Month: March 2021

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The Madonna-Whore complex

Have you ever heard of the Madonna-Whore complex? It’s a psychological term that Sigmund Freud identified in describing women’s depiction by men who love the “purity” of women yet desire the “sensuality” of another.

According to The Latch, “way back in the early 1900s, Freud identified a psychological dichotomy in his male patients known as the Madonna-Whore complex. Men (back then, but relevant to all genders now) with this complex saw women as either saints or prostitutes, loving the first and desiring the second — though never intertwining both.”

We live, observe, and experience the reality of this every day but often enough, we never put a name on it. If it were to be discussed by-God forbid-women and girls, the reality is often ridiculed, called “a man’s nature,” and the girl or woman is shamed for having any thought regarding sex and misogyny.

Thanks to my job, I am no longer ashamed of talking about women’s right to adequate sexual reproduction and health. Periods and women’s needs have long been stigmatized that women themselves are stuck between a pretense of virtue and mere human nature.

The Madonna-Whore dichotomy is a vibrant concept in our modern Lebanese society, with so many men advocating for women’s rights yet would not wed a “non-virgin.” It is absolutely ridiculous and mundane how a women’s “eligibility” is based on abstracts and gender bias that are long fed within societies and communities.

Whatever one’s opinion on premarital sex is not relevant to the argument that girls should not be labeled “dirty” or “too slutty” for marriage. This is not the point. The point is that girls should not be labeled as Madonnas or Whores, they can be any of them, and they can be both simultaneously, and all that should not make any difference in a girl’s image and should definitely not put her a victim of obscene remarks.

The polarization of the Madonna-Whore concept forces women to be defined as either a slut or a virgin. This is a gross dehumanization of women and is indeed degrading of men’s Madonnas, to the very least. What baffles me is that men want Madonnas as wives because “they have not been touched,” which basically is an indication that men see their “pure women” as sex icons and therefore contradict their whole belief!

I once watched a live documentary about a human trafficking house in Lebanon. Part of the documentary was real interviews of men asked by the interviewer if they are married, and if the answer is yes, why they seek prostitution. “I am eating chicken every day; sometimes I want to eat meat. Is that so wrong?” One man answered.

In short, men want to marry girls who are too “clean” to have been touched by anyone yet are praised for their sexual endeavors. A man wants to marry purity but is in constant search of lust outside his marriages from women that he labels “whores” and “easy to get,” then justifies his acts by saying that “his male nature authorizes infidelities because men have needs and these needs must be fulfilled.”

And none of us, damned as the “gentle sex,” are entitled to an opinion. If we voice any opinion, we are labeled “sensual women” or “women with no dignity.”

I want to make this very clear: if I, or any girl or woman, talked about sex-related topic, it is not because of sexual oppression or “asking for it,” we talk about sex-related topics from a gender equality lens and because we are so sick and tired of gender discrimination that justifies men treating women as sex slaves and referencing them as “dirty or clean lollipops.”

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I got a new keyboard

Actually, I took my supervisor’s keyboard because mine is somehow broken, and I thought I would write as new keyboards excite me. I like writing with new keyboards; I like seeing/feeling my fingers typing on new key letters.

This is the weirdest thing to be so excited about, but it is what it is.

When I move to Venice, the first things I will get are a typewriter, a gramophone, and a mattress. I’ve dreamt of typing in a typewriter for so long, might as well have one in my little one-room apartment on the Grand Canal.

Today’s weather is an absolute beauty. It’s raining, and it’s cold, and my mood drastically improved due to the aforementioned. The idea of summer in a month or two is absolutely killing me.

What else? Well, I’m pleased with work these days, and I’m very much happy with my colleagues. They’re fun to be around and, ten months later, I finally broke from my social anxiety, and I’m comfortable with being myself and talking without saying absolute nonsense. (yey me!)

I can see the sun trying to shine behind the clouds, but even that won’t disrupt how I’m feeling; I know today is a rainy day, so it can try to shine as much as it wants, it’ll still be gloomy. I have a new keyboard, and I was just given a fun task to finish, and I’m drinking my caramel latte and thinking of lunch, and I’m listening to a really homey song, and I’m doing well.

The fun task is basically compiling publications and sorting them out as per date of publication, name, and branding, and I am absolutely excited to do it. Do you have any idea how grounding sorting and organizing make me feel? For the past week two weeks, I’ve been sorting all kinds of HR/procurement and donor reporting files, and I feel so content with my work.

Next week is a bit scarily exciting. I have two long field visits with a colleague of mine I only began to like and a little bit of extra pressure and expectation, and one of them is in Tripoli, so that means two hours ride in a diplomatic car with colleagues, so hoping for the best.

For now, I have to go back to my sorting. Thank you for reading this absolutely meaningless post (more meaningless than my usual posts)

Also, NOUR STOP BUYING SO MANY CLOTHES WHEN YOU’RE BARELY GOING OUTSIDE AND WHEN YOU ALREADY HAVE MORE THAN YOU NEED.

I needed to hear this.

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Thinking out loud

Thinking out loud and I’m not sure I’m okay.

And I’m not saying this from a dark perspective, or out of suicidal thoughts or anything; I’m just saying out of observation. My attitude, my acts, and my behavior, it doesn’t seem right.

I have ten unfinished posts in my draft box, which obviously stresses me the hell out, which leads to me not writing. I haven’t been writing. I even have great new songs that have been on repeat, which usually is my major motivator for writing, as I love writing while listening to good songs. But even that did not encourage me to write.

Except for last week’s rage post, I didn’t write for a month, and I’m disappointed in myself for that. The reason why I focus so much on writing is that writing is my absolute favorite thing in the world; it is my major source of happiness, and when I stop writing, it means I am depriving myself of happiness, which is why I know there is something not okay.

I’ve been writing since before I know how to write. I was five, and I would draw on paper a story and then give it to my mum, and I would tell her what to write as a story for each drawing. I’ve written so many short stories, poems, one long finished story, and long unfinished stories, and there is nothing that I love more than seeing how a word I am typing is appearing on screen or paper.

I know I am not the very best writer of all (I am not reading enough to strengthen myself 🙁 ) or have the best grammar, but I know I am good. I’ve had teachers who told me I made them cry, and others who say that they save my writing assignments because they are too good not to be saved. I had friends and even online people tell me I am more than good, so I kind of have an ego for writing.

For so long, writing was the only thing I was good at. I am science illiterate, and I cannot for the life of me study or focus on anything academic. I absolutely had no idea what to do in university because of that, so I grew up thinking that I am a complete failure, but I at least knew I can write well.

I dream of dedicating all my time to learning how to write professionally. Like an actual 5 years of university learning creative writing, reading literature and poems, and just living my life in Europe writing as I watch gondolas sailing in the Grand Canal and as I endeavor in my sweet coffee and healthy breakfast. I lust for this.

And when I don’t write, I hate it. And the more I don’t read, the more I feel like I can’t write because reading is the fuel of anyone who writes, and when I don’t read, it means I am stuck with my inane words and weak structure.

But it’s not just writing; it’s everything, really. I don’t read anymore, and I am binge-watching series (have you watched New Girl? It’s nice). I prefer staying home to going out (I haven’t felt this way in a year), and I’m not playing chess with dad anymore or reading with my family. I’m procrastinating more than usual, and I’m slowly distancing myself from my surroundings, and I’m having increased anger tantrums, and I skipped therapy for more than two months.

I went back to therapy last week, but I requested my sessions to be bi-weekly rather than every Monday night. I don’t know why; it just felt right.

It’s raining, and it’s dark and cold and beautiful, but I know I’m not okay. I don’t really like this path because I feel like I know how it will end, and it is not going to be pretty. I’ll work on myself, I promise, I always do. I’m just writing this as a self-observation from me to me so I know it’s out there and so I pressure myself into not falling into an abyss.

On a brighter note, look at how funny banks can sometimes be:

“Please destroy this slip after you have memorized this code” Jokes on you, bank, I sometimes forget my name.

Hope you’re doing well.

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There is nothing wrong with you

Nothing wrong – As if dismissing the wrong things in me will make it go away. As if when we don’t acknowledge the wrong things in me, it will make it all better and make me think to myself: “you’re right! I am perfect, and I feel nothing.”

I’m so fed up with people dismissing my feelings, refusing to see that there is something wrong with me. I know there are wrong things in me, I know that, I acknowledge that, acknowledging it helps me cope, and you undermining it certainly does not.

When I tell you about a personal insecurity or a psychological instability of mine and tell you that I am going to therapy, please, do not dismiss me. Do not say things like: “you don’t go to therapy because you are sick, it just makes you feel better,” “you’re just oversensitive,” “there’s nothing wrong with you,” “you don’t look like someone with anything [mentally] wrong with them” please don’t say this. It does not make me feel better.

I know you say this out of pure intentions, reassuring me that I am “sane,” that I am okay. I know you do this so I don’t further indulge in the feeling of wrongness, and thereby, self-hatred; I know you only say all that because you care about me and because you want me to feel better, but saying all that only suppresses my feelings and doesn’t help with making the pain go away.

I don’t know how to not be in toxic social inquiries, whether in friendships or relationships, and I often hurt you in ways I never mean to, but you’re too polite to tell me. And I know I am oversensitive, I don’t deny that, but oversensitivity is a consequence of a psychological disorder, and acknowledging that with me helps.

I can’t have you dismiss my feelings, because it only makes me sad. Not all illnesses look the same, not all are visible. Mine is silent, it only kills me silently and it portrays itself as a dramatic oversensitive crying baby who would overthink breaking somebody’s chocolate bar by mistake, for days. It portrays itself as a drama queen who cares about the silliest and most absurd things while there are so many more important things going on in the world.

I’m a creation of residues of traumas and bad experiences, and on most days, I am too weak to face any of my troubles. I talk about my personal problems with a big crowd of friends and strangers in hopes you understand my weird behaviors and my ramblings, and in hopes you don’t judge me as much as you probably do.

I can’t be close to you, and at the same, I am people-oriented, and the only thing that would make me feel safe is people, but I cannot have you near me. I am not playing with your feelings or victimizing myself with “mood swings” or “PMSing.” I just want you close to me, but I can’t get close to you.

I am trying really hard to acknowledge everything wrong with me, every day, with every breath I take, and with every beating of my heart, I want to be better with everything, whether with you or whether with myself, and you dismissing the fact that there might be something wrong with me is not helping me.

I know I have been asking this for a year, and it’s now an overused and repeated statement, but please stay with me despite the madness. I promise it is not only melodramatic tantrums, or oversensitivity, or “she’s too depressive for me,” or pretty much a drama queen. I promise I will be better for you, and for me, but please wait on me a little longer.