Why run when you can walk

Dawn always makes my heart sink and my mind restless. The darkness of the night was a protective cover, and the morning reminded me of the constant hell that my life had morphed into and that the peace of the night was but a dream, fleeting. Even though those days are buried in many years ago my body hasn’t forgotten. It’s amazing how much sorrow and fear I can store. It seems like the more sensitive you are the more you notice and consequently store.

It’s like the first sun rays are so sharp that they burst my bubble of safety that felt invincible in the night. I feel exposed and my wounds translucent; naked confusion.

Dawn makes me nauseous by its intrusion. How rude.

Beam me up Scotty

I don’t know how to live with this kind of pain crowding my body. It feels like there’s no room for me to investigate, as if I’m just pushing up against the sore places, making things worse by my curiosity. As if understanding amplifies the pain and exacerbates the suffering. As if the darkness of repression is a safe house.

But that safe house is where hope dies, so now what? Did I just dig my own grave by believing that the best way to deal with pain is to keep it out of mind?

Forget-me-please

It’s so upsetting when people who expect things of you can’t understand the extent of psychological disorders. They think it’s something you can tuck away to squeeze in one more thing. When I say I can’t, it’s very difficult on me, they say what? To write ONE email is difficult? To do these two SMALL things is difficult?

YES. Rub my disability in my face will you. Make it glaringly obvious how powerless I am at times will you. Make it obvious how you and society at large sees me as some lazy scoundrel will you. Rub salt in my wounds, please.

What’s worse is that it took me so many years to own my depression, to own the days I’m down, to own when for reasons unbeknownst to me my brain is on a survival lock down mode. For years I internalized this response I’m met with so much so that I’d get panicky as soon as my mood would take a dip. Not for self-compassion, not because I was afraid of that I’d get lost in the dark abyss, not because I was afraid that I’d encounter a setback I’d never be able to overcome. No. I’d get panicky because I was so afraid that I wouldn’t be able to meet expectations and not knowing how to explain what happens to me. It sounds absolutely maddening when I spell it out like this, but when you’re in survival mode 24/7, you don’t have the luxury of having a clear mind for reflecting over the situation. It never got as far as to reach my neocortex. My amygdala had me in a lock down because to defy the panic, to defy the disappointment felt like DEATH. There was NOTHING for me beyond people’s disapproval. My life was hanging by a tiny thread. I couldn’t on top of everything else shake up the little stability and familiarity that gave me enough will to live to see the next day at least.

No matter how many words I learn, I doubt I’ll ever be able to communicate the horror I lived through. It really showed me the underbelly of society and that’s why I’m so passionate about truth and sincerity and empathy. I’ve been to the very bottom and for some reason or another Allaah didn’t let the bottom give way. He kept fishing me up and I’ll never ever ever be able to fully show how grateful I am to Him. I was swallowed by the beast and imprisoned by the devil. I was stuck in situations no one could ever bail me out of. It wasn’t that Allaah saved me, but the way He did was nothing short of a miracle everytime. I deadass don’t know how I made it to my 29th year. That’s just wild to me. And that’s why I made a promise to Allaah that for the rest of my days I’ll be in service of the divine will of helping people in whatever capacity I’m inspired to. My only hope in this world is to fulfill my existential purpose. I’ve seen through the false allurements and deceptive persuasions and I have no interest to get entangled in that cesspool. Ironically, the so-called pleasures of life is what makes the world a toxic place to be in. But the world isn’t inherently toxic. Not if you’re aligned with the natural rhythms of things. Not if you don’t attempt to control and invert and reverse the divine order.

Hide and See

You ask me with slight contempt in your voice, why are you so obese.

– Because I’m bloated with all the screams I had to muffle, all the shooting stars I had to repress, all the bitterness I had to swallow, all the bullets I had to bite, all the sensitivities I had to hide, all the times I had to hold my breath to keep from flinching in the face of the predators so as not to show them any fear. My body held on to everything I tried to discard and piled them up to show me everything I’ve tried to disregard. I can run but I can’t hide anymore.

Fat protected me better than my parents ever could.

Squinting through the explosion

To perceive pain.. to stare at it without flinching.. to observe it whilst suspending reaction.. to feel it rip through my body, down my legs, into the ground where it dissipates.. to wait for the panic to subside with baited breath.. to hold off from escaping the eye of the storm.. to hold up hope even though arms are weak and knees threaten to buckle.. to feel the searing burn of lucidity in my brain, from having to observe things on so many different levels and dimensions without discharging the tension… to reach for Allaah in what feels like a torturous slowmotion through molasses, hope wearing very thin… to wonder if it’s all really worth it, if I’m just adding unnecessary suffering in engaging with deep trauma in this visceral way, like a standoff with a bear or a lion… to feel my footing on the edge of sanity precarious and uncommitted… to wonder if I’ll ever win this war… is the best that I can do and I don’t know if it’s enough to make it.

Tears of redemption

Tawakul transmutes coping mechanisms and it feels like dying in a nightmare and startling awake just before your soul leaves your breath. Tawheed crucifies the ego.

Self-harm

To survive I had to be more cruel and hurtful to myself than anyone who ever hurt me could ever conjure. By assuming the role of the abuser I had a chance at escape. I didn’t want to listen out for the approaching footsteps in dreadful anticipation. I didn’t want the taste of fear to linger. I wanted to pretend it was a fine meal I savoured. Putting myself down felt gratifying, fulfilling. If I was in on it, if I thought I deserved it then no one has really hurt me. I just let them. It was right. I got what I deserved.

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