An explanation (?)

An explanation was written in September, before my leave.

Not an explanation actually. I just feel like I need to write this down, to have whatever I am thinking of outside me and not just inside my mind.

I have so many things flying through my mind, but none seem to make sense if I write them down. I guess what I am trying to do here is to justify myself and explain to you why I am acting whatever way I am, that is, if you even noticed at all, that is, if it is not only just in my head.

For those of you who might have noticed, I am distanced, and I might be acting defensively, a childish behavior, a mean attitude, in arrogance. If that is how you see me, then I am sorry; I did not mean to act like this or make you feel this way. It just changes are coming, and I am scared.

See, I have a coping mechanism to deal with all the bad things thrown our way. And I’m not saying I am any special, that I suffer more than you do; I am not special, at all.

I just have some problem that I am working on extensively in therapy, and that is I feel responsible for the pain of everyone.

I am responsible for poverty, unemployment, the crumpling education system, the legal injustice of women, the homeless, the orphans, the sick, the elderly. I am responsible for my mum’s exhaustion, my dad’s despair, my sisters’ pain. I am responsible for my friends not being happy enough, not reaching what they want to do. I am responsible for not doing everything perfectly at work, for all the mistakes that have been made by me and by everyone else that I have nothing to do with.

And this creates a lot of scenarios. I am responsible for unemployment, and I do not deserve to work. I am responsible for poverty, and I do not deserve to have money. I am responsible for the orphans and I do not deserve to have parents.

I am responsible for my friends’ problems because I was not there to solve them, I am responsible for my sister’s pain because I do not spend enough time with her, I am responsible for my mum being angry because I do not see her a lot. It is my responsibility, it is all my fault.

I am responsible for all of that, and the more painful responsibility I carry, the more tired I become. I am working on myself through, I promise, and I am getting better. But it takes time to take all that burden off my shoulders. It will take me some time, and I will eventually be guilt-free, and get rid of all the bizarre things that I have no control over whatsoever.

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.

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.

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.

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.