Category: Mental Health & Whatnot

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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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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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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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Angry;(adj) feeling or showing strong annoyance, displeasure, or hostility

All my life, I’ve been trying to avoid lashing out at people that sometimes I don’t know how to lash out anymore. My tantrums aren’t many, and rarely do I fight with anyone. It’s just that if we fought or if I got angry and said all the things I might or might not mean, it will probably hurt me more than it will hurt you, so I avoid it altogether.

I’ve become immune to offense and criticism; both don’t affect me. I never know when I’m offended, and when someone in front of me is angry, I think I’m pretty good at absorbing the anger.

I’ve built a quite thick facade and normally do not show my anger unless it’s at home or with my family, and even that is not as occasional, but I have times when I’m upset, and my mum is just there, and I lash out.

Then I feel bad and apologize or continue to feel bad until I see my therapist, and he tells me that lashing out and being mean sometimes does not make me a bad person. Still, it hurts me more than it should.

Today, I was about to get into a really bad fight. I was mad like I was never before; the anger that makes you cry or murderous. It was just too much; the scene I was in was hurtful; I felt like exactly what happened and how it happened is the reason for my trust issues and why I’m so messed up. I was furious at the irrelevant situation I was put in; I don’t deserve to be here, I don’t deserve to feel all of this.

And then I froze. I detached myself from everything going on around me, I left the French fries I was making half cooked, I wiped off my tears, and I’ve been lying on my bed for four hours, unable to talk.

I can feel a little fire in my chest, and a few tears still burning to come out, but I’m frozen. I can’t eat, I can’t move, I can’t talk. I’m stuck and I don’t know how to proceed.

I’ve had my silences before, but this scene’s new to me, and I’m not sure it’ll stick with me. I think it hurts less because I’m not hurting anyone but myself, which is always a bonus. But I do hope I get rid of my anger before it gets rid of me.

I’m looking forward to tomorrow because I will see people who make me laugh and happy.

I like laughing and being happy. I do.

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It’s 5:30a.m

And of course, I’m wide awake; nauseous with a stomach ache, my eyes weirdly itching, my body too exhausted, and I’m crying.

It is what it is, I guess. I can’t fight the anxiety; no matter how much I try to convince myself that this big thing is going to be okay, and even if it wasn’t okay, it’ll pass,

I’m still crying.

Even writing this, I’m finding it too hard to write and express myself with the right words because there is none, right words, I mean. I’m hand tight and scared of what will or might happen in a few hours. Am I going to embarrass myself in front of all these important people? Am I going to say the right words then? Am I going to know what to do and where to go? Will they be mean to me? Will they understand and lead me to safety?

Safety, please come back. I need you right now to protect me from the evilness of the unknown; I need you to reinforce the feeling of nonchalant in my system. My usual, “and then what?”

That’s my favorite grounding exercise.

I’ll be too shy to talk. And then what?

They’ll think I’m an amateur. And then what?

I won’t leave a good impression. And then what?

I will not do the right things. And then what?

I will feel anxious during. And then what?

And then it’ll pass. It won’t last forever. It’s only an hour and a half out of millions of hours I’ll live. It will be forgotten; I’ll be the only one to remember; it will only be as big in my head; they won’t think I am this bad. My anxiety intensifies my failure and turns them into something much worse than they really are.

It will pass. And it will be okay. but why can’t it pass faster

I will be supported. I will do good. I will make a good impression.

I will be supported. I will do good. I will make a good impression.

But for now, I need go back to sleep.

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It’s been a long day at work

https://www.huffpost.com/?err=404&err_url=https%3A%2F%2Fbrb.yahoo.net%3A443%2Fwww.huffpost.com%2Fdesktop%2Fentry%2Faudrey-hepburn-style_n_3780087

Disclaimer: this was written the very first few weeks at a new job. My opinions have changed, and my anxiety has lessened.

It’s been a very long day at work. The clock says 2:20 pm, but my brain and anxiety say 2 am. I still have 2 hours and 40 minutes to finish the day, and I can almost kill myself.

I finished all my work literally before 12 pm, and I have been reading and killing time ever since. What part of “don’t give someone a job if you don’t have any tasks to give to them” do employers don’t understand? It’s appalling to me.

I have my own office for COVID-19 reasons, which means I have been isolated from everyone else since I first started working, and it has been awful. Sometimes I am happy that I am alone, and sometimes I am sad that I am alive.

And the HR? She’s not helping either. “You’re allowed  to walk, we don’t prohibit anyone from walking.” She keeps telling me every day or two. If I was brave enough, I would have told her that, one, I have my one-hour awful rule that my brain has created to protect me: if I do not move for 30mins or one hour, I will not be allowed to move from my chair at all.

Two, I am moving, I am moving and communicating as much as I can, but you’re not seeing that, and it’s not my fault. I don’t have to ask for your permission to move, and I do not need you to tell me when to move or if I need to move, okay? If you think that’s your move as HR to break the anxiety and shyness of new employees, then I can guarantee you’re failing big time.

God, why do people keep doing that. I mean why? They don’t take into account that someone might be suffering mentally and cannot do normal stuff like walk around the office? I mean sure, the first while at my previous work was hard, but they never made me as uncomfortable, and they never asked me to move from my chair, as if I could.

It’s now 2:57 pm. There are still 2 hours and 3 minutes until I am free. Yes, free. Because I am most uncomfortable.

It’s now 3:34 pm. An hour and a half until I am free. God.

Disclaimer (2): I now walk more. Proud?

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Anxiety, it’s painful I guess.

https://decider.com/2018/12/11/audrey-hepburn-series-young-pope-team/

Anxiety.

What a passive-aggressive feeling that is. I’ve been trying to make up words to describe anxiety, or even just talk about it in general, but even that I am scared of.

I am scared of anxiety, hell, I am terrified of it.

Ask me about anything, and I can describe it. Depression? It’s a crippling crumbling wall in my chest saying; “I think the pain will last forever.”

But anxiety? No. The idea that I am actually trying to write about it is bringing tears to my eyes. A monster that keeps stepping on my head, and everything in me. Anxiety? It is a dagger dipped in every negative feeling in the world that stabs my heart every second of every day.

There is no distraction. There is no escape. Anxious at work? Wait until you get home and get to reminisce on the emptiness. Want to go out with friends? Awesome, the humiliation and the failure begin. Being alone? What a lovely opportunity to let me burn your flesh alive.

It is more than a feeling of “I’m not good enough” or “people are judging me” or “there is only darkness in the world.” It is more than overthinking and stressing; it is more than fear itself (even though the closest thing to anxiety is fear).

I cannot even talk about it to my therapist. I feel so mundane by only saying that word; “anxiety” as if it mocks me. “Are you snitching on me? You think that’ll help you? You think he cares? You think he believes you? You think you can ever describe the way I make you feel?”

“I can make your legs tremble with weakness, and your morning bleak with vomit, and your nights drown in tears. I can make your dreams a living hell, and your days an abyss. I can make you not only fear of tomorrow but also fear of yesterday, of today, of right damn now. Because you, Nour, is a beast. You, Nour, do not deserve to live. You, Nour, when everyone is starving and everything is breaking, are most ungrateful. Because you, Nour, are selfish and ugly and inhumane”.

I’ll admit, the monster is not always as awakened. But lately, it’s been kicking my guts at least twice a week, sometimes even five days in a row. Am I scared? No, being just ‘scared’ is a complete underestimation of the fire it makes me feel. I am losing my head from the unsafety of all of this, I am terrified of leaving this chair right now, at this moment, I am afraid to breathe.

Anxiety cannot be God-made, it simply cannot. He cannot have created something so evil. It can make the smartest feel stupid, the richest feel poorest, the most athletic feel crippled, the strongest feel weakest.

Sometimes the monster allows me to show it to my therapist, and it is that moment that I feel grateful. My therapist helps a lot, but I laugh when he tells me; “remember, Nour, it is all in your head.”

I know that. You don’t see me holding anxiety’s hands, do you? I obviously know that it is only in my head and that most of it is not real, but knowing is different that feeling. I wish I can stop myself from feeling.

I wish I could shut it all out.
Everything.
All of it.