Rich in losses

I’ve been going to therapy for 3 years, mainly to understand this ancestral baggage of Somalinimo. What I’ve learnt through what was activated and constellated and entangled in my psychic drama I’ve never heard or read it explained anywhere.

Something really stranged entered my psyche when I felt compelled to go to Somalia on a whim in the summer of 2004. It’s like I’ve been weaving or sewing or knitting things I’ve absorbed and observed along the way ; baadiye, townships in Somalia, the diaspora in Kenya, The West and Arab countries. I didn’t know, but I realize I was on an extensive field research commissioned by the divine.

Intense curiosity and passion that threatened to destroy me if I even thought about diverting from that path. You know I tried.

That’s why I trust in the divine wisdom. I see things playing out that I was being prepped for a decade in advance. I’d never have seen it if I gave up trust or hope.

Torus

It’s ironic.

Everytime I do something that lifts me up, or I do something I haven’t been able to do before, I always have a week of depression that follows it. Longer depending on how high I rose. Without fail.

I only took note of that recurring pattern this year. It used to cause me a lot of despair before. It’s like a step forward, ten steps back. But that wasn’t what was actually happening.

When I’m lifted, I’m also opened and places deep within that had been out of the reach of my awareness come alive, like buds to the advent of spring. Lodged and lost memories rush to the surface as what was previously dead and stagnant is animated. The paradox of believing nothing will change and the change itself, creates a great deal of uproar and tension and confusion.

I’m acclimatizing. My psyche is adapting, recalibrating, trying to pivot. Much like jet lag or inoculation or muscle ache from a new workout. Any shift has to be integrated because it not only brings something out of you, it also imbues you with new energies.

When I understand this, it’s easier to calm the panicked thoughts down that think we’re going back in time again. I hold space for my thoughts through the liminality, and it’s the most vital part because that’s before the shift takes root and when it’s most likely to be discarded. Much like the body rejecting a transplanted organ.

Motion to survive

Hope gives me a continuity. It holds my broken pieces together until I can feel it all. It gives my focus a place to land while I feel stuck, so that I can know that the terror I’m faced with isn’t my fate. It’s not forever. It’s not where I’ll end up.

Let me sink in

When you accept the pain that you’re immersed in, you also accept the divine wisdom that surrounds that pain. And while you may feel lost and confused over the meaning of this, you’re held together in the wholeness of that wisdom even if you don’t see it or feel it. If you don’t hold space for the faith in this divine wisdom which is essentially to believe good about God, fear will fill the void and hold you captive in its space. So be intentional about your feelings. They aren’t inconsequential and every effort to remain grounded and conscious will alchemize what you didn’t even know existed. Let the dominoes fall in your favour

¿Hablas love?

I wonder if the people I loved who no longer are in my life felt that love and the sincerity or did they throw out the baby with the bathwater (i.e. me)? I wonder if the random acts of love to strangers has set root in anyone? I wonder if any of those strangers still think about me from time to time?

I always feel invisible under the baggage of humanity that dismisses my love as a parasitic hallucination or mirage. I always felt like a ghost. Love is how I connect and touch another’s soul. The texture shows me my soul isn’t alone, that there are others who feel and need what I feel and need. It’s not so much about them but how my soul speaks. I wonder if I’m just speaking in tongues, to others, or if there’s a primordial recognition, even if they can’t speak back?

I’ve been dying to have another soul to speak about God with, and this odd and bewildering existence we share.

Rama*n

I’ve been having nightmares back to back about bullies from my childhood, rejection. The first day of Ramadan also means a lot of work in the kitchen. Doing stuff while I’m triggered is tortuous. I hid in sleeping all day and evening, only breaking up for prayers.

It’s like an emotional fever or diarrhea. I realize I’ve never been able to let these things pass through from my subconscious bc that entails reliving it all and risking being repossessed by what I’ve kept bolted for years.

The worst part about trauma isn’t what happened, but being deprived of the processing by way of demands to keep going as if nothing happened or being shamed for not being able to keep going. This mechanism has become so embedded in my trauma that it’s become an automation to switch over to numbing out and disassociating any triggers bc to feel the trauma makes me feel naked. It completely disables me and any function I have and with that, any usefulness I have to others. That chain is broken, and I’m left vulnerable to attacks that I’ve come to believe are valid. My worst fear is feeling the trauma and in that moment being pressured to do stuff for others. That’s what I fear about marriage, about motherhood, about doing what I love. The interruption of nightmares that never seem to end, and the rejection of those around me bc they’re disgusted by my incapacitated self.

Ramada*

Reflecting over my triggers

I think the bedrock for this started long ago, when I started practicing Islaam as a 16 year old. Of course, what I absorbed was through the filter of my psyche and my upbringing so it’s little wonder I assumed Allaah expected what my parents expected of me. It’s almost as if I sought out an image of Islaam that mapped perfectly onto my upbringing, to stifle any discrepancies. I do remember scoffing at mentions of mercy and viewing it as weakness and almost a kiddy version of Islaam. I now realize I was trying to avoid critiquing my mother’s relationship with me who’d use Islaam a lot in our upbringing.

But it sowed seeds of deep doubts bc my intentions always surpassed my ability and that became a pivotal point of struggle ; trying to undo my limitations, my weaknesses bc I felt incredibly exposed. My faith couldn’t fit there bc my faith was managed by my mind and I had to rise to the occasion. I felt it a defeat and admission of a lukewarm faith if I were to ask Allaah for help. I had to prove myself.

A few years later as I became more and more intellectually rigid in a bid to stack against the doubt, I started punishing myself for my feelings. At this point my feelings were as distant as the moon or as intangible as microbes. I kept my psyche in a frozen state, as if by cryogenics. The group I adhered to espoused beliefs that unequivocally said Allaah doesn’t love unconditionally, you have to earn that love. I internalized this to mean that Allaah will love me to the extent that I prove myself by implementing what I learn. I also believed that if I let my limitations or weaknesses (read: trauma) override what Allaah wanted, then that would be grounds for being led astray. I felt as if Allaah could get mad at me for anything and punish me. There were a lot of talks about punishment and worthiness. Again, I gravitate to these things. Even in the group, I’d tune out ahadeeth and aayat that spoke about balance, leniency, forgiveness, mercy. I didn’t want to give my heart any ammunition.

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