Fear. Anxiety. Courage. Repeat.

Repeat the fears. Have time for them, specific time for them, because this is when you will realise that, even though you keep worrying throughout the whole day, the number of worries is actually very limited. Fear of losing your loved ones, or doing something stupid that will result in losing them, fear of the unknown, fear of losing control (whatever that actually means), fear of anxiety kicking in again (but when did it ever do anything that made you lose control? Never. Fear of being a parent, of being away from home and missing out (which is already happening, so why does this fear actually exist?).

Repeat the fears. Face them. Head on. You'll realise that they're all cheap.

Acceptance

Accepting our feelings seems to be such a simple task to heal, but inside our minds, it just sometimes feels literally impossible. How do I accept feeling horrible? How do I accept an intrusive, obsessive thought that just won't go away? I guess by staying calm and striving to stay present in the moment.

Stories of Fight

I kept reading my old posts on this blog thinking that my life years before was 'happier' than this. Not that I am not happy now, but the level of misery I read in the older posts was exaggerated. I felt like a complete drama queen. When did I write this? What was so bad that happened that made me write these words? Surely it can't be as bad as this past year, from June 2019, can it? Words looked so trivial. I didn't feel an inch of what I wrote, because I felt that everything I wrote before was nothing compared to now. The pain now is real. It was the realest thing I ever felt and the most painful one. No, wait. I don't painful is the correct word. I think terrifying is the word. You live a nightmare and you wish to just wake up, to feel the life you felt before. But that's not gonna happen. It was impossible, because we grow, and there is no coming back from every experience, good or bad, that we live. 

I was growing, I am growing. I am becoming who I truly am. Someone real. The truest version of me that is and that has ever lived. Yes, it's excruciating, but this is what growth feels like. I am becoming me. It might feel very uncomfortable at the beginning, but I will surely get to know me better with time. 

I just wanted to come here to pour even a small portion of my thoughts, because after all writing in this blog and the other blogs has changed me throughout the years and I owe it to my blogs that I am able to write and express to this day. 

Let the anxieties kick in. Let the panic attacks or whatever we wanna call them be invited. I know that what doesn't kill you makes you weak and trembling, but it also allows you to get used to the pain and discomfort until it no longer feels scary and terrifying.

Stories of Survival

It's been years. Literally years. And I am coming back here a different person, to tell a different story, a story I have never ever lived before in my life, before writing these pages. I have fallen victim, a victim to my thoughts and my emotions and my feelings. I have fallen to the demons of despair, the demons of hopelessness and helplessness and abysmal self-doubt. I've reached the lowest points in my life where I thought that life didn't make any sense; that it didn't have any meaning. And it shook my insides so hard I almost fell into pieces in front of the people I loved the most. I have seen myself so broken in their eyes, so shattered that I'd wished I just didn't exist. I wished I wasn't. I wished not to be. I don't mean to kill myself, but just not be, because the pain was so horrid I did not see any life beyond it. 

But here I am, telling a story of survival, of a continuous, nonstop fight that I am winning. A fight I do not regret fighting but look forward to telling its story; my story. And here I am writing these words to my future self, and to my past self, to show her that I have survived and that I will. That survival isn't a luxury; it's a necessity. It's a fight that has changed me and will change me to the better and stronger.

Here I am, writing in frenzy, to show the world that I am here, and that I am conquering my fears, anxieties, and depressive states. 

I am here. I am here. I am here. 

Eventually

There is a peak to everything. It just starts smooth, gets to the peak in no time, then fades away, or takes the normal course of the everyday life.
I've been there. I've done that. And I'm practically terrible at it. Or, shall I say, too good, maybe?
I've spent my life trying not to sound like everyone else. But eventually I did. I worked so hard not to give people the same words everyone gave them, but I realised those words are the only words that can be said at certain times. So I've said them, too. Guilty as charged. And I've spent my life judging women behaviour until I went into that loophole of self-doubt. Am I just like the rest? Maybe. Maybe not. I'm tired of labelling myself and everyone.
But what I'm most tired of is my own perception of reality. It's distorted. And It's not realistic, nor is it optimistic most of the time. I'd do so much just to know how the psychology of my brain works exactly, to know how I got to where I am now and whether or not the door is still open for some positive reality.
I made up so many wrong definitions, said so many words I didn't mean, exaggerated my whole life, just to add some extra spice, or drama maybe?
I don't know.

Self-inflicted Torture

My pen is dry, my words are devoid of meanings, short of breath. All I can write about is how hard it is to write. Every thought is about my lack of words, lack of stories, lack of life. I float in an ocean of lack-of-everything. Nothing in there makes me feel complete or even half empty. There are days when I wake up feeling that I've unjustly treated words for months on end now, and it's time I pay the price of this silence, with yet more silence. It's like self-inflicted torture. I treat words with silence and they give me a more bitter silence. And at the end of my struggling days I throw myself to bed thinking: Is there ever an end to this?


جفّ قلمي وتلاشت المعاني من كلماتي وباتت بنَفس قصير. كلّ ما أكتب عنه هو عجزي عن الكتابة، وكل الأفكار التي تدور في رأسي هي عن فقر الكلمات، وفقر القصص، بل وفقر الحياة. أطفو في محيط من هذا الفقر، فقر كل شيء، ولا أشعر بالكمال فيه أو حتى بنصف هذا الكمال. أحيانًا أستيقظ وبداخلي شعور بأنني ظلمت الكلمات شهورًا عدة، وقد حان الوقت لأدفع ثمن هذا الصمت بمزيد من الصمت فوق ذلك، وكأنه إيذاء متعمّد للذات. فإنني أعامل الكلمات بالصمت لتعطيني صمتًا لاذعًا هي الأخرى. وفي نهاية هذا المطاف أرتمي على سريري وفي جعبتي سؤال واحد: هل لهذا كلّه نهاية ما؟

On Days..

Dear you,

Sometimes I wake up Ok, thinking that my life is going in the right direction, not exactly the direction I want, but a direction that will lead me somewhere I believe I want to be, a place where some of my dreams will come to life and I will just be satisfied, be grateful, be thankful that life has given me this much but not all, knowing that nothing is perfect.
Other times I just don't know where I'm heading. Other times I feel like I'm lost in some kind of a lifeless place, where nothing at all makes any sense. I lose sense of the meaning of words, the life in the living things surrounding me. I just lose touch of everything. And I feel as if nothing around me really exist, like a dream. Sometimes I confuse reality with dreams, and I wish this was all a dream I'll wake up from sooner or later.
On days like this, I cry my heart out to make sense of anything, to feel anything, to stop, at the same time, all these tears running down with no reason at all, or maybe with a reason I don't understand.
Often do I lose the ability to interact with people, not knowing whether this or that should make me feel angry. I fail to understand how I should make connections with people. And I just lose it.

I'm tired. So tired. Drained. And terribly scared.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N.