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
Tuesday, 3 March 2009
Paper Planes
Bismillah-ir-Rahman-ir-Raheem
Assalam alaikum wr wb!
So I was invited to judge a Red Bull Paper Wings contest two days ago at a local university, by virtue of me being the only person available from our company.
I miss college. I miss the live music and the unbridled, almost destructive energy of being young.
I was just a teensy weensy bit over-dressed. Judging seemed a big deal to me and I didn't know how formal the environs would be, so I just dressed smart-casual like I usually do for work – or rather how my mother insists I dress.
I gotta get that woman out of my closet. For one thing, I need more colour in my wardrobe. For another, I need to look like I have a pulse.
So the contest was judged in three categories, the longest distance, the longest airtime and creativity. The last category was itself split into three – construction, design and flight performance, me being given flight performance. I assume that meant the amount it swooped, dipped and flurried.
The MC was a fake American i.e. an Arab dressed like Snoop Dogg with an American accent. But oh, I couldn't have cared if Princess Diana herself was MC'ing, because man, the guy with the measuring tape was super-hot. From the way he was running around, I reckon he was with Red Bull. He looked like Guillaume Canet, though a little more filled out. He had kind blue eyes, a square jaw covered with a scrubby beard and was dressed like one of the students, unlike me.
My fellow judges were a faculty member from the interior design program at the university and a bigwig from Saatchi and Saatchi. At least she acted like it. She was wearing jeans and a floppy white poplin shirt. Her hair artfully framed her face in a punk fringe and a little brash stud twinkled on her nose. She had the sort of effortless cool that both killed and cured, the sort that made me want to weep, not least because Gorgeous Guy stopped the proceedings so that he could come up and give her a hug. I wish someone would stop the show just to say hello to me. I don't think I've ever felt that important to anyone, for any reason at all.
Okay, well, maybe to my parents. But they're sort of getting annoying, as you can probably tell.
It was a great day watching them play with planes and hoot and clap for their buddies. At the end of the proceedings, this dude got up and beat-boxed at the behest of his friend. I got the feeling that he was really a shy guy, too shy to even show off his talent, but his friend really believed in him. And after the show, that guy's face was shining with pride – he hoisted this skinny little playa up onto his shoulders even. I've never seen anything like it, certainly not among friends.
For the last few weeks, I've been spending most of the day trying to ward off depression. It's gotten better since I've decided to make a conscious effort to not feel sorry for myself. And this whole thing left me wondering where I've left my damn youth. I'm only 22, yet I'm squeezing myself into business suits, clomping across waxed floors, trying to impress people I have no respect for at all. I'm too young to compromise. I should take risks and live life while I still can. What am I going to tell my children? What am I going to tell God? That He gave me a gift, a passion, that I didn't use for the good of humanity? That I was too frightened of failure, even though the pen has lifted and the ink has dried?
I should make some friends. Yes, I don't really have any friends, outside of people I work with. That might be a serious contributor to my social anxiety.
Real flesh-and-blood people around me might cure rather than kill. That is my greatest fear – that I am one well-worded sentence away from suicide (that's John Mayer, by the way).
So how does one make friends? There are comedy classes mid-April. I could join those, find some like-minded people. A filmmaker here in Dubai asked if I wanted to help with production coordination – I don't really know what that is, but it's a way to break into the field and a way to practise my social skills.
I'm kind of scared now.
We were watching Vicky Cristina Barcelona yesterday and my brother said I was like one of those "tortured pseudo-intellectuals" that didn't like being employed. That really rubbed me the wrong way. I've made my choice and I quit my job. Everyone isn't cut out for a nine-to-five. Everyone is cut out for the banal plodding of gainful employment. I don't have any exotic unrealistic demands. I want somewhere that I contribute with my brain, my heart and my creativity. Not my legs, not my mouth. I'm not cut out to be a pack mule.
Why must I defend my decisions to this man every single time?
Where can I find people that will love and cherish me the way that guy did with his friend? That will hoist me onto their shoulders after a really great performance? That will stop a show just to say hello?
Am I being selfish? Of course, I would return the love. I'm just so sick of one-sided relationships – with my family, with my company, with my ex. I want someone to give me something as well.
Plus, I would kill for a decent conversation.
Wassalam and Fee Amanillah,
Sabina.
Assalam alaikum wr wb!
So I was invited to judge a Red Bull Paper Wings contest two days ago at a local university, by virtue of me being the only person available from our company.
I miss college. I miss the live music and the unbridled, almost destructive energy of being young.
I was just a teensy weensy bit over-dressed. Judging seemed a big deal to me and I didn't know how formal the environs would be, so I just dressed smart-casual like I usually do for work – or rather how my mother insists I dress.
I gotta get that woman out of my closet. For one thing, I need more colour in my wardrobe. For another, I need to look like I have a pulse.
So the contest was judged in three categories, the longest distance, the longest airtime and creativity. The last category was itself split into three – construction, design and flight performance, me being given flight performance. I assume that meant the amount it swooped, dipped and flurried.
The MC was a fake American i.e. an Arab dressed like Snoop Dogg with an American accent. But oh, I couldn't have cared if Princess Diana herself was MC'ing, because man, the guy with the measuring tape was super-hot. From the way he was running around, I reckon he was with Red Bull. He looked like Guillaume Canet, though a little more filled out. He had kind blue eyes, a square jaw covered with a scrubby beard and was dressed like one of the students, unlike me.
My fellow judges were a faculty member from the interior design program at the university and a bigwig from Saatchi and Saatchi. At least she acted like it. She was wearing jeans and a floppy white poplin shirt. Her hair artfully framed her face in a punk fringe and a little brash stud twinkled on her nose. She had the sort of effortless cool that both killed and cured, the sort that made me want to weep, not least because Gorgeous Guy stopped the proceedings so that he could come up and give her a hug. I wish someone would stop the show just to say hello to me. I don't think I've ever felt that important to anyone, for any reason at all.
Okay, well, maybe to my parents. But they're sort of getting annoying, as you can probably tell.
It was a great day watching them play with planes and hoot and clap for their buddies. At the end of the proceedings, this dude got up and beat-boxed at the behest of his friend. I got the feeling that he was really a shy guy, too shy to even show off his talent, but his friend really believed in him. And after the show, that guy's face was shining with pride – he hoisted this skinny little playa up onto his shoulders even. I've never seen anything like it, certainly not among friends.
For the last few weeks, I've been spending most of the day trying to ward off depression. It's gotten better since I've decided to make a conscious effort to not feel sorry for myself. And this whole thing left me wondering where I've left my damn youth. I'm only 22, yet I'm squeezing myself into business suits, clomping across waxed floors, trying to impress people I have no respect for at all. I'm too young to compromise. I should take risks and live life while I still can. What am I going to tell my children? What am I going to tell God? That He gave me a gift, a passion, that I didn't use for the good of humanity? That I was too frightened of failure, even though the pen has lifted and the ink has dried?
I should make some friends. Yes, I don't really have any friends, outside of people I work with. That might be a serious contributor to my social anxiety.
Real flesh-and-blood people around me might cure rather than kill. That is my greatest fear – that I am one well-worded sentence away from suicide (that's John Mayer, by the way).
So how does one make friends? There are comedy classes mid-April. I could join those, find some like-minded people. A filmmaker here in Dubai asked if I wanted to help with production coordination – I don't really know what that is, but it's a way to break into the field and a way to practise my social skills.
I'm kind of scared now.
We were watching Vicky Cristina Barcelona yesterday and my brother said I was like one of those "tortured pseudo-intellectuals" that didn't like being employed. That really rubbed me the wrong way. I've made my choice and I quit my job. Everyone isn't cut out for a nine-to-five. Everyone is cut out for the banal plodding of gainful employment. I don't have any exotic unrealistic demands. I want somewhere that I contribute with my brain, my heart and my creativity. Not my legs, not my mouth. I'm not cut out to be a pack mule.
Why must I defend my decisions to this man every single time?
Where can I find people that will love and cherish me the way that guy did with his friend? That will hoist me onto their shoulders after a really great performance? That will stop a show just to say hello?
Am I being selfish? Of course, I would return the love. I'm just so sick of one-sided relationships – with my family, with my company, with my ex. I want someone to give me something as well.
Plus, I would kill for a decent conversation.
Wassalam and Fee Amanillah,
Sabina.
Sunday, 8 February 2009
So I think I'm beginning to get to the bottom of this Alhamdulillah....
Bismillah-ir-Rahman-ir-Raheem
Assalam alaikum wr wb!
This morning – big surprise - I woke up in a foul mood and a pre-packaged splitting headache. I had spent some of the night tossing and turning and didn't have a very restful sleep at all. The only thought in my head, try as I might to suppress it, was, "I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job." Then of course, since people's jobs are a large part of their lives, it became, "I hate my life. I hate my life. I hate my life."
I got to work. I can't remember why I called my mother, but I did. As the list of strangers to call this morning became longer and longer, I think I just wanted a familiar voice on the phone.
Well, she basically sounded off at me for some reason I couldn't express in a nutshell. I don't think she could either. Anyway, it isn't important. What is important are the questions she asked.
What am I frightened of? I am frightened of people.
Why am I frightened of people? Because I watched my parents get hurt, used and abused over and over again. People, even – ESPECIALLY – those closest to me, have hurt and disappointed me in the past in ways and for reasons I cannot even begin to fathom. And no doubt, they will attempt to do so in the future.
What can I do to stop being frightened of them? Let that pain – both past and future – go. People can be anuses. People can also be angels. Every single person I meet has the potential to be both and I can't control which way they decide to swing.
What else am I frightened of? That overwhelming success I had at the beginning of the year without even trying that hard. I faced a wilderness of choices that all felt right and all felt wrong. It was sheer torture.
"Our greatest fear is not that we are weak, but that we are powerful beyond all measure." Damn right. I fear that I will find myself swimming with sharks if I venture out into the open sea. I fear I will not consider myself worthy, I will allow myself to be chewed up and spat out and then I will sink to the bottom of the ocean of mediocrity.
What else confuses me? God's love.
God loves me, it would seem. He loves me a great deal. But I can't for the life of me think why. God has blessed me with much material strength Alhamdulillah. But emotionally and sometimes spiritually, I am worn and thin.
I am frightened of being unworthy of God's love. I am frightened of straying off the right path as so many have here in this country. I'm frightened of becoming like Rochelle, one of the ugliest souls I've ever met.
But this sudden clarity comes here in this space of warmth and comfort – my pyjamas, my room, my house. Will I feel this way out in the field or will the fear return?
What is fear really? I'm no scientist, but it feels like fear is trying to keep me alive and keep me safe. So this self-protection mechanism is faulty. Real faulty. I suppose I have to reprogram myself.
Cheers, me dears.
Wassalam and Fee Amanillah,
Zed.
Assalam alaikum wr wb!
This morning – big surprise - I woke up in a foul mood and a pre-packaged splitting headache. I had spent some of the night tossing and turning and didn't have a very restful sleep at all. The only thought in my head, try as I might to suppress it, was, "I hate my job. I hate my job. I hate my job." Then of course, since people's jobs are a large part of their lives, it became, "I hate my life. I hate my life. I hate my life."
I got to work. I can't remember why I called my mother, but I did. As the list of strangers to call this morning became longer and longer, I think I just wanted a familiar voice on the phone.
Well, she basically sounded off at me for some reason I couldn't express in a nutshell. I don't think she could either. Anyway, it isn't important. What is important are the questions she asked.
What am I frightened of? I am frightened of people.
Why am I frightened of people? Because I watched my parents get hurt, used and abused over and over again. People, even – ESPECIALLY – those closest to me, have hurt and disappointed me in the past in ways and for reasons I cannot even begin to fathom. And no doubt, they will attempt to do so in the future.
What can I do to stop being frightened of them? Let that pain – both past and future – go. People can be anuses. People can also be angels. Every single person I meet has the potential to be both and I can't control which way they decide to swing.
What else am I frightened of? That overwhelming success I had at the beginning of the year without even trying that hard. I faced a wilderness of choices that all felt right and all felt wrong. It was sheer torture.
"Our greatest fear is not that we are weak, but that we are powerful beyond all measure." Damn right. I fear that I will find myself swimming with sharks if I venture out into the open sea. I fear I will not consider myself worthy, I will allow myself to be chewed up and spat out and then I will sink to the bottom of the ocean of mediocrity.
What else confuses me? God's love.
God loves me, it would seem. He loves me a great deal. But I can't for the life of me think why. God has blessed me with much material strength Alhamdulillah. But emotionally and sometimes spiritually, I am worn and thin.
I am frightened of being unworthy of God's love. I am frightened of straying off the right path as so many have here in this country. I'm frightened of becoming like Rochelle, one of the ugliest souls I've ever met.
But this sudden clarity comes here in this space of warmth and comfort – my pyjamas, my room, my house. Will I feel this way out in the field or will the fear return?
What is fear really? I'm no scientist, but it feels like fear is trying to keep me alive and keep me safe. So this self-protection mechanism is faulty. Real faulty. I suppose I have to reprogram myself.
Cheers, me dears.
Wassalam and Fee Amanillah,
Zed.
Friday, 6 February 2009
It was a mistake telling my parents.
Bismillah-ir-Rahman-ir-Raheem.
Assalam alaikum wr wb,
So I told my mom, and then my dad this morning, about the man I met in the parking lot. The last thing they thought about was how he was reduced to such humiliation. They thought, "Oh, you were being unsafe. He could have reached in and taken your handbag. He could have done this, that and the other."
But he didn't. I gave him a 100 bucks. He gave me the Ayat-ul-Kursi. He told me his story. He walked away.
They gave me grief over the money,saying I gave him too much.
I want to tell them - the man was in distress. Grave distress. I believed him. The part of me that is not ego, that is part of the invisible forces that binds all of us, believed him and I gave him the money.
Plus. It's just money.
It's just money!
It's just money!
I have thousands in my bank account and I gave this man a 100. So what?
God bless him and keep him safe. It's just money. He didn't ask for retribution, blood or sex. It was just money.
I told them about it because I could not believe the city of my birth, the city my parents had settled in almost 30 years ago, the city that had helped us make a better life, had become this thing, this thing that drives people to their knees. It had almost killed me this past year and I think it was killing this man too.
And my mother - oh my mother has a forked tongue. I said, "If he lied, it's on him, not me. My conscience is clean." She said, "Well, if I did a foolish thing and I felt good about it, well that makes it alright then."
I should never have told them.
I should never have told them. Why do parents do this to their children? I'm not a child - I'm 22 years old. But why would you teach your children to not care about other human beings?
Maybe this is the disproportionate reaction my therapist was talking about. I have a strong sense of right and wrong and when someone violates it, I am up in arms immediately, giving me and the other person much pain.
What do I say then? What's an assertive response?
I'll think about that and get back to you.
Wassalam and Fee Amanillah,
Zed.
Assalam alaikum wr wb,
So I told my mom, and then my dad this morning, about the man I met in the parking lot. The last thing they thought about was how he was reduced to such humiliation. They thought, "Oh, you were being unsafe. He could have reached in and taken your handbag. He could have done this, that and the other."
But he didn't. I gave him a 100 bucks. He gave me the Ayat-ul-Kursi. He told me his story. He walked away.
They gave me grief over the money,saying I gave him too much.
I want to tell them - the man was in distress. Grave distress. I believed him. The part of me that is not ego, that is part of the invisible forces that binds all of us, believed him and I gave him the money.
Plus. It's just money.
It's just money!
It's just money!
I have thousands in my bank account and I gave this man a 100. So what?
God bless him and keep him safe. It's just money. He didn't ask for retribution, blood or sex. It was just money.
I told them about it because I could not believe the city of my birth, the city my parents had settled in almost 30 years ago, the city that had helped us make a better life, had become this thing, this thing that drives people to their knees. It had almost killed me this past year and I think it was killing this man too.
And my mother - oh my mother has a forked tongue. I said, "If he lied, it's on him, not me. My conscience is clean." She said, "Well, if I did a foolish thing and I felt good about it, well that makes it alright then."
I should never have told them.
I should never have told them. Why do parents do this to their children? I'm not a child - I'm 22 years old. But why would you teach your children to not care about other human beings?
Maybe this is the disproportionate reaction my therapist was talking about. I have a strong sense of right and wrong and when someone violates it, I am up in arms immediately, giving me and the other person much pain.
What do I say then? What's an assertive response?
I'll think about that and get back to you.
Wassalam and Fee Amanillah,
Zed.
Thursday, 5 February 2009
Poor man wanting
Bismillah-ir-Rahman-ir-Raheem
Assalam alaikum wr wb,
Today was an interesting day, by the grace of God. I don't get many days like this, so I thought I'd share.
It's been a nightmare week. Three times this week, I had to do the thing I dreaded the most. I conducted on-campus interviews and "roundtable discussions" – both quite inane, meaningless and major anxiety triggers, but a necessary and popular part of our weekly publication.
But luckily, I had my co-worker Liz with me, since she is being trained to take my place. So it wasn't as bad as it could have been, had I been alone.
Today was a mixed day of frustration and fun as students at one uni either turned their noses up or were simply too "busy" on Facebook to bother with us and students at the other were only too happy to cooperate. In fact, they were such a jolly bunch, I didn't want to leave.
I'm really pleased Alhamdulillah that I didn't burst into tears during the rough parts, though I did have some residual anxiety about approaching the snot-noses. I did want to train my colleague to do the same, but still.
On the way back, we moaned about the meanness of Rochelle. Which was unnecessary. Moaning about people who are not a part of your life anymore does jack for your life and attitude. If they are part of your life, moaning simply revisits the bad feeling and gives her more power over your emotions. There are all kinds of people in the world and I cannot control what comes out of their mouths. I need to learn how to communicate with them. Communicate my views assertively and then thereafter, negotiate, according to my therapist.
Now this is the interesting bit.
I knocked off at 5:15 and spent about a half hour messing around at a sale in the shopping mall next door, scootling between the "on sale" rack – which was nice, but did not pack enough bang for my buck – and the "not on sale" rack – which had a beautiful wine-colored top with lovely puffed sleeves and a slightly puffed shoulder, which I would have purchased on the spot, had it been cheaper.
Come to think of it, I think they just made up the sale to get people in the store. Well, it worked for this shopper.
I walked to the car-park and started up Bess, my Prado. She was chilly, poor thing, so I let her have a few minutes to warm up.
Some fellow nearby was playing loud music out of his car and the song sounded good so I rolled down the window. Just at that moment, this gentleman with some things in a shopping bag came up to me and fished them out, asking if I'd like to buy them.
I quickly rolled my window up, shaking my head, "No."
"It's the Ayat-ul-Kursi!" he implored in Urdu, holding up a wood carving, the sort you hang up on the wall. I shook my head again – no.
He began to weep. He said that if I helped him, he would make du'a (pray) for me when he went back to Pakistan. He asked if I wanted to see his ticket. He fished out an Emirates Airlines ticket from his pocket. He said only God knew how much trouble he'd been through.
My heart broke. I asked him how much it was. He said that whatever I could give him, he would be grateful for. He said that he had bought the thing for 55 quid. I gave him a 100.
He wept again. Now that he had my window rolled down completely, he spilled his heart out to me. Unfortunately, I didn't understand his heart much because my Urdu is rather sketchy. In fact, I kept whispering, "Please go, sir." I feel really bad about that now. He said that he'd been walking around since morning, without eating or drinking. I should have given him my bottle of water.
I drove home in a haze. There are beggars in Sri Lanka, my home country, but not here. Not in the city that leverage built.
This city is really going to hell. For this poor gentleman, I imagine it is already hell.
I know what you're thinking. Poor dear Zed has been fleeced for her life. Perhaps you're right. But I didn't give him the money for your approval, I did for Allah's approval. By His grace and His grace alone am I wealthy to even be able to spare that money. Besides, somewhere deep down, I feel that man wasn't lying. I'm far too clinical to simply 'believe' my feelings, but still, it is a strong feeling.
It is hanging in my bedroom now, the wall hanging. I think, in any event, it was a good purchase since I was planning on redecorating my room to be more woody, autumnal and whimsical. And what better way to start that process than with the verse of the Throne?
His flight is tomorrow after Jummah. I hope he gets the money he needs. I hope Allah (SWT) gives him ease after this hardship. I hope he goes home to his family and is able to forget. Ameen.
Wassalam and Fee Amanillah,
Zed
Assalam alaikum wr wb,
Today was an interesting day, by the grace of God. I don't get many days like this, so I thought I'd share.
It's been a nightmare week. Three times this week, I had to do the thing I dreaded the most. I conducted on-campus interviews and "roundtable discussions" – both quite inane, meaningless and major anxiety triggers, but a necessary and popular part of our weekly publication.
But luckily, I had my co-worker Liz with me, since she is being trained to take my place. So it wasn't as bad as it could have been, had I been alone.
Today was a mixed day of frustration and fun as students at one uni either turned their noses up or were simply too "busy" on Facebook to bother with us and students at the other were only too happy to cooperate. In fact, they were such a jolly bunch, I didn't want to leave.
I'm really pleased Alhamdulillah that I didn't burst into tears during the rough parts, though I did have some residual anxiety about approaching the snot-noses. I did want to train my colleague to do the same, but still.
On the way back, we moaned about the meanness of Rochelle. Which was unnecessary. Moaning about people who are not a part of your life anymore does jack for your life and attitude. If they are part of your life, moaning simply revisits the bad feeling and gives her more power over your emotions. There are all kinds of people in the world and I cannot control what comes out of their mouths. I need to learn how to communicate with them. Communicate my views assertively and then thereafter, negotiate, according to my therapist.
Now this is the interesting bit.
I knocked off at 5:15 and spent about a half hour messing around at a sale in the shopping mall next door, scootling between the "on sale" rack – which was nice, but did not pack enough bang for my buck – and the "not on sale" rack – which had a beautiful wine-colored top with lovely puffed sleeves and a slightly puffed shoulder, which I would have purchased on the spot, had it been cheaper.
Come to think of it, I think they just made up the sale to get people in the store. Well, it worked for this shopper.
I walked to the car-park and started up Bess, my Prado. She was chilly, poor thing, so I let her have a few minutes to warm up.
Some fellow nearby was playing loud music out of his car and the song sounded good so I rolled down the window. Just at that moment, this gentleman with some things in a shopping bag came up to me and fished them out, asking if I'd like to buy them.
I quickly rolled my window up, shaking my head, "No."
"It's the Ayat-ul-Kursi!" he implored in Urdu, holding up a wood carving, the sort you hang up on the wall. I shook my head again – no.
He began to weep. He said that if I helped him, he would make du'a (pray) for me when he went back to Pakistan. He asked if I wanted to see his ticket. He fished out an Emirates Airlines ticket from his pocket. He said only God knew how much trouble he'd been through.
My heart broke. I asked him how much it was. He said that whatever I could give him, he would be grateful for. He said that he had bought the thing for 55 quid. I gave him a 100.
He wept again. Now that he had my window rolled down completely, he spilled his heart out to me. Unfortunately, I didn't understand his heart much because my Urdu is rather sketchy. In fact, I kept whispering, "Please go, sir." I feel really bad about that now. He said that he'd been walking around since morning, without eating or drinking. I should have given him my bottle of water.
I drove home in a haze. There are beggars in Sri Lanka, my home country, but not here. Not in the city that leverage built.
This city is really going to hell. For this poor gentleman, I imagine it is already hell.
I know what you're thinking. Poor dear Zed has been fleeced for her life. Perhaps you're right. But I didn't give him the money for your approval, I did for Allah's approval. By His grace and His grace alone am I wealthy to even be able to spare that money. Besides, somewhere deep down, I feel that man wasn't lying. I'm far too clinical to simply 'believe' my feelings, but still, it is a strong feeling.
It is hanging in my bedroom now, the wall hanging. I think, in any event, it was a good purchase since I was planning on redecorating my room to be more woody, autumnal and whimsical. And what better way to start that process than with the verse of the Throne?
His flight is tomorrow after Jummah. I hope he gets the money he needs. I hope Allah (SWT) gives him ease after this hardship. I hope he goes home to his family and is able to forget. Ameen.
Wassalam and Fee Amanillah,
Zed
Friday, 30 January 2009
My dream job
Bismillah-ir-Rahman-ir-Raheem
Assalam alaikum wr wb,
I've been behaving in the most appalling way with my parents. Last night, I wasted an evening doing things for and communicating with people that really don't care, don't know and can't help even if they did. I haven't written from my heart in weeks. So, when my mommy came home early from work to be with me, I was more restless and frustrated than a celibate Paris Hilton. I didn't want to go for a walk and shop for clothes. We sat in front of the TV and there was nothing on. I said, "TV is stupid" and I turned it off. My mom said I should watch Supernatural until dinner was ready. I said I didn't want to watch Supernatural. And I didn't because Jensen Ackles breaks my heart. Is that silly? I don’t care. But I guess I kind of do because I mentioned it. I'm contradicting myself, but so be it. I contain multitudes, in the words of Walt Whitman said.
Then I said that I would exercise. Then I said I didn't want to exercise because it was boring. I think I half-screamed in frustration. That sudden savagery frightened me.
I feel like tearing myself apart and reassembling myself into something that I can understand, that other people are not frightened to touch. What's happening to me?
This morning, just the sight of my mother coming home from her morning shopping trip made me want to yell with frustration. They let me sleep, instead of taking me with them – more as a kindness to themselves than to me, I guess.
And then my mother told me that because someone was going to my home country, they wanted to buy my grandma a sweater. They'd just come from the supermarket, but it just hadn't crossed their mind while they were in the supermarket. So now, after lunch, they wanted to go, in what I perceived to be a waste of everyone's time because of bad planning. My mom asked if I wanted to go with her. I can't remember a time when I have been angrier. "Don't piss me off on a weekend, Ma. Both of you just came from the supermarket and you didn't buy it. I'm always dragged here or there on parental maintenance – taking you walking, having to put up with Dad's coddling."
My brother went to see U2 – 3D last night. It's not fecking fair. I feel like a prisoner in my own house. I go from work to office and back. And I sit in front of my computer again, trying to make people thousands of miles away care about me. But they usually turn their attention away from me just before I can heal, and keep it to themselves and their own ordinary lovely lives just long enough for me to wonder what the hell is wrong with me. But what does it matter, even if they do? I can't love myself. Terrible am I, child, even if you don't mind.
So what does all of this have to do with my dream job? Because of my crap job with its crap managers, anxiety is the only feeling I've felt in a long time. So I figure that if I can get a kinder job, maybe I can be kinder to myself. I know that's not entirely true. But I need to believe that change is possible and that it will come.
This is what I wrote in my journal some days ago:
"What would an ideal job be for me? I can work as long or as short hours as I like. I can dress according to the people or situation I'm in. I get to meet interesting people on a daily basis and most of all, I create. I can stand on my head, sit on the carpet, cross my legs, stretch my arms, belly-dance. There should be no restrictions on my movement and hence on my creativity. I can take a day off to pick away at a personal project, should I choose, whether it has to do with family, a creative or a domestic project. Should I choose to take my mother museum-hopping, I can do so. I would like a job in which I could collaborate as much as possible, like we do in hitRECord. We help each other tell stories. Synergy just doesn't happen in corporate environments – at least not in the one I'm in. Yes. Ultimately, I want to tell a story and tell it good so people can enjoy it."
But most of all – and this is something I know a job cannot create – I want to be happy around other people. In my head, I see them yelling to me from across the street, inviting me over to their house for Passover, wanting me to meet their families. I see myself living with people not bound to me by blood, but who love me like blood anyway.
My relatives' behaviour – particularly my eldest brother and my aunts – have led me to believe that blood may not be all its cracked up to be.
I see someone (not my mother) crying at my wedding, threatening my husband with grievous bodily harm if he hurts me and both of us weeping in each other's arms as I leave her at the airport. I see a friend trustworthy enough to be my maid of honour.
I want to feel worth my skin, of the grace God has given me. I want to be of some use to someone. A lot of use – indispensable – to others.
Why do I feel so tragic all the time? It's really tiring.
Wassalam and Fee Amanillah,
Zed.
Assalam alaikum wr wb,
I've been behaving in the most appalling way with my parents. Last night, I wasted an evening doing things for and communicating with people that really don't care, don't know and can't help even if they did. I haven't written from my heart in weeks. So, when my mommy came home early from work to be with me, I was more restless and frustrated than a celibate Paris Hilton. I didn't want to go for a walk and shop for clothes. We sat in front of the TV and there was nothing on. I said, "TV is stupid" and I turned it off. My mom said I should watch Supernatural until dinner was ready. I said I didn't want to watch Supernatural. And I didn't because Jensen Ackles breaks my heart. Is that silly? I don’t care. But I guess I kind of do because I mentioned it. I'm contradicting myself, but so be it. I contain multitudes, in the words of Walt Whitman said.
Then I said that I would exercise. Then I said I didn't want to exercise because it was boring. I think I half-screamed in frustration. That sudden savagery frightened me.
I feel like tearing myself apart and reassembling myself into something that I can understand, that other people are not frightened to touch. What's happening to me?
This morning, just the sight of my mother coming home from her morning shopping trip made me want to yell with frustration. They let me sleep, instead of taking me with them – more as a kindness to themselves than to me, I guess.
And then my mother told me that because someone was going to my home country, they wanted to buy my grandma a sweater. They'd just come from the supermarket, but it just hadn't crossed their mind while they were in the supermarket. So now, after lunch, they wanted to go, in what I perceived to be a waste of everyone's time because of bad planning. My mom asked if I wanted to go with her. I can't remember a time when I have been angrier. "Don't piss me off on a weekend, Ma. Both of you just came from the supermarket and you didn't buy it. I'm always dragged here or there on parental maintenance – taking you walking, having to put up with Dad's coddling."
My brother went to see U2 – 3D last night. It's not fecking fair. I feel like a prisoner in my own house. I go from work to office and back. And I sit in front of my computer again, trying to make people thousands of miles away care about me. But they usually turn their attention away from me just before I can heal, and keep it to themselves and their own ordinary lovely lives just long enough for me to wonder what the hell is wrong with me. But what does it matter, even if they do? I can't love myself. Terrible am I, child, even if you don't mind.
So what does all of this have to do with my dream job? Because of my crap job with its crap managers, anxiety is the only feeling I've felt in a long time. So I figure that if I can get a kinder job, maybe I can be kinder to myself. I know that's not entirely true. But I need to believe that change is possible and that it will come.
This is what I wrote in my journal some days ago:
"What would an ideal job be for me? I can work as long or as short hours as I like. I can dress according to the people or situation I'm in. I get to meet interesting people on a daily basis and most of all, I create. I can stand on my head, sit on the carpet, cross my legs, stretch my arms, belly-dance. There should be no restrictions on my movement and hence on my creativity. I can take a day off to pick away at a personal project, should I choose, whether it has to do with family, a creative or a domestic project. Should I choose to take my mother museum-hopping, I can do so. I would like a job in which I could collaborate as much as possible, like we do in hitRECord. We help each other tell stories. Synergy just doesn't happen in corporate environments – at least not in the one I'm in. Yes. Ultimately, I want to tell a story and tell it good so people can enjoy it."
But most of all – and this is something I know a job cannot create – I want to be happy around other people. In my head, I see them yelling to me from across the street, inviting me over to their house for Passover, wanting me to meet their families. I see myself living with people not bound to me by blood, but who love me like blood anyway.
My relatives' behaviour – particularly my eldest brother and my aunts – have led me to believe that blood may not be all its cracked up to be.
I see someone (not my mother) crying at my wedding, threatening my husband with grievous bodily harm if he hurts me and both of us weeping in each other's arms as I leave her at the airport. I see a friend trustworthy enough to be my maid of honour.
I want to feel worth my skin, of the grace God has given me. I want to be of some use to someone. A lot of use – indispensable – to others.
Why do I feel so tragic all the time? It's really tiring.
Wassalam and Fee Amanillah,
Zed.
Monday, 26 January 2009
#1
Bismillah-ir-Rahman-ir-Raheem
Assalam alaikum wr wb,
Most of my posts are going in a general direction. But sometimes, I just want to have a chat and there's no one around to chat with, so I might just blather. Or rant. Depending on how lucky you are.
So this is the first of my blatherings.
- I miss my daddy driving with me to work in the mornings. He's so funny and cute and the more I talk to him, the more I realise what an extraordinary life he's had. Like Jamie Callum says, "When I look back on my ordinary life, there's so much magic though I missed it at the time." But I can't sort of sit him down and say, "Tell me the story of your life." It doesn't happen that way. Conversations are how it happens. Lots and lots of them.
But I cut him loose because it was time. It's time for me to find a way to be at least semi-without him. I will not be COMPLETELY without him. That's just not the way Asian families work and that's not the way I want to be anyway. But I do need to be something outside of here, outside of him and us and Mom and my brothers, at least some of the time. Because sometimes I feel stifled. Sometimes I need space and Asian families are not good at space.
- I posted this on HitRECord today:
"Bismillah.
The last time I left my office for work, I almost had a major panic attack. I staved it off and managed to carry on. The results, in terms of output, were not great. But I'm proud of myself. I really am. I managed to calm down without the drugs.
Without the drugs. Without the drugs. Without the drugs. That's so huge for me. Using the methods that I was taught in therapy, I managed to calm down. I learned something and I put it to good use. I'm really proud of myself Alhamdulillah.
Let my boss yell at me. I can't tell her I'm battling social anxiety. I won't tell her. It's none of her business. It doesn't matter what she thinks anyway.
Can you tell that I'm both scared of getting yelled at and proud of my strength at the same time? I feel like Jack in Fight Club smiling with a split lip and a mouth full of blood."
- I've been wondering about pain and why people give each other pain. I guess it's about power. I've been thinking about my abusive ex and now - just now, in fact…the tears are still fresh on my cheeks – I was thinking of my brother and all the awful things he said about Islam some years back. He was picking a fight. He was pushing a button. He was trying to hurt me, trying to make me cry. That's all it was. I didn't know anything. Why would he ask me if he really wanted to know the answers? I didn't know the answers and he didn't want to know them anyway. He just wanted power.
I'm proud to say that most of my life, I have never felt that corrupting power and I don't ever want to feel it. Alhamdulillah. God protect me. Aoudhubillah.
I guess human-on-human crime on all scales has always been about power and politics. No? Yes? I'll find out Insha Allah. As the prophet (SAWS) said, "Gain knowledge from the cradle to the grave."
Wassalam and Fee Amanillah,
Zed.
Assalam alaikum wr wb,
Most of my posts are going in a general direction. But sometimes, I just want to have a chat and there's no one around to chat with, so I might just blather. Or rant. Depending on how lucky you are.
So this is the first of my blatherings.
- I miss my daddy driving with me to work in the mornings. He's so funny and cute and the more I talk to him, the more I realise what an extraordinary life he's had. Like Jamie Callum says, "When I look back on my ordinary life, there's so much magic though I missed it at the time." But I can't sort of sit him down and say, "Tell me the story of your life." It doesn't happen that way. Conversations are how it happens. Lots and lots of them.
But I cut him loose because it was time. It's time for me to find a way to be at least semi-without him. I will not be COMPLETELY without him. That's just not the way Asian families work and that's not the way I want to be anyway. But I do need to be something outside of here, outside of him and us and Mom and my brothers, at least some of the time. Because sometimes I feel stifled. Sometimes I need space and Asian families are not good at space.
- I posted this on HitRECord today:
"Bismillah.
The last time I left my office for work, I almost had a major panic attack. I staved it off and managed to carry on. The results, in terms of output, were not great. But I'm proud of myself. I really am. I managed to calm down without the drugs.
Without the drugs. Without the drugs. Without the drugs. That's so huge for me. Using the methods that I was taught in therapy, I managed to calm down. I learned something and I put it to good use. I'm really proud of myself Alhamdulillah.
Let my boss yell at me. I can't tell her I'm battling social anxiety. I won't tell her. It's none of her business. It doesn't matter what she thinks anyway.
Can you tell that I'm both scared of getting yelled at and proud of my strength at the same time? I feel like Jack in Fight Club smiling with a split lip and a mouth full of blood."
- I've been wondering about pain and why people give each other pain. I guess it's about power. I've been thinking about my abusive ex and now - just now, in fact…the tears are still fresh on my cheeks – I was thinking of my brother and all the awful things he said about Islam some years back. He was picking a fight. He was pushing a button. He was trying to hurt me, trying to make me cry. That's all it was. I didn't know anything. Why would he ask me if he really wanted to know the answers? I didn't know the answers and he didn't want to know them anyway. He just wanted power.
I'm proud to say that most of my life, I have never felt that corrupting power and I don't ever want to feel it. Alhamdulillah. God protect me. Aoudhubillah.
I guess human-on-human crime on all scales has always been about power and politics. No? Yes? I'll find out Insha Allah. As the prophet (SAWS) said, "Gain knowledge from the cradle to the grave."
Wassalam and Fee Amanillah,
Zed.
Tuesday, 6 January 2009
Personal Space
Bismillah-ir-Rahman-ir-Raheem.
Assalam alaikum!!
So I live in an overpopulated area of a criminally wealthy city. No, literally – it's a crime.
Last Friday, I was driving home in the early afternoon with my parents and the teeming crowds were a sight to see. We thought someone had passed away or something had happened for there to be so many people on the streets.
It was a Friday and I reckon most of these dudes didn't really have anywhere to go or any money to spend once they got there. So they just – hang around. In the least cool, least mundane, least relaxing way. There were so many of them it seemed like they were just standing in their own square foot of air and that was enough for them.
In an effort to save some money to remit home, men are stuffed 18 to a room in these badly maintained old buildings. I've seen dogs and chickens treated with more humanity.
It got me thinking about personal space. I'm privileged enough to live with my family and have my own room (only in this fricking city would that be considered a privilege. In other cities, you can at least close the door.) When I was in Melbourne, we did this exercise in our performance class. We intruded into each other's space. For some reason, I decided to go for the most tender part of my partner's body and that was her Adam's apple. My partner (can't remember her name) pushed at my shoulder, almost pushing me away. I can't blame her. To this day, I'm embarrassed. I apologised after it was done, but I don't think it was enough.
Other people simply got up in each other's grill. Which basically meant inching closer and closer until they got uncomfortable. Which, for these two guys in my line of sight, was about an inch away from each other. Pretty darn close.
And to think that these men spend their free time that far away from each other.
I got to thinking about the times I've felt that feeling, of being closed, trapped and having no space to stretch. Physically, Alhamdulillah, I've not felt that very often. Emotionally though, all the time. People have circumscribed my right to express myself, my right to think, my right to feel, my right to write and be whatever I want to be. I have circumscribed myself, put myself in my own little cage – unconsciously, of course.
In the end, I think personal space (the physical type) leads to mental and emotional space as well. If you can stretch your legs and pace in your room, you can pace in your head as well. You can sort out your thoughts. You can stop your temper from flowing over, you can cry your eyes out if you want to (I know I have) – you can perform all the sorts of emotional maintenance you would want to after a long hard day.
What does personal space mean to you guys?
Wassalam and Fee Amanillah,
Zed.
Assalam alaikum!!
So I live in an overpopulated area of a criminally wealthy city. No, literally – it's a crime.
Last Friday, I was driving home in the early afternoon with my parents and the teeming crowds were a sight to see. We thought someone had passed away or something had happened for there to be so many people on the streets.
It was a Friday and I reckon most of these dudes didn't really have anywhere to go or any money to spend once they got there. So they just – hang around. In the least cool, least mundane, least relaxing way. There were so many of them it seemed like they were just standing in their own square foot of air and that was enough for them.
In an effort to save some money to remit home, men are stuffed 18 to a room in these badly maintained old buildings. I've seen dogs and chickens treated with more humanity.
It got me thinking about personal space. I'm privileged enough to live with my family and have my own room (only in this fricking city would that be considered a privilege. In other cities, you can at least close the door.) When I was in Melbourne, we did this exercise in our performance class. We intruded into each other's space. For some reason, I decided to go for the most tender part of my partner's body and that was her Adam's apple. My partner (can't remember her name) pushed at my shoulder, almost pushing me away. I can't blame her. To this day, I'm embarrassed. I apologised after it was done, but I don't think it was enough.
Other people simply got up in each other's grill. Which basically meant inching closer and closer until they got uncomfortable. Which, for these two guys in my line of sight, was about an inch away from each other. Pretty darn close.
And to think that these men spend their free time that far away from each other.
I got to thinking about the times I've felt that feeling, of being closed, trapped and having no space to stretch. Physically, Alhamdulillah, I've not felt that very often. Emotionally though, all the time. People have circumscribed my right to express myself, my right to think, my right to feel, my right to write and be whatever I want to be. I have circumscribed myself, put myself in my own little cage – unconsciously, of course.
In the end, I think personal space (the physical type) leads to mental and emotional space as well. If you can stretch your legs and pace in your room, you can pace in your head as well. You can sort out your thoughts. You can stop your temper from flowing over, you can cry your eyes out if you want to (I know I have) – you can perform all the sorts of emotional maintenance you would want to after a long hard day.
What does personal space mean to you guys?
Wassalam and Fee Amanillah,
Zed.
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