Teenagers are hilarious. They are also very sad creatures.

Also, my completely shit internet service is my official cause of failing at NaBloPoMo. I barely manage to get coursework in on time weekly, much less decent blog posts on a daily basis. 

Moving on from my never-ending failures in life. 

My dad insists on tiling/fixing the bedroom that my sister and I share. So over this lovely Thanksgiving weekend, instead of joining the rest of America in overindulging in soul food and hitting the malls from midnight, I have been attempting to take EVERYTHING out of that room and pack it into boxes/neat piles. Mind you, that room has 16-17 years worth of crap from two girls (moved in 17 years ago, sister wasn’t born until almost two years later). We’ve thrown out very little over that time. From toys, to clothes, to books that I can’t bring myself to let go of. It is Saturday and I haven’t finished a quarter of the work (that has to be done by Monday). 

I did manage to get all the books out. In doing so I found a journal that I kept when I was 16. It’s both laughable, and deeply sad to read all at once. Apparently, instead of worrying endlessly about boy drama and gossip as most teenagers do, I cried over worry for my family. Some of it is just ridiculous, from worrying my parents would divorce to worrying about my younger brother’s developmental health (maybe taking Psychology in highschool wasn’t the healthiest thing for my own mental health). But some of it was completely dead on, like my worry over my sister. It gives me heartbreaking shivers to read some of my little accounts of her behavior. I wish to kick myself for not realizing something was wrong sooner. I also wrote a lot about how being 16 just sucked, and many of my entries were written around 2 or 3 in the morning due to my seemingly endless insomnia issues. I wrote mini poems and song lyrics, hinting at the fact that maybe I wanted a boyfriend too. Someone to hold my hand and tell me they loved me. 

It’s funny because I never think of myself as having been a typical teenager, but evidently the terrible rush of hormones and misery hit me just as hard. Instead of rebelling and whining verbally about all my teenage angst though, I just had a grand old time pushing them all down until they manifested themselves in insomnia and general unhappiness and paranoia. 

About a half way through that journal the entries abruptly ended, and I have no recollection of why I stopped writing. I only know that a while later I wrote a last entry. I was 17 (a month shy of 18), and much much happier. I had a bit of a cry when I read the last bit, and this is what it said:

“I’ve learned a few main lessons this year. Enjoy the good moments, smile through the bad. Ignore the ignorant people. And remember that life isn’t about finding yourself, it’s about creating yourself. I’m happy and excited for my future. Alhamdulilah. And if the world ends in 2012…that’s okay too.”

It’s hard to think that just months after I wrote that, our family was to be tested with trials that I have absolutely no idea how we managed to get through. I guess I’m stronger than I gave myself credit for. It is incredibly lovely to think that whatever I may be going through now will one day be looked back at from a much brighter perspective. 

I plan to destroy the entries. I’ve already ripped the pages out. You may ask why, and my answer is that after reading them once I don’t think I want to again. Too much happened right after, and I don’t want to ever have to think that maybe if I wasn’t so self absorbed about my stupid feelings I might have realized quicker that something was about to happen. I know deep down that it’s not my fault, but I don’t want to leave option for that idea to ferment. I’ve read them and took positive messages from them. That’s all I think I need.

Also, I kind of don’t want anyone to ever read them. Ever.

My family has a habit of reading my journals for kicks. Which I think has influenced my lack of journal writing as of anytime recently.

Now, I have 4 math assignments due tonight, a room to empty, and more memories to find.  


I have no idea where my life has gone

Nineteen years. Of life. Good lord. 

I feel like it was just yesterday that I was sitting in primary school thinking ahead for fun about what life would be as a teenager. And here I am, wondering where the hell my teen years went. 

I guess I’ve never properly FELT like a “teen”, apart from the occasional general irritation that I felt with the world for not “understanding me”. And when I think back to feeling that way, it’s a combination of nostalgia and disgust with myself. However, to be fair to myself, I definitely didn’t feel the push to rebel that most people report. And I’ve always felt older than my years, always the voice of reason among my friends. 

This past year was crazy, to put it lightly. The things that happened during last year changed my life and understanding of it forever. I came shockingly close to collapse, to giving up, to stop trying to go on. It took every ounce of faith, strength, and love for my family to not just let myself fall into the depths of what was the worst despair I’ve ever felt in my entire life. Until now, I still have bad days. Days when all I can do is cry, in fear and anguish at the thought of it happening again. I look at my sister, and worry for her so strongly that I feel like I’m going to be sick. 

I haven’t been able to discuss what happened with anyone really. It’s so painful to think of, and I haven’t even been able to get it down in writing. Perhaps one day I’ll manage to get it all out. Perhaps I’ll manage to articulate the horror of last year that has seemed to define the eighteenth year of my life. 

I am waiting anxiously for this year to be over. I honestly don’t want to face this year. I feel sometimes that I’m going mad from the choking fear of a relapse. As much as I feel like throwing up at the idea of being 20, I wouldn’t mind it so much if it meant I wouldn’t have to spend this year counting days before the anniversary of every ghastly milestone. 

I’m trying to put it behind me. If not forever, then at least for today. I’ve curled my hair, and munched on brownies that my sister made me. The events of last year has already impacted everything from my eating habits, to my sleep, to my studies. In every dua I make, there is one for her. I need to overcome the fear. The anguish. Or else I won’t be able to successfully live my life. It’s going to take a lot from my part, but I need help. And I have no idea where to seek it. 

This post took an unexpected turn. But then I suppose no one really knows where their writing will take them. 

Happy Birthday dear self. Breathe, make dua, and try to relax. Even if no one else is willing to bother to say it… everything will be ok.