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.
Sunday, 8 February 2009
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.
Wednesday, 31 December 2008
I almost forgot HitRECord!
Bismillah-ir-Rahman-ir-Raheem.
Assalam alaikum wr wb!
Well, it would be extravagant to say that HitRECord changed my life. That, to me, implies, some sort of lightning bolt event that shakes you up and turns you upside down. That's not what HitRECord was. And that's good. Because I've been struck by so many lightning bolts this year, I'm still sizzling.
Artistically, HitRECord opened my mind up to a million possibilities. I had somewhere I could put my words and someone to toss sentences at. My little heart sang as my words got caught up in images, videos, songs and on the tongues of people on the other side of the world. Who woulda thunk it?!!
I've begun to love images again as well. I'm still a little jaded - or maybe a little frightened? Either way, I have the courage to view film a little differently now.
I made a Get By sign for Woody's project. And quite by accident, I have stumbled onto my love of art again. I used to love art class when I was a kid. I was no Michaelangelo, but I loved the smell of oil pastels on my fingers and getting my hands dirty with paint and pencil ash. I had a lot of energy and getting down and dirty and doing something with my hands really expended a lot of that.
Now my trabajo requires me to sit in front of the computer for hours and sometimes, I feel that, if I see another screen, I'll throw a shoe at it. And sometimes, I place my life in such a tiny constricted space that I really can't be productive. So I'm hoping painting (particularly pastel painting) will help me get out of my head a little.
But most surprisingly of all (to me at least), HitRECord helped me redefine community.
My parents always have stories of their youth in Kandy. Stories that have been handed down for generations and probably been mutilated in the process, but they're still pretty interesting and I can tell a lot of emotion is caught up in the witnessing, the telling and the retelling of those stories. Seriously, they were involved in some of the most pivotal events of their neighbours' lives - wife-beatings, divorces, child-birth, drug abuse, alcohol abuse.
One thing I hate about living in the city and in the new millennium is that we don't have that sense of community.
Sometimes you want to yell and scream, but you know that no one's listening and no one cares. But on HitRECord, people do. They might not always respond, but you know there's a soul behind a pair of eyes watching you type furiously in the night. I know there is because people have sent me PMs saying so, perhaps months after the fever has passed, but still...it means a lot to me.
OK, so we might not have a little tight-knit community like my parents had in Kandy. But still in the act of RECording and Re-RECording, hearts, souls and butts are put on the line. And we remind each other that we are not alone. WE ARE NOT ALONE. And that's a huge deal.
HitRECord allowed me to figure things out in my own time. It allowed me to stumble in the dark, crash into things, maybe upset a few people, but eventually find my place.
And for that, I thank you, Joe, Dan and Teafaerie and everybody beautiful on that darn anachronistically polite forum. Woo-hoo! We made into the new year! I honestly didn't think I would, but here I am, hours away from '09. And you guys had a huge part to play in that. Really.
Wassalam and Fee Amanillah,
Zed.
Assalam alaikum wr wb!
Well, it would be extravagant to say that HitRECord changed my life. That, to me, implies, some sort of lightning bolt event that shakes you up and turns you upside down. That's not what HitRECord was. And that's good. Because I've been struck by so many lightning bolts this year, I'm still sizzling.
Artistically, HitRECord opened my mind up to a million possibilities. I had somewhere I could put my words and someone to toss sentences at. My little heart sang as my words got caught up in images, videos, songs and on the tongues of people on the other side of the world. Who woulda thunk it?!!
I've begun to love images again as well. I'm still a little jaded - or maybe a little frightened? Either way, I have the courage to view film a little differently now.
I made a Get By sign for Woody's project. And quite by accident, I have stumbled onto my love of art again. I used to love art class when I was a kid. I was no Michaelangelo, but I loved the smell of oil pastels on my fingers and getting my hands dirty with paint and pencil ash. I had a lot of energy and getting down and dirty and doing something with my hands really expended a lot of that.
Now my trabajo requires me to sit in front of the computer for hours and sometimes, I feel that, if I see another screen, I'll throw a shoe at it. And sometimes, I place my life in such a tiny constricted space that I really can't be productive. So I'm hoping painting (particularly pastel painting) will help me get out of my head a little.
But most surprisingly of all (to me at least), HitRECord helped me redefine community.
My parents always have stories of their youth in Kandy. Stories that have been handed down for generations and probably been mutilated in the process, but they're still pretty interesting and I can tell a lot of emotion is caught up in the witnessing, the telling and the retelling of those stories. Seriously, they were involved in some of the most pivotal events of their neighbours' lives - wife-beatings, divorces, child-birth, drug abuse, alcohol abuse.
One thing I hate about living in the city and in the new millennium is that we don't have that sense of community.
Sometimes you want to yell and scream, but you know that no one's listening and no one cares. But on HitRECord, people do. They might not always respond, but you know there's a soul behind a pair of eyes watching you type furiously in the night. I know there is because people have sent me PMs saying so, perhaps months after the fever has passed, but still...it means a lot to me.
OK, so we might not have a little tight-knit community like my parents had in Kandy. But still in the act of RECording and Re-RECording, hearts, souls and butts are put on the line. And we remind each other that we are not alone. WE ARE NOT ALONE. And that's a huge deal.
HitRECord allowed me to figure things out in my own time. It allowed me to stumble in the dark, crash into things, maybe upset a few people, but eventually find my place.
And for that, I thank you, Joe, Dan and Teafaerie and everybody beautiful on that darn anachronistically polite forum. Woo-hoo! We made into the new year! I honestly didn't think I would, but here I am, hours away from '09. And you guys had a huge part to play in that. Really.
Wassalam and Fee Amanillah,
Zed.
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