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.  

Campus is creepy during the summer time

I have classes Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays starting at 8 freaking o’clock in the morning and ending at 12:40 pm (10:15 on Fridays). The campus looks like a ghost town, and it’s deeply unsettling to walk past the coffee shop and find no groups of loud Hispanic guys sitting at the tables in front of it. 

I don’t actually mind the classes. The professors seem okay enough, if a bit boring. Although, that could be because my ex history teacher professor Martins (most amazing teacher ever) spoiled me and now I hold everyone to that standard. My biggest issue is not the math homework, or the immense workload in English, or whatever…it’s keeping my eyes open that early in the morning. 

Cuban coffee will be put to its test from now until June 21, when inshaAllah I will throw my papers in the air, call it a year, and hit the beach.

Or you know… I’ll put everything away quietly, make a cuppa, and curl up on my couch.

*nods

Today I had a bit of a chat with a girl that I’ve known for ages, and rarely talk to. I felt horribly bad about never putting aside time for her, and that was my incentive for sitting with her after my second class finished. Honestly, I don’t think pity is a good basis for a relationship, but oh well. Hilariously though, I think she pities me more than I pity her.

I’m not entirely sure what it is about her that throws me. It could be because her favorite time for classes is 7 am (my brain doesn’t function at 7 am) or because she texts the same way she talks, with extra letters on every word and multiple exclamation points at the end of every sentence. Or it could be because she complains about her classes all the time and then misses it when she has a vacation. I don’t really know. She also kind of makes really loud noises with her shoes when she walks, and talks really loudly and squeakily. She asks questions in a demanding way, and my natural “stay away from bullies” reaction kicks in and I end up sounding super defensive when I answer. 

I’m not backbiting because I haven’t mentioned any personal details about this girl, but now I’m feeling guilty any way. I just really don’t want to become close friends to her. It grates my nerves. And I don’t know what to do except for continue making lame excuses for the rest of my life. 

Ha. Me not knowing how to tell someone something. The world must be ending. 

“So you’re into all your books, and you play your part…”

Take a line from a song that you love or connect with. Now forget the song, and turn that line into the title or inspiration for your post.

I failed the bloody English class. It is both hilarious, and intensely sad to think about, but what is done is done. I now have to re-take it over the Summer A semester (along with intermediate math or whatever the hell) which is going to be great FUN as it is at 8:00 am three days a week. Along with the lovely grade that I received in my favorite subject (no sarcasm there, English genuinely is my favorite subject), I received two A’s and a B. Clearly, I’m a good student. I just procrastinate, and I’m having a serious internal crisis regarding all of this crap.

College is stress. Anyone who says otherwise is either not trying hard enough, or is a genius. I just don’t know if I’m doing the right thing. In the time I’ve been in college, I feel like my Islaamic studies have just taken a bullet to the spine and is completely paralyzed until further notice. And I just really don’t think it’s worth it. I’m not a career minded person. I don’t see the point in slaving behind a job that you hate in order to make piles of money to buy material crap that you don’t need.

You could ask, why did I start college then? To put it quite simply, I love learning. I love the thrill and stress of learning. I despise exams, but I love that feeling when someone asks you something and you can give an educated and well-rounded answer. I believe that as a Muslim you should be educated, both in secular and in religious knowledge. Knowledge is power.

My problem does not lie with knowledge, it lies with our education system. Very few of us actually LEARN anything in our classes that we slave and cry over. Why? Because the system is meant to be a money-making, sheep factory. Most people I know who have graduated from college are still, years later, working crappy jobs that they hate and have nothing to do with their degree. They learnt nothing. In order to excel in any career (save the big ones, medical, engineering, law, blabla), you don’t need college education. You need training, experience, someone willing to give you experience, and network connections. So why do all of us fool ourselves into thinking we’re gonna leave and live fulfilling lives and it will all be worth it?

My major is Psychology, which is somewhat of a joke to the general public. And so many people are “majoring” in Psychology without giving a crap about it and taking up space in the field. I love Psychology. I love studying people, because people are amazing, crazy,  sometimes intensely dark minded, and beautifully designed creatures. I have no interest in making a ridiculous amount of money researching in Psych, I simply want to study people for a living. But then there is the issue that if I am to be blessed with children, I wouldn’t want to work, because I feel that the best person to raise children is the mother.

So many questions, and time seems to be screwing with me. I’m 19, and I will be 20 in 7-8 months. Seemingly a long time, but seriously man TWENTY?! What on earth would I have accomplished in 20 years of living? Most of it has been spent in school, “learning” stuff of which 80% I don’t remember.  I have only memorized the last Juz of quraan, and even that needs brushing up.

I feel like I haven’t done the things that matter. I do everything my family asks of me, parents/siblings/relatives/etc. Never asking questions, always playing my part. Mi madre says I’m a pushover, and it’s funny because she also says I’m the kind of person who will tell you off and make you cry if you hurt me. I think I’m only a pushover for family, which I’m fairly certain isn’t a good thing at all.

On top of this, my plans to marry at 20 are failing miserably. Simply because no ones come asking (har har) and anyone I’m interested in are considered out of the question by my parents. Why would I want to get married at 20? Because I want someone to build my life with. I have no interest in doing it alone. I also want to get married because God knows how ridiculously hard it is not having someone to call your own + trying to be a good Muslim + living in MIAMI of all places.

Life is a strange thing. All my focus on books and “learning” and whatnot, and I haven’t learnt love.

I believe a post on love is due soon. 🙂

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.