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.
Wednesday, 6 May 2009
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)