In times like this I’m reminded of how precious it is to put words to things. I write about things as a consolation for everything in me that escapes verbalization. I simply don’t know how to communicate what it feels like to sit 12 hours straight in a feverish, intense anxiety trip spliced with heavy existential depression that makes my limbs feel like they are filled with cement. And that’s a lazy description. I simply can’t find any words because I’ve never ever come across anyone speaking of this or writing about this. I have no way of contrasting this. Except with Allaah. I always talk to Him. I always tell Him, you know, if it weren’t for you I’d be insane or dead by now. Most probably dead. Wouldn’t make it to my 23rd birthday. And here I am in my 29th year.
I’m always teetering on the edge of chaos, catching the whiff of insanity, seeing death in my peripherals. I sink into my heart, talking to Allaah, silently, unable to even open my mouth and voice my grief. The dread of isolation. But then, something happens, something dissolves, and I’m deeper in myself but it’s not dreadful or stranded. Perhaps this is how it feels to be born.
Divine irony to deprive me of the one thing that has been my fortress, my weapon, my strength, my safety: ability to conceptualize