Month: November 2020

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I’m back

I’m back to a life I don’t belong in.

It was like any other day before the one week break, a corporate day full of corporate tasks and eight hours of work behind a desk. After work, I got stuck in traffic, ate cold dinner, and went to my therapy session.

And now, I’m back here writing, rethinking my day, rethinking how simple last week was when I was not bounded with hours, when I was not strangled by expectations that make me over-work myself to be competent enough to work in the biggest humanitarian organization in the world.

Last week, I took control of my life again. I chose what to do with my daylight hours and how to be productive according to my own schedule, and I was simply in control, which is major because I’ve been driving a car with no breaks for months.

Why can’t I do what I want? Why can’t I simply be? A lot of people take gap years, sabbatical, yoga retreats for self-development. Many people have the privilege to put a halt on their lives for a while; why can’t I?

I would leave and take a break from the labor market for a month or two, or three. In a different country and under different circumstances, I would do that. I have enough money to sustain me for a year; I can study quietly and work on my self-implementation and decide what to do with my hours accordingly.

I would read again. I would go back to the life of the 80s, the books and the movies and the music and the communism and the resilience and the cause, the one cause.

I would go back to being frivolous, light-hearted, free. I was always referred to as an “air signed” kind of person; even though I’m a water sign, I would go back to that. I would go back to being irrelevant, to being someone that exists for me and not for everybody and everything else.

Please don’t think that I am ungrateful, because believe me; I am not. I am so privileged with so many blessings that I don’t deserve. I am so grateful for all the things I wished for and had granted. I am so grateful for my life and my God, I am so grateful for my God. There are no words to describe how incredible my God has been, and I’m grateful for simply that.

But

Why can’t it be simpler? Why do we have to grow up?

“Growing up is what we call it when we feel like our parents can no longer protect us.” My therapist told me this today, and I’ve been overthinking. According to him, it’s when we can see ourselves living without our parents, without feeling our parents’ protection and security. How awful is that? That I might have reached this?

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Let it be normal

I’m back to work tomorrow.

It literally feels like forever since I last was living in that weird and bizarre life. This week, it was normal; I lived my normal life with normal feelings and normal friends and outings and routine.

I normally saw my friends, and I normally celebrated my birthday with many of them exactly the way we used to in the past few years, and I normally blew the candles on my cake as my family wished me happiness. It was like the normal I always had before.

I normally woke up every day with a normal feeling, like life is normal, and it’s not whatever it was before October 29. We had a normal Halloween event with major stress and running around, and I normally pulled my hair out because of the official papers I had to do and I normally went to a university to apply for a second BA. I normally lived and met the people I always knew and loved. It almost felt like the past year did not exist.

God, what an awful year that was. I cannot describe it in words, but if it were in front of me, I would want to punch it so hard, my knuckles would start bleeding.

I’m hoping, I’m praying-and practically begging, that the curse of last year decided to stay with 22 years old Nour, and now that I’m 23 years, I am finally rid of all of the abnormalities, of the behemoths, of all the evils that I carried on my naked and frail shoulders.

I didn’t even go to my therapy session last week; that’s how normal it was; it was a time way before I had to go to therapy twice a week to function as a semi-normal person. The only not-as-normal thing was my night at my previous work with my previous roommate, but that’s okay, even that sadness was alleviated.

I wish I don’t have to go back to my life, I wish I can stay stuck in last week. I was my normal self, making jokes with the registrar at the university and having a normal conversation with the cute lawyer, without the chaotic anxiety lurking nearby.

I got stuck in traffic, got soaked in the rain, walked for hours, cleaned my closet, slept a little later than usual, over-drank Starbucks, had Sunday breakfast at my aunt’s house and played around with my baby cousin. It was exactly like old times, before the age of 22 and the year 2020 destroyed me.

Thinking of tomorrow; the overwhelming chores that await me, the meetings, my supervisor’s judging eyes and her unending requests, and the 220 unread emails from last week, I am not as troubled.

I still feel at peace. The nonchalant I used to feel most of the time, the “just go with it” attitude, is all here. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m still under the influence of the normality that was last week or because I’m 23 now, and I’m finally over whatever it was that I had throughout the past months.

I think I won’t know until tomorrow. But I’m hoping for the best. Let it be a normal Monday; let it be normal.

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Salima

I need to tell you about the last three days. You need to know.

You need to know that I was happy. I was very happy. You need to know that I was loved, and I was at peace, and I was safe.

Now that I’m back from the getaway, in my bed, in the same city that stabs me in the guts, living the same life that almost destroyed me, I can’t help but remember the last three days as just a dream. Was it real?

I literally forgot everything, like there was no anxiety and pain, ever. There was just this room with these people and this music. I didn’t have a yesterday to overthink, nor a tomorrow to dread; I only had right now, and right now was absolutely gorgeous.

And I’m not saying that I wasn’t upset by certain things or that I enjoyed every second, because even though the stay was mostly amazing, there were still a few moments that I didn’t like, but it was normal. It was a normal “sadness,” ones we feel and move on normally because we are normal people living a normal life, and normally we can get upset.

It was a different sadness than the one I usually have, the sadness that makes me feel like a beast. Even the sadness, I even enjoyed the sadness in our little getaway. And even though now it’s all gone, and I’m still very sleepy and drained, I’m still feeling at peace.

I’m having a post-travel depression, even though we were only 50 minutes away from home. Walking the first morning in the village’s raining and empty streets reminded me of a similar walk that I don’t think I can get over. It had the same idyll, the same coldness, the same curiosity, but different people.

I keep noticing people’s effect on me, on my mental health, and my wellbeing. I always thought that therapy lies in the setting, the moment itself, and not the people. I think I was wrong, or maybe I changed, but I’m finding therapy within my people right now rather than my moments.

I didn’t think I could live happy days like these anymore, I thought my recklessly happy days are past me, and the people I got to live these moments with are long gone, but the past 3 days proved me wrong.

I loved my moments, and I love my people more than I find words to describe. Their smiles, their sparkling eyes, the way they make me feel, they’re all so beautiful.

Just like the past three days in Salima.

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It’s getting harder to write in here, and I’m not sure why.

It might be because now that I share this with people I know, I might be feeling exposed, and I might want to tiptoe around my days and keep it vague and to rethink what I say or write in and label as “acceptable” to publish, and we all know I don’t do that. And it may be because I’m not as sad anymore, and I tend to like writing when I’m sad.

It worried me at first, that I can’t write unless I’m sad and that my blog is going to be depressing, but a friend told me that most famous writers write because they are sad and all successful books were born out of sadness, so that consoles me. I don’t know the reason why I’m not as keen to write anymore, but suddenly I don’t want you in.

Suddenly, I want to keep the things happening in my life to myself. Suddenly, I’m keeping a distance from the people I love the most and trying to shy away in the shadows. I even talk less now, which I am not liking. But I often find myself distracted from the situation I’m in and living in my own small world. Suddenly, I don’t feel like talking or sharing things with you. Is it because now I am convinced that you don’t care? I don’t know.

But suddenly I really want to know your real opinion of me; how you see me? And what am I to you? I need to sort it out so I know who to get close to and who to leave behind. I don’t know why this is as hard; why can’t I have normal friendships and relationships with people.

I tend to like you today and then tomorrow I want nothing to do with you, and the next week I would want you again and I would get upset because you’re no longer around. And it’s frustrating. That I can’t control people as I want to. That I can’t make you do or say the things I want. That you can’t read my mind and be there for me without me asking. (Also, I still wish you text me, please)