Category: Bits & pieces of everything

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Honesty

Today, like the many other nights, I found myself wide awake at 4:00 am. I’ve been waking up an hour or two earlier than my alarm for years, but never for three consecutive weeks, like now.

Today, as I was awake at 4:00 am contemplating existence, I might have understood why I’ve been waking up this early every day.

It’s the only time that I’m awake where I am not obliged to be productive, where I do not feel like my presence is at fault if I was not working or being useful. It’s the only time that I get to wake up, look through the darkness, and do nothing.

How lucky am I that my God wakes me up to feel and see the idyll of dusk? My body is still asleep; I’m too tired to move from under my sheets, and I’m too warm to feel anything. I exist here, in this room, with nothing but my thoughts lingering in the air and the sound of the music I’m listening to.

I was listening to Honesty by Pink Sweats (slowed and reverb) and I thought-maybe also overthought-of everything about yesterday; all the smiles and insecurities, and all the things that might get better. It’s okay, it will pass.

It’s another Monday today, and the time is surprisingly moving fast. It’s already 2:17 pm, and I’ve already finished all my dues, and I even did a few external chores. I still have time to continue my InDesign tutorials and then read my favorite travel blog, and I’m not feeling all the heaviness I was feeling last week.

On another news, I now have a pretty good relationship with my supervisor, and my colleagues are different shades of something new and nice. I’m still the youngest, by a lot, which makes me feel less competent, but for today, it does not feel like a problem.

I’m not sure if I’ll carry this feeling with me for Tuesday, or Wednesday, or for the rest of this lighter week, but I’m glad that today I’m doing okay.

Plans for this evening:

My former roommate invited me over for dinner and cinnamon rolls, and since Cinnabon has lost hope in Lebanon-sad eyes, sad eyes- and closed all its branches, she is now my only provider of these bites of happiness.

I still have my therapy session to go to tonight and then maybe watch a Sofia Loren movie? I’ve been thinking a lot about how amazing It Started in Naples was and I would really like to watch it again. Today seems like a good day to reminisce on good memories.

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I had a wonderful day

It was safe. A whole day of safety? I could almost jinx myself, if I hadn’t already. Slowly, everything is moving away and I am scared of getting close-like always-and it’s a bit uncertain.

But it was a wonderful day.

It was a cold frisky night, yet I was warm. And I looked at them and smiled, and they smiled back at me. And at that moment I forgot all my worries and all I could think of is that my heart is happy, and that it needs to stay there.

Do you ever have those moments? Where the silky wind brushes your cheeks and you look at your someone and you know that this is exactly where you belong, that even though it has been stormy, the universe was preparing you for a moment of peace that is worth all the trouble.

And that day, it was.

I keep remembering bits and pieces and I keep smiling to myself. Did that really happen? Did I really say that? How did it end? Why am I so clingy? Why did it have to end?

It’s like all my pain ceased existing. I could look at other people and not feel a gutting feeling; like they’re much warmer than me, that I am cold and stranded. I didn’t feel as cold; it felt like I am as warm as anybody else.

I wish we can live in our happy moments. Put them in a wooden box next to our pillows and access them in times of pain. The box can sense our unpleasantness, and would not let us access memory if we didn’t absolutely surpass our window of tolerance.

And by access, I don’t mean like seeing photos and reminiscing, I mean feeling every happy vibe back, remind your senses that happiness can still exist and that despite whatever, it was a good day because they all smiled at you.

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I’m sorry

It’s 11:42pm. I just finished work, and I’m very tired and sleepy, but I need to write this down.

It has been three days since I last wrote here; my last post was the first day of my most recent anxiety. It passed—l hamdellah.

I’m now in phase two of post-anxiety; the severe exhaustion and depression, but that’s okay; I know it’ll pass in a day or two. This is not what I wanted to talk about; I need to talk about another thing.

I keep apologizing, to people, to things, to life. I was in a van going home, and I noticed how sad I get whenever I see anyone less fortunate or unhappy. As if it is my fault. As if their happiness is my responsibility. I find myself apologizing to them in a low voice and an aching gut.

To the old man who just got out of the van carrying tens of medications in a yellow Spinneys bag, I’m sorry. To the guy who is crossing the road wearing ripped shoes, I’m sorry. To the baby sleeping in his stroller as his mother exploits him to get pity money, I’m sorry. To the woman who is carrying her wallet in a black plastic bag, I’m sorry.

To the waiter and waitress standing all day waiting for customers, I’m sorry. To the children selling red flowers at night, I’m sorry. To the always smiling man selling gum near the Tayouneh roundabout, I’m sorry. To the cleaning man who fell asleep on the street, I’m sorry. To the people selling juice and kaak and corn in a trolley, I’m sorry.

To the sadness in my dad’s eyes and the desperation in mum’s, I’m sorry. To my sisters’ tears and worries, I’m sorry. I wish I can hug you all to safety; I’m sorry I am not of much help, I’m sorry I can’t make it easier on you.

I’m finding this extremely hard to finish, but I need to write this down. I’ve been carrying everybody’s burden on my shoulders for so long; It’s killing me more and more every day. Recently, whenever anyone tells me a story about a person in need, or a story about someone getting laid off from work, I turn aggressive. I’m sorry, but I will probably take responsibility for their poverty and unemployment, and it will kill me even more.

I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I don’t know how I can ease your pain, I wish I can take it all away. I wish I can give you health and safety and stability and happiness. I wish I can give you life.

But I can’t. All I can do is send you wishes and carry your problems and pain upon my shoulder, hurting myself and not helping you with anything. I’m sorry my existence turned out to be this way; I wish I were not so broken and more of use.

I have been working on this extensively with my therapist; he’s trying to convince me to let go of some of these responsibilities. I’ve been learning how to let go of things I cannot control, of things that I did not cause. I’m trying to learn how to leave people’s pain and deal with mine. (I guess it’s harder than I thought)

But I’m happy I can finally acknowledge all of this. I thought it’s normal to carry everybody’s issues and treat them as my own; I thought that’s why I’m in the humanitarian sector in the first place. I didn’t realize that carrying the world’s poverty is why the humanitarian sector is alienating me.

I’ll learn to leave your sadness for you to deal with; I’ll learn how to let go of your responsibilities and focus on mine. I’m sorry you can’t afford your medication and your school and your rent; I can’t afford your medication and school and rent either, and I’m sorry for that;

But I’ll have to let you go.

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Babel – another post about Monday

Today was not a bad day, it started with a nice labneh sandwich and is ending with me drinking tea and writing this. The fact that it’s 9:57 pm and I’m not working is satisfying by itself. Satisfying enough that I’m listening to Drake.

It’s just, Mondays have been so long. They are the beginning of a week and it’s a killer. I’ve become corporate; looking forward for the weekend and feeling like hell on a Monday.

I never felt this way before. I looked forward to Mondays during university because I loved university so much, and the same with my previous job. I didn’t like the weekends.

It’s not that I hate my job, because I don’t. I’m used to it and it’s becoming a scene I might finally fit into. It’s a provider for my actual life, and God, I am most grateful. But I have grown to hate Mondays, and I am looking forward to Saturdays.

I keep wondering lately about people and their lives. Do they feel the same way I feel? Are they as mentally ill or mentally confused? Do they think of the meaning and concept and existence of work as much as I do? Should it be this hard?

My mum wouldn’t like me using “mentally ill” to describe myself. Sorry, mum, I don’t know what to call it, myself. It’s just, is it as hard on everyone to wake up in the morning feeling like you absolutely do not want to wake up, ever?

I wonder what it feels like to feel a sense of belonging to all your life, not just a part of it or a person in it. Does anyone have that, the feeling of complete belonging?

Is it then, when we fully belong, that we feel happy? When we actually belong to our life and not just that moment when we see our person or that moment when we are in that safe place?

I don’t know. I don’t know if what I felt before was what I search for now. Maybe, but I don’t know. For now, I thank God another Monday has passed.

Please do yourself a favor and listen to Babel by Gustavo Santaolalla, the original and the Otnicka remix. It’s an absolute beauty.

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Safety; the myth

They’re so lucky, those who’ve found their place, those who’ve found their safety. They’re so lucky, those who are in the safety of their home; they know when to eat dinner and when to eat lunch and what to expect for tomorrow and what to not.

They’re so lucky, those with the stable routine and the weekly outings. Those who ride their bikes in the morning and finish their days in the afternoon. They’re so lucky, those who know where their place is and where to find it.

I find myself looking at photos of friends having breakfast, or a married couple finishing governmental papers, or a fifth-grader getting off the bus and running towards their house, or a taxi driver listening to the morning news and complaining about the economy. I find myself looking at those happy and unhappy faces who may not be having the perfect days, but they have found their safety.

Do you remember the feeling of when you lose, or when you think you’ve lost, your mum in the grocery shop? The coldness, the unfathomable fear, the tears you’re too proud to let out? This is how I feel, all the goddamn time.

I’m 22, almost 23, and I’m always cold and scared and feeling like I’ve lost my mum at a grocery shop. I never know where my mum is, no matter how much I run about or how much I search; I always seem to search in the wrong places because I could never find her.

The feeling goes back and forth, but it mostly stays lingering most of my days. I have some distractions, there are some places and people where I have bliss and where I try my best to shrug the coldness away, but it’s all very temporary.

I’m cold again the minute I step outside, the minute the people leave. It’s some drug, a really good one actually, but it’s not my place. And even within this drug, I’m so scared I might lose it.

I call this feeling a lot of things; anxiety, existential crisis, attachment/detachment disorders. I don’t know how it started, but I’m begging for it to leave me. A lot of people have found their peace and security at my age, why can’t I?

A lot of people, my age, younger, and older, have stability, and are leading a stable life. It doesn’t need to be happy, it just needs to be a stable life where they are not scared all the time and where it’s okay. Where it’s just okay.

It’s just that I’m scared. I’m very scared all the time. I’m walking an endless road, barefoot, and I can’t seem to know where I’m walking to and where I might reach. They keep saying that we need to go through some pretty bad things to reach our actual euphoria.

Can someone tell them I’m the weakest? That I can’t take this feeling of belongingness, this coldness?

Guess tomorrow is another mascara day for me.
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She said, “What if I tell you all the things I’ve done? Would you run away from me?”

How easier could it all be if we were just honest, if we didn’t hide behind a mundane pride and a million shards of dignity.

Suppose you could tell me how you feel or what you want of me. Suppose I can only tell you what I really need, what I really want to say. If I could be honest about everything, if I could only share with you some of the storms happening inside of me, instead of the unbearable squeaky silence that screams from within. Instead, I keep saying so many different words, without meaning any of them.

How easier it could be if I could tell you what I’m thinking of right now, and if you could do the same with me. If we’re all plain honest and straight forward, if we stop hiding for a day or two and show ourselves, show our hurricanes. How horrible could it really be?

The heaviness of my world-and words-is crushing my bones. The bleakness of this pit is taunting me, and I’m finding it hard not to let myself fall. Yet, I can’t tell you. Why can’t I say all of this to you?

What if I couldn’t find my safe place anymore, and I can’t but wonder if I can find my safety with you? Why can’t I say all of this? How come I can write it, but never say it to you?

I’m not saying it will be better if I did, I’m just saying that it could.

I always brag that I’m always honest, that I don’t go around in circles, I’ll shoot you straight, and I’ll tell you everything you want to hear. I always brag about being most honest, but I swear I couldn’t be more of a liar.

I’ll never tell you, because I am too afraid of letting you in. When you’re close, you’ll see that I’m much more vulnerable than I might show, and you’ll break me. You won’t see me the way I want you to see me. You’ll see me weak and shaking, and you will either break me, or leave, which will break me even more.

So I’m stuck. I’m stuck between my fear that you’ll break me, and I’m stuck that you might leave if I weren’t honest, and I don’t know what to choose or where I stand in all of this. I just know that it’s maddening to hope that you might understand, if only the scenario in my head can happen, if only everything goes my way and you say what I want you to say to me, without me being honest.

How hard could it be? To be honest?

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Escape with me?

This nostalgia is draining me, but I’ll talk about this some another time.

I’m sitting on my bed drinking my now cold tea and reflecting on my week. It’s Friday. There is nothing that beats the feeling I get when I’m out of the office and pressing the elevator button.

My week has been okay, better than last week. I’m having busier schedules than ever, which is fine; once I learn to trust that whatever tasks I’ve been given, I’m doing them the way they should be done, I’ll be okay. I mean, they did extend my contract, right? Doesn’t that mean that I’m doing okay? It seems like my anxiety only pays attention to certain things and neglects others.

I’m a little behind schedule, which makes an extremely task-oriented person like me, extremely nervous. But that’s okay. I have all Monday to catch up. Today’s Friday, and I don’t need to worry about this until Sunday night.

I’ll be taking 10 days leave at the beginning of November, which I’m very excited about. I’m hoping to travel, or at least escape everything for a few days. I think I need a few days in a faraway place where I only read, meditate, and watch Audrey Hepburn movies all day long.

I’m even thinking of escaping alone or with people, anywhere, I just need to get out of here and reflect. I think I might give this a shot, a small gem within Lebanon;

I hope I do actually, whether alone or with someone.

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Can we skip Mondays?

What is it about Mondays and its 88 hours a day? I feel like I have been living in this Monday for 3 years, and I still haven’t even finished my working hours.

I recall times where I looked forward to Mondays, and I didn’t feel like Mondays are longer than other days. All days were short; all days were fun. But now I finally understood people’s complaints about work, long hours, coffee, and Mondays. Now, I have finally been accepted to the hood of grownups. I have officially grown up. (I think)

I’m slowly coming at peace with this new reality, not having work as my source of happiness but rather an income for all the other enjoyable things in my life. Okay, okay, the universe reasons with me, even though I’m still bitter.

I’ve been welcoming the not-so-hot evenings with all the positivity I could summon from my winter lover heart, and I’ve been showing that by regaining the strength to walk to any destination in Beirut instead of getting in a car. So for this Monday evening, I am planning exactly that.

I’ll walk to a bookshop 30mins away from work, buy a book, and then walk right back and hopefully get to my therapy session in time. Let’s see if this will make this Monday any more tolerable.

Hoping you’re having/you’ve had better Mondays.

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My Very First Post (and hopefully not the last)

https://theadventurine.com/culture/movies-tv/why-theres-a-movie-column-on-the-adventurine/

My Very First Post- I have been thinking of creating a blog of my own since I first heard of blogs.

Not sure what stopped me from creating one years back, or if I preferred it stays an idea in my head but not on paper, but I surely imagined this moment a couple of hundreds of times. And even though I have so much to share and say, I feel completely mind-blocked.

Which is typical, really. I probably had writer’s block for 20 years out of my 22 years of living, so no big deal here. I’m so used to this little brain not functioning when I want it to. But it’s okay, like everything else, I learned to love and embrace it very well.

who am I?

I don’t know yet, so I can’t tell you. But I know that my name is Nour and that I love writing and being around people I love. I tend to talk a lot and share stories, which is what encouraged me to start this blog; to share the stories I haven’t told yet.

what do I do?

In the context of experiences and whatnot, I have a BA in Journalism and MA in Communication Sciences. I currently work with the United Nations and I’m a board member at an NGO, which is super cool *pats myself on the back*. I have worked as a senior editor, administrative assistant, translator, social media specialist, tutor, HR, and writer. I have also volunteered in 7 different NGOs and I’m always searching for new opportunities because, weird enough, I love everything and everyone.

Also, there is probably an “About Me” page somewhere in this blog that I should’ve written all this crap in, but oh well.

what are you doing here?

LOL. No idea. You’re either one of my super cool friends (I love you friends!!!) who wants to support me, or a poor soul that stumbled upon this nonsense and thought to give it-and me-a chance. Nonetheless, the fact that you are reading this-and maybe some other things too-makes me want to hug you.

If you’re looking for enlightenment, or academic research, or anything that is beneficial, you’re in the wrong place, and I’m sorry. But if you’re looking for randomness, well, hello nice to meet you, I am Random.

Also, I am still not sure if I’ll actually share this with anyone I know, or keep it online for my own enjoyment. I’ll have to overthink it of course, like all the other mundane things I overthink.

I think this is enough for a first post, and it may be too long, but I don’t know yet. I guess I have to start with my research on how to stay in the blogging lane.