Bismillah ir Rahman ir Raheem
Assalam alaikum wr wb,
It's strange how easily all the pretenses, all the defences simply fall apart like bridges made of sticks and mud.
I'm in the midst of the worst depression I've had in a long time.
My parents as usual are hunkering down in their work. It's like my childhood all over again except now they have very little excuse. There is no university fees to pay.
I guess they must really hate my company to leave me alone here with my suicidal thoughts.
I want to tell Alan to go away as well. The man has become very pushy. I don't want his input in the first draft. It will just be confusing. If he needs rewrites thereafter, that's what I'm here for.
Haha. I just realised that for someone whose blog is called Faith is Peace, I am not at all peaceful.
Peace out and go with God,
Zed.
P.S. I'm such a b**** when I'm like this. I have not a nice word to say. I'm selfish but I hurt myself more than anyone could. I contradict myself - I tell them (my parents) I want them to stay with me, but I don't want them anywhere near me. They infuriate me. When they're around, I feel more alone than when they aren't. I would kill to make this go away. I would do anything. Anything.
Sunday, 31 May 2009
Monday, 18 May 2009
Proposal #1
Bismillah ir Rahman ir Raheem.
Assalam alaikum wr wb.
So I've had my first full-scale proposal recently. My second proposal altogether, but the first one that I spent a decent amount of time judging.
We met the family in the food court of Dubai Festival City. The young lady, my father's friend's niece was the sister-in-law of the guy I was proposed to. I sat next to her and tried to start a fairly normal conversation. It was hard. Very hard. She ultimately said, "I'm not going to beat around the bush anymore" and fixed me with a flinty stare. "Would you be willing to leave Dubai?" I said that I've lived outside and I've quite enjoyed it, so I see no issues in adapting to a new place. I would actually LOVE to leave Dubai, but I thought that information could wait for another convo. Then she asked me if I worked long hours. Bit blunt that, innit?
I said, no, normal timings, 9-6, like the rest of the planet. And that was the extent of her interrogation.
At first she seemed nice enough. She was quite cute and a little pregnant – there's something about being around children that softens me up like an onion in butter. I've always wanted an older sister. But then she turned cold and judgmental. I especially didn't like it when she said her family wondered if we were Muslim because of our rather unorthodox last name. And it ticked me off something proper when his brother took my father aside and spoke to him about me. When I'm standing right in front of him, ready to initiate a dialogue. What was the point of me being there? My parents could have simply carried a framed picture of me.
And oh, how my mother just drove me around the twist about my appearance. And she still does. She didn't really care before proposals started coming in about how "fair" I was; I used to spend hours in the heat of the afternoon working. But now she wants me to carry an umbrella every time I go out in the sun.
Oh and the gentleman himself. Heaven help me, I did not know God made men quite so despicable. And thank God, otherwise, I might have chosen lesbianism a long time ago.
He and I spent about 2 and a half hours in total chatting on MSN. I was going to an Islamic lecture in the evening, so I told him I wouldn't be free after 7. He asked quite abrasively, "what are you upto at that time??" My first reaction was, "None of your Goddamn business, bi-atch!" But I simply replied with the truth and asked, "What do you do after work?" He said, "I go to the gym if I'm in the mood." Okay and otherwise what does he do? He didn't have the foresight or the inclination to give me that information. I've already wasted some of the best years of my life with one lazy ignorant lump of excrement. Not again.
And well, a few days ago, in an act of unmitigated masochism, I chatted with him on MSN for two hours.
He began the conversation by showing absolutely no interest in my interests. I asked after his – which apparently was sport.
He asked, "So you're into books and movies?"
I said, "Yes, I am – very much." If he had questioned further, he'd have found out that I'm a producer as well as a consumer of those art-forms.
But he replied, "So you're no different from others." Other what, pray tell? "Other girls"
Way to make a girl feel special, dude.
The conversation wore on. For some reason, he interrogated me about segregation in schools here – I wish I knew why. The man thinks in mysterious ways.
I perked up a little when he mentioned he liked travel and adventure. I like travel too. He said that he had skydived before and that it was awesome. I waited for him to give me more details but honestly, I felt like I had been pulling teeth with this man all afternoon and I was tired. Plus, I was a little anxious that I was going to miss Asr so I wanted to wrap this up.
But here comes the kicker. He asked me to show him a picture of me without my headscarf.
Not politely either. Like someone yelling at a stripper.
"Oi. It's k when it's for a proposal."
Oi? Oi?? Is that how they talk to a woman where you come from? Not charming.
In a way, I'm happy because I now have more than concrete proof that this is not the right one. My parents wouldn't have been happy with simply a "gut feeling" – which I've learnt to trust this past year - so I'm glad.
But honestly, what a nightmare. Such a rude demanding critical jerk, I've never met in my life. Does he honestly think he's God's gift to women that he can get away with "Oi! Show us your hair!"?
I've been wondering lately why it is that I've always shot myself in the foot. Why I assume that I'm not going to get what I want and deserve? It's been true only a few times.
It's often wondrous how my mother can make me laugh and make me cry. During the pre-proposal debacle, I was somewhat apprehensive about talking to him on the phone. She screamed at me over the phone rubbing my inadequacies in my face. "You used to be an open friendly girl." I still am, woman, I just don't want to be anyone's monkey and smile and laugh all the time. I especially hate, HATE, HATE, HATE it when my dad says that I should smile in the mornings. No. I am not an ornament for anyone's pleasure. No!!
She even rubbed my ex in my face. "You go find one by yourself, " she yelled. "That fellow was a nitwit. He couldn't even speak proper English." Lord, I forgave him all of the sins in the world because I loved him or at least I told myself I did. When all I felt was an affection, an abiding affection which is nothing special. I have felt that way and will feel that way many times again for friends of varying closeness.
My parents don't follow the directives of Dr. G. They criticise me every chance they get and they don't encourage me or acknowledge any of my successes. So it falls to me to make myself feel good about certain things. It's a lonely road, but there doesn't seem to be any other options.
Wassalam and Fee Amanillah,
Zed
Assalam alaikum wr wb.
So I've had my first full-scale proposal recently. My second proposal altogether, but the first one that I spent a decent amount of time judging.
We met the family in the food court of Dubai Festival City. The young lady, my father's friend's niece was the sister-in-law of the guy I was proposed to. I sat next to her and tried to start a fairly normal conversation. It was hard. Very hard. She ultimately said, "I'm not going to beat around the bush anymore" and fixed me with a flinty stare. "Would you be willing to leave Dubai?" I said that I've lived outside and I've quite enjoyed it, so I see no issues in adapting to a new place. I would actually LOVE to leave Dubai, but I thought that information could wait for another convo. Then she asked me if I worked long hours. Bit blunt that, innit?
I said, no, normal timings, 9-6, like the rest of the planet. And that was the extent of her interrogation.
At first she seemed nice enough. She was quite cute and a little pregnant – there's something about being around children that softens me up like an onion in butter. I've always wanted an older sister. But then she turned cold and judgmental. I especially didn't like it when she said her family wondered if we were Muslim because of our rather unorthodox last name. And it ticked me off something proper when his brother took my father aside and spoke to him about me. When I'm standing right in front of him, ready to initiate a dialogue. What was the point of me being there? My parents could have simply carried a framed picture of me.
And oh, how my mother just drove me around the twist about my appearance. And she still does. She didn't really care before proposals started coming in about how "fair" I was; I used to spend hours in the heat of the afternoon working. But now she wants me to carry an umbrella every time I go out in the sun.
Oh and the gentleman himself. Heaven help me, I did not know God made men quite so despicable. And thank God, otherwise, I might have chosen lesbianism a long time ago.
He and I spent about 2 and a half hours in total chatting on MSN. I was going to an Islamic lecture in the evening, so I told him I wouldn't be free after 7. He asked quite abrasively, "what are you upto at that time??" My first reaction was, "None of your Goddamn business, bi-atch!" But I simply replied with the truth and asked, "What do you do after work?" He said, "I go to the gym if I'm in the mood." Okay and otherwise what does he do? He didn't have the foresight or the inclination to give me that information. I've already wasted some of the best years of my life with one lazy ignorant lump of excrement. Not again.
And well, a few days ago, in an act of unmitigated masochism, I chatted with him on MSN for two hours.
He began the conversation by showing absolutely no interest in my interests. I asked after his – which apparently was sport.
He asked, "So you're into books and movies?"
I said, "Yes, I am – very much." If he had questioned further, he'd have found out that I'm a producer as well as a consumer of those art-forms.
But he replied, "So you're no different from others." Other what, pray tell? "Other girls"
Way to make a girl feel special, dude.
The conversation wore on. For some reason, he interrogated me about segregation in schools here – I wish I knew why. The man thinks in mysterious ways.
I perked up a little when he mentioned he liked travel and adventure. I like travel too. He said that he had skydived before and that it was awesome. I waited for him to give me more details but honestly, I felt like I had been pulling teeth with this man all afternoon and I was tired. Plus, I was a little anxious that I was going to miss Asr so I wanted to wrap this up.
But here comes the kicker. He asked me to show him a picture of me without my headscarf.
Not politely either. Like someone yelling at a stripper.
"Oi. It's k when it's for a proposal."
Oi? Oi?? Is that how they talk to a woman where you come from? Not charming.
In a way, I'm happy because I now have more than concrete proof that this is not the right one. My parents wouldn't have been happy with simply a "gut feeling" – which I've learnt to trust this past year - so I'm glad.
But honestly, what a nightmare. Such a rude demanding critical jerk, I've never met in my life. Does he honestly think he's God's gift to women that he can get away with "Oi! Show us your hair!"?
I've been wondering lately why it is that I've always shot myself in the foot. Why I assume that I'm not going to get what I want and deserve? It's been true only a few times.
It's often wondrous how my mother can make me laugh and make me cry. During the pre-proposal debacle, I was somewhat apprehensive about talking to him on the phone. She screamed at me over the phone rubbing my inadequacies in my face. "You used to be an open friendly girl." I still am, woman, I just don't want to be anyone's monkey and smile and laugh all the time. I especially hate, HATE, HATE, HATE it when my dad says that I should smile in the mornings. No. I am not an ornament for anyone's pleasure. No!!
She even rubbed my ex in my face. "You go find one by yourself, " she yelled. "That fellow was a nitwit. He couldn't even speak proper English." Lord, I forgave him all of the sins in the world because I loved him or at least I told myself I did. When all I felt was an affection, an abiding affection which is nothing special. I have felt that way and will feel that way many times again for friends of varying closeness.
My parents don't follow the directives of Dr. G. They criticise me every chance they get and they don't encourage me or acknowledge any of my successes. So it falls to me to make myself feel good about certain things. It's a lonely road, but there doesn't seem to be any other options.
Wassalam and Fee Amanillah,
Zed
Saturday, 9 May 2009
Leap in, the net will appear.
Bismillah ir Rahman ir Raheem.
Assalam alaikum wr wb.
I'm so scared right now.
I'm writing this film with a friend of mine - let's call him Alan. In fact, we became friends so that we can work on this film.
This is everything I ever wanted and now I'm scared - I wish I could say s***less, but honestly, the anxiety is doing its magic on my digestive system so that's not entirely true.
Writing has become such a pain for me. It just doesn't give me any joy anymore. I'm fairly sure it's because of the anxiety and because me and Alan are working to a quite a tight deadline. We want to enter the film into the Dubai International Film Festival and the deadline for submissions is August 31st. Yeah. So no time for mucking around.
Using Don Roos' technique, so far I'm managing about an hour a day. Last week, I was struggling with my panic attack, I faltered. So that's about four days lost I think. I've picked it up again.
I think the trick is not beating myself up and just doing that hour everyday and congratulating myself for it. I have gone weeks and months without writing a word. Writing even a little everyday is a good thing.
Yesterday, my brother and mother told me that I should focus on one thing and not proliferate the way I am at the moment, trying to do comedy and write screenplays and make movies AND be a journalist.
I really do want to write comedy. That is certain Alhamdulillah. Yesterday at my comedy class, I laughed with real mirth for the first time in a long time. I want to share that laughter with other people. I want to give that laughter to other people.
Giving has been very hard lately.
"Leap in, the net will appear", Jason Mraz says and he seems to be doing great. I have leaped. I'm writing a comedy screenplay. I'm taking comedy classes. It could be a serious hobby while I make money and fashion a career in journalism which has more immediate rewards. It is still writing and still socially conscious.
Good God. But it looks like copywriting jobs are more plentiful and easy to get - especially since Alan works at an advertising agency and offered to help. He's a nice guy. I hope he doesn't lose that humility if he ever makes it big in Bollywood.
What can I do? What can I do?
I also have the feeling that Dubai is not my home anymore. One of the words for "home" in Arabic is "maskan", the root of which is sakeen (if I'm not mistaken), meaning tranquility and peace. Security. Comfort.
I've not felt these things in this city. I've not felt these things with my family. So I must leave. It's the only logical solution.
But I'm afraid that I'll take my rebellious body with me wherever I go and I'll never find my maskan.
Wassalam and Fee Amanillah,
Zed.
Assalam alaikum wr wb.
I'm so scared right now.
I'm writing this film with a friend of mine - let's call him Alan. In fact, we became friends so that we can work on this film.
This is everything I ever wanted and now I'm scared - I wish I could say s***less, but honestly, the anxiety is doing its magic on my digestive system so that's not entirely true.
Writing has become such a pain for me. It just doesn't give me any joy anymore. I'm fairly sure it's because of the anxiety and because me and Alan are working to a quite a tight deadline. We want to enter the film into the Dubai International Film Festival and the deadline for submissions is August 31st. Yeah. So no time for mucking around.
Using Don Roos' technique, so far I'm managing about an hour a day. Last week, I was struggling with my panic attack, I faltered. So that's about four days lost I think. I've picked it up again.
I think the trick is not beating myself up and just doing that hour everyday and congratulating myself for it. I have gone weeks and months without writing a word. Writing even a little everyday is a good thing.
Yesterday, my brother and mother told me that I should focus on one thing and not proliferate the way I am at the moment, trying to do comedy and write screenplays and make movies AND be a journalist.
I really do want to write comedy. That is certain Alhamdulillah. Yesterday at my comedy class, I laughed with real mirth for the first time in a long time. I want to share that laughter with other people. I want to give that laughter to other people.
Giving has been very hard lately.
"Leap in, the net will appear", Jason Mraz says and he seems to be doing great. I have leaped. I'm writing a comedy screenplay. I'm taking comedy classes. It could be a serious hobby while I make money and fashion a career in journalism which has more immediate rewards. It is still writing and still socially conscious.
Good God. But it looks like copywriting jobs are more plentiful and easy to get - especially since Alan works at an advertising agency and offered to help. He's a nice guy. I hope he doesn't lose that humility if he ever makes it big in Bollywood.
What can I do? What can I do?
I also have the feeling that Dubai is not my home anymore. One of the words for "home" in Arabic is "maskan", the root of which is sakeen (if I'm not mistaken), meaning tranquility and peace. Security. Comfort.
I've not felt these things in this city. I've not felt these things with my family. So I must leave. It's the only logical solution.
But I'm afraid that I'll take my rebellious body with me wherever I go and I'll never find my maskan.
Wassalam and Fee Amanillah,
Zed.
Wednesday, 6 May 2009
Relapse?
Bismillah-ir-Rahman-ir-Raheem
Assalam alaikum wr wb,
Well. It's here. My body is vibrating with the effects of it. My effing ribs are hurting. And don't even ask about my head. It feels like my brain has come unattached.
And oh the emotional diarrhoea. I just can't stop crying.
I've fought it with frantic activity, movies, fake laughter and just plain lies. But I can't keep my finger in the dam any longer and now it is all here and I'm struggling to keep my head above it.
I often wonder why it had to be me. Why I couldn't be normal and successful - everybody's definition of successful, that is - like my brother. He's got a nice job, a nice car and nice friends. He just came back from a holiday in Thailand. What else is there to want? He's now looking for the right girl to settle down with.
And I'm the one who's falling apart. I always wonder why it had to be me.
I'm trying really hard here to treat myself with some kindness.
My father is asking me to come with him to see the T20 match at Dubai Sports City. It probably be a blast cos the Sports City supposed to be pretty awesome. But I'm frightened that he'll yell at me again if I am less than exuberant. If I'm a little mournful or bad-tempered or snappy.
What the hell was I thinking? Getting into the job market again. In the middle of the recession. When the last job hunt damn near killed me. I was just getting better too. What kind of chosen person do I think I am when there are millions unemployed and I will somehow in the middle of a Goddamn global economic downturn find the job of my dreams? Explore my options, my butt. Not face reality, more likely.
God is trying to tell me something. Dunno what though. Not yet.
Wassalam and Vaya Con Dios,
Zed.
P.S. Goshdarn it, I'm not going back there. I'm not going back inside my shell. What can I do to get out of this? First, I need to get my mind off of it, so I will just NOT speak to my parents. I'm going to clean my room and keep my hands busy. Hopefully, Insha Allah (SWT) it will work.
Assalam alaikum wr wb,
Well. It's here. My body is vibrating with the effects of it. My effing ribs are hurting. And don't even ask about my head. It feels like my brain has come unattached.
And oh the emotional diarrhoea. I just can't stop crying.
I've fought it with frantic activity, movies, fake laughter and just plain lies. But I can't keep my finger in the dam any longer and now it is all here and I'm struggling to keep my head above it.
I often wonder why it had to be me. Why I couldn't be normal and successful - everybody's definition of successful, that is - like my brother. He's got a nice job, a nice car and nice friends. He just came back from a holiday in Thailand. What else is there to want? He's now looking for the right girl to settle down with.
And I'm the one who's falling apart. I always wonder why it had to be me.
I'm trying really hard here to treat myself with some kindness.
My father is asking me to come with him to see the T20 match at Dubai Sports City. It probably be a blast cos the Sports City supposed to be pretty awesome. But I'm frightened that he'll yell at me again if I am less than exuberant. If I'm a little mournful or bad-tempered or snappy.
What the hell was I thinking? Getting into the job market again. In the middle of the recession. When the last job hunt damn near killed me. I was just getting better too. What kind of chosen person do I think I am when there are millions unemployed and I will somehow in the middle of a Goddamn global economic downturn find the job of my dreams? Explore my options, my butt. Not face reality, more likely.
God is trying to tell me something. Dunno what though. Not yet.
Wassalam and Vaya Con Dios,
Zed.
P.S. Goshdarn it, I'm not going back there. I'm not going back inside my shell. What can I do to get out of this? First, I need to get my mind off of it, so I will just NOT speak to my parents. I'm going to clean my room and keep my hands busy. Hopefully, Insha Allah (SWT) it will work.
The Secret (the book), my parents and my voice.
Bismillah-ir-Rahman-ir-Raheem
Assalam alaikum wr wb.
I’m just going to talk, okay? You see, I’ve been worrying about overloading you with darkness and gloom and my generally lugubrious mournings, when really, I shouldn’t give a flying funt. So I’m just going to lay it all on the line, not going to worry about the rough edges and the tender spots. Because really, I need someone to talk to and you don’t usually talk back. Which is good, considering the crap that I’ve had to deal with lately.
It’s quite clear to me that even though I’m out of my abusive relationship, I have not as yet learned to self-reference.
My parents have quite cruelly thrown my anxious ramblings back at me lately. It’s weird how the people you love know you so well that they always know how to hurt you worst. It’s like you’ve given them a loaded gun and they use it on you.
I had something akin to another panic attack recently at a film networking event I attended with my dad. I didn’t have the chest pains or the loose bowels, thank God. That would have been painful. I just could not “network” like I intended – that “freeze” would descend on me and that “don’t move, you suck, don’t say a word, you’ll make a fool of yourself” track played in my mind.
My father as usual acted like I wasn’t in the room. I don’t know when I became a ghost in my own life. Nobody listens to a damn word I say. Not just my family – everyone.
Well, he did his thing. Jawing comes easily to him but not to me. Not any of his kids. Don’t know why. At least one of us should have got it.
Well, anyhoo, on the way home, I asked him, perhaps not as kindly as I should, to please let me get a word in edgewise and listen, please, when I speak.
He flew off the handle. Right off.
Basically he questioned my entering the film industry. He said, “Are you sure you want to do this? There doesn’t seem to be a lot of money in it.”
Money has never been any priority of mine. He said it a few weeks ago – I want to live a meaningful life and there’s nothing wrong with that. And now, he’s saying there is something wrong with that.
He basically ranted at me, saying that I will die poor and lonely and that I was killing them. The usual things. To be honest, I didn’t see the signs this time. I usually get into a bad mood. I snap at them, worse and worse, and then, they blow up and he says all of these things. It’s happened maybe twice or thrice before. This time, I didn’t snap at all. I didn’t feel very good about the evening, but I wasn’t in that bad a mood.
And well, this afternoon, I called my mom to rant about stuff. About my stupidity in leaving this job which is really not that bad an “in” to journalism, of letting my anxiety disorder get in the way of what I think I should be doing. About wanting to kill myself. Yeah. Those thoughts still happen. Life is a drag and nothing seems worth getting excited about. So what’s the point in living?
What I want to eventually do is edit a culture and arts magazine about Muslim culture and artists. I also want to write comedies and make movies with Muslim main characters. I don’t think I’ll ever make a lot of money or become famous (as if I would want that) doing that, since it’s a niche audience. A billion-strong niche audience but still.
But back then, I didn’t know what I wanted to do. Back then, I was too frightened to pick up the damn phone. For some reason, the phone frightens me especially. Dunno why.
And well, she yelled again. This time saying things like “I don’t know what religion you practise.” And “Everyone in the world will be dead if they thought like you.”
You see, I’m back where I started – the swirling obsessive thoughts that never go away. I’m back at the beginning. Job, life, film. Job, life, film. And death hanging like a big crackly cloud over all of it.
And now, I’m sitting here, waiting my dad to come pick me up to talk to a proposal’s brother. I don’t want to meet him. Proposals are awkward and silly and the rules are made by people who don’t know me and don’t care about me.
I wish I could just fall in love. I’ve wanted to fall in love since I was a little kid. Real, crazy, bone-shattering, heart-melting love. The Secret (which I’m listening to right now) says that the more you wish for something, the more the universe will grant your wishes.
Well, I’ve wanted to bump into a tall, dark, handsome stranger most of my life and when I finally did, he broke me into a million pieces. The universe has a sick sense of humor.
You wanna know what I think The Secret is? God. God has the power to change all situations in the blink of an eye, if He so wills.
This Islamic lecture I go to every Thursday hit the nail on the head: “If you’re in trouble for whatever reason, don’t call your mom. Don’t call your dad. Don’t call your girlfriend or boyfriend. Call on Allah (SWT). He has power over all things. It’s said over and over in the Qur’an for a reason – so that we never forget!”
But we always do. I know I have.
God, please change my situation. Give me a job that will give me joy. Give me joy, period. And if You have the time and You think it’s what’s right for me right now, please give me a man. A nice man. A man that I can love and who’ll love me too. Ameen.
Wassalam and Fee Amanillah,
Zed.
P.S. I don't think I made it clear what the point was. I don't think I'll tell my parents about my panic attacks or share my fears - in their rawest forms - with them. I don't think they can handle it. They're growing old and they're passing the mantle of care-taker to us. I must be fair and kind to them and really, from the looks of it, they can't handle it. I will go to God. I know that He'll do something.
Assalam alaikum wr wb.
I’m just going to talk, okay? You see, I’ve been worrying about overloading you with darkness and gloom and my generally lugubrious mournings, when really, I shouldn’t give a flying funt. So I’m just going to lay it all on the line, not going to worry about the rough edges and the tender spots. Because really, I need someone to talk to and you don’t usually talk back. Which is good, considering the crap that I’ve had to deal with lately.
It’s quite clear to me that even though I’m out of my abusive relationship, I have not as yet learned to self-reference.
My parents have quite cruelly thrown my anxious ramblings back at me lately. It’s weird how the people you love know you so well that they always know how to hurt you worst. It’s like you’ve given them a loaded gun and they use it on you.
I had something akin to another panic attack recently at a film networking event I attended with my dad. I didn’t have the chest pains or the loose bowels, thank God. That would have been painful. I just could not “network” like I intended – that “freeze” would descend on me and that “don’t move, you suck, don’t say a word, you’ll make a fool of yourself” track played in my mind.
My father as usual acted like I wasn’t in the room. I don’t know when I became a ghost in my own life. Nobody listens to a damn word I say. Not just my family – everyone.
Well, he did his thing. Jawing comes easily to him but not to me. Not any of his kids. Don’t know why. At least one of us should have got it.
Well, anyhoo, on the way home, I asked him, perhaps not as kindly as I should, to please let me get a word in edgewise and listen, please, when I speak.
He flew off the handle. Right off.
Basically he questioned my entering the film industry. He said, “Are you sure you want to do this? There doesn’t seem to be a lot of money in it.”
Money has never been any priority of mine. He said it a few weeks ago – I want to live a meaningful life and there’s nothing wrong with that. And now, he’s saying there is something wrong with that.
He basically ranted at me, saying that I will die poor and lonely and that I was killing them. The usual things. To be honest, I didn’t see the signs this time. I usually get into a bad mood. I snap at them, worse and worse, and then, they blow up and he says all of these things. It’s happened maybe twice or thrice before. This time, I didn’t snap at all. I didn’t feel very good about the evening, but I wasn’t in that bad a mood.
And well, this afternoon, I called my mom to rant about stuff. About my stupidity in leaving this job which is really not that bad an “in” to journalism, of letting my anxiety disorder get in the way of what I think I should be doing. About wanting to kill myself. Yeah. Those thoughts still happen. Life is a drag and nothing seems worth getting excited about. So what’s the point in living?
What I want to eventually do is edit a culture and arts magazine about Muslim culture and artists. I also want to write comedies and make movies with Muslim main characters. I don’t think I’ll ever make a lot of money or become famous (as if I would want that) doing that, since it’s a niche audience. A billion-strong niche audience but still.
But back then, I didn’t know what I wanted to do. Back then, I was too frightened to pick up the damn phone. For some reason, the phone frightens me especially. Dunno why.
And well, she yelled again. This time saying things like “I don’t know what religion you practise.” And “Everyone in the world will be dead if they thought like you.”
You see, I’m back where I started – the swirling obsessive thoughts that never go away. I’m back at the beginning. Job, life, film. Job, life, film. And death hanging like a big crackly cloud over all of it.
And now, I’m sitting here, waiting my dad to come pick me up to talk to a proposal’s brother. I don’t want to meet him. Proposals are awkward and silly and the rules are made by people who don’t know me and don’t care about me.
I wish I could just fall in love. I’ve wanted to fall in love since I was a little kid. Real, crazy, bone-shattering, heart-melting love. The Secret (which I’m listening to right now) says that the more you wish for something, the more the universe will grant your wishes.
Well, I’ve wanted to bump into a tall, dark, handsome stranger most of my life and when I finally did, he broke me into a million pieces. The universe has a sick sense of humor.
You wanna know what I think The Secret is? God. God has the power to change all situations in the blink of an eye, if He so wills.
This Islamic lecture I go to every Thursday hit the nail on the head: “If you’re in trouble for whatever reason, don’t call your mom. Don’t call your dad. Don’t call your girlfriend or boyfriend. Call on Allah (SWT). He has power over all things. It’s said over and over in the Qur’an for a reason – so that we never forget!”
But we always do. I know I have.
God, please change my situation. Give me a job that will give me joy. Give me joy, period. And if You have the time and You think it’s what’s right for me right now, please give me a man. A nice man. A man that I can love and who’ll love me too. Ameen.
Wassalam and Fee Amanillah,
Zed.
P.S. I don't think I made it clear what the point was. I don't think I'll tell my parents about my panic attacks or share my fears - in their rawest forms - with them. I don't think they can handle it. They're growing old and they're passing the mantle of care-taker to us. I must be fair and kind to them and really, from the looks of it, they can't handle it. I will go to God. I know that He'll do something.
Friday, 27 March 2009
C3PO
Bismillah-ir-Rahman-ir-Raheem.
Assalam alaikum wr wb!
On hitRECord, I called myself C3PO recently. The analogy is more fitting than I'd like to admit. Yes, I feel like a gold-plated robot with a high-pitched British accent - mine is acquired, of course. Yes, I feel like I'm very annoying, neurotic and a burden – but I am useful and that is the only reason why anyone keeps me around. Yes. I feel inhuman. I feel sexless. I feel emotionless.
I suppose all of this started last week when I was at film boot camp. I had the bad fortune of being chosen to play this psychiatrist whose schizophrenic patient thinks she's her mother. I've never acted before in my life, but I didn't think I would be that bad.
I was that bad. I just could not emote. The director was tearing his hair out. And the boom operator said, "I pity your daughter."
That touched a nerve. I've wanted kids all my life and to even think that I would be bad at it, that I would be anything less than loving just killed me. It still kills me. I heard my voice and saw my face on the rushes – I was cold and businesslike. Would I be like that with my children? I know it was a throwaway comment from someone I had just met. But sometimes little things hurt a lot.
Film bootcamp. An interview with a filmmaker. A way forward. It seems like God is giving me lampposts on this long and arduous journey to filmmaking.
But I cannot muster any joy. Not even a little. I held a camera in my hand for the first time. We made a film. We helped edit it. I boomed, I directed, I acted, I even rewrote a little, though not as much as I should have.
I am not happy or hopeful. I cannot muster any gratitude to God. That feels ten different kinds of wrong, like some part of me has died.
And at the same time, there is this nervous energy that is just driving me crazy. I'm not excited or motivated - I'm just tired. I want my heart to stop pounding so hard. I want some peace and quiet in my head. I want to sink to the bottom of a deep calm blue ocean and eventually I want everything to be carried far far away from me where they can't reach me. Yes, even my feckless ambitions. To write and film my first comedy. To fall in love, raise a family. To be honest, that second one seems even more far-fetched than me being a successful filmmaker. I can't dredge up any feelings of mild affection for anyone, let alone love. Would I love and marry someone like me? The truth is – no, I wouldn't. I'm boring and socially awkward. I have no hobbies really. I don't even have a real job right now.
At least C3PO could power down.
Wassalam and Fee Amanilah,
Zed.
Assalam alaikum wr wb!
On hitRECord, I called myself C3PO recently. The analogy is more fitting than I'd like to admit. Yes, I feel like a gold-plated robot with a high-pitched British accent - mine is acquired, of course. Yes, I feel like I'm very annoying, neurotic and a burden – but I am useful and that is the only reason why anyone keeps me around. Yes. I feel inhuman. I feel sexless. I feel emotionless.
I suppose all of this started last week when I was at film boot camp. I had the bad fortune of being chosen to play this psychiatrist whose schizophrenic patient thinks she's her mother. I've never acted before in my life, but I didn't think I would be that bad.
I was that bad. I just could not emote. The director was tearing his hair out. And the boom operator said, "I pity your daughter."
That touched a nerve. I've wanted kids all my life and to even think that I would be bad at it, that I would be anything less than loving just killed me. It still kills me. I heard my voice and saw my face on the rushes – I was cold and businesslike. Would I be like that with my children? I know it was a throwaway comment from someone I had just met. But sometimes little things hurt a lot.
Film bootcamp. An interview with a filmmaker. A way forward. It seems like God is giving me lampposts on this long and arduous journey to filmmaking.
But I cannot muster any joy. Not even a little. I held a camera in my hand for the first time. We made a film. We helped edit it. I boomed, I directed, I acted, I even rewrote a little, though not as much as I should have.
I am not happy or hopeful. I cannot muster any gratitude to God. That feels ten different kinds of wrong, like some part of me has died.
And at the same time, there is this nervous energy that is just driving me crazy. I'm not excited or motivated - I'm just tired. I want my heart to stop pounding so hard. I want some peace and quiet in my head. I want to sink to the bottom of a deep calm blue ocean and eventually I want everything to be carried far far away from me where they can't reach me. Yes, even my feckless ambitions. To write and film my first comedy. To fall in love, raise a family. To be honest, that second one seems even more far-fetched than me being a successful filmmaker. I can't dredge up any feelings of mild affection for anyone, let alone love. Would I love and marry someone like me? The truth is – no, I wouldn't. I'm boring and socially awkward. I have no hobbies really. I don't even have a real job right now.
At least C3PO could power down.
Wassalam and Fee Amanilah,
Zed.
Monday, 16 March 2009
#2
Bismillah-ir-Rahman-ir-Raheem
Assalam alaikum wr wb!
1. So I saw this talk on glamour on Ted.com. I suppose her message struck a chord with me somehow and lodged in my subconscious. Days later, my brother and I were driving to the mall on a Friday and we saw this man. He was tall, had grey hair cut close to the scalp and was handsome, but not in an overpowering way. He was wearing a crisp white kurta and pants - that seems to be the standard costume of South East Asians to the weekly congregational prayer Jummah. Basically, he was an otherwise unremarkable man - if not for his cane. It was beautiful amber-coloured polished wood and it shone in the afternoon sun like melted gold. It formed a semi-circular grip under his firm hand and was intricately carved with all kinds of animals. I couldn't stop staring at him till we drove by. He was just that cool.
Dude, that's what I call glamour. Way to rock a limp, man. I wish I had taken a picture
2. So I'm now a part-time copy-editor at my place of work, having aimed to use my extra time to explore other career options, or simply other more stable places to work because my company is cur-rrrrraaa-zzzzzy!!
I thought that while I'm still single and free of huge responsibility, I'd explore a few different career options.
Yes, I am justifying my choice to you because at the moment, I can't really see it working.
It's been two weeks and I'm bored stiff at home.
Plus, having a social anxiety disorder, I'm scared stiff to try new things. And my family is little or no help in that regard.
I've made a litany of mistakes this past year. I turned down a job at the biggest publishing house in the city. I let people's stupid idiotic personalities get to me when really, however much anyone screamed and cried, nothing except God can make them see the light. And by "light", I mean the headlights of an SUV. No, I'm kidding. I hope.
And I'm wondering now if this too is the latest in a series of mistakes.
3. Plus, my novel sucks. Not that it's unreadable. It's unwritable.
I've decided to drop one of my characters in it and give them an abusive relationship. Eventually, like me, she will kick him away but obviously, not without some scars.
I don't think I have the energy to write that. The poor girl is only 17 years old and the guy is a pig. A real pig. Would you want your sister to be treated that way? I wouldn't.
But if I back out and give them something less draining to wrestle with, then that is simply a cop-out. My future agent and publisher Insha Allah would never know, but I would know.
4. Plus, plus - my parents have found another proposal for me. And the thought of marriage and men fills me with dread. While I don't feel suicidal anymore (a huge achievement) and I do want to eventually have a family, I don't just want to do that just because it's another item I can check off my list. I want to marry for the right reasons. And honestly, I can't see how I can marry someone who's not even my friend.
There must be a solution.
Wassalam and Fee Amanillah,
Zed
Assalam alaikum wr wb!
1. So I saw this talk on glamour on Ted.com. I suppose her message struck a chord with me somehow and lodged in my subconscious. Days later, my brother and I were driving to the mall on a Friday and we saw this man. He was tall, had grey hair cut close to the scalp and was handsome, but not in an overpowering way. He was wearing a crisp white kurta and pants - that seems to be the standard costume of South East Asians to the weekly congregational prayer Jummah. Basically, he was an otherwise unremarkable man - if not for his cane. It was beautiful amber-coloured polished wood and it shone in the afternoon sun like melted gold. It formed a semi-circular grip under his firm hand and was intricately carved with all kinds of animals. I couldn't stop staring at him till we drove by. He was just that cool.
Dude, that's what I call glamour. Way to rock a limp, man. I wish I had taken a picture
2. So I'm now a part-time copy-editor at my place of work, having aimed to use my extra time to explore other career options, or simply other more stable places to work because my company is cur-rrrrraaa-zzzzzy!!
I thought that while I'm still single and free of huge responsibility, I'd explore a few different career options.
Yes, I am justifying my choice to you because at the moment, I can't really see it working.
It's been two weeks and I'm bored stiff at home.
Plus, having a social anxiety disorder, I'm scared stiff to try new things. And my family is little or no help in that regard.
I've made a litany of mistakes this past year. I turned down a job at the biggest publishing house in the city. I let people's stupid idiotic personalities get to me when really, however much anyone screamed and cried, nothing except God can make them see the light. And by "light", I mean the headlights of an SUV. No, I'm kidding. I hope.
And I'm wondering now if this too is the latest in a series of mistakes.
3. Plus, my novel sucks. Not that it's unreadable. It's unwritable.
I've decided to drop one of my characters in it and give them an abusive relationship. Eventually, like me, she will kick him away but obviously, not without some scars.
I don't think I have the energy to write that. The poor girl is only 17 years old and the guy is a pig. A real pig. Would you want your sister to be treated that way? I wouldn't.
But if I back out and give them something less draining to wrestle with, then that is simply a cop-out. My future agent and publisher Insha Allah would never know, but I would know.
4. Plus, plus - my parents have found another proposal for me. And the thought of marriage and men fills me with dread. While I don't feel suicidal anymore (a huge achievement) and I do want to eventually have a family, I don't just want to do that just because it's another item I can check off my list. I want to marry for the right reasons. And honestly, I can't see how I can marry someone who's not even my friend.
There must be a solution.
Wassalam and Fee Amanillah,
Zed
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