Ramad*n

Let the triggers go off like fireworks on new year’s.

I ask Allaah to heal my religious wounds completely. I feel even more alienated when I see how everyone is so joyous. I genuinely don’t know where it comes from. I’ve long ago blocked all mentions of Ramadan in all its different spellings.

A few hours after maghrib I felt an unusual calm, that I took as a response to my duaa. Words fail to encompass what I want to say but I trust that Allaah gets it. Cuz I sure don’t.

It feels like a burn injury, this religious wound. Agony from having held on to the conflict for years, charred by the embers of doubt and unworthiness. It stood between seeking the untarnished truth and sticking to the traditions of the group (which I couldn’t connect to no matter how I tried).

The process of shifting was very traumatic, especially since religion and culture are so intertwined that you’re expected to signal and perform your adherence, to ascertain your belonging.

Anyway, I pray these triggers are purifying and that I can find relief from these attacks.

Refraction of black light

I can’t pull myself out of a burning car wreck.

My defenses prevent me from feeling my wounds and can ironically prevent healing. It’s only through feeling the extent of my brokenness that I can know my need of Allaah’s mercy and love. A gaping wound cries for healing. When I stifle it I’m actually stifling the hopelessness it triggers in me. It all happens so fast.

I need defenses to survive the initial shock. And then gradually try to become aware of the trauma. It’s only retrospectively that I can learn what it all means. Needing Allaah has become something shameful because it entails not being able to fix everything on your own and that complex distracts you from what’s at hand. It makes you forget that you didn’t create yourself and you don’t sustain your life. Something so seemingly simple can be forgotten in a fast-moving culture that is hyperfocused on churning out results and identifying people with their abilities to get results. The process becomes neglected. The process is human. The process is life. It’s not a production line.

To decouple from that socially endorsed conditioning can take a lifetime. That is if you’re open to the confusing process of accepting your suffering. Often times the implications and catastrophization of thoughts can be cause enough to remain stunted for the sake of stability in the status quo. And sometimes that’s all one can do. To stabilize the pain and try to lead a productive life. Often though this means that one’s children will receive the task to disintegrate it all.

Allaah doesn’t burden a soul beyond what it can bear. His mercy comes in many forms. Countless forms. We just take so much for granted because we feel naked without filling our head spaces with so much noise and hoarding of mental images. The Void is haunting.

Recreational trauma

How am I gonna make it

What if I don’t make it

Two questions that have been the bane of my existence. Pressure to perform. Expectations to meet goals.

Why I never could study in university. I don’t deal well with shackles to my curiosity. Punishment is never a motivator for me. Threats of lack and scarcity makes me quit right off the bat.

Stop. Stop. Stop.

I don’t know when I’ll be able to work consistently. I don’t know when I’ll be able to establish a daily routine. I don’t know when I’ll be out more. I don’t know when I’ll get married. Stop pestering me.

The voices in my head blaring. Like fire alarms. I don’t know what happens afterwards. I usually run and hide long before. But today I stop. I don’t care what happens anymore. My pace isn’t wrong just because it isn’t competitive or cutthroat.

Healing is what I had to do in order to just be myself. Crazy. Like paying off a debt so I can be freed from indentured servitude. So I can break the yoke of built-up ancestral trauma and conditioning on my neck. I just want a clean slate. A clean canvas. No templates, no dots to connect, no pages to fill, no quota to meet, no lines to fill in, no i’s to dot, no paragraphs to memorize, no sentences to correct. Nothing.

Just a chance to spill my soul on the canvas with no mind paid to the outcome. I’m the outcome. Let me retrace the process that led up to me.

Dust ball

Scrolling through timelines aimlessly. Alternating between apps and websites endlessly. Drifting around like in a car in an empty parking lot at night, circulating the same block until it’s safe to feel again. Dissociating is like hiding under the bed from the monster that is sleeping in your bed. It should be the other way around but I’m always the one punished for the terror that drifts through me aimlessly like a heavy fog that closes in unannounced.

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