I wrote this on the night of the 19th into the early hours of the 20th. Now, as I edit on the 23rd, my perspective has shifted in ways I couldn’t have predicted. The words remain, yet they stand in contrast to everything I’ve felt since. I still however, wanted to share this. ♡
When you become hurt and your wound begins to bleed, you're set with two choices. You can call for help, the ambulance will appear, the doctors will help you, bandaging you up carefully & all will be well. Or you can take the chance that this deep cut will heal. Slowly but surely it'll become a scar-something you'll brush your fingers over and smile knowing you trusted your body to be good to you. That, however, is just a possibility. You could bleed out right then and there realization hitting too late to matter.
Or you could trust your body, believing it could heal, even if only just a little, because you know it's feasible. Instead, it would persist, endlessly making you wince, the wound reopening and bleeding over and over again until you feebly make your way to the hospital, when they find you, they will ask, "Why didn’t you come sooner?"
You will say, "I thought my body could take it."
My day's have grown so soft.
Bottled-up resentment finally took its toll on me, and I was bleeding out too much, so I had to take the leap; it was terrifying, but I did it anyway. I ate my grapes then and there, sobbing, not like in the movies, all bittersweet and controlled, but ugly, shaking like some Victorian child. My words were twisted against me, but I yelled loud enough to get most of it out, and I’m so incredibly proud of myself for doing that. From now on, I will always hold my ground and trust myself. There’s still so much doubt, so much anxiety sitting heavy inside me. I push away the things I want to do, and every interaction feels strange. I used to shrug off every little nuance without a second thought, something I admired about myself for the longest time, but now I pick apart every movement, every word, overanalysing them, searching for something to be afraid of, even when there’s nothing there. Even writing this fills me with unease because I know I’m putting this somewhere, something that months ago I wouldn’t have thought twice about. Nevertheless, this is the only way I can get myself to slow down, to try to express myself in a way that I can be understood.
The one thought that's gnawing away at me is the importance of certain conversations. In this current moment, every conversation feels meaningless, and it should be this way because of my perspective on the world— knowing that a conversation without the mention of Allah is time wasted (which is ultimately the truth). But I feel every interaction is meaningless simply because that's just the way it is. It's really hard to encounter someone with something original to say, a fresh perspective, new ideas. How am I supposed to feel inspired by you if you're consuming the same things as everyone else? Our conversations are just whatever's trending on TikTok and Twitter. I know that we're all just a myriad of the people around us, but if everyone's the same, how are we any different from each other? I used to cut people off without a second thought; my indifference stemmed from my naivety—believing that someday I'd find these idealized figures. I thought they would freely waltz into my life and shower me with love, inspiration, and mentorship, but I know now that's not the case. I should forge my own experiences in the real world instead of depending on some near future I was so convinced would somehow occur on its own.
I tried to voice this to someone a few weeks ago, and I was called an Arabic word I'd never encountered before—مصلحجي, meaning someone who befriends people just to gain something. Even after hours of explaining myself, I felt misunderstood. I don't think I'm better than you. I want better for me. I love you, and I want to be your friend, but I wish for a greater world, a greater purpose, and meaning in life. ( Edit ; we do have the greatest purpose in life. We were given the blessed chance to worship Allah, I got waaay too into my own head.) I think everyone does. I have a hard time even trying to make a life for myself. Your nuances, your repetitive mistakes, the limited perspective with which you consume yourself whole—that's not a world I want to be a part of. I have a slight idea of the future I want to create, and it doesn't fit all of you into it. Are relationships meant to be this way? Will love precede this feeling? Can I mould my world to forcefully fit you inside?
I've left my mark on a lot of people unintentionally. I still regard myself as a people pleaser, but it hasn't felt as shameful anymore. I wanted to help every single being in my vicinity, and a lot of the time, it actually ended up hurting me—running around trying to fix the situations in everyone else's life while doing nothing for myself. [Why is it so much easier to do things for others but not for yourself? Maybe for the validation they give you. But even then, they’d give me that attention without me doing anything for them, so...??]. I used to base my worth on the health of the relationships around me— also, how much serotonin and dopamine those relationships gave me. If I didn't feel happy enough, I wasn't doing enough, which is honestly kind of cute now that I think about it. But somewhere in my isolation, I realized it didn’t matter how much effort you put in—only how it made them feel. So I stopped myself from doing these things. It's been a few months now, I can't remember the last time I went out of my way to do something for a friend yet they all seem appreciative toward me and for that, I feel such incredible guilt. *There was another version of me that could've given you the love you deserved.*
I'm so content with the identity I've created for myself, yet there's so much that still needs to change. I need to fill these shoes I’ve handmade. But even as I stand in them, I crave change. I want to be something different every second of my life. I want to be everything all at once.For example, I never wanted to have opinions on anything. It was easier to stay quiet, to avoid conflict, to let things pass me by without questioning them [a symptom of my people-pleasing.] I made sure nothing i ever said anything that could be used against me. I saw humans as egotistical, loud, only ever caring about themselves and how their feelings projected onto everything else. (I still do, by the way.) Having an opinion felt like a burden—something that demanded explanation, something that made me vulnerable. What if I was wrong? What if I changed my mind? What if speaking meant exposing parts of myself I hadn't yet figured out? But I’m starting to realize that being wrong is okay. It means I’m thinking, evolving, allowing myself to exist outside of fear.
I was reading this essay last week. [ The world works so mysteriously because this morning, she—out of everyone—read my horrid post?. Not that I’m being insecure, but I genuinely put no passion into it, unlike this for example, this has all my heart. ] In that post, she talked about Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar. I hadn’t thought much about that book before, but the part about how she interpreted the figs—how they help you, how they’re stepping stones—opened my eyes. I used to think the figs would just sit there, waiting, and I could stare at them for as long as I wanted, i didn't ever believe that they could ever rot and fall to my feet, I thought i had all the time in the world. But time doesn't wait, the figs won't wait—I have to catch them as they fall and take what i can.
this post is unfinished & unrefined but is live because i feel so entirely seen by the universe, you were one of the juxtapostions m_e
The rest will unfold with the dawn. goodnight (˘˘ ♡)
to newfound friendships and being wrong.