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?


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.

Sacred scars

I feel the most positive and encouraged that I’ve felt in all my 13+ years depressed.

These past 4 months in particular have been especially taxing as I did a deep dive in shadow work and fostering my inner divine feminine, which entailed encountering several negative women archetypes.

And I can finally see how the dark connects to the light and I finally have an answer to a question that’s been echoing throughout my journey ; is my suffering worth it? And it absolutely is. I dedicated the best years to doing something that I had absolutely no concrete proof or precedence or peers in. Only a persistent intuition and faith in Allaah who was guiding me and teaching me throughout it all. I never expected that anything would come out of it. I did it to save my heart, frankly. I keep telling Allaah, if it wasn’t for Your active presence in my life, I would absolutely have committed suicide because there’s no way I’d keep living in a dreary and ruthless world like that. I was always one step away from the edge. So my shadow work was never a spiritual bypass or an attempt at keeping a facade. I’ve been in the midst of the muck for so long that everyone associates me with reclusiveness and as someone with wasted potential. And I genuinely don’t care that people look down on me. If they do hold me in high esteem it’s always for the most fickle and shallow reasons, so it doesn’t mean much. I say all that to say that my shadow work was never something I set out to do but as someone with compounded emotional and mental fracture and deep trauma, and as someone whose mind works at a different pace and pattern than most, the only way I’d find healing is by creating it myself. I started trekking out into trying to get somewhat of a grasp on mental health in 2008. I’d read self-help books that did more damage because they were deceptive in their promise and connected to ego instead of universal truths. I kept ending up in dead-end alleys which would lead to suicide attempts each time. A lot of trial and error, restarted by surviving and realizing that the only way to get out of the rock bottom is by finding a way to scale the walls. I became numb but had to keep my focus locked on that faint light at the distance to keep from succumbing to the overwhelming darkness I was immersed in. It’s haunting, seductive, tempting, the darkness, and to fold feels as easy as water rolling into a glass from a jug tilted at an angle, pouring it out.

There’s nothing to prepare you for that. It feels like a primordial battle on a wider scale, like this has been done before, and there are so so many half-way graves and remnants of people who didn’t make it out. I feel connected to their spirits and it’d give me added incentive to not only make it out for myself but to finish the trek on behalf of those who died trying.

Can I just live

Do I have high expectations for myself? Maybe. Maybe I hold on to impossible expectations because for a very long while it’s been the only way I could conjure an end to the endless insanity. Perhaps I conflate expectations with hope. Perhaps sky-high ambitions were the only way I’d remember that the blue sky doesn’t disappear with the dusk. It’ll be here tomorrow, even when my dreams and plans aren’t.

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