If you have found yourself stumbling on my blog, the first thing I want you to know is that I have no idea what I’m doing. The second thing I want to share with you, in an attempt to tease out my own narrative from others, is MY story.
After almost 3 decades of dissociation, I am exhausted.
It’s not a matter of whether or not I want to be the “bubbly, outgoing” Mrs. Sunshine anymore.
Because trust me, I do
—that “facet” of me is far more…personable. It’s more cheerful & loveable.
The problem is that no matter how hard I try, I simply CANNOT maintain it any longer. I have lost my ability to dissociate.
I have been “too strong” for “too long”.
It’s ironic, though, because I’ve never felt weaker.
My “functionality” if measured by productivity and performance has plummeted severely, and yet–mental health professionals seem to agree that this is the “best” I’ve been doing in decades.
Why?
Because after decades, I have started to FEEL again.
“In my 40 years of practice,” an esteemed psychiatrist stated, “your case is one of the most compelling and confounding cases I’ve encountered.”
“With the intensity and frequency of traumas that you have experienced, I would expect you to be curled up in a mental health facility for life—probably, on the verge of psychosis.”
To them, “these darker components” of me are completely congruent with the horrific experiences I’ve gone through.
The problem, they declare IS the façade.
That ditzy, bubbly, “happy-go-lucky” persona does not accurately reflect the life I’ve lived; It does not reveal the struggles I face or do justice in celebrating the adversities I’ve overcome.
For so long, I viewed my ability to get everything “done” in a tormenting environment as my greatest strength. Being able to “detach myself from my feelings” has been the key to all my successes.
Or so I thought.
When we cut ourselves off from our “feelings”, we aren’t just blocking out the negative emotions; We, inadvertently, also lock our hearts from experiencing joy, intimacy, love, and connection.
It isn’t normal to get beaten brutally at 5 am, letting myself cry for about 5 minutes, and then forcing myself to shut down and “get my sh*t together”.
I remember walking to the library in the early hours of the morning, completely numb–absolutely oblivious to what had just happened. I studied for a few hours—only to arrive at my 8 am organic chemistry class to ace exam after exam.
It’s as nothing even happened. I didn’t feel pain. I didn’t feel sad. I didn’t feel at all.
I remember noticing the odd glances, the hushed whispers, and the puzzled expressions of my classmates, as I pranced into the auditorium covered in bruises.
At the time, I thought there was something wrong with everyone else. Why were they staring at me?
The day of my final exam was no different. I walked in at 8 am; I recall my professor pulling me aside; I remember studying him curiously as he tried not to glare at the blue-black bruises that were now forming around my eye sockets.
He empathically offered to arrange for me to take the exam another day, however, just like every other time, I resisted his offer. Instead, I marched vehemently to my seat to ace the exam.
& I did. I graduated with summa cum laude; what i didn’t realize was that the cost of those “perfect 4.0’s” would eventually catch up to me.
You see…my professor had seen me throughout the year, pulling off these dissociative stunts nearly every week.
& as the semester continued, his growing suspicions became more and more plausible. It is saddening now as I think about it–
— because I know that he “knew” what was going on. His hands were tied because I denied everything.
Every week, it was a new excuse, “oh I ran into a blunt tree branch because I wasn’t looking”, “I accidentally fell and hit my cheekbones against the console”, “Besides, I have anemia and tend to bruise really easily..”
“It’s really nothing” I said over and over again–until I accidentally started believing it.
In retrospect, I think ANYONE with half a brain probably “knew” what was going on at the time.
The problem was that I had shunned that “half of MY brain” deep into ignorant oblivion.
Recently…I’ve realized I’m doing something similar again.
I’ve been utilizing my social media platforms as a way to convince MYSELF that I’m “okay”.
Maybe if I just manufacture a life that FEELS good on Instagram, I might feel “okay”….
However, the truth is… I am not okay.
I don’t think I’ve ever experienced what “okay” actually feels like…
I haven’t been even close to being “okay” for the last 7 months.
I haven’t driven my car in 7 months because I’m terrified.
I haven’t gone to a single modeling shoot in 7 months.
I haven’t applied to a single casting call in 7 months.
I’ve barely left the house for 7 months.
I haven’t hung out with anyone I consider a friend for 7 months.
I’ve finally crashed.
What I HAVE done in the last 7 months is hide behind my phone –
I’ve wasted countless hours laboring over Instagram algorithms, hashtags, and engagement strategies in an attempt to gain external validation from all of you because I loathe myself.
I dove headfirst into trying to portray a life that “looked good” on the surface because, in my heart of hearts, I felt so hopeless, sad, and repulsed by myself.
— but what I’ve noticed is…
…the more adamant I become about my attempts to “fake it”, the more drained, lost, and depleted I feel at the end of the day.
And the vicious cycle of distracting myself from the self-hatred goes on and on.
The truth is…
that through social media, I was being inauthentic with myself…with God…and with all of you.
& it’s ironic because in my heart of hearts, I truly believe that connection and community are byproducts of authenticity and vulnerability—two things I am fatally afraid of actually practicing.
Despite how much I crave connection and belonging, I haven’t allowed myself to be vulnerable or authentic—in a very long time.
In my adolescent days, when I did practice vulnerability–when I did truly let someone in— I nearly lost my life to their abuse.
However, advanced medicine and meticulously trained doctors helped revive & restore my physical body to health.
But who do you go to help you revive your soul? How do you restore someone’s sense of safety in the world after it’s been taken away?
The truth is…I had stopped “living” long before my heart ever gave out.
I don’t know where to begin my story.
I haven’t come up with a strategy to tell it. There is no rhyme or reason.
& for the first time, there are no angles.
I don’t even know if sharing the ENTIRETY of all the horrific details surrounding these incidents is even helpful to me or you.
I don’t want to trigger you or re-traumatize me.
& these blog posts take a lot out of me.
Honestly, I don’t know much at all right now.
What I DO know is—I have to start somewhere.
I have to start— because I want to live.
I want to connect.
I want to move and be moved by people.
I want to feel like I’m worthy enough to take space in this world.
I want to feel like I’m worthy of being Ayrah’s mother.
I know that I eventually want to use my experiences to help elucidate the hope, resilience, and relentless will to survive that lies dormant within each of us.
How curious it is that the words of a stranger online—some that I’ve never even met—help to feel more understood than some of my closest confidantes.
I posted, authentically, for the first time on Instagram a few days ago—
& the responses I received from you all—your messages glowing with genuine care—
I cant disregard or downplay how much they meant to me.
They bring me to tears even now.
How is it that mere acquaintances and even strangers can communicate such a piercingly deep empathy for another?
And what’s more confounding is that they can do it over an impersonal digital platform.
What a puzzling and powerful world we live in…
So…for those of you who are willing to walk alongside me in this journey…
Please know that it is going to be the furthest thing from perfect; In fact, it’s probably going to be a very messy ride.
I wanted to thank YOU
For caring. For existing. For reaching out.
–for helping me get to a point where I am willing to myself be seen.
If there is one thing I want to make abundantly clear through my blog, it’s this—
The EFFECT that even ONE person, like you, can have on another’s life is immeasurable.
Your responses led me to question the unchallenged abusive & demeaning narratives I’ve been repeating to myself for years.
Because…
WHAT IF those people were wrong?
What if I do share myself openly with you—with the world—and I discover that I AM actually worthy of love and belonging?
What if I hush the voices that tell me that I will be rejected, ostracized, and ridiculed again just long enough to be seen for who I am?
Even though, this may be the scariest endeavor of my life—
What if, to my surprise, I find that the world loves me back just as deeply as I love it?
What if all the “sunshine” I’ve tried to sprinkle in the lives of so many is finally returned to me?
What if I’m not a waste of space? Or a burden to this earth?
What if I’m not “damaged goods” that no one will want after being raped?
And the biggest “What if?”
What if there ISN’T anything inherently wrong with me?
Or even better—
What if there is SO much wrong with me…
— & yet still, I am met with acceptance & love despite my numerous imperfections.
They say it is better to have “loved and lost” than to never have loved at all.
I disagree.
I lost myself in you.
I almost lost myself TO you, literally.
You killed me once.
The problem, you see, is that I followed faithfully in your footsteps.
I chose to stay.
I chose to retell, repeat, and relive the tormenting narrative you created for me.
I chose to kill myself, slowly—arduously—painfully—every single day—for decades.
Until now.
For as long as I can remember–my life, both figuratively and literally, has been in your hands.
As I sit here, sifting through the decades of dejection, I can wholeheartedly tell you that no person is worth sacrificing your sanity.
Day one or “one day…”?
Its finally day one.
Today is the day I finally let go.
I am shakily, and finally choosing differently.
& do you know the most pathetic part?
I am so scared.
Believing the delusion that your violence might have been “love” is far easier than accepting the fact that the “love” I romanticized was never there at all.
I am so deathly afraid to let you go—
—even though you have been the most toxic, unhelpful relationship in my life…
I feel fear.
& it’s not because of the alternating black eyes, hushed bruises, or broken bones…
Those heal.
I’ve watched too many of them fade from my body like mirages on a hot day.
I trace my fingers over the ever-so-familiar, black-blue spots I’ve, now, come to find disturbing comfort in.
But they’re gone—
All that remains is the eerie echoes of your query whispers.
“If you looked like (her) _____, or carried yourself like (her)_______, then I wouldn’t be beating you…” you echo menacingly through time, “the reason I’m doing this is because there is something INHERENTLY wrong with you. You deserve this.”
Your words ring in my brain– taunting me, haunting me— till the singular motivation becomes about escape—
I must outrun the crippling hatred erupting relentlessly within me.
And over decades of deterioration…I have tried to “escape”.
But I have no room to talk. You were right–
I couldn’t even succeed at the one thing you’ve told me I should have always done.
The truth is, as you say, I am a coward.
I am spineless, identity-less, and lower than the scum on the bottom of the pond..
I couldn’t do it successfully. I came very close.
But “almost” doesn’t cut it.
Who expected a service dog to lounging silently on a neighbor’s porch on a freezing December night?
2020—
I ran 5 miles at my fastest pace–
My avid runners–ya’ll would be so proud of my splits!!!
I even beat my PR (personal [best] record)
& after approaching fatigue…I looked around to double check that no one was within sight.
& in the deafening silence of the night…
I carefully wrapped the ankle weights I use for strength training around my weary legs…
And I….jumped…into the deepest pond I had scouted out a few weeks before.
The clock had struck midnight—it was finally my birth “day”…December 4th.
The paralyzing pressure of the water, the languish in my legs, and the curling coldness enveloped me as I was unable to swim to the surface.
And the last thought I remember thinking, as I sank slowly to the bottom
—was tragically about you.
I thought about your cruel words.
“If you want to do the world a favor, Maham…”, you snarled in my slowing brain “just go ahead and do what is needed to be done”
And…. I couldn’t do it.
But I tried.
That damn service dog had alerted his owner with his incessant barking–causing a complete stranger to walk out–and see what was happening. 911.
“Just do it! kill yourself.” I heard under the murky, dark water.
My arms, naturally, fought to try to get to the surface.
But I couldn’t.
It was getting harder and harder to breathe.
I could feel my my lungs give out.
…and I fought—when it came down to it–I FOUGHT to try to get back up to the surface….
Until I heard the final echo of your voice that night….
“Everything you touch turns to misery anyway.”
I heard those last demeaning words…and I stopped fighting.
In that moment, I made the decision to let go.
I let flailing arms fall to my side and closed my eyes as I sunk towards the bottom.
& that was my last thought before losing consciousness.
The next thing I remember is waking up on the grass, on a stretcher, surrounded by EMTs pressing on me—and there it was—OUCH!!!!
All of a sudden, I was yanked back into reality—
–I was choking on the water that was, then, fervently flooding out of my mouth and nose at an unbearable pressure.
I have a momentary snapshot of me wrapped in a bright silver insulating blanket.
& I lost consciousness again…
I was struggling with hypothermia…[as I would come to find out later’
And finally…
I awoke in the ER..
I looked around, absolutely bewildered and puzzled.
& before I could fully become aware of what had happened, a deeper realization struck a chord so deep in my heart.
‘I am a failure’–I thought to myself. And I was. And I may still be. I was a failure in every sense of the word—.
I couldn’t even kill myself “right”.
But neither could YOU.
“I wish he had taken away your life when he ‘allegedly’ took your virginity,” I hear you screaming in my mind.
If anything, you have made it painfully clear that your life (and the lives of many others) would be a lot “bit brighter” without my presence.
“If you weren’t such a whore…then maybe you wouldn’t have gotten raped,”…
–at 14 years old—-with a knife–
Yes. The knife was utilized to “pop” my cherry.
To you, however, that’s irrelevant. It’s impertinent.
It is always my fault.
It has to be.
If I want to keep you in my life, I must always “dim” my light so you can shine brighter.
and so it begins…yet again…
An assortment of your agonizing remarks cycle through my head—at a merciless speed—
—over and over again—
My brain gets stuck on repeat like a broken record playing the same few tunes repetitively.
The tunes of my record are the stuff of nightmares.
The torment of your insidious insults continues till I want to rip my own head out of my body.
HELP!!!!!!
No human can stay immune to the missiles of such fiery self-hatred forever…
So what does one do when that unrelenting, merciless abuse starts to come from their own brain?
& just like that–
—I find myself thrust into the 9th circle of hell from Dante’s Inferno.
& so…I do what I’ve always done…
I dissociate.
I leave my body.
and for a few fleeting moments, everything…feels… a little bit ‘lighter’—a little bit further.
As your ridiculing remarks become more muffled and harder to decipher,
the ominous panic boiling inside of me steadily slows to a soft, sufferable simmer.
and there “I” am…soaring…above it “all”.
There I am– simply watching a homosapien named “Maham” go through some not-so-cute stuff.
I watch my body curiously as it floats above me—
and “I” become lifeless.
& just like that—
All the pieces of my fragile psyche shatter into sharp, serrated fragments once again–
The last few days, I have been feeling plagued by this feeling of not being “enough.” Not a “good enough” daughter, a “good enough” sister, “a good enough” wife, a “good enough” person, a “good enough” athlete. This got me to thinking about where this was coming from. What is going on with me?
Sigh. This again?
Let me begin by speaking about an interesting self-observation. I’ve always loved experimental science. My bachelors degree was in Biology (pre-med route). I loved that it possessed an element of certainty. If I mix these chemicals, in these precisely measured amounts, chances are that I will always attain the same reaction, again and again and again. Always. There is that dreaded word again.
This year, especially, life has been weaving a thread of sub-optimality within me . It has redundantly challenged my “all-or-nothing” cognitive distortions. Repetitively, I have found myself having to wrestle with the “gray areas.” Though unbelievably arduous, the rewards I’ve started to reap are priceless. The presence of “grays” has allowed me to cultivate gentle compassion for the wide array of human paradoxes. To be human is to be in a persisting battle of internal and external contradictions. “I want to be different, but I am so invested in fitting in.” “I want to be able to feel good about myself in any shape, and form, but I MUST be pretty, fit, and barbie-like.” “I want to stand up for myself, but I don’t want to stir up any conflict.” Do you see the double-binds?
One of the closest relationships I’ve had was the epitome of this paradoxical relationship (I’m going to keep them disclosed, for the purposes of this blog). I think that’s where a lot of my fear of not “being good enough” comes from. This relationship had dynamics that were quite odd and contradictory. Love was offered in a very conditional manner. After being exposed to it, I, inaccurately, learned that I must be a certain way, to be loved, to be worthy– to be good enough.
The preceding reason is why I think my struggle with “all or nothing” thinking was exacerbated. I’m was either the best at something, or I didn’t want to try it at all. My school assignments were either 45 pages long, or they were the bare minimum. At it’s very basis, this thought process is reminiscent of the “fight or flight” survival response. If I interpret a situation as a “challenge” I’ll either run towards it fearlessly, prepared to tackle it at any cost. Or…I won’t even try. I’ll give up, retreat, and hide.
And for some reason, retreating, hiding, and being afraid have become synchronized with feelings of shame, and unworthiness. If I am afraid, I am weak. And if I am weak, then I am flawed. And if I am flawed, then I am surely unworthy of love.
It’s reasonable to say that the last few years have forced me to, dare I say, START to accept–actually, more like tolerate, the imperfections, mistakes and incongruities within myself. I’m starting to comprehend that, maybe, I don’t have to expend an exhausting amount of energy to try to “mask” or hide my imperfections. So if I’m not hiding, and shaming myself into a self-loathing whirlpool, what do I do instead? I breathe.
In fact, I’ve found that most of my work lies in acceptance. It lies in cultivating acceptance for the fact that there will always, to some extent, be opposing forces present within me. Consider the age-old “good vs bad” battle that is so inherent to human existence. It’s served as a theme in movies, book plots, and even in religions. Monotheistic religions agree that there are two predominant forces acting upon us; there is a righteous force: “God” and also a tempting, misleading force: “Satan.” Human suffering, therefore, becomes a result of consistently trying to reconcile these two oppositions within ourselves.
Acceptance for the “good” and “bad” parts of me have granted me permission to invite and feel the entirety of my experience. In an earlier blog, I wrote about how Carl Rogers, an esteemed idol, said that one of the indicators of true growth is that individuals begin to own and accept their experience. It begins with “owning”, which slowly turns into “trusting”. I would like to think that, so far, I have become AWARE of my contradictions, began to vocalize them, and am starting to tolerate them. I’m hoping that trust in my own experience will be a friend that I will soon encounter, as I continue progressing upon this journey.
Another important discovery I’ve made is ALSO contrary to my prior conceptions. I’ve found, through direct experiencing, that sharing your vulnerability with another selected human being–and I mean, actually sharing the entirety of your story with them, creates MORE autonomy and trust in oneself. I had been absolutely frightened, for so long because I thought that sharing and letting people “see” me would result in me being rejected, abandoned, and isolated. But that didn’t happen.
Instead, I found safety. I landed on the softest cloud after taking a fearful “emotional skydive.” I not only found acceptance, friendship and connection with another being, but I also gained greater trust in myself. How? Because in those fearful moments, I was able to recognize what I truly needed, and therefore, I was able to “give” it to myself. I was capable of identifying that my hunger was for connection–for love and for friendship. By sharing my story, I actively chose to provide those things for me.
I truly believe that each and every human being possesses all the necessary tools to attain the answers to our own troubles. We have enough strength, insight and fortitude to resolve conflicts by ourselves. By the same token, we also have enough wisdom and clarity to recognize when seeking refuge in the kind companionship of another will help alleviate our burdens.
This brings me to one of the most important lessons that I am learning: it is our responsibility, and ours alone, to take time to BUILD a relationship with ourselves. We need to sit down and calmly listen to ourselves so that we can properly identify what we need, and, only then, ponder about the ways to get those needs fulfilled.
That is our responsibility alone. I don’t even know if it as much a responsibility, as it is a birth-given right. Even if we wish to relinquish the responsibility to take care of ourselves, we cannot. We OWN the deed to our houses. We can invite others in, enjoy their company, but the house remains ours, and ours alone. As our lives progress, we may select a roommate (a friend, a lover, a partner) whom we CHOOSE to share an intimate bond with–somebody we invite to live in our home. BUT the house will still remain ours.
And, that is a frighteningly lovely thing.
If I choose not to attend to the house, it simply becomes dirty and untaken care of. NO ONE can clean it but me. This is why we get so reactive to our partners, and our closest friends. When our own insecurities arise, we, so often, expect them to take care of it, and to make it better. We want them to “fix us.” But they cannot. That responsibility was never theirs. I’ve found that I become most volatile in my interactions with my poor husband (lol), when I am desperately searching for assurance, comfort, and compassion in a source that is NOT MYSELF. The grumpy cat version of me comes out: “How DARE you not make me feel better? Don’t you get it? That’s your job!”
But it really isn’t.
The house was never theirs.
So today, I want you to join me in accepting this birth right–accepting the ownership for our house. I own and claim this realization. I know that I have to make time to rebuild and maintain a relationship with my everchanging self. I have to trust my heart, my mind, my body and my soul. I have to trust that together, we are enough. I have to make time to attend to myself, provide myself with the necessary reassurance, positivity and love. If I feel I cannot do that, I will not abandon myself. Because, I know that even in those moments, I can still generate acceptance. I will, simply, accept that it may be hard for me to accept certain circumstances and, feelings. I am not going to walk away from me, because I know that I already possess everything that I need to live a wholehearted and fulfilling life.
“The most important voice we need to trust in any relationship is our own. We need to trust ourselves to perceive and process information. We owe ourselves honesty, rather than comfort with false fantasies. And only then, can we assume responsibility to speak up, and insist on fair treatment and respect for ourselves. Clarity of voice comes from inner conviction about oneself. It comes from deeply held values about self-respect. Remember that to be heard, you may need to lower the volume and intensity, rather than raise it.” –Harriet Lerner.
