I am not always self-destructive, you know.
I have learned how to embrace darkness instead of keeping it at bay. It's not a peaceful coexistence, but sometimes you need to get your hands dirty before you can put it to real use
I am where I am not because I care too little. I actually do. Too much. I seldom love, and have very little people that I choose to love. But when I do, I love like a madwoman.
Which is why I ended up here
I am working on healing, not giving a shit about placating anyone, and more on self-care.
I can take care of myself
I always have
love and light
f.
Tuesday, 28 January 2014
2013 - belated recap
year kicked off with the death someone i love(d) [still uncomfortable using the past tense]
jan
fuck classes
mid-feb
pitch-black mode, retreated into cave, social isolation. first diagnosis on V-day
april
heightened social isolation
emergency room drama. four hours alone questioning my sanity. met face-to-face with death. survived, but scathed.
also failed two courses
mid-april
therapy commenced
found a best friend for life
may
summer sunshine. more rejection
june
few weeks of stability. until mom's phone call on her birthday.
mental breakdown resumed.
july
i honestly can't remember anything
....
switched therapist - clinical therapy
confrontation with previously undiscovered emotional abuse in childhood
august
gave a middle finger to Toronto
West-coast bound to meet with my soulsistabrownradicalwarrior
Whale-watching. Cried for something majestic for the first time in a very, very long time.
7 hours and sleepless in Seattle
Conversation at the beach before I left with the sister of my heart. Unpacking post-colonial historical amnesia and trauma. Confessions on brown girl bodies and sexuality. We got closer than ever.
Morning before returning to T-dot: basking in the sunlight, lying down at the park with my soulsista, embracing being brown. loving being brown. loving being radically brown. racialized passionistas. also surrounded by four weddings happening at the same time.
Officially started referring to myself as mixed-race and Brown, politically and ethnically. No more running away from the shame of generational forced assimilation. No more denying my identity that I was made to be ashamed of my whole life.
september
came back confused, unprepared for what i discovered about myself
mental breakdown 2.0
...............................
medications and meditations
and thus The Prozac Diaries began
october
found a healing space. found a mentor.
started writing vigorously again. with other brown women survivor-warriors.
perhaps found a glimpse of 'home'
november
still didn't give a shit about school
humbled by survivors of sexual violence
................
and then the phone call that changed everything
december
a 'perfect' full circle to top off the year - nearly lost my mom
fucked life and everything else - went back home asap
swallowed more anti-d pills at home more than i ever had here
suicidal tendencies came back
still haven't made peace with 'home'
failed two more courses
............................
i am really an adult now, and barely functioning
here's to 2014
inshaallah.
until i see that silver lining.
jan
fuck classes
mid-feb
pitch-black mode, retreated into cave, social isolation. first diagnosis on V-day
april
heightened social isolation
emergency room drama. four hours alone questioning my sanity. met face-to-face with death. survived, but scathed.
also failed two courses
mid-april
therapy commenced
found a best friend for life
may
summer sunshine. more rejection
june
few weeks of stability. until mom's phone call on her birthday.
mental breakdown resumed.
july
i honestly can't remember anything
....
switched therapist - clinical therapy
confrontation with previously undiscovered emotional abuse in childhood
august
gave a middle finger to Toronto
West-coast bound to meet with my soulsistabrownradicalwarrior
Whale-watching. Cried for something majestic for the first time in a very, very long time.
7 hours and sleepless in Seattle
Conversation at the beach before I left with the sister of my heart. Unpacking post-colonial historical amnesia and trauma. Confessions on brown girl bodies and sexuality. We got closer than ever.
Morning before returning to T-dot: basking in the sunlight, lying down at the park with my soulsista, embracing being brown. loving being brown. loving being radically brown. racialized passionistas. also surrounded by four weddings happening at the same time.
Officially started referring to myself as mixed-race and Brown, politically and ethnically. No more running away from the shame of generational forced assimilation. No more denying my identity that I was made to be ashamed of my whole life.
september
came back confused, unprepared for what i discovered about myself
mental breakdown 2.0
...............................
medications and meditations
and thus The Prozac Diaries began
october
found a healing space. found a mentor.
started writing vigorously again. with other brown women survivor-warriors.
perhaps found a glimpse of 'home'
november
still didn't give a shit about school
humbled by survivors of sexual violence
................
and then the phone call that changed everything
december
a 'perfect' full circle to top off the year - nearly lost my mom
fucked life and everything else - went back home asap
swallowed more anti-d pills at home more than i ever had here
suicidal tendencies came back
still haven't made peace with 'home'
failed two more courses
............................
i am really an adult now, and barely functioning
here's to 2014
inshaallah.
until i see that silver lining.
Tuesday, 26 November 2013
I have been purposely 'overdosing' myself in the past few nights.
I don't care what the consequences are at this point, I just want to sleep at night without crying and killing myself a little inside.
Oh Lord, you've taken away four people that I love in the last two years without me having the chance to say goodbye.
Don't take my mother away from me too. Let her survive this calamity safe and sound.
Even if it means taking my life in return I would gladly welcome it. Just keep her alive.
I don't care what the consequences are at this point, I just want to sleep at night without crying and killing myself a little inside.
Oh Lord, you've taken away four people that I love in the last two years without me having the chance to say goodbye.
Don't take my mother away from me too. Let her survive this calamity safe and sound.
Even if it means taking my life in return I would gladly welcome it. Just keep her alive.
Tuesday, 19 November 2013
Why this blog is not for me anymore
Simple:
I am not my former self.
The reflections in these blogs no longer portray the girl that I have shed, the woman I have become, and the person I long to be.
I have survived grief, death, loneliness, moments doubting my own sanity, and also a close attempt at suicide. (Alhamdulillah I'm still alive)
Stylistically, my writings have changed too, for I am no longer the same ingenue poetess that I was growing up. In my younger adolescent years, I was much more influenced by 'Classic' White-middle-class-heterocentric poets of English and French Romanticism. (not that I don't read them anymore, and I am not in anyway criticizing their writing styles)
In the last couple of years, in my attempt at navigating through spaces which I am barred from due to my race and gender, I am increasingly drawn to narratives by People of Colour who bleed ink to resist the Eurocentric - White Supremacist status quo. I find myself reading more and more of Suheir Hammad, Saul Williams, Warsan Shire, Nizar Qabbani, Mahmoud Darwish and Sonia Sanchez. Audre Lorde's poems and journals have pretty much become my bible these days.
I am more violent, visceral and I am not afraid to flaunt my passions now.
And I don't shy away from sexuality or eroticism anymore, another side of me that I have always ignored - I embrace it. I am a Woman of Colour, I am Brown and proud, I have learned how to slowly hone the dirt hurled upon my skin into gold armour. I have never shied away from talking about sex, and discussing the power of female sexuality is central to my stylistic maturation, and also my personal growth as a cisgendered hetereosexual Woman of Colour, who identifies as Muslim.
There is no 'dichotomy' here. Muslim women are not sexless, nor should we ever be hypersexualized. We have bodies and desires, we have our own ways of connecting with our Creator. We don't need 'guidance' from hypocritical misogynists in our own community. We are capable of finding spiritual meaning in our lives should we choose to do so. To foreigners, back off your pretentious neocolonial White saviour mentality of giving 'voice' to us. Do not effing steal our agency.
Two years ago I wouldn't know half of these terms I've used above.
So yeah, Blogger is not the right platform for me anymore to discuss the multifaceted intersectionality between politics, oppression, gender, spirituality and art.
Light and love, yours truly.
I am not my former self.
The reflections in these blogs no longer portray the girl that I have shed, the woman I have become, and the person I long to be.
I have survived grief, death, loneliness, moments doubting my own sanity, and also a close attempt at suicide. (Alhamdulillah I'm still alive)
Stylistically, my writings have changed too, for I am no longer the same ingenue poetess that I was growing up. In my younger adolescent years, I was much more influenced by 'Classic' White-middle-class-heterocentric poets of English and French Romanticism. (not that I don't read them anymore, and I am not in anyway criticizing their writing styles)
In the last couple of years, in my attempt at navigating through spaces which I am barred from due to my race and gender, I am increasingly drawn to narratives by People of Colour who bleed ink to resist the Eurocentric - White Supremacist status quo. I find myself reading more and more of Suheir Hammad, Saul Williams, Warsan Shire, Nizar Qabbani, Mahmoud Darwish and Sonia Sanchez. Audre Lorde's poems and journals have pretty much become my bible these days.
I am more violent, visceral and I am not afraid to flaunt my passions now.
And I don't shy away from sexuality or eroticism anymore, another side of me that I have always ignored - I embrace it. I am a Woman of Colour, I am Brown and proud, I have learned how to slowly hone the dirt hurled upon my skin into gold armour. I have never shied away from talking about sex, and discussing the power of female sexuality is central to my stylistic maturation, and also my personal growth as a cisgendered hetereosexual Woman of Colour, who identifies as Muslim.
There is no 'dichotomy' here. Muslim women are not sexless, nor should we ever be hypersexualized. We have bodies and desires, we have our own ways of connecting with our Creator. We don't need 'guidance' from hypocritical misogynists in our own community. We are capable of finding spiritual meaning in our lives should we choose to do so. To foreigners, back off your pretentious neocolonial White saviour mentality of giving 'voice' to us. Do not effing steal our agency.
Two years ago I wouldn't know half of these terms I've used above.
So yeah, Blogger is not the right platform for me anymore to discuss the multifaceted intersectionality between politics, oppression, gender, spirituality and art.
Light and love, yours truly.
Monday, 23 September 2013
every writer's nightmare
I just lost an entire document of my writing drafts and fragments in Evernote. I don’t know what happened they just all disappeared and there is nothing I can do even with the undo button.
I’m really upset. And I just wrote the longest prose poetry I’ve written in a while. I can’t even cry right now because I’m just too frustrated.
I was about to sleep. No peace for me tonight :(
I’m really upset. And I just wrote the longest prose poetry I’ve written in a while. I can’t even cry right now because I’m just too frustrated.
I was about to sleep. No peace for me tonight :(
Sunday, 22 September 2013
who paved the road
i once knew a man
who only danced on pavements
we learned how to tango
in this country
even when we could not
stay upright
because our feet
are a patchwork
our heels are a heartbreak
its cracks a phantom continent
a relic home
for us
barefoot dancers
forced to twirl on asphalt
with drills and cranes
who only danced on pavements
we learned how to tango
in this country
even when we could not
stay upright
because our feet
are a patchwork
our heels are a heartbreak
its cracks a phantom continent
a relic home
for us
barefoot dancers
forced to twirl on asphalt
with drills and cranes
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