I miss you

I miss you, and you aren’t exactly a person or even a place; I miss the feeling of wholesomeness that I felt around these certain people in this certain place at this certain time. I miss feeling alive on the deadliest days and in times where the county is falling to pieces and my community is starving for air; I miss the moments where I felt like I had it all.

I miss you for what I was when I was around you. I miss you for what you did to me without doing anything, for all the endless nights of singing our hearts out in the car, and for the mornings where you smiled at me, and it made me feel like the fire around me, it is worth living in.

Even the pain that lingered herein felt better than the delicious coffee I am drinking right now and the void I am feeling.

It was simple, candlelights and a lot to say, and the void that was slowly taking over was creeping away with the wolves of the full moon.

Right now, it’s content; it is okay. I am drinking cold coffee, which isn’t usually my scene, and I have been listening to System Of A Down more than usual, and I am reading books(!). I had wonderful conversations, and I ate tabbouleh today for lunch; and I’m learning new things at work and taking more responsibilities, and I am feeling dead.

“I wonder if I’ll always feel weak when I go to the places that we used to be”

Was it all in my head? It seemed like I was floating. I lost the adrenaline rush, the excitement to be alive. I’m not doing bad now, not at all, it just that I lost it, I lost the spark.

I was updating my calendar today and believe me, the past month I was running 28 hours a day, it was so loud and I think it’s only fair to feel this piercing silence right now. Here’s a look at July in comparison to August and September:

July:

August & September:

a dream

It’s fine; there are bigger problems in the world, whatever; I just wish my problem is big enough for this world, as much as my feelings are.

Exciting things ahead, we’ll talk more. <3

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.

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.)

I wish people can stop hurting us

I wish it gets easier over time, losing people. I wish the pain in our chest and the fear of emptiness fade away the more people leave; I wish we could shut off the feeling of getting close, of getting attached to something we know is so mortal, yet feels so good.

Maybe if we keep distance, despite the melancholy of loneliness, maybe then it doesn’t have to hurt so bad. Maybe if people stop hurling around our lives, breaking the walls we built in between, knocking down our defenses, maybe then it doesn’t hurt so bad to watch them walk away.

It happens, it always does, but this time it is not fair. I’ve loved, and I’ve lost, but it’s been so long since I’ve let someone in, and I just realized that. I had people that I have loved a lot, and when they left, I felt nothing, and I thought I was just too occupied or too busy to feel the loss, but that turned out not to be true.

Now, it feels different, my heart is aching, and I cannot eat, and I have tears in my eyes, but I cannot cry because I have people around me, and I would hate for them to know.

I haven’t really had the best week, and I have been emotional since Monday, even crying in public. Right now, it feels as if there is no safety anymore, as if I’ve lost not one, not two, but five of whom should have always been here. They should have stayed.

It doesn’t seem right, and I know it won’t feel like this forever. I know it will get better; next week and the week after, I will numb the pain of the abyss in my chess by avoiding places and music and the thought of you. The next month, it will get better, I will be colder, and the bleak will become part of me. The month after, it will be okay, and I will search for new reasons to live. It passes; everything does.

Even if we don’t want it to.

I’m accustomed to the pattern, I know how it goes, and I’m very aware of the process, but the pain of loss in the very beginning is still as severe as ever, as burning as a fresh and open wound. I wish this in particular; I wish we could sleep it away; I can’t with the pain.

As always, in times of sadness, I find myself yearning for my 16-years-old-nour-playlists. Here’s what I’m currently listening to while writing:

Also, apologies, I know this blog always has its way to get depressing, even if I don’t want it to. I’m not a sad person, I promise you, and it’s not that I live in denial, but even medically, I’m not diagnosed with depression or any of the sort, I just happen to like writing about suppressed feelings, things I cannot talk about to others, and they happen to be close to sad, so apologies.

I can hear crickets chirp chirping in here

Chirp chirp chirp.

Well, hi? It’s been more than two months *gulp*, and I have no justification. I’ve relapsed a bit the past two months and had a lot of serene moments and incredible getaways, and I found love like I have never found before, and I unconsciously chose to stop writing in here, and I don’t know how to come back.

I say that I have been over my head with work, and my personal life was too loud to silence it here, and it has just been so “aaahh” with everything, but I know if I wanted to, I would have.

I’m not proud of this, believe me. In 23 days, this baby will turn one year, and I haven’t reached 100 posts yet, and I have 14 unfinished posts saved as drafts, so that’s quite disappointing. Nour, I am disappointed.

It’s just, the idea that I have 14 unfinished posts is a burden because that means unfinished work, and I. can’t. with. unfinished. work. Unfinished work sounds like a lack of responsibility, and it puts more pressure on me.

When will I stop fighting with myself over things like this? I set high expectations for myself, unrealistic responsibilities, self-pressure myself to do the most absurd tasks, and then dramatically break down in puddles of tears and self-loathe when I don’t meet any of them. Fun, ain’t it?

Well, if anything, I am doing well. I am healthy again, I have lost the extra weight ;), I’m eating well and walking more, Diane has been here for a month and a half, and it’s been quite busy in the lands of not-knowing-what-I-am-not-knowing-what-to-do. I am taking leaves, more than I feel I need, and I have been prioritizing myself to an extinct where people are fighting me for “not caring enough.”

I’m dealing with new stressors and new problems that I still do not know how to fathom or deal with without pulling somebody’s eye out, crying for five days straight, or shopping until my bank account drops. And I must add, I have been eating delicious food the past week, so so good.

I plan on reaching 100 posts before nourslittleuniverse’s birthday, so bear with me with *gulps loudly* spam of nonsense, I hope. I have A LOT to share with you, but not sure how or where to start.

Let’s meet again tomorrow, shall we?

I burn everything I touch

I do, I do burn everything I touch. I’ve wanted to write you for a while; I have so much to say to you and so little to act upon. You’ve been making me smile to myself; you’ve been making me so happy; I even dreamt of you once. An innocent dream where you held my hand secretly, stroked it gently, and it felt so right. I didn’t know how I felt about you until you held my hand in my dream, and I woke up the second day feeling like the most beautiful person in the world.

And I’m pushing you away; I do that. I get close, and once I feel that you make me vulnerable, I step away, and I leave you there, making an effort on your own as I show you distaste and discomfort. And when you walk away, I die inside, because I just want you so close to me, but my unbearable trauma drives you away.

How can I do it? How can I ask you to stay close to me?

You’re sitting in front of me, and I’m thinking about you a lot, because you look so good and I can hear you laughing and because I miss you.

You tried to talk to me this morning, but I was too shy, and I ignored you. God, why did I do this? Why do I shun you even though the only thing I want is for you to stay with me for as long as there’s time on earth?

Maybe you think that I don’t like you, and it makes sense for you to think this way; I barely look your way even if you are standing right in front of me. It’s unbearable how much I want to spend time with you and how much I cannot even show you any glimpse of likingness.

My morning was beautiful because you were in it; it felt so good to hear you talk so effortlessly; it felt magical to make you laugh. I’ve been yearning to tell you all about my weekend hike and my plans for this weekend and listening to you telling me what you did and looking at me with those sparkling eyes that I thought only thought exist in books. But we didn’t.

And I’m wearing my new flowery top that makes me feel so pretty and I wanted you to see it. Did you see it? Did you think I looked pretty? I wore it just so you can see it, but I did not make any effort to come your way. I hope you saw it during t the sweet moments we had this morning.

Were you okay? I couldn’t know. I feel like I usually hear you talk more, and laugh more, but today you were quieter than usual. It agonizes me that you might have been not okay and I’m not your safe person to talk to. I’m so sorry.

I’m listening to a very romantic Arabic song, and it’s taking me to a whole different world, a majestic world where I am not afraid to show you how much I feel for you, a world you’re sitting beside me; I can feel your warmth and closeness and I can smell you, and it makes me sad because it’s probably the only time you’ll be as close to me if I keep pushing you away the way I do now.

I wish I can break free from self-destruction; I wish I can let loose and let you know that I really appreciate your existence in my life, and I want you to stay.

I need you to stay. You’re the healthiest crush I’ve ever had, and it would be a shame if I drove you away because I’m too scared to be close. I’m not saying you’re the one for me; I’m just saying I want to go through this with you.

I’m currently looking at you because you don’t see me, and you look flawless. Your muscles are showing as you lean forward, and your smile glows as you probably tell one of your smart jokes. You look gorgeous my love. You’re so pretty; I don’t think you know how pretty you are.

I promise I will make a tremendous effort to keep you near; I will not lose you. I will be your favorite person soon, and we will be so close to each other that you will miss me if we’re ever apart for more than a day. I will keep you near, and I mean it. I will keep you alive in every moment and every memory, I will keep you alive in me. I’ve set my mind on you, you’re my new goal, and I always get my way.

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.

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.

Palestine, my dearly beloved

Palestine, you’ve possessed me in every way possible. I have always been attached to you, your cause, your people, your suffering, but lately, I have grown more attached to an instinct where I weep for your children, and I feel a personal responsibility to fill my day with you; new of you, photos of you, videos, books, and writings.

Palestine, I am spending my days thinking of you, reading about you, following your news on social media. I have grown so attached to the point that hours would pass, and I would do nothing but research you and track your steps, your deaths, your triumph.

Yesterday was my first day out of the house since last week. Last week, during Eid, you were the spoiled child of my holiday. I dressed you up in the prettiest keffiyeh, and I held your hand close to my heart all week long, I talked about you with my aunts and cousins, and I listened to the music that glorifies you.

I watched over your lands, and I looked at the sky, and I was so proud to share a sky so close to yours.

As I was in a village close to your borders, the sound of bombs hitting your children felt like it was hitting me, burning my skin; I wished it were me that is bombed and not you. I felt like hearing the sounds of bombs was one step closer to stand beside you, and even though it was burning my skin, I did not want to leave.

Yesterday, as I had to work from the office, and even though it was a lovely day at the office, I made sure to talk about you. And then I marched the streets of Beirut saluting you, and as I went out for shawarma after, I made sure you are present and alive in our talks and discussion. Palestine, despite all your deaths and pain, I tried to protect you and keep you warm and hopeful; I kept you alive within me.

And even though your shadow lingered around the whole day, I felt cold because I felt far from you. The whole time, I just wanted to go back home, go back to you; I felt so empty that I could not track your news, I felt so scared that something-worse-might happen to you and I’m not there.

Palestine, you have haunted me. With your bravery and resistance amid the most horrifying casualties and rubbles, you are living in me stronger than ever. I give my all to you, body and soul, and I hope to be part of the power that will liberate you. Maybe that way I can be free. I hope you set me free one day.

“Mum, please don’t leave me alone.”

I cannot stop watching the video of the guy pleading for help under the wreckage as he hears his mum heavily breathe, clutching for air, and begs her not to leave him. “Mum, Mum, Mum,” he keeps saying, begging her to stay alive.

Ya Allah, how can we move on with our lives after this? How am I expected to normally go back to my life as children lose their mothers and brothers lose their sisters? How can we stop crying and live in a world a few kilometers away from destruction and genocide?

The mother and son were rescued from under the debris, both alive and doing well, but the father didn’t make it. Yet, some are not as lucky, and the son might not remain as lucky as death lingers by in every corner of Gaza, and even if they are okay today, they may die tomorrow.

How can we move past this? I don’t feel like I can breathe. My days are spent listening to Palestinian-resistance songs and reading about Palestine, watching videos of the massacres and the previous wars, and I feel distraught, haunted, hand tight.

I want to help; I need to help. My tears won’t save the children from the fallen building, but I need to do something, anything. I need to be somewhere, anywhere but here.

When the 2006 war ended, I was almost nine years old, and I cried every day because I was too scared to lose my mum. I had a friend at school that lost her mum and siblings in the war, and the idea that that could’ve been me killed me.

For months, I cried out of fear and agony, and I would not let mum leave the house without me. I lived through daily terror, and I did not even lose any of my relatives or friends, but the children of Gaza are not as lucky.

I remember once my friend with the dead mum asked me; “do you love to have your mum dead?” to which I misheard and thought she said: “do you live your mother to death?” and I said: of course! But then I understood her question and it left me in horror.

Here I am, in the comfort of my bed, with a high fever, because of the COVID-19 vaccine I was lucky to get. Here I am with a headache not because of the loud sounds of bombings and murder, but because of a luxury that protects me from sickness when the people of Palestine are not even protected from death. Here I am, with both of my parents alive and healthy, while a child is committing suicide in Gaza because he lost all his family.

I know it’s not common to remember events from when we were 3 years old, and I really do not remember anything from my early childhood, except for the recurring nightmares of Israel. I was 3 when the South was liberated, and I can still clearly remember when my dad would take us to Naqoura to see the land we so proudly belong to.

I still remember the feeling of being scared as my dad would get lost on the way back, and we would think we might end up in an Israel-occupied land.

I still remember the recurring dreams of being stuck in a field full of landmines, of Zionists invading my home and us hiding behind the door, of my mum being imprisoned for doing nothing.

As for the 2006 war, my sister and I suffered from PTSD for almost two years; major fear of darkness and being alone, waking up in the middle of the night crying and sleeping next to each other on one small bed, and the piercing anguish of losing my mum. My little cousin, who was 4 at the time, would sometimes sleep over at our place, and she would cry to sleep because she was so scared to close her eyes because she thought “they will come and take off her pupils.”

I don’t remember much from my childhood, but I remember the fear. I remember the trauma of waking up scared of losing a parent, or a sister, or a body part, for a crime we didn’t commit, for a reality we never asked for. They took away our innocence, our childhood, and are still taking away the childhood of Gaza; they are taking away the children of Gaza.

Ya Allah, is there an end to this pain?

Yet the poor fellows think they are safe! They think that the war is over! Only the dead have seen the end of war.