me.
People don’t always act from a place of clarity or kindness. Sometimes, they hurt others to soothe an old scar within themselves. Sometimes, they mirror the pain they once suffered. And sometimes, they hurt simply because they don’t know how not to.
That’s when it hit me—pain is transferable.
It doesn’t just live in one person; it moves, it multiplies, it morphs into behaviors, into beliefs, into judgment. And many of those who hurt us are, in fact, carrying unresolved pain of their own.
“The God of Small Things” by Arundhati Roy feels like a masterpiece to me—layered, lyrical, and hauntingly beautiful. But if I had to pick one part that truly stayed with me, it would be the part about what Roy calls ‘The Love Laws’—or, as I like to think of it, the unspoken equation of love.
“That it really began in the days when the Love Laws were made. The Laws that lay down who should be loved, and how, And how much.”
-Page 33, Chapter 1, Paradise Pickles and Preserves, The God of Small Things
According to this idea, the amount of love we receive can sometimes feel predetermined—set by invisible rules we never agreed to. From Arundhati Roy’s words, I understood that love is often measured through two things: care and concern. These are the true units that define the depth of a relationship.
For love to feel genuine and meaningful, both must be present—together. When only one shows up, or when they're offered inconsistently, the relationship starts to feel imbalanced. It turns into something less whole, something we try to justify as "complicated" or label as, “Please, try to understand.” But deep down, we know—it’s a compromised connection.
“After Ammu died (after the last time she came back to Ayemenem, swollen with cortisone and a rattle in her chest that sounded like a faraway man shouting), Rahel drifted. From school to school. She spent her holidays in Ayemenem, largely ignored by Chacko and Mammachi (grown soft with sorrow, slumped in their bereavement like a pair of drunks in a toddy bar) and largely ignoring Baby Kochamma. In matters related to the raising of Rahel, Chacko and Mammachi tried, but couldn’t. They provided the care (food, clothes, fees), but withdrew the concern.”
-Page 15, Chapter 1, Paradise Pickles and Preserves, The God of Small Things.
There was a time when I was hospitalized for over a month. My father had a full-time job, and my mother had to juggle between caring for me and my younger sister. With both of them stretched thin, I reached out to every friend and relative I knew, hoping someone could step in as a caregiver. But no one came forward.
I was already battling an undiagnosed illness, and on top of that, navigating hospital departments alone, collecting test results while being so physically unwell—it felt like walking through fire. In that moment, a thought struck me hard: “After living over two decades, have I still not understood the love equation?”
Living with a chronic condition like Crohn’s has, in a strange way, been like being handed a special lens. I began to see certain relationships for what they truly were—fragile, one-sided, and built on illusions. That clarity gave me the strength to say “No” and walk away from connections that no longer served me.
It might sound harsh, but when your body is already carrying so much pain, the weight of empty relationships and unmet expectations becomes unbearable. Letting go became a form of relief, a way to breathe again. I’ve come to believe that sometimes, releasing old bonds opens up space for new, more meaningful ones. And life, quietly but surely, moves forward.
In a world where being "different" is often taboo, genuine relationships—the ones rooted in care and understanding—can feel like a warm shield. They make all the difference.
These are just my reflections, and as a reader, you’re welcome to hold your own. But thank you for making it this far—I appreciate your presence here, and I hope to meet you again in my next write-up.
Featured photo by Kaboompics.com from Pexels.