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.