A Random Update Before The Year Ends

Why hello my darlings. I shall start this post by saying: having someone you know you should love disappoint you is like depending on someone for notes from class only to realize that it's finals time and they still haven't sent you the notes.

My metaphors are all concerned with university because I was writing this post during the last month of the term and things were hectic. November puts the 'tic' in hectic...

Anyway, there was too much stimulus in my life and it's like everyone and everything decided to take a dump on me the minute I decided I was going to have myself a nice year. In terms of personal life: do not even get me started. In terms of uni life: I had so many papers I procrastinated on and the deadlines slapped me in the face. Of course I was drafting a blog post when I was supposed to be working on them and I hadn't written once since September. Which is what one does when one finds some spare time to waste and one is not procrastinating by spending their time on YouTube. 

I am once again wandering aimlessly through life. I find that I don't want to be a teacher anymore. I don't think teaching teenagers the joys of the English language will be that fun when they're probably going to be like middle sis and her friends whose lives are focused on snapchat, instagram, vine, or whatever new app it is-- I know, I sound old. A few more years and I'll have lived a quarter of a century and I haven't DONE anything with my life. I hate everything and everyone and whenever I seem to get myself out of a rut I manage to fall in another one. I'm also (for the first time) looking for a job. Yes, to all you lovely folks who know me to be pampered and having never worked a day... I mean, I've tutored and I worked at that ghastly kids' day camp last year but that was the only actual job I had where I had to be there at certain hours. I don't want to do anything too adventurous but maybe some socializing with human beings is what I need. I'm tired of isolating myself but I can't seem to stop... I found some nice friends then I made it all awkward by becoming so dependent and needy. It's like I can't believe I've got a friend and I stop being able to make choices for myself and become this horrible whiny and incapable person... I've also become way too self-indulgent. If I write a sentence I give myself a congratulatory handshake and then watch a million videos and binge on so much food that I can't go back to finish my work because 

A) I feel sick 

B) I've wasted too much time and I've become sleepy

Those of you who actually read my posts may realize that this is my yearly depression cycle. So to all you darling people who are feeling alone at this time of the year, who are feeling like life is just not what it should be: it's okay. Knowing that I'm not the only one and that I'm not alone in these feelings is what keeps me going. Too often these days the mantra is just keep going so maybe if enough of us chant it we'll form a positive cult out of this negativity :/ 

And now for another late night of sad stories and deleted paragraphs. 

p.s.: my new year's resolutions are: 

1) Write more 

2) Eat less

3) Sleep on time

4) Stop hating myself and life in general 

How cheerful. Let's hope I can at least be strong and do one of those 4 things.  

--F

To M, With Love

My best friend is going through a really rough time. Sometimes life does that to you. It slaps you in the face, sends you rolling down a cliff towards shark infested waters, and basically just takes a dump on you. Moving on is such a chore. It requires filing through memories without breaking down, feeling bitter, or having regrets. Moving on is about seizing the day even though you feel like it's just too damned much to grasp. Moving on is about moving through pain. Torrential pain, the barrage of emotions that just won't leave you alone. I'm reminded of my depression post from a while ago. Things seemed so bleak back then. Or that lemonade post where I'd been struggling to make a difficult choice. Sometimes the only choice is to wait and waiting sucks. Waiting for your heart to heal is the most excruciating experience. The smallest things remind you of the person or thing you've left behind-- in some cases they've been ripped from you by fate or sheer bad luck. What I want my friend to know is: I'm here for you. Although I'm going through my own obstacles, there is not one moment that passes where I'm not thinking of you. I goofed and overreacted yesterday but it's only because I really love you.

And for those who also feel this crappy, guess what? It's fine. It's normal to feel bad, normal to feel hurt. Remember the snow leopard post? Or what about this depressing post? For everyone one of my sad days I'm sure there's someone out there who has them as well-- probably ones that were even worse. The important part is to hold on to life and give it a bloodied smile as you emerge the victor from its onslaught.

Keep this thought in my mind when ppl hurt you -.-

This is us <3

Late Eid Ramblings

This Eid we had family over from another province. It's always weird to be reminded that you have parts of your family that you don't see much and even weirder when you do see them and feel estranged. It was hard to stay in the Eid spirit and include them in it when it was obvious that to them, it was just another day. I was paradoxically reminded of Christmas when I saw their lack of excitement. During Christmas you can feel the holiday spirit pouring out from shop windows, flickering in the lights on people's houses during December, and the festivities are generally enjoyed by all people. I wish Eid was more like that here. I am told that in Arab countries people are all off work, public holidays are called, and the whole country partakes in celebrations that extend into the three days of Eid. I don't want Eid to become Christmas and I don't want Christmas to become Eid, but when I looked at the members of my visiting family who don't really understand or appreciate Eid, I was upset because Eid and Muslim culture are seen as reserved for Muslims and the practicing ones at that. I wish Eid was more of a public celebration so that people like my visiting family wouldn't forget what it's like to celebrate it.

It's interesting how public events affect the private life, and I recall Deborah Nelson's article "Plath, history and poltics" that I read in my summer term at UBC. At one point she discusses how the public became the private with the 50s cold war sentiments and I think that with marketing and advertising, the same can be said for holidays. For example, when I wrote about the Christmas spirit I quickly recounted shop windows. When I was younger, you could always tell when Christmas was nearing because of the shows that had holiday specials and the commercials with kids opening up gifts. If Eid (or other religious celebrations) got the same media coverage and hype, then I'm pretty sure a lot of kids wouldn't be staring at you weirdly as you tried to explain to them that no, today is very special because of Ramadan ending and that today is significant religiously and for them as well.

This isn't to say that I ever feel a sense of lacking during Eid time. Growing up, there was always the excitement knowing that your parents have got you presents that are hidden somewhere around the house and that you'll get after Eid salah. As we got older, the excitement for presents turned into a curiosity about the envelope that had your eideyyeh (money given at Eid) in it. Throughout all the excitement of gift giving, our parents never forgot to remind us why it was we were celebrating and how even though we get presents and material things, what was important was the spirit of giving to those less fortunate and thanking Allah SWT for the blessing of having your family all together, safe, and healthy.

Hopefully Eid al-Adha will be more about the spirit of family, community, love, and worship. For now, I'll be grateful if God could speed up the days until we're back to being just 6 people in our house!

 

Return of the Blog

Internet!!!! *hug*

So it's been a while since my last post. University classes are finally over for the summer and with the beauty and glory of the break comes the realization that I will not graduate on time. Which everyone says is okay but, really, you can see their brains kicking into overdrive trying to quell the little minions inside who are yelling "LOSER!" and laughing maniacally while pointing at you...

Bottom= loser in this imaginary scenario

For those of you who are wondering, I am still trying to find myself. I don't think this will ever end and I don't like that, not one bit. But I've resigned myself to this fact and in my efforts to drown out the old complaining geezer inside, I've found that my fear of writing is still going strong. A few months ago I thought I could overcome this strange new sensation of fearing the lure of assembling words but I've found that the fear has reared its ugly head and transformed itself into writer's block.

Oh, Calvin <3

Each time I begin to write I suddenly jump ahead and begin worrying about the ending of whatever it is I'm writing, responses of the people I plan to show it to, whether or not I can publish it, and a jillion other things. To quiet these obnoxiously loud worries, I've stopped writing. I'm as prickly as ever, my moods get darker and just the thought of picking up a pen or smashing the keyboard to get some coherent thoughts articulated scares me. But it's not like acknowledgement of this fear makes me powerful enough to overcome it, ohhhhh no. The acknowledgement drowns me in another pool of thoughts about past failures and the belief that I will inevitably keep failing. Failing is not acceptable in the universe in my head and that's not to say I haven't failed quite marvelously before. 

I don't even know what this is about anymore. One of my biggest problems is my blog's title. Not the title in and of itself but the idea it represents. I'd thought I was really clever when I came up with this brilliant theory that everything is influenced by outer factors and we don't really create anything ourselves. It's something that has been explored extensively by structuralists like Barthes in his essay "The Death of the Author." He writes that the "text is a tissue of quotations" drawn from "innumerable centers of culture." Reading that, I said to myself by golly, girl, you've been engaging in structuralist discourse. Wellll not really like that. It was more along the lines of something like holy mackerel he plagiarized my blog title GASPPPP. While thinking along those lines, I decided to give up. Who cares. Pi is never-ending so there's no point in writing anything really. It already exists. I also got really depressed when I happened upon Justine Larbalestier's Liar. I swear (to those of you who choose to believe in the sincerity of my vow) that I wanted to write a story with an unreliable narrator who couldn't stop lying. I even had a note on my phone:

I swear on all my Tamora Pierce books that I had never seen Justine Larbalestier's book (published in 2009 vs. my measly note dated December 22, 2013). When I read something that sounded very much like the idea that is in the compost heap which is the Notes app on my phone, I felt so deflated. I have tons of ideas on my phone. I wake up sometimes and quickly type something in and fall asleep. I'm not saying I planned to go far with this idea and I'm glad there exists a book like this but I felt cheated of a little brain baby I could've raised. How's that for a troubling metaphor? 

Anyway, this post isn't about Justine Larbalestier, Roland Barthes, or Tamora Pierce (although I will definitely have a post about her soon). It's about hopes, dreams, and ideas. It's about the university student who is working hard for a future that seems hazy at best. It's about me like a lot of other stuff is. However, there's something different about this summer. I can feel it in the pit of my stomach. The pit of my stomach never lies to me. All other body parts may lie to me but me and the pit-of-my-stomach-feeling, we go way back. So here's hoping that I live up to my current hopes and expectations and am propelled to bring to fruition things that have only existed in my mind thusfar. 

An Informal and Quite Complicated Thank You

A few days ago I was feeling like my world was ending. You could see my thought process deteriorating and at one point I wrote a lot of very depressing stuff. My best friend(who will hereby be referred to as TheAwesomePossum) swooped in and jolted me awake. She sent some pretty life-changing messages (which, being who I am, I decided to ignore) where she basically said to me that I'd accepted this whirlpool of self-hate and had put myself in this state of 'omg I'm a butt'. By not appreciating myself and ignoring all the good things (which I knew I had and she knew I knew this... Which is why I love her because she knew I knew this... Confused yet :P?) and my strengths, I was consciously making the choice to bring myself into a dark pit. 

This is the part of depression which is relative to each person. I'm not saying I'm qualified to become a spokesperson about the struggle being real. Neither am I saying I am not someone you should listen to. What I'm saying is a load of bullshit that I can't word because I seem to be unable to write this fine morning-- you can bring yourself out of whatever torrential downpour of hate you've inflicted upon yourself by listening to the people around you. 

Doesn't matter why you hate yourself. If you're like me and you've got a friend like TheAwesomePossum (and I'm pretty sure you don't because she's one of a kind) then listen to them! 

I can't make sweeping statements like before where I used to cackle in the face of fear and when the whirlpool of hate wasn't something so encompassing. Those were the days when I knew that the whirlpool could be contained within the confines of the bathroom sink and when I washed my face of the tears and snot encouraged by my self-pity. Those were the times of hyperbole and exaggeration, when I could throw around terms like 'woe' and 'despair' without actually feeling them rip my chest apart. I can't say: depression is gone and I have defeated that egregious foe!!!! I know that there will be times when this black-hearted villain will creep up on me. There will be times where I will lose a few skirmishes. But in the end, I know I'll be victorious because I've got some fierce allies by my side. 

Codename TheAwesomePossum gave me a mix of tough love and cyber hugs and even though the ugly beast of depression may rear its head again, she's helped me deal it a few injuries and I don't see a threat in the foreseeable future. 

In a roundabout way I've used an extended metaphor to thank TheAwesomePossum because each time I try to start thanking her it comes out weird, like this morning's questions on trust and if she can keep my secrets -.- I'm sorry I can't articulate things properly and no, you don't have to reassure the 13 year old in me of your trustworthiness. 

And so I shall sign off leaving you all envious of me for having my wonderful friend,  TheAwesomePossum. Come to think of it, she's more of a unicorn but considering her ability to stomach the most appalling of confessions and yours truly's atrocious spelling mistakes, I know she'll appreciate the connotations behind the label and will see it as synonymous with terms like 'magic unicorn', 'sensational Sasquatch', 'cool koala bear', and most importantly: my best friend. 

Relocating Voice

Upon entering university I realized two things:

1) This is not Kansas anymore...

2) I would have to start writing in a different way to please my instructors

All of my elementary school life had been spent writing in my own voice: interposing ideas and opinions, and putting some of myself in my writing. When writing from the point of view of a character, they would have their own voice too. I was the 18th century editorial narrator and I could also switch to the omniscient narrator using the active voice with very little adjectives littered about. In high school I learned to write for different audiences while still being distinctly ME. I wrote cover letters, I wrote essays, poems, stories-- I wrote everything under the sun. Whenever I wrote I would be guided to improve my grammar, to choose better words, to fix my punctuation and to be more concise. All elements to make me a better-rounded writer and which have helped me over the years. 

Enter university life and suddenly everything familiar about my writing was being slaughtered and torn apart. What went wrong? Maybe it was because of my lack of grammar knowledge. On I went to learn about clauses, modifiers, and proper punctuation. 

Enter creative writing classes. While everyone was busy writing realistic fiction I was feverishly writing fantasy and magic realism. While everyone was connecting with the characters who were having "real life experiences" I became embarrassed to stand up and tell everyone about my personified sparrow who was bringing messages to the ex-pilot in prison. I could only choke out my story about the 18th century
French woman who had allegedly murdered her English husband and the estrangement between her and her daughter. My professor would always find something to nitpick about my writing. He labelled it as unrealistic just because I wasn't writing about separated lovers, about coercive/abusive relationships and from his point of view, I wasn't really writing what I knew. I'm sorry I did not live to your expectation of writing about an exotic Arab family with problems. Just because you tell me "you have a beautiful Middle Eastern background you can explore" does not mean I am going to write about something for you to fetishize. What I know is parent-child relationships like my historical fiction story about a girl coming to terms with her parent's past and accepting it as not a definition of her personality. What I like is magic realism like that associated with the ex-pilot and his mysterious origins. But that was not acceptable to my prof and in the end I wrote about a girl whose boyfriend cheated on her. A story that I wrote with barely any exerted effort received an A+. My other well-plotted stories received C's and B-'s. 

I decided to try out one more creative writing class but I never did change my mind about them. Everyone found me eccentric for writing fantasy. I was "funnyyyyyyyyyy" for writing a story about a lucid dreamer. In the online discussions my otherness was accentuated and I was labelled as 'that girl who has a huge imagination'. This pseudo-derogatory term was something I was supposed to accept because when I questioned it I became someone who misunderstood tone on an online discussion forum. Of course. Why should I defend myself when made inferior to what is seen as more worthy writing? Excuse me while I brush up on my guide to real life writing. I do not hate realistic fiction. However I don't see magic realism and historical fiction (among many other genres) as any less worthy of praise. The story of an individual finding their way through adolescence could be explored with high school trauma and other elements from real life experiences. But there are no rules that say I can't use a fictitious backdrop against which I can lay these struggles and have a character develop in a fantasy world just as well as they would in a high school in some part of the Americas.

I am slowly finding my way back to things I love.After shoving the inclination away for so long I've come to realize that there is nothing wrong with writing the genres I love reading. I can become a better storyteller through clarification of character intent and by plotting better-- I don't need to get rid of the imaginary worlds I've made up. The little notes with story ideas strewn over my desk can become pages of great books that others can flip through and enjoy reading and picking apart as much as I will enjoy writing them. The struggle to quell my voice is over because mine is just as good as any other. It's time to write.

Lethargy and Self-hate

It's like these past couple of days have been an emotional storm where my brain is being thrashed around in the confines of my skull. There's a hollow black part in the peripheral vision of my mind's eye. looking inside my head I am able to see my ideas ebb and flow and there's always been an almost tangible feeling of a surplus of thoughts. This past while when I retreat into my head, the blackness in the peripherals grows and swallows everything else. I'm left drowning in this darkness and I'm reminded of my lingering childhood fear of the dark. At night I'm too scared to close my eyes to have that blackness engulf my vision. I am 20 years old and I shake at the thought of sleeping without a hallway light on.

I am plagued with doubts: is this what I want to do? Do I really want to spend my life at school only to graduate then be thrown back into school again? How different is to be at the other side of the teacher's desk in the classroom? You're still being judged by snotty teenagers. I've never explored anything, done anything really spontaneous. Spontaneity and originality is me deciding to take a different bus then staring at the stops waiting to reach the right one. Spontaneity and originality is deciding to turn on my GPS location on my phone then blunder around only to give up and ask someone for directions because of my fear that somehow these directions are wrong. I am the most boring person. When I do have a new idea it is pushed down and pummelled until all that's left is a pulpy mess in my mind. It is swept into the blackness. I like to pretend that I am confident. I act it out pretty well. When people see me walking they see a proud Muslim woman who will not stand for injustice. I commit injustices against myself in my head multiple times a day.

The blackness is my waking nightmare. It's like this is a vacuum made of regrets, doubts, self-hate, and some ominous nothingness which gives voice to my new ShrugEverythingOff attitude. I remember when I used to look in the mirror to see a beautiful young woman staring back. She was even cheeky enough to wink back and laugh off the thought that there are little fairies inside mirrors with cameras who project an image back to us. Now the woman staring back has an aging hopelessness in her eyes juxtaposed against the face of a 15 year old. She doesn't feel confident. She doesn't feel beautiful. She feels ugly, hated, and disgusted with herself and how she has let this force dominate her. She gives in to fainting spells but is too scared to follow through with them and jolts awake before she flops to the floor.

I am a washed out version of myself. A photocopy that walks, talks, and acts like the old me. But on the inside I am a writhing slug letting acid eat away at its heart.