Distances halved by daydreams and memories.

My friendship style is very much of the 'love from a distance and hope they notice me/think of me as much I think of them' variety.

For every year that I have been out of high school, I have met one, maybe two, awesome people (and a lot of other adequate/inadequate/etc) people. That's about 10 all up. They each come from a different circle, different time in my life, different everything, and are a testament to beauty and good you find no matter what situation you find yourself in. And each one of them is worth the thousands of other people I had to wade through.

There are also a handful of people I desperately want to be good friends with, but they have a tight circle of friends around them, like a moat refusing entry to the grand prize. But I think about these people and how good they are and how much I admire them and sometimes I imagine conversations with them, and for now that seems to be enough. It's nice to have things that make your heart smile randomly as you scroll through your newsfeed or think about all of the people in your cohort or whatever. I feel a genuine excitement when I see/hear news of their successes, adventures, getting married, having fun on a day out, whatever it is. And as selfish as this sounds, I also take this feeling as a win for me, because it proves to the self-loathing part of me that I am capable of selflessness, that I can be uncompromisingly happy for others.

With my closest friends - and more accurately, people whom I consider to be my closest friends even though we may not see each other for years at a time - I constantly think about them when I see something they might like, a book they recommended, a place I went with them, a conversation we had. I have the best of intentions in writing to them, catching up, etc. but am always held up by something - I want to give the letter my full attention and I can't when I'm in a stroppy mood. I want to go somewhere fun with them but I don't want to ruin their mood because I can't be fun when I'm like this. And so on, and so on. So many excuses.

But really, these handfuls of pure people are always in my heart and on my mind. I want to be a worthy friend. And I need to be a good companion before I drag them into my mess because otherwise it's just unfair on them. I know that's not really how friendship works, and I would be honoured for any and all of them to pull me into their messes at 3am on the day of my most important exam, because there is nothing more beautiful and fulfilling than someone else seeing something in you that you struggle to see yourself - the fact that you have some good to give and that you can be the person that this friend deserves.

A lot of these reflections are really selfish, and that in itself is another reason that holds me back from constantly running after these friends. I don't want to be in it just because it makes me feel good - although friendship - like any good relationship - basically comes to this - how good you feel being of use to this person.

Sometimes when I am in the pits of despair and loneliness, I list out the names of these people who I stalk and love from a distance and it pulls me right out into the sunshine. This person had something kind to say to me just once - and it is still enough to make me teary-eyed - and for a strong independent woman to see some worth in you makes you feel like maybe you DO have some worth. It all sounds so cheesy (and not in a good way) and it's a bit odd trying to express this sentiment to someone - that thinking about them makes you happy even though you only speak once a year. And it's hard to convey how much of an impact they have had on you - and continue to have - because you never know if the depth of friendship and admiration you feel is reciprocated. But this is one situation in which laying your heart bare is easy, regardless of the consequences. I think this might be love, but I'm not sure. I don't know you can call all deep feelings a reductive label of 'love'. Also be love alone isn't enough. There's respect, and wonder, and gratefulness, and looking up to this person, and knowing that if they wanted a kidney you would hand over your best one, no questions asked.

They are almost like family. My siblings are my wolf-pack, and the rest are my tribe, and some people make it really close, if not into, my wolf-pack. And my tribe is my pride, and my home, and my legacy (if I die tomorrow, these are the people who I got to convince of my worthiness), and what has given my life honour and meaning. Sometimes it takes a single act of kindness or integrity - towards me or observed from a distance - for someone to be initiated into my tribe. These are the people I want to emulate, and the ones whose love and respect would mean the world to me, even if it is all ever from a distance. They don't know I have pulled them into my tribe, but I see them from a distance and I recognise my own.

So really, distance - in time or in location - isn't much of a barrier. People move on and change, but I remember that one text you sent me when I was feeling really down, or that time you said hello to me when I walked into a crowded room of people I didn't know and wanted to run away, or you were the only person not to treat me like a terrifying Other who represents 2billion muslims, or you just let me cut in front of you in a grocery line. Those tiny acts of kindness, integrity, and generosity of spirit are all helping me to see myself with softness, and to believe in the inherent good nature of people. And that is easing two of my biggest burdens, just like a good friend does. So again, and again and again, thank you. And I am always thinking of you. In the least creepy way possible.

I cry over anything and everything, but crying over good things is a new phenomenon (sort of like how I've started vomiting since I got that ughhh cough a few months ago and now I can't stop, but in a good way). Might take a break from sappiness now.

Peace and love,

S.

If this is punk, then punk isn't dead.

Dear (especially muslim) punks that came before me, and to those yet to be born,

This is some of the story behind my eyebrow piercing and the realisations that have come with it. 

A few years ago, I paid a professional to put a hole in my face with an 18gauge needle. It was ~years in the making, but also came at a point of great pain and emotional turmoil (details of the anguish of 3rd year med in the absence of friends and people of integrity may be provided elsewhere). 

Rewind to several years before that. First year med. A housemate told me that I seemed really soft and nice from a distance, 'then you get to know you and it's...". I had never before associated qualities of softness and gentleness with my external appearance. Sure, I was fat and gross and grumpy, but nothing different or more. Over the next few years, I experienced an extraordinary amount of islamophobia, racism, misogyny, and generally inadequate and offensive judgements from my peers and teachers and patients and randoms. There's not really much I can do about this. I can talk and talk and talk but the first and only thing people taken in is the Otherness of my appearance. Plus the value judgement that being short and fat makes me kind and jolly like Santa and obviously desperate for everyone's acceptance. 

So when I had a metal wire shoved into my face, aged 25, it was both an outlet and an exploration of identity. I noticed that people did a bit a double-take when they looked at/spoke with me. One man felt the need to point that he 'had trouble reconciling this *gestures to face* with THIS *points to imaginary hijab*". I laughed politely and said 'Haha yeah I get that a lot' but really no one had said that before.

I guess, looking back, that the nail in my brow is a bit of a middle finger to the judgement that comes from within whatever social group I am in - I refuse to be told how to be a good woman of faith and culture - as well as to the outside - for the same reason. It's weird because even though it has the same effect on muslims and non-muslims, the reactions are a bit different. To the average culturally conservative muslim, I am a rebel and a bad influence on their daughter. To the average cracker, I am a confusing entity, because surely I am oppressed but what about the jewel on my forehead?! It's almost daring both sides to make a comment, to try and tell me what to do. And then watch while I roll my eyes so hard they pop out of my skull.

Lol, I sound like a 16 year old. In my defence, my rebellion as a teenager involved collected Harry Potter articles and pictures. Need to make up for lost time.

I had planned this entry to be a bit more profound when I came up with it in the car earlier. Ah well. 

I guess the point I was coming to was that I am both a cliche and a rebel, and I give props to all those who have walked this road before me, and good luck to those who may follow a similar path. I don't have many answers, but it does make my petty heart happy when a narrow-minded sod notices my eyebrow bar and is suddenly unsure of how to interact with me. I am torn between wanting people to feel comfortable to talk to me, and really hating it when people talk to me, and the piercing is a great way of filtering people out. My uniqueness is not actually unique or special, but in the context of todays discourse around women's bodies, and particularly those of the muslim/woman of colour, my face is a little outside the culturally accepted norm. Also, it is not so much a reflection of my specialness in itself, but a projection of special that I want to be. This is a bit sad and regressive and puerile, but we are what we are. I comfort myself with the thought that at least I use this misfortune for some sort of social commentary and change, and not personal validation alone.

I don't know how punk this really is, but it makes me re-visit my childhood perceptions of punks I saw in books. I wish I could find them and say, I have felt that pain, I have felt that stifling confinement, and I want to fight the good fight alongside you. My struggles in this have softened me somewhat, and for that, I want to say thank you. Thank you for flagging a different method of resistance, thank you for being examples, and thank you for the bravery it takes to stand your ground in the face of a socio-political onslaught of judgement. 

Basically, people are really annoying and I don't like being one of them, but since I can't help being one of them, I want to look pretty and have fun in the process. 

I don't think any part of this flows or makes any real sense. Perhaps I will come back and flesh it out at some other time. Thanks for bearing with me.

Peace and love,

S.

An ode to my first wrinkle.

Dear furrow between my brow -
You are a memory of my anxious youth,
A testament to changing times,
And a tattooed reminder
Of what life can teach.

S.

I want to write again.

I want to write poetry and philosophise and draw breathtaking conclusions from life's simplest facts. I am out of practise, as noted by whoever marked my last reflective journal for med school, but I think I am ready to start becoming more...just more, I guess. Kind of like the muchness that the Mad Hatter talks about in Alice in Wonderland (not sure it it's just in the recent movie or the book as well, it's been so long since I read it).

I want my life to be more.

Peace and love,

S.

Baby Elephants and BAMFs.

I found out that I failed the year I have just repeated. I would have needed a 45 to qualify for re-sits but I managed a 44. Disappointing.

The grief and disappointment comes in waves, a new panic each time. Deep breaths and distractions.

I know that Allah (swt) has a plan, nothing happens without a reason, and I'm trying to accept the truth instead of dwelling on it or getting angry (although there's a certain amount of healthy anger in the grieving process). It's difficult not to be frustrated by what looks like a lack of progress. And also the bizarre lack of avenues for help. It's like the School has put all of it's shields up and armed the muskets in case someone gets close.

I want to be a baby elephant in the muddy planes of somewhere in Africa's heart. I want to flop into the mud and refuse to get up and I want the herd to come and pick me up and then we play in the clean river and and everyone hurrumphs, laughing and joyous.

I am so grateful to everyone who has shown me the smallest kindness. I don't think people realise how much those little things mean. I'm getting a bit teary thinking about all of the sweetest, kindest, most generous people in my life.

I often have moments of aching realisation that I don't really have friends. But not having a best friend doesn't mean that the beautiful souls I have met are any less special, and I know that they will genuinely want to help me and be friends. I think the fact that these generous and open-hearted people are friends with everyone kind of makes me feel like I'm only in their friendship group because they are kind to everyone they come across, but then again, I won't be looking this gift horse in the mouth.

You are what you do often, and if you are around good people who do good things, their goodness will rub off on you and some day or night in the future, you will be just as bright as your favourite star in the sky.
----------------------------------------
Okay I had to take a break to cry because someone sent me a nice message and is just so lovely (she was head of division for this first aid thing I volunteered at in G-town). I think that's happened a couple of times this year - crying because someone was nice. I don't know why we don't all do it more often. There is so much good in the world, behind the big blobs of despair. And I maintain that tears are good for your skin. Pretty sure the only reason I didn't have teenage skin issues was because I cried daily.

Skyped with an amazing friend who is the most self-less person I have ever met. This whisper of wishes in my head keeps wanting her to convert to Islam so we can be in Paradise together. She is such an amazing person, with the biggest heart. She deserves everything good.

So really, my life is not so bad. Being a muddy baby elephant with a herd I can call mine would be lovely. But then I wouldn't have met all of these bamfs. Alhamdulillah for every blessing.

Peace and love,

S.

You want rewiring done right, you have to do it yourself.

I have more feelings to share and it's one of these things that fill in some small part of your heart/soul and it's not a huge stride but it is a shuffle forward. This piece will one day be fleshed out into the most revolutionary of all political compendiums, but here is the first draft.

---------------

Learning to deal with new/current/old things using a new approach means you're literally rewiring your brain. The older you are, the harder it gets, not just because certain pathways have become very strong, but also because you don't necessarily have the means to hijack an existing network to link new thoughts and habits together to your core and growing new branches towards other dendrites takes ages. But you'll get there.

Learning to stay calm - to suppress and redirect the aspects of your flight/fight/freeze of your stress response - that's really tough and so, so, SO hard. But you can do it, because the next time you ask a older privileged white man about how to find a mentor and he immediately tells you that he understands what you're going through and that he has a a good friend who is Indian, you are able to actually say with polite words that 'yeah that's awesome, thank you for your business card, will totes come to you for career/life advice'. And you will do this without crying, or breaking the pen your holding, or literally slamming your head into a brick wall.

You will do this because this person's ignorance is not your fault or your enemy. Yeah, the three-year-old wants to shout NO, the teenager wants to roll her eyes, the young adult wants scream with the injustice of his misconception,. But you have disconnected the reactionary driver, and you deal with the situation with the default politeness you've been working on, and send a few thoughts down to the big processing centre to file away as 'brownie points for self-restraint'.

You are exposing old networks of anxiety and frustration to a pacifist's approach, teaching those high-strung neurones to reach for this new piece of golden nugget with soft hands and a softer heart.

Peace and love,

S.

Mid-20s can hit you like a wayward train.

Sometimes good things happen and sometimes bad things happen.

My problem has always been in the planning and foresight department. When something bad happens I forget that it will pass. I forget all good feelings and thoughts. And I just want the world to end. When good things happen, I forget that this, too, is transient. I forget about the problems I still have to deal with and the stressors that are coming up. I forget to work for my future. Despite all of this, I also forget to be in the moment, so the joy itself isn't appreciable either.

I received feedback on some ethics and law reflection journals and it was a real knock-me-down. The perfect reminder that I am not infallible, that I do not have a single thing that I am good at. I have always thought - perhaps wanted more than actually thought - that I can write and reflect well. This may have been the case some 10 years ago when I was still posting on my blog, which would be updated with teenage angst every second day. But I have stopped journaling and stopped writing for so long now, and it slipped my mind that things don't stay the same. Your talents don't grow or maintain themselves if you give no effort to them.

Today I find myself in a slightly melancholic state. I have glad that my friends will be interns next year, and yet I am so desperately sad that I will be alone as I go through the year and a half that remains. They have so many other friends, other supports and networks around them. But I have none and am unlikely to suddenly find any. I think the worst part is that I am always so desperately eager to make friends and hang out for the friends that I have, and it takes me by surprise when one of actually does something kind for me. I am used to driving the ~40minutes it takes to get to the library or friend's house but have never had the courage to ask anyone to do the same for me. So yesterday when a couple of them drove out of their way to pick me up, I was both embarrassed and bewildered. I don't know why I felt either these things. Surely, I understand by now that friendship is a two-way street? I think I am embarrassed by how desperately I want friends and kindness in my life. Especially given my entire friendship history - I was always the one who was keen to travel two hours to see high school friends and they were keen to travel two hours but not in my direction. Sad.

So I am proof that teenage angst does not doesn't not suddenly let go of its hold on you because you are not longer a teenager. I am jealous of my friends' friendships with each other, and I am insecure in my relationship with them. In some ways I don't feel worthy of their goodness, but I think there must be more it than that.

I think I'll leave this emotional word-vomit here and find a distraction.

Peace and love,

S.

Tea time, no punctuation.

I want to drink black tea and write poetry about how it reflects the depth of my soul but really it’s just dark liquid that will stain a page but not your heart and the bitterness you relish when it’s warm turns stagnant before you’ve reached the bottom of the mug.

Hermit

Like a little hermit crab
In a little hermit shell
I carry my world
On my shoulders
And as the ocean crashes in
I retreat into my little hermit home
And find peace
In my little hermit head

S.

May

May the homeward-bound
rest their feet,
and their souls
find peace.

May the ink that writes
never dry unwritten,
and if the pages are found
their secrets are unhidden.

May your heart keep beating
even as you die,
and remind you
that you once were alive.

S.

That feeling of brittleness but in your face and heart.

I saw my GP today and he said that I was looking much better and more confident today than several months ago, and I nearly started crying again. I held it together, mostly I just didn't want to contradict or disappoint him, but perhaps also because he deserves at least one session in which I don't bawl my eyes out because I'm so stressed.

So instead I told him that I was worried that I have pernicious anaemia and either lupus or rheumatoid arthritis. He agreed to a blood test to help alleviate some stress. Bless him. But I still want to cry.

Sometimes life seems okay as you float by on a superficial level, but then you stop and think for a second and you realise that you are still in this grey, muddy pit and you have just been trying to delude yourself into thinking you see colour in the hole that keeps pulling you in.

I often find myself telling people that I'm just stressed about uni, assignments, etc. but in reality, I don't feel anything except for numb and miserable at the same time. Yeah, I'm stressed about uni and how behind I am, but what's the point in stressing about something you don't think you have the power to change? The reasonable part of your brain tells you that stresses will always be there, but that they don't have to affect you so awfully. Then reality suggests that perhaps there is no hope and therefore no point in stressing, and this stresses you out more but without knowing exactly why you're stressed.

I'm not sure where I'm going with any of this (as ever). The point is that he was super nice and thought I was doing better than I think I am, and I feel so awful for disappointing him with both the not feeling great and with the cliched med student/annoying know-it-all patient who thinks they know what's happening.

Plus I haven't been sleeping well lately (keep waking up like 7 times a night) and the lack of sleep is making me feel weepy. Gah. I'm such a cliche.

Peace and love,

S.

The answer to your midnight existential crisis is always 'there is no point'.

I just came back from an ortho tute at the hospital, where I literally knew nothing.

I almost got away with saying and knowing nothing, until the end where the consultant noted that I hadn't contributed. I was supposed to do an ulnar nerve examination, and I'm not going to lie, I couldn't remember anything about the ulnar nerve, including where it runs or what it is. He was cool about it and I fluffed around a bit (which always looks so much worse than straight-out saying 'I don't know'). And then I didn't understand what he was explaining either.

I think I felt the need to pretend that I knew what I was doing because everyone else knew the answer to every question the consultant had asked/has ever asked and I don't want to give away how stupid or slack I am, even thought it's the truth. I don't even know why I'm so slack or why I don't remember anything I learn.

Anyway, point is, I nearly cried in tute, and I sort of got teary on the way home, and I'm struggling not to cry now.

And this is not what I want my life to be.

TD has pointed out a few times that happiness doesn't last, just like any other feeling, and I know this now and I knew it before she said it, but the problem is that I don't want my lows to be so very low and I don't want to be sad for so much of my life.

On the way out of the tute, I was already contemplating ways to quit med or alternative careers or what I'm going to say to people once I've failed this year.

I go straight to catastrophising every thing that goes wrong, and I can't stop because things have been bad for so long that there's no way anything good can happen ever again.

(See what I mean?)

Sometimes, in the imaginary conversations in my head with imaginary people I will never come across (their faces are of the people who I know now since I can't actually imagine them), these people observe that I seem very depressed, and my response is, 'How can you not be?' and this makes me feel more sad because it's true. How can you live in any form of society, seeing how terrible people can be, seeing the worst parts of yourself in everyone around you, and still find some level of contentment? How can you exist and not see the pointlessness of it all? You're born and you die and in the space in between you reproduce or contribute to society in some other way, and for what? What is the point? So your genes survive and the human race continues, but so what? What is this end point that we're running towards and what is the point of running to it and why does anyone care about anything? What is stopping everyone from just curling up in a corner and letting death take us?

When I'm feeling more positive, I say to these imaginary people that you're born and you die and the best you can hope for is some form of distraction in between to take your mind off the inevitable darkness that will come with death anyway, so there's no need to give in to it now. What stresses you out will eventually kill you, and life is pointless but if you want your death to hold meaning, find something worth worrying about and let that kill you instead.

Sometimes I try to compose poetry and pretend that the poetry of misery is the most profound song the universe can strive for. In 'Not Another Happy Ending' the main character is accused of worshipping her own pain, and I can see how I'm doing that to myself - trying to build my misery into a shining throne from which I can judge others and put my own ego on a pedestal.

I know the reasonable words but I don't feel them. Even when I say them to others, I'm just throwing out the buzzwords in an effort to maintain this facade of an intelligent and hard done by innocent, to somehow absolve myself of any responsibility for my own failures and weaknesses.

I wonder when it will end, and how it will feel to pay penance for the lies I tell myself.

S.

Republic of My Heart

Oh Republic of my Heart
Don't falter in the breaking dawn
The sun will rise
And the blood in your streets
Will transform from seas of black
To warm ruby glow

Stand tall!
Stand tall
And take what is yours
But take care!
Keep at bay
the wolves of your past
with the fire in your depths
And the walls around your softness

Republic!
No one owns you
And you are uncaged
Step forward from your past
And know that I alone
Will hold you
And defend you


S.

The questions that keep us up at night.

The heaviness and warmth of instant sleep - the perfect example of you don't know what you had till it's gone.

Keeping a stable and regular routine - just keeping up with life - is exhausting. Fitting in enough sleep is a struggle, and even more so when you can't turn off your consciousness. Here I will expound on some of the thoughts that keep me up at night. Often I think I am alone in my thoughts, but we are never as special as we think we are - millions before us and millions after have the same thoughts, and sharing them is a comfort in its own way. So here goes.

1. Where do tears come from? Does your body make them on demand? Or is there a reservoir full of tears, just waiting to me shed? Is this why you feel so heavy sometimes, like you haven't cried in a while and you really need to?

2. Why do we have feelings? Emotional feelings, I mean. How does this feeling take place? Where do feelings come from, and where do they go when you forget about them for a while? How do you make the connection between a good thing and a good feeling in yourself? Pain, hunger, etc is easy enough to comprehend, because it has evolutionary and survival value. But what about jealousy? How does your body make the connection with something so abstract?

3. What is a thought? How exactly are opinions and memories stored? I understand the parts of the brains involved and so on, but I don't get how something abstract is stored in a physical location. Kind of like typing on a keyboard and letters coming up on the screen. It's basically the sort of stuff that you can't explain to your grandparents.

4. Why do people feel the need to explain Australian-ness to me? Why do they feel the need to say, 'Well, I'm Australian and this is how/what we say/do?' When you raise the point with them they get very defensive about their racist tendencies, or their white privilege, but their actions are very hard to ignore.

5. Why do people feel the need to look at me, say sorry, and then continue to say something very racist? Does prefacing it with an apology absolve them of their sins? Basically, why are people so sh*t?

This took a downwards turn, so I might stop for a bit. As important as it is to express strong feelings, the majority of mine seem to be angry on a massive scale. I don't want my sense of self to be tied to this. Deep breath.

Peace and love,

S.

Outlets and Disappointments

I think everyone needs a side-project to help them get on with life. A sort of outlet, something different to do, totally unrelated to work or study. I used to read a book a day, update my blog, paint and draw, and over the past couple of years I've found less and less time for it all. I started a vlog this year, a weekly update/summary of my life, and it was going well until the fiasco with my grandpapa's health etc. I keep meaning to get back into but for some reason I never do.

Which brings me to my main point: why is it that even though these things make me happy, and I know they make me happy, and I'm capable of doing them, I have so much trouble actually doing them? It's not like I can't find the time - I procrastinate enough to know that I can find time for any little distraction. So why do I spend so much of my time lying on bed or sitting on ebay getting frustrated and not enjoying any part of it? What sort of person willingly forgoes activities that make them happy when they have no excuse to do so?

I know a part of it is to do with my laziness. I'm not sure how accelerate my progress in this area. I know that I have improved over the years, that I have a system that seems to work for me, but it doesn't feel like enough. I know I shouldn't compare myself to others, but I literally have no excuse for not being at the same level as everyone else. I've had every opportunity to learn, a great upbringing and family life, the perfect genetic background (both of my parents are brilliant) and yet I'm such a disappointment. All promise and no delivery. And I'm so pretentious! Sadface. 

Okay I know I'm waffling here in order to put off listening to this lecture I missed. I'd much rather listen to Ed Sheeran and play Candy Crush and write bad poetry, but I have a test in four days. Adios!

Peace and love,

S.

Changes and feelings.

So much has changed in the last year. I don't know where to start.

The beginning is probably a good place. I applied for medicine last year, got a interview, and then a spot. The summer holiday was a long one in many ways - it was at least 8 weeks long, I was eager to start my new degree and terrified at the same time, most of my stuff was already packed because I was so nervous and it sort of made day-to-day living a bit difficult but whatever. I started uni in February this year, living on campus with eight classmates. I really struggled with homesickness. In a major way. My grandpapa fell ill(er), was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin's lymphoma, deteriorated rapidly, fell into a coma about a six weeks before semester one exams, and passed away about two weeks later. It was a Monday night. I had applied to defer a test I had on the Monday morning, but was denied, so I came back to uni on the Sunday night. My sister called to tell me at about a quarter past 9 on Tuesday morning. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't stop crying. I didn't know what to do. In hindsight, I'm a little angry with the faculty for not letting me take the test at a later date, though I know anger is futile and exhausting. I could have been with my family through a terrible, terrible time. I went home that afternoon, and stayed until Friday morning. I missed out on a lot of uni, I couldn't cry at home, surrounded by an entire family falling apart, and kept forgetting what I was doing. It felt unreal. It was awesome seeing almost the whole family, but also terrible. I felt like I had to keep my wits about me, driving instead of mum (she was in no fit state), holding so many members of family as they cried. We saw my grandpapa's body at the mosque before the janazah prayer. He was tiny. I saw my dad cry. One of my little cousin's had a panic attack, his whole body shivering, couldn't breathe, couldn't stop crying. Death affects everyone in different ways. I just wanted to close my eyes and wake up. I wanted to fix the hurt in everyone's hearts. I wanted to run away. I felt guilty for wanting to get back to my room on campus, to sit alone and cry. I wanted someone to hold me as I cried, but I couldn't do that to my family.

My family didn't call me the night he passed away. They didn't want me spend the night worrying and alone. In some ways it was a blessing. I was super stressed about uni, people at uni, my own health; when I did find out and manage to stop crying, my first thought was to let my lecturer know that I couldn't make it to prac that afternoon and that I still wanted to see the agar plates. Why? I was bewildered and hurt, and trying to find some order and think sensibly. I'd be missing out on uni so I needed to be responsible. What's wrong with me? Why didn't I run home straight away? Grief does weird things to us. Throughout the next few days at home, my cousins, siblings and I swung between laughing hysterically and then remembering what had happened. In some moments, it was as if nothing had changed. We were together, stress-free, happy. And then someone was crying again.

I normally stay in my room a lot, once I get home from classes. This was a bit different. I just cried constantly. I had nightmares of a sick and dying grandpapa, to wake up to a reality a thousand times worse. I didn't want to talk about it. I didn't want to think. I didn't want to sleep because I kept seeing him in my dreams, and then waking up knowing that I'd never see him again. But I was so tired.

And the guilt. The last time I saw my grandpapa conscious, he was home from hospital but quite poorly. He was sitting on his bed in my auntie's house. My mother spent the day with him. I was keen to leave with dad; I think I wanted to go somewhere. I wasted my last opportunity to see him alive. I was caught up with some stupid worldly distraction. The next time I saw him was maybe a week or two later. He was in a coma. I didn't believe the doctor's saying he wouldn't wake up. You never see death as something real. I thought that if I prayed hard enough, he'd wake up whole again, and live forever.

Back at uni and going through the motions. I fell apart each day when I woke up, and again when I came home after class. Certain people - a certain person - said some insensitive and ridiculously awfully things to me, as if their pain and wisdom was all that is important and right. I don't hate them, but it'll be hard to forget their words. It made me realise that words can never help, and though my friends were sympathetic, their kindness was again of little comfort (though at least not detrimental). A friend I went to school with passed away last year. I hadn't seen her in a couple of years, but I always meant to get in touch with her again. This was the first time I'd known someone who'd died, apart from my dad's dad, who I hadn't seen since I was about three years old. My instinct was denial. I cried a bit, but mostly I just couldn't believe it. She'd pop into my head during lectures weeks later, and I'd hold back the tears. But it got easier very quickly, and soon it was just a distant fact.

With my grandpapa, I knew all of the rationalities and realities of life and death. I had the safety net of religion. I had the support of an amazing family. But it didn't stop the pain. Even when you know that all it takes is time, it hurts like crazy. It was awful then, and it's still awful now, though it doesn't occupy my thoughts all of the time now.

The week at home after exams was glorious. Back at uni for a fresh start, and the beginning of Ramadan. This was our first Eid without my grandpapa. We didn't go to my grandparent's house. We didn't kiss his hand. We didn't steal fruit of his cherry trees. We didn't tiptoe in the hallway during his nap time. We didn't see him dressed in his best white clothes for the five daily prayers at the mosque. Mostly I worried about my grandmama. She's a restless soul at the best of times, constantly busying herself with gardening, cleaning, visiting her kids. It's been three and half months since he went, and the reality of death is far away. I know that one day we will all die, that it is the way of the world, that life only has value because it one day ends. But the terrifying reality isn't so fresh in my mind. I thought it would change me. And yes, it has changed my world in a painful way, but I have not changed. I am in better spirits than I was at the time, but when I see his grave now, for a moment I forget what I'm looking at and when it clicks I feel sick. It doesn't feel real anymore. If I think about it, yes, it will all come back to me. But the whole thing seems to have just left an ache in my heart. And I have this sick heavy feeling even when I'm not thinking about his death. The pain makes me feel less guilty. It's a reminder that I am capable of normal feelings.

I often forget about how terrible it must be for everyone else. People are resilient, our capacity to forget and be distracted is a blessing, but the absence of the core of your family is hard to ignore. They all lived so closely together, visiting constantly, their routine's based around him. My immediate family lived further away for a few years so our routine wasn't so set, but sometimes I remember that my mum has lost her dad, and that she used to phone him all of the time. I am angry with her for working so hard, but then I remember that keeping yourself busy means your thoughts wander less, and it's probably a good thing.

I think I'll stop here, for now. It's really hard to be coherent when you're crying.

Peace and love,

S.

For when it hurts.

Sometimes, things hurt.

No matter how small, insignificant and meaningless in the whole scheme of things, they hit you and at first you think you're angry, but actually you're hurt. It can be as small as a group of friends walking to class ahead of you, or someone taking longer than usual to respond to your message, or just the slight change in expression - the briefest of looks - when they see you or talk to you.

Sometimes, you tell yourself you're imagining it. But what's the point in this? Regardless of whether the event is real or imagined, it still jabs you in a sore spot. You tell yourself to toughen up, get over it. But how? What do you use to plug the hole?

And then you're alone in your room at midnight, crying over thoughts you can't stop from racing across your mind.

In the morning, you've forgotten about whatever it was. But you're not quite back to normal. You can't shake of this strange feeling. And when someone doesn't return a greeting, you're back in the slump. The day drifts by, but now you are acutely aware of all of the painful things in the world.

And it sucks.

Yeah, you're never alone, and yeah, it'll pass. But right now, in this moment, it hurts.

And you need to know that it's okay.

It's okay to feel hurt. It's okay to take your time bouncing back. It's okay to worry about what people think of you. It's okay to cry because you're upset. It's okay to need a kind word or gesture. It's okay to deal with your hurt in your own way.

Peace and love,

S.

Who Hurt You?

Dearest,

Who hurt you so badly
That you can't forgive?
What terrible deed
Did they inflict upon you
That you can't move on?

Did it mean so much
To you?
Did you care so much
For them?
Did your tears change
A thing?

No.
Water wears away at stone,
And so your tears
Will wear you 
Down.

And yet,
As you stand
And face them again,
The fierceness of your fire
And the strength of your
Dreams
Will 
Heal
You.


S.

To Remind You

The thunder 
In every heartbeat
Rumbles
And gushes
Like a tidal wave
Of Life
And when it
Stops
Death
Is come
And gone
And the rain
And the sun
No longer
Are
But the thunder
The echo
The distant shudder
Of mountains
And stones
Grainy and hard
In blended softness
Stays behind

S.

A Conversation.

He said,
'I want to live in your world with you
The little boy in me
Wants to know the little girl in you
My heart wants to beat
With the rhythm in you
And my hands want to hold together
The best and the worst in you.'

I said,
'My world is in my head
And nowhere else
I have no comrade and no leader
I'm alive and yet
My pulse doesn't dance
And my fire and my rain never quite meet.'

He said,
'I want to be on your mind always
Like you are on mine
I want to be your playmate and your companion
And you can be mine
I want to listen to your breath
And for you to hear mine
And I want to warm by your heart
And you can calm by mine.'

I said,
'You're expecting too much of my thoughts
With their chaos and their order
How can you be friends with the friendless - 
What will become of this loner?
What happens when I want peace
And can't silence the drum?
What if the tidal waves never quell
And we're all tossed out to sea?'

And he said,
'I've seen your world
And I want to be your friend
I want to take the loner into my soul
And make it okay
I want to stand at your shoulder
And between and within each hurricane and firestorm
I want to say to you as we get older
That you live in my heart
And I by your side
That I hear you thoughts
And speak your language
That we are kindred spirits
Like two pearls from two oceans
That I can hold your vastness and give you mine
If you let me into your world.'

And I said,
'Okay, then.'


S.