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A Thursday morning for a change

Happy Thursday, almost Friday! Hope you’ve had a wonderful week so far and not pulling your hair out because life is too melancholy to grasp. I hope you had a calm week, where all you had to stress over was waking early for school/university/work.

I know that this is a far stretch of hope, especially since it is final exams season and the full moon is on May 16, and I confidently can say that the May Full Moon takes a DRAMATIC toll on me. Known as the Flower Moon for coming in the frivolous season of the blossoming Spring, I prefer calling it the moon of shit.

Honestly, looking back at the past few years, the events preceding the May Moon have been the most dramatic, awful, life-changing, and horrific. And it’s not ENTIRELY my fault; really, it’s a mixed combination of me emotionally amplifying the silliest interactions and the universe hitting me with explosive Meteoroids. As a sane grownup, I should probably know how to deal with the universe’s surprises, but as me, I cannot deal with anything to save my life. I can only cry; is that valid?

I’m only really writing this because I am listening to good music, Laykoon by El Fer3i, and I’m kind of liking the daily post, making me feel less guilty for my 2022 heist. Knowing me, this enthusiasm ain’t going to last.

Also, embrace your congratulations, as I am almost finished with the longest transcript I ever had to write. I did the interview in January with this fantastic woman mediator who led the Women’s March between Chiah and Ain El Rimmeneh, two streets parallel to each other, divided by one common street and many sectarian conflicts. Speaking of the women’s march, she started crying, so of course, I started crying too because she is so inspiring. And when I was listening to the interview yesterday, I cried again. It is so iconic. I can either share the link to the transcript or the full story once published.

However, the interview was two hours long, and it almost gave me a heart attack to finish. I finally finished transcribing to Arabic yesterday, and today I am translating to English with a deadline for tomorrow. Fun.

What else? Well, I may have registered for a Master’s degree in a university called Academic University for Non-Violence & Human Rights, located in Beirut. The degree is Non-violent Communication and Media Skills, and I am really excited about it. The only problem is that, well, I am broke. I’m just hoping that the university is so peaceful that it is free. Lol.

Right now, we’re going down to a nearby cafe to celebrate my colleague’s birthday. He doesn’t like cakes or songs, so we just got him shoes and wrote him a cute note. Fun fact: he’s born on May 13, and it happens to be a Friday this year, AND three days before the full moon. Bless his heart.

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Shireen, to a beautiful journalist

Waking up to a tragedy, the coldblooded murder of the Al Jazeera senior journalist Shireen Abu Aqleh. Wearing a press helmet and vest, Shireen was shot dead by Israeli aggressors during her coverage of the Israeli antagonism in the West Bank, Palestine.

The killing of civilians, innocent people, and workers, is horrific to the core. The killing of journalists, photographers, and war reporters, is as ghastly as terrorist acts and the terror of unjust wars can get. A war journalist, someone who was not put in a warzone, or someone who did not find their lands under attack, yet they willingly chose to place themselves in warzones so they can cover reality and spread the word on crimes, to be shot dead is to kill humanity.

Shireen, wearing her helmet and vest, dedicated the past 15 years of her life and career to covering the Israeli aggression against Palestinians. Standing before the eyes of the devil, with her hair down and her lipstick applied perfectly, the journalist covered an Israeli raid on the Jenin refugee camp seconds before being hit by gunfire.

For the peace of your soul Shireen, we stand proud, in silence and despair, and we pray that you rest in power.

We pray that your voice remains loud and conscious, despite the silence left behind. We pray that the afterlife does you better, that your words never quiet, and that your resilience screams in ebony abysses. We pray that your death speaks louder than your life, that you poke the eye of the bear that is the international consciousness, the human rights never spoken of when affiliated to Palestine.

To Shireen, the woman, the journalist, and the icon. We take off our hats in celebration of your fight against occupation. Your message and career drive us to move forward with fighting for justice and assuring that reality never goes uncovered.

How courageous was she, I stand in awe. Studying journalism, I looked up to women fighters like her, dreaming of becoming as brave and strong. She paves the way to freedom of speech by showing the picture as is and freedom of land by fighting the illegal settlements with her media presence.

To women, and many more brave ones down, hoping to be one of them, until freedom and justice conquer our beloved Palestine.

“Only the dead are safe; only the dead have seen the end of war. The church has a poetical and melancholy prayer, that the souls of the faithful departed may rest in peace. But perhaps we may gloss the old superstition, and read into it the rational aspiration that all souls in other spheres, or in the world to come upon earth, might learn to live at peace with God and with things.”

George Santayana, Soliloquies in England and Later Soliloquies (1922)
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Do you ever feel stuck?

Stuck in the meaning that no matter what you do, you are still in the same place you don’t want to be. You throw tantrums, overthink absurdities, slack on work, procrastinate, binge eat, act different from what you really want, then writhe in shame the night(s) after.

It’s like, urgh. Why can’t it be easier? Why can’t I be more normal? I must grow up at someone point, no?

They always say in therapy that it gets worse before it gets better. As in, if you have a problem, it will become really hard, and you will suffer, and then it will be fixed.

But no one told us what or how much we would lose until we got better. Will people stay here after our internal storm? Or have we left too many scars to mend? Did we really leave an open window for them to escape us when needed and come back later? How much of the damage can we repair?

I trust the process; I trust the therapeutic approach that assures us that it gets worse before getting better. I need to trust it, to be honest, because if not, I really am going into a malicious tunnel, and I will definitely destroy myself and everyone around me. Hence, lol, no therapy is good, and I trust therapy.

It’s just that I am stuck in habits I want to get out of but are too rooted underneath. It’s exhausting because it’s a vicious cyclic dilemma that I do not want to be in, yet I find myself the queen of it.

I’m currently at work, with a cold espresso to my left, a dried bread to my front, 6 chocolate bars to my right, courtesy of my new cute colleague. And my water mug. As usual, I’m swamped with unending tasks, and as usual, I am seeking this blog for some entertainment.

I do not exactly fathom all that is happening, all that I am feeling, all that is coming. I do know one thing, I need a break from this, from myself, from the nonsense that is my world.

Today, I was validated at work; my new colleague recognized how much I work, noting that “I’ve set the bar really high” if I ever left. For someone that always feels like I am not doing enough, this had a certain sweet taste in my mouth. Thank you, dear person, for recognizing what I still suffer to admit.

I am currently freezing because the AC is so high, and I’m wearing somebody else’s jacket, and I need it to be a bit less cold because I almost cannot feel my fingers. I also slept at 2am yesterday, so the act of opening my eyelids is painful on its own.

What am I listening to? Nothing special, really. If anything, I need song suggestions if you have some. Help your girl out; maybe music would distract me from the mess I am making.

I need to go back to work. Talk later. Soon. x

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Memories of you – to you

My first Memories of You* post will be dedicated to you because you are so beautiful, I must admit it. I listen to this song you have given me, and I am enchanted by her voice and the idea that you listen to it too, you, the safest to my soul and closest to my heart. You, the one who stayed through all the trauma and tears and sicknesses.

You saw me for who I am, at my worst, at my lowest, my most selfish, my greediest, my most insecure, and you stayed.

If I had to talk about one moment, I would write about that one night in October 2020. We were in a car driving back from Beqaa. We were in a car with around six other people, and we were talking, and at some point amidst our discussion, I started crying because my unsafety was triggered. I felt embarrassed. I was with what I thought was an amazing group of friends, like-minded, funny, and wise, and here I was crying because of stupidity and unresolved childish issues.

You were so warm, looking at me with those angelic eyes and trying to make me feel better with your comforting words. You talked me back to reality, smiled at me, and dedicated the whole ride to ensuring I felt better. That is when we became close; I think, in a way, you developed a feeling of protectiveness over me. And I liked it.

A month after, you gifted me a jar of small letters you had written for me to read, one every day for the coming month or two. Some notes were songs, words of motivation, memories, jokes, outing invitations, and compliments. The last letter I opened was:

“18/10/2020, 8:14pm, you were close to me.”

When I opened the letter, I did not understand it at first. I went back to my photos to see what happened on October 18, 2020, and I found that it was the day I cried in the car. You remembered everything, the time, the date, and then you felt close to me.

We were already very close then, but the letter touched my heart to a point it ached. For someone to remember details, you yourself were too embarrassed to remember, and write it on paper, so it burns in our memories forever, that as one memory that you were at your most beautiful.

I always introduce you as an angel. I say: “all people are on the one hand, and you, an angel, are on the other hand.” You’ve been sunshine throughout the darkness, with your songs and laughs, philosophical rambles, and undying sassiness, and I am so grateful for you.

I love you a lot, more than you could ever imagine, more than I can understand. I pray never to lose you; I pray that you remain the still rock you have been for the past two years amid of field of dandelions. I pray that you stay close, despite my horridness, despite all that I put you through. I pray that you stay close.

I have countless memories of you that I would like to remember you by. I will probably write many other Memory of You excerpts about you. In due time.

*Memories of You is a series of excerpts archiving moments with different people who have touched my heart at a certain point in my life.
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Good morning to you all

Good morning beautiful people. Another week, another Monday:)

It’s 12:56 pm and I’m bored to my core. I have two large tasks to finish but I cannot seem to get either done. I’m at the new office and all I really want is to look outside the windows because, to be honest, the view is appealing. It’s not exactly a sea or mountain view, but our office is on the 13th floor and the view is the architecturally unsynchronized buildings of Beirut, then the mountains. To our right, there’s the Beirut river, which is funny to say because it is not exactly a river – more of a lengthy hole with almost dried and polluted water.

It’s a nice office, I like it. there isn’t exactly much privacy as it’s the modern open space, but I frankly do not mind, it means more social and I like that. It’s also pretty close to my house – only an 8 minutes drive, though it took me 40 minutes this morning to reach because I skipped the exit and drove all the way down to the Port. I also walked back home last Thursday because the weather was beautifully cold for May and it took me around an hour or so. I’m just hoping it actually is an 8 minutes drive for future endeavors.

I just ate a meat skewer sandwich and I feel more energized so I might as well go back to work and seize some concentration cells.

Eating my kaak el eid, I just booked myself a massage session for Thursday, and I am so excited. I just cannot wait until someone loosens my unbearable body knots. I need to loosen up, among other things.

What else? Well, my week is pretty jammed. From movie nights, to coffee talks, to organ recitals, to a massage, it’s a usual nour-busy week. I do intend on having my after-work schedule more me-time, meaning I DO want to read and go back to the gym, but maybe not the very next week after the Ramadan madness.

I’m currently listening to this chill remix of Shkoon, and I think I am kind of binge eating the kaak. I’ll just make myself a cup of coffee and get back to work, then therapy, then more work with friends after.

Mental health check: well, I could be more stable. My insecurities and attachment tantrums are at their peak lately, and my mixed feelings and exploitative behaviors will for sure come back at me, biting me in the butt. But let’s deal with that at a later time.

How about you? What have you been up to lately? Any exciting things coming your way? Any joys? Fears? I’m here, always, ready to talk, just one cup of coffee away.

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Song written by Bedroom

It’s 9:36pm, and I am in bed, with a coffee mug the size of a jug. It’s a Wednesday night, it’s May, no AC is on, quite chilly outside, I’m wearing black PJs, and I am listening to In My Head by Bedroom, and it has completely consumed me.

It’s one of those songs that takes me to a different era, a different time. It’s one of those songs that takes me back to when I was 16 years old, sitting on this same bed and thinking of God knows what – never actually believing that I would ever be as old as 24.

The guitar riffs, the depressing lyrics, the untold hope, I feel like I am 16 again, with short black hair and black nails, in a car, someone quietly driving, my head out of the window like a dog, feeling the mightiness of the world, air stroking my chapped lips and cheap red lipstick, blasting this song out loud.

It screams loss of control, and it grounds me. I’ve read the Youtube comments, and though I found many comments heartbreaking, I absolutely love this one:

“I’m lying in my room, alone, listening to this, and I can’t help but feel lonely, so lonely, but the good kind of lonely.” 

This loneliness right now, the one that’s screaming with the song I am listening to, is not a bad kind of lonely. It’s the peaceful one, the one that lets me close my eyes and sit back and do nothing, the one that is letting me write instead of read or watch Seinfeld. I love this kind of lonely, and I absolutely adore this song.

I think I am still stuck at a memory that I have not lived. The 16 years old me in a car, driving through the night. I’ve had car cruises, just never felt the aching freedom, the recklessness, the quietness I lust for.

Maybe once I overcome this memory, the 16 years old me with idyll, maybe then I can live my age, maybe then I can stop craving a memory I do not have. 

But now, I am gleeful, I am hopeful, I am grateful. I have work tomorrow that I feel anxious of, I am waking up early to pay my fines, and I am thinking of a healthy meal for my lunch break tomorrow. I am dealing with grown up shit, responsibilities I will never be old enough to deal with, and my mind is with a 16 years old girl driving through an ebony night. And I am so grateful.

I played this song all day today in my car, at 5:15am as I drove back home from the airport, dropping off my best friend, I blasted it through the empty streets, with closed windows so I do not annoy the oldies and a careful speed in hopes lose my reckless reputation. If that is not grownup, I do not know what is.

Today was fun with lots of social. I went out with friends, then more friends, then my sisters. I drove through my Beirut, and cursed a couple of drivers. And ending today with some strangeness (for me, at least), I stalked Kendall Jenner on Instagram.

I kind of liked a caption she wrote about anxiety and social anxiety, mentioning that one of her grounding routines is writing down “all the things i’m looking forward to today this month.”

That’s an idea I like. I’m having one of those grateful moments where I am looking forward to what is coming. I am looking forward to summer adventures; to hikes, camping by the beach and by the river, laser tag, escape rooms, sightseeing, movie nights, cold dusks and dawns in the middle of the hot summer.

I am looking forward to seeing him soon, and my friends who will be visiting over the months. I am looking forward to good music, to cold coffee, to deep talks, to silly laughs. I am looking forward to moments that make my knees weak and my heart throb faster than usual, to mistakes I know will cost me a lot yet make me feel so alive in the moment. I am looking forward to driving, to not hitting my car, to better luck.

I am looking forward to wearing my new dresses, my new oversized pants, my new lipsticks, my anklets, my sandals. I am looking forward to singing and dancing, knowing that I am bad at both. I am looking forward to the beach and my new tattoo and new sinful experiences. 

I am looking forward to the blessings I so do not deserve, yet I receive, because my God is so generous and loving. I am looking forward to the beauty hidden within the days that are coming.

And I am grateful.

Isn’t it sacredly astounding, to feel all this after listening to one divine song?

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hey

Hey, It’s been a while. Sorry about that. It’s an apology to myself – for failing to stick to the happy place that is this blog, for letting things get in the way of my well-being, and for the therapeutic feeling I get writing here.

I will be back very soon, after the feeling of shame fades away. How have you been? I hope you’re okay. I hope you’re in your happy place right now, listening to your music, sending memes to your friends, drinking your coffee, or thinking of the delicious food you will be having for iftar. I hope you are happy; I hope you are well.

Personally, right now, I could be better. Don’t get me wrong; I have not been slothing in bed for the past four months; I’ve been busy, I promise. Too busy that I don’t know where to start. Many things have happened, none that I have been able to fathom yet. But that’s an existential crisis my therapy has to deal with.

I’ve had melancholy days, and I have had breathtaking ones. People have changed, settings have differed, and time had passed when I didn’t want it the most. I hope I can tell you about some, some time.

I haven’t cried for the past four months, except once, because of workload. Everybody who knows me knows that I cry, a lot. It’s the only way I know how to express myself in, and, well, I am a professional crybaby at best.

I did cry, though, yesterday night, a bit too much. It was kind of a relapse, and I only slept for two hours because my morning anxiety woke me up at 5 am, and I could not fall back asleep, and I cried a little more as the sun came and I am yet again faced with another day. It is what it is, I guess.

I will be coming back soon, and I promise I won’t only share the bad feelings. I know that I always break my promises, but maybe this time, I will not break them. Perhaps this time, I actually commit.

I want to start reading books again, I have wanted to for a while, but I haven’t really had the time. I will be reading books again, and to motivate myself to read more and write more, every time I learn a new word, I will dedicate a post to it. It will be a kind of “put this word in a sentence/paragraph” thing.

I’m currently working from home, but I will be going to office after my car is back from the insurance company. I have a political cafe at 6:30pm with partners and donors, and at 8:300pm work dinner at an Armenian restaurant, but my sleep deprivation, puffy eyes, aching heart, and anxiety sure are not the social fuel I expected to have today. I am so close to apologizing for the political cafe and dinner, and burying myself in bed until eternity. You have no idea how tempting this is and how weak I am, but I am giving myself the benefit of strength. (:

For now, thank you. Thank you, you beautiful creatures who have asked me when I will be back; thank you to all of you who told me that you read this trashy scrapbook and that you actually took a millisecond of your time to care enough tell me that I need to write again. I never realized how many people read this, friends and non-friends, before this hiatus. Thank you for sharing with me the closest thing to my heart, my love of words.

Best,

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When writing fails, I need to shut down

I may have started writing more than five times for the past two days, writing one sentence and choking up with tears, and closing the laptop. I tried to write in Arabic, to feel closer to you, even tolerated the idea of expressing my feelings in spoken Arabic, and I wrote incomplete sentences that I now cannot even read.

How are you? You seem distant, more than the miles between us; I just can’t feel you beside me anymore, the closeness you have always accustomed me to, even when you were not beside me, you were always here. You are not anymore; you don’t really want to. And I am trying so hard to understand.

You haven’t asked how I am doing, but I will tell you anyways.

Everything hurts. Every bone in me is aching. My heart, the most. My heart is clenching with every thought of you, and the worst part is that all I can think of is you. The shortness of breath, the walls closing down, the unbearable chest pain, they are all here. I even searched to make sure I am not hallucinating, why the heart out of all organs hurts when we are emotionally hurt, and if it actually does, and it does. The heart actually hurts when we are heartbroken.

Everything in me is hurting, and everything around me is hurting me. How can it not, when everything reminds me of you? I sit on my couch in my living room, and I am reminded of three weeks ago when you were seated exactly here and told our friend smiling: “since we are at her house, let us officially ask her father for her hand.” As a feminist in the making, I do not usually appreciate these jokes, but I hated my ugly heart for almost skipping a beat.

I listen to this song my best friend gave me, and I am reminded of your friend’s house as I sat on a hammock and listened to you tell me you were thinking of making a band with your guitarist friend.

Nights remind me of you because of all the sleepless nights we spent talking, laughing them away, me taking you for granted. Snoring reminds me of all the voice messages you sent me of your friend. “We should start an orchestra,” you joked. Pasta reminds me of you because it is probably the only food you know how to make. Music reminds me of you, of your voice singing, of you playing your musical instruments and closing your eyes as if you are actually feeling every word you sing. Coffee reminds me of you because if there is anything I am certain of, I, as well as anything in the world, could never compete with how much you love your black coffee. Sleep reminds me of you, you who sleeps at dawn and wakes up three days later, still feeling sleepy.

Insecurity reminds me of you, for all the arguments we had because you doubted how I felt towards you. Jealousy reminds me of you, for all the guys I told you about, and you would either stop replying to me or stay quiet and light a cigarette. Pretty girls remind me of you because of how frustrated I feel from the idea of you meeting any of them. Sweaters remind me of you because of how wholesome and warm yours look on you. My car reminds me of you because all I could hear is your voice singing along to the songs on the car radio. My friends remind me of you because you are a part of all of them, even the ones you don’t know, know of you.

Everything is, one way or another, reminding me of you, I have known you for three years, and you have been the most significant part of my life for over a year, despite me pushing otherwise most of that time. I have been reading back our chats the past two days, hoping to keep you alive in me as long as I can, and I cannot begin to explain how stupid and reckless I have been when all you have been so loving and sincere. I avoided you for days, replied hours after you’ve poured your heart out to me, ignored your sweet talk, refused to slow dance with you. I forgot so many important things you told me. I rejected you, not once, but twice.

I am sorry. I am so so so sorry. I’ve been wanting to tell you everything since summer; I wanted to explain myself and be as honest as I could ever be; I wanted to tell you all what I had left to say despite our friends fighting me not to. I wanted to be brave enough for you, but you refused to listen. I begged you to let me talk, but you were too blinded by your own perceptions that you would not allow me to say anything. And just like that, my very thin bravery was gone to the wind.

The most painful thing is that nine months have passed since you mustered the courage to tell me you were in love with me, nine long months that could easily make you fall out of love, and this is what kills me the most. That I am stuck here on a memory of you while you most probably outgrew me a long time ago.

I could feel it; I could feel how unimportant I am to you right now. I am no longer part of your routine, of your good morning texts, of your nightly talks, of your here-and-now thoughts. I pushed you away when all I wanted of you was to stay here, and now you are out there thinking of so many people that I am probably none of, and I am sitting here in my misery thinking of you.

I need to tell you everything. I need to; I need to. I am just not sure what will be most painful, though, to pour my heart out for you only for you to confirm my theory that you have long moved on, or to keep everything in me and live off theories and nonrealistic scenarios that only exist in my heart. I have never been rejected before, and I am not sure I can survive it now, but I would certainly prefer closure to uncertainty.

I know one thing, you gave me purpose.

This may be the last thing I will write for so long, whether to you or anybody, and it is ironic because my writings for you are literally the only posts that everybody knows who I am talking about, except you. Maybe one day, you will read these and understand on your own. Maybe soon enough, you will be mortified of the world I have built for us here that you never knew existed.

At this point, I just wish I could die. I do want to move on; I do not want to overcome all the wonderfulness you have given me; I do not want to imagine a tomorrow without you. I want to be stuck here, with all this and watch my life come to an end. The hardest part about you being gone is not that I do not get to see you or talk to you; it is that I do not get to feel you again.

And you gave me purpose.

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My mum cradled me to sleep yesterday

It was 9:00 pm, and I couldn’t breathe from all my crying, and my mum hugged me tight and cradled me to sleep. I had a panic attack, and I wanted to stop crying; I did (I do), but every time I closed my eyes, all I saw was you, heard your voice, smelled you, and as much as I tried to get you out of my head, you kept maliciously growing, like cancer.

I had a fever all night, and all my hallucinations were about you. My current fever is 38 celsius, and it hurts even to cry, but if only I could control the way I feel, I would have taught myself how to forget your name.

Every time I remember that I will never hear you sing along a song in my car, make you coffee, make fun of the way I talk, wake you up in the morning, stay up all night while you tell me about the most inane things, things that are only interesting when you tell them.

Every time I think of the fact that, out of all people, you left, taking away all my safety and all the security hung by a threat, I die a million times inside.

You promised you would always be here for me; you promised you promised. Is this your definition of being here for me? You were my definition of warmth, and I cannot believe I was this lucky to have you. Do you know those illustrations, where a girl is all covered with black and noise, and then someone holds her hand, and not only the noise and black disappear, the world is recolored with brighter light. You were that to me, and now you are gone, and I don’t know how to go on without you.

I’ll miss you forever. Your memories are unending, but I probably have four memories of you that struck the most, that make me want to pull the pain out of my hair. I will write them, with all the details burning inside my mind, so I keep you alive everywhere, so you keep feeding off from my happiness. I will write them down, so every time my mind even thinks of forgetting that way you felt, it is struck with the fact that all I am now is because of you.

Come back.