Category: Mental Health & Whatnot

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You whiny baby

But nour, you’re a whiny baby. You love being alone. You keep referring to everything scary as dark, yet all you wear is black, your nails are mostly painted black, and you can’t wait to turn off all the lights in the room, and your favorite coffee is pure black.

Nour, you talk almighty about being around people, yet you choose to stay in on a Saturday night because you want to write about your pain, and you crave silence.

You just skipped a very social weekend to clean your closet and bookstore in peace. You’ve upset more than five people as you drink your pot of coffee and your eyes hurt because of all the crying and all you want is to sleep alone in your empty cold bed and wake up at 4:30am on a Sunday to walk for mental health awareness.

Nour, you speak of desolation, yet you only love walking alone and you hate when someone offers to walk with you.

You’re listening to a song with a chorus that says: “Patient, dreamer, I want to see a better day than mine. Dead, strong, outcast, I don’t live in my worries,” and you don’t even know what it means, but it seems sad, and you’re okay with just that.

You baffle me with your moodiness and over-excessive sentiment. You’re alone, you always have been, yet your heart hurts because your loved ones left, and you want them around you the way they have been. You preach the quiet, and you miss the loud.

How come you talk trash about pale, yet you’re so white? How come you’re laughing all the time yet you claim agony? It doesn’t seem right, nour, to be so in love with independence, yet all you want is for him to tell you he loves you.

You talk big about mental health, yet you’re your worst bully. You overload yourself with work, over-carry responsibilities that aren’t your own, shame yourself for not being perfect, talk loud when all you want is to whisper, ignore your loved ones when all you want is to listen to them. You hurt the ones you love the most, nour, and you complain when they keep distance.

And when it comes to people, you choose the easy way out. You don’t fight for anyone, no matter how much you love them, no matter how much it tortures you every second of every day, how much you want them to stay, you would never tell them, never say it out loud. You keep torturing yourself because being this self-maltreated is still easier than showing them you’re vulnerable.

Nour, you are your worst enemy. You love too much and act so little. You feel too much and show so little. You’re oversensitive, and you want them all to see you as the strongest. You’re happy to be called cheerful, and you’re that saddest person you know. Your loneliness is killing you, yet your time alone keeps you alive.

Maybe you need to start figuring yourself out before asking too much of people. Maybe fix yourself before asking people to love you, before expecting them to stay. Maybe then they will stop leaving you, nour, maybe then they will choose you, maybe then it will not hurt as much because you already know no one will leave you because you’re too broken for them to stay.

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I haven’t read a book for so long

I’ve probably started with a book (or five) the past year and did not finish any, and to be honest, the last book I fully read was in June 2020, and I am so ashamed. I can feel my language weakening and my words becoming less appealing, and I miss the feeling of wholesomeness when reading a beautiful book, but I haven’t, for over a year.

“Between pain and nothing, I’d chosen nothing.”

The past few months have been a rollercoaster, I honestly did not have time for anything, and I have not been alone for a second. Right now, as I said goodbye to my dear loved ones, and I sunk into my empty bed, with the cold AC breeze hurting my skin, I am alone.

I used to be a bookworm, I read all the time and anywhere. I would read a book, finish it in a few days, take a break for a week from all the emotions that linger after, then start with a new one. It was my life, to live in other writers’ worlds, feel feelings that aren’t mine, get consumed by the rush of events and excitement. Nowadays, I am too overwhelmed with my own messiness to live anybody else’s; I have ignored the one thing I loved: reading.

Right now, in my hole of loneliness, I am craving the books, I am craving to feel anything but my feelings. Right now, as I suffer from major separation anxiety (as expected) I cannot but remember my favorite book, the one book that describes loss at its best, the one author that describes loss so thorough that it’s too painful to read that I often found myself hugging the book and closing my eyes because the emotions are just too much to handle.

“Time passes. Even when it seems impossible. Even when each tick of the second-hand aches like the pulse of blood behind a bruise. It passes unevenly, in strange lurches and dragging lulls, but pass it does. Even for me.”

New Moon, Stephenie Meyer

You’re probably judging me by now, because you have seen the movie, or because it’s trendy to hate on Twilight, but I’m telling you, you did not read the book. You honestly do not know written pain if you have not read New Moon. I was 14 when I first read Twilight, and I specifically read New Moon more than 20 times, reading and rereading the pain of Stephenie that remains as anguishing as the first time, she describes what it feels to lose:

“It was a crippling thing, this sensation that a huge hole had been punched through my chest, excising my most vital organs and leaving ragged, unhealed gashes around the edges that continued to throb and bleed despite the passage of time. Rationally, I knew my lungs must still be intact, yet I gasped for air and my head spun like my efforts yielded me nothing. My heart must have been beating, too, but I couldn’t hear the sound of my pulse in my ears; my hands felt blue with cold. I curled inward, hugging my ribs to hold myself together. I scrambled for my numbness, my denial, but it evaded me.”

New Moon, page 105

This. Exactly this. This is what I feel whenever I lose my close ones; the hole in my chest is surreal that sometimes I feel like if somebody opened me up they will literally find a real hole twisting within my ribs. It’s fear adding to anxiety, I cannot lose people and move on. I avoid music I used to listen to when I was with them, I avoid our common places, certain streets, mutual friends, photos and videos, anything that reminds me of the someone that does not exist in my life anymore. I even avoid them if they tried to reach out, their memory is more powerful than them itself and I protect myself from it all.

And I feel pain inside my guts. I feel the monsters waiting for me to sleep only to wake me up in my most moment of comfort to remind me of what I have lost, to remind me that even though I will find happiness again someday, I will always lose the people I love most.

“I worried- late in the night, when the exhaustion of sleep deprivation broke down my defenses- that it was all slipping away. That my mind was sieve, and I would someday not be able to remember the precise color of his eyes, the feel of his cool skin, or the texture of his voice. I could not think of them, but I must remember them.

Because there was one thing that I had to believe to be able to live- I had to know that he existed. That was all. Everything else I could endure. So long as he existed.”

I will go back to reading again, I promise. Hey you, be a dear and recommend me nice romantic novels that also tackle mental health-preferably depression and loss-that is so compelling I would sniff the pages when finished. Yes, this is the genre I chose, no judgements please.

(I hope you never lose a loved one.)
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Let’s go away

To be sucked into a turmoil, unable to drift away, indulged in uncanny in denial and a lust for an escape, a swim in the middle of nowhere, fear of the heavily presence, and the inability to feel within the premises of internal agony and willing to live.

June’s almost over, and I haven’t written anything here. Maybe writing would bring me back, or maybe it’s a push, so I don’t feel like I’m not committing, like leaving in the middle, and then blaming myself for always taking the easy way out.

I’m not depressed; this is a fact. I am not even sad, generally speaking. I have my sad moments, and I am reigniting the shy kid involuntarily; even my sly social skills of not socializing at all are resurfacing, but I am doing okay.

It’s just I feel trapped, overwhelmingly more than usual. Granted, I’ve always felt trapped, and it’s part of my lavishing existential crisis, but it’s been severe lately. I finally understand people’s obsession with oceans; I’ve been craving the sea tremendously.

I finally understand the peace and freedom of diving into the middle of the sea and feeling like you own your space, like you own your liberation, like you can be nowhere, away, very far from your premonition and unbearable obsessions, leaving your heavily sedated baggage of unnecessary responsibilities and self-expectations on the shore.

Yet, no matter how much you swim deep, you can still look back and see the shore; it’s where you will land after you leave for a while. At sea, you sit stretched between the landing hole of maturity and life and the nothingness, and you rest assured that even though you can reach as far as you want into the nothing, there is still a land to go back to. That’s security; that’s my safety.

I am a child of trauma. No matter how much I fight it, no matter how much I act normal and try to blend in, I am a person who still suffers greatly from unresolved trauma. I see two therapists now; my usual therapy, whom I still love as much, and a trauma specialist that I hope can help me tackle the one trauma I want to overcome. I know it’s not healthy to see two doctors, and I don’t plan on juggling this for long; I’m just getting my feet wet and seeing if it’ll do me any good.

The trauma, my unresolved anger, the stress, it’s all getting pretty serious because it is affecting my physical health and not just taking a toll on my mental health. I’ve been sick for a while, but I usually dismiss anything that has to do with my physical health.

Still, two months of unbearable nausea that does not go away, significant weight loss, body aches, back pain, and a high fever on Sunday made me wonder. Nour, you may need to slow down and see what all the fuss is about.

I am a child of trauma, and my brain is wired to live on survival mode and internal search for safety, and I am still roaming deep. I have figured this out through my work with children from traumatic backgrounds; the resemblance in behavior and actions were intolerable, I realized that I have barely healed.

I’ve had great moments in the past month, some may be one of the best memories I have, and I remain grateful. Right now, I am picturing a sunset by the seashore, and I am listening to an idyllic song; I am in a state of peace. Maybe soon I can share a little of what has been going on with me lately, maybe soon I can return home.

For now, I need my sea time.

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Hey

Hey, are you here? I’m writing here as my last resort. I’m almost at my worst. My therapist canceled our session yesterday and is not replying to my messages for an urgent session this week; it be in person or online.

I can feel it coming, the anxiety blackout, and I am terrified. I am trying to binge-watch Modern Family-which I highly recommend-but I need help. I need urgent help before it’s too late and before everything I have worked so hard on shatters before my eyes. I am in major need of an experienced consultant to help me make this life-changing decision, to help me think.

I am so sleep-deprived, I am barely eating, and I am always nauseous, crippling fear is quickly sneaking through every inch of my body, and anxious discomfort is taking over.

I cannot work. I spent all day researching psychologists that my insurance covers, psychologists that my insurance does not cover but are available today or tomorrow, online consultations, and therapy sessions. I cannot focus on anything, I feel an enormous storm coming my way, and I really don’t think I can survive it.

Help. I don’t know how you can help me because if you reached out to me, I will not disclose anything to you. I will not tell you what is going on; I will not tell you about my problem; I will not share my feelings and emotions.

So how can you help me? I don’t know. I’m asking the impossible, but I know that I am in desperate need of help, and I need anything to hold me still. I’m having an extremely hard time thinking about anything, about anyone.

I’ve had awful moments this week, yet I have not cried once, I have not even allowed myself to feel. I am too scared to cry; I am too scared to talk; I am too scared to face my feelings and decisions because I know if I faced them outside therapy, the blackouts will come back, more vicious than before. I am literally walking on eggshells and I don’t know how much longer I can do that, but I don’t feel long.

So help. I don’t know if there is any way you can help that I haven’t thought of, but please help me. Maybe you know a therapist that can see me today or tomorrow? I don’t know, but I do know I’m very scared, and it’s not easy to ask for help, so this is technically a cry out of desperation.

Hoping, praying, for better days and nicer feelings.

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Normalize the sadness of others

Normalize the sadness of others – People are often too scared to acknowledge their sadness in public or express it in any way, in fear of what others may say/think/feel. We cry silently at night, wipe our tears in the morning, put on heavy concealer and mascara, or blame the puffy eyes on sleep deprivation.

We smile and laugh the whole day long, even if all we are thinking of are ways to die. We joke about other people’s sadness, might even call them dramatic or over-sharers, because normalcy is to suppress mental health and attack the ones who show it.

It is okay to be sad in public; this should never be labeled as attention-seeking or inconsiderate. You get to feel, you literally get to feel.

It pains me to see people roll their eyes at other people’s sadness or call it “cheesy”, we are humans, and emotions are part of who we are, and everyone is entitled to feel as free as they want.

My teen years were not my brightest days, my therapist says I had major depression with suicidal ideation and PTSD, but I never really showed it outside the few steps of my room. My best friend, the family, had a little sense, but no one really knew how hard it was to wake up in the morning and survive.

All the crap about “it will get better” or “you’ll look back years later sitting next to your loving husband and child and regret…” did nothing. I did not want it to get better, and I did not a husband or a child or a future or happiness. I just want it all to end.

I had a really close friend who I really enjoyed talking to, and we grew close because it was easy to talk to him, and he made me laugh a lot. There was a time where the darkness in me and around me was just too much to handle, and I started sharing a little about what was happening, telling him that I don’t really feel like talking right now or telling him bits and pieces of my suffering. We suddenly stopped talking, and months went by, and I missed him. I texted him once and asked him what happened between us, to which he replied, “you got too depressing for me.”

Since then, I vowed that not only will I not share my sufferings, but also never show them. I felt ashamed of my sadness, something that makes me unwanted and drives people away from me, and I never wanted that. I thought that it would be easier to let it kill me in silence than let it kill me out loud.

But that was not true. I was literally dying, and I could not tell anyone. The pain was unendurable, especially for a 16 years old, there was nothing that made it go away, and all I could do was sit with no lights and cry until my throat hearts. A year before, at 15, I chose to recluse myself from everything and everyone, leaving myself with only two friends and the a growing heavy upon my shoulders.

Years later, and as I volunteered with Embrace and learned so much about mental health, I realized that the single most important thing in recovery is acknowledging feelings and sharing them. There is a whole other world in sharing, and I cannot stress enough how much this can help in recovery. Sometimes sharing fears and feelings in a safe place with incredible support is all the therapy we need to prosper and get out of the bleak abyss.

But how are we going to share if feelings are labeled and judged upon? How are we to share if feelings are considered an opposite to masculinity and femininity is equivalent to the concept of a drama queen?

We need to normalize feelings, to support those who want to share yet feel obliged to crack a joke after being too emotional or talk about personal mental health issues with a smirk, laughing nervously, and looking all around in fear that someone might be laughing.

Please encourage people when they try to tell you about a certain bad mood or a mental disorder, do not shrug them or call them any shameful name, whether it’s a guy or a gal, they deserve a safe environment where they are comfortable enough to vent and put aside a little of the heavyweight they are probably carrying.

When you dismiss people’s troubles and undermine what they are feeling, you contribute to feeding the monster within them, which will reflect on their personalities and behaviors and contribute to their bad life decisions and the already tolling society.

Let us normalize sadness in public; if anyone approached us saying that they are sad, let us make sure they are heard, and they are loved, and that even though we may not help in any way, we acknowledge their feelings and are there for them. A healthy society starts with mental health, and if therapy is too stigmatized or overprized, we need to start to create internal safety and cheaper places for recovery.

No one deserves to suffer in silence; no one deserves to be lonely while the millions of conflicting shards of pain stab his or her heart at night.

If you’re not comfortable talking to a close person, talk to a stranger. Embrace’s helpline is 1564, and I promise you, they will help. Please don’t give up on yourself, not yet, at least. I love you, and even though you may think no one loves you, I promise you somebody does, and somebody will, because you are beautiful and because you deserve to be loved.

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Tonight is just like any other night

Just like any other night – It’s 4 am. I’m struggling to remember, a few months ago, where all of this was gone, when I woke up on a cold December morning and I remembered that it had been so long that I didn’t have morning anxiety, that for the first time in over 5 years, the dawn anxiety attacks were gone.

And here I am now, clutching what’s left of serenity, with agonizing pain in my heart and an inflicting lump in my throat, here I am awake and thinking of all the horrid in life. Here I am at 4 am, wishing that the sun never comes, that I never have to wake up again.

I’m sorry. Every time I am back in a slum, I feel like the weakest creature on earth, like I have failed you and everything around me. It’s similar to the feeling of when I eat too much, and all I’m left with is guilt and shame and self-hatred.

I was so happy about this blog a few months back when it was a happy and content place. I listened to songs that I felt, and I found safety within; I got out of the house willingly, and seeing people was so idyllic. Now it’s all dark and depressive, and I am listening to It’s Over by The Smiths, and I have 14 unfinished posts in my draft, and I’m sorry that you have to read this.

And, my dear God, summer is blooming, which means all this will worsen and get uglier. And I’m terrified.

I’m sorry that I’m not what you expected; I’m sorry that I can’t be sane enough to be a normal friend or person. It’s just, I am trying so, so, hard to get out of this nightmare, of this rollercoaster, I’m trying so hard to be a better person for myself and you, but the pain in my heart still wakes me up at 4 am and tells me there is no happiness, that I don’t deserve happiness because I am what is wrong in the world and yet, I do not deserve to die.

I wish I can be better; I wish I can have nicer words and a nicer feeling, I wish I can write the way I wrote before, I wish it can get better, and I’m not awake at 4 am thinking of all the ways I could numb the pain inside me. I wish I can be better for you.

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Be kind

Be kind please. You never know, you really never know.

Be kind to those you love in general and to those you hate in specific. Be kind to strangers, to grumpy taxi drivers, to migrant domestic workers, to people you come across, and you never know what is going with their lives or their heads.

You never know, and because you never know, please be kind. Be kind to your nice friend who is always laughing, be kind to your colleagues who do not talk to you, and sometimes not make eye contact.

Because you never know. You never know which one’s which; you never know which one is arrogant and which one is too shy to look at you in the eye. You never know who is thinking of going home and swallowing the hidden pills in an unworn brown jacket.

You never know what the kid who never participates in class-virtually-must be feeling or the kid in class who always asks questions and takes notes. You never know which one of your colleagues are listening to Asleep by The Smiths at work and searching for ways to numb the pain.

Be kind because it is easier than being guilty. Smile at people and tell them they look nice, compliment their choice of music and notice the little things, tell your friends you love them, and notice the dark circles under the eyes. You never know who spent their night crying; you never know.

Be kind because loving someone is so rewarding. There is so much we can give if only we treated others with unreciprocated kindness; it never gets old to see someone smiling because of you.

Be kind because we are all carrying sadness that we cannot bear. Be kind because the pain crippling in your guts might be worse in somebody else’s guts. Be kind because all of us thought of multiple ways to death, because many of us contemplated suicide every now and then, because some of us tried to kill ourselves but could not find the strength and bravery.

Be kind, I beg you. The world is horrendous on its own without snarky comments and cold faces. Be kind because it is so worth loving someone too much, enough for them to stay. “I stay alive because you are kind to me.”

Sing me to sleep
Sing me to sleep
I’m tired and I
I want to go to bed
Sing me to sleep
Sing me to sleep
And then leave me alone
Don’t try to wake me in the morning
‘Cause I will be gone
Don’t feel bad for me
I want you to know
Deep in the cell of my heart
I will feel so glad to go
Sing me to sleep
Sing me to sleep
I don’t want to wake up on my own anymore
Sing to me
Sing to me
I don’t want to wake up on my own anymore
Don’t feel bad for me
I want you to know
Deep in the cell of my heart
I really want to go
There is another world
There is a better world
Well, there must be
Well, there must be
Well, there must be
Well, there must be
Bye

The Smiths

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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.