Writing is the free therapist that we all have

After a ridiculously long hiatus of sorts, I find myself coming back to my second love…writing. My first love was books of course, what with the vast adventures you can have from the comfort of your warm blankets and soft lighting. But ever since I learned how to put letters into words and words into sentences, writing came as naturally to me as breathing. When other kids were struggling to make up all the words for the 500 word essays assigned to us, I was struggling to condense everything I had to say into the maximum allotted. Which is not to say I was (or am) a good writer, because I am not. Not even a little, or in any sense of the word. I just throughly enjoy it, and I have never had a problem putting my jumbled thoughts into (mostly) readable writing.

I didn’t completely stop over the last couple of years of course. There is a plethora of unfinished, un-posted, rambling posts that have been saved. There are various journals, slips of paper, post-its, and backs of envelopes that have a few lines here and there of my thoughts. And most recently, my Happy Planner has been occasionally filled with musings, goals, and things I noticed and found funny and/or notable. But all this time I’ve still somehow felt like I’d shoved my writing under a table and hadn’t looked at it in a while. I was an active blogger all through my teenage years, it was my outlet to the teenage angst and depression that I was in at the time. That was my main medium. For years I wrote articles, posts, and stories. Built up a tiny bit of a following, made some friends through it, and it made me happy that people (even a small number of people) found me interesting enough to subscribe. Then all of a sudden, I stopped.

I tried to get back into it after a bit of course. I privatized my old blog and created a new one (this one) to start afresh, and did get around to posting a few things here and there. But generally, I just couldn’t do it. I felt dumb and ridiculous and my mind kept saying “oh stop it, why would anyone want to read your rants and stupidity anyway.” So I stopped, and the more I neglected blogging, the more I felt distanced from that part of me. Thinking of sitting down and typing something out, or writing something out, gave me more anxiety and guilt than anything else.

Since I haven’t really writing anything, my mood and personality has gradually changed. I’ve lost feeling of contentment in my life. I’ve become dissatisfied with my thoughts and who I am. My mind feels jumbled and unfocused and I find myself keeping busy with watching TV or immersing myself into conversations with people about their lives. Mine is something I don’t want to talk to people about, mainly because I feel that if I haven’t sat down and rationalized things myself, what on earth am I going to tell people. I’ve shoved my feelings down and it’s made me a miserable person.

In retrospect, my anxiety and depression have probably been legitimate problems, a fact that my own brain couldn’t (and mostly still can’t) handle accepting. I’m a Psych major (as laughable as most people find that, I actually love Psychology and intended to become a Psychologist, but thats a story for another day) and even after learning and knowing the symptoms and whatnot I kept saying to myself that there’s no reason for me to be sad and scared and dissatisfied with who I was. That my mild to moderate panic attacks over small things weren’t really panic attacks. That the feeling of a weight being on my chest and the feeling of doom and unhappiness were ridiculous, and that I was being such a selfish stupid girl for feeling like that when there are so many people suffering from real problems all over the world. Objectively, I know that thinking like that was/is unhealthy, and that it probably stopped me from seeking help when I needed it most. But I kept saying to myself if I could just bring myself to write what was happening in my head, I’d feel better.

After accepting it was happening, seeking a bit of counseling, and starting to journal properly again, I’ve surprisingly been feeling better. I’ve managed to get a lot of my feelings down on paper, so I can visually look at them and start to work through them. And after coming to terms with a lot of things, I finally summoned the courage to write and post this.

I need to get over my fear of getting back into this. I need to allow myself to feel confident and sure in what I have to say, even if it is irrelevant to most people. I need the comfort of writing again. While I am a very spiritual girl, and my relationship with God is my greatest comfort, writing needs to be a part of my life again. And as ridiculous as it sounds, the only medium that has ever truly worked for me is a blog. So here I am. Regardless of who, if anyone, reads any of this ever…it is going to help me to heal and become completely comfortable with who I am again.


I only barely proofread this post, which should bother me but surprisingly it doesn’t. I feel so happy at the prospect of blogging about my comically normal and boring life. I can’t wait to be me again.


While my sister watches “Nikita”…

Netflix is both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because it allows you to watch a ridiculous number of things at your leisure for less than what most people spend on fast food in a month. A curse, because oh my god…when you discover a new show and you watch all the seasons in a week, and your brain becomes numb and you’re unable to rejoin the world properly at the end of it…that is horrible. Thankfully, it’s only happened to me once, and it was before we got Netflix. Legend of the Seeker was the best thing to ever happen to television, and I have no idea how it wasn’t popular enough to not get cancelled.

My sister on the other hand, gets warped into the Netflix-itis thing rather frequently. She’s discovered and watched the entirety of Gossip Girl, Pretty Little Liars, The Lying Game, and a whole lot of other stuff. that Netflix has to offer. Right now, she’s been watching Nikita for the past few days. I think she’s watching one of the season finales’ right now. She literally takes breaks only for showering, bathroom, and eating (and only because my mum threatens to hide the PS3 controller). God. Nikita is an awesome show in it’s own right, but it unsettles me somewhat. Anything involving secret government doings makes me nervous, which is why I have such a huge love/hate relationship with stuff like The Hunger Games and Divergent series’. As amazing as they are, it’s hard to imagine yourself in those situations and consider what you’d do.

Today’s BlogHer prompt was “Tell us what you’ve learned so far about daily blogging”.

I’ve learned that my life is incredibly dull.

*cue Superwoman accent voice* JUST KIDDING (although, in all fairness, it is)

I’ve learned that while it is incredibly difficult to stick to something regularly, it’s also very rewarding to look back and say with satisfaction that you’ve done something like this. For instance, I’ve always meant to journal daily, but always would up doing it in irregularly spaced intervals (every two days, then a week would pass, etc.) and I’d get so frustrated with myself and give it up. To be able to say that I’ve managed to blog daily for a full week is a decent accomplishment for me. I’ve always felt that writing is very beneficial to your mind, and I always do it. Even if it’s on trashed scraps of paper (or unsaved notepad/notes documents). This is an effort to put it together, with at least mediocre grammar and whatnot, and publish it somewhere where it will be organized and reasonably accessible to random people & people I wish to share it with.

I sincerely hope I manage to finish NaBloPoMo flying high. Here’s to commitment, writing, and personal growth.

I tend to write ridiculous things at the beginning of every year

For example, this is the first page out of the journal I bought for the new year:

Here’s to a fresh start. Here’s to thinking, writing, existing, living outside the box. Here’s to balance. Here’s to living for this world as though I’ll live forever, and living for the akhirah as though I’ll die tomorrow. Here’s to appreciating family, friends, health, and happiness. Here’s to being patient and strong through the inevitable misery. Here’s to success. To smiles. To learning from, and growing with, all of those around you. Here’s to less planning, less talking, and more doing. More writing. Here’s to asking Allah’s mercy, blessings, and guidance in everything you do. Here’s to buying less pretty journals and to writing more in the ones that you’ve already been blessed with. 🙂 Here’s to finding new quirks, new friends, and creating new traditions. Here’s to individuality, to interdependence, and to freedom. Here’s to less “religion” and to more lifestyle changes and spirituality. Here’s to calling upon Allah more often. Here’s to love, life, and laughter. Here’s to less cliches and more filling up blank pages with fresh ideas. 

Jan 8, 2013

Needless to say, I might have written two more pages after this and the book was tossed atop my desk to be abandoned until very recently. I kind of like the way the words flow, now that I look at it. I tend to write on like, scraps of paper, admire it, and toss it out quite often. So it’s a fairly rare thing to look back at something I wrote more than a few weeks ago (with the exception of whatever I get around to writing on here). 

Ramadan is right around the corner (it is currently Saturday, and Ramadan is expected to start on coming Tuesday or Wednesday), and I desperately want to like, blog daily or something. I’m debating whether to start a “Ramadan” blog or if to just go with this one and place the posts in their own category. Either way, I plan to do it.

In the words of Sid… “Discipline. If I don’t do it, then I’ve failed. I can’t afford to fail. I’m the only person in the world capable, and it’s almost hopeful knowing that amongst all this it can all be done.”

I love Sid. ❤


Over the course of my life, I have long since discovered that language is a beautiful thing.

In the fourth grade, my “gifted” teacher taught me the valuable skill of writing and the art of playing with words, and I have used every bit of what she taught me ever since. Never mind she hated me (she honestly did, never gave me an “A” in conduct and I was THE quietest child in class), she still set the foundation for what is now my most treasured talent.

Writing is something that comes naturally to me. Not to say I am a great writer or anything of that nature, because by my standards, I’m quite terrible. But I have realized over the years that the way words can flow from me like water from a mountain, it doesn’t work that way for everyone.

Language is so powerful. There is a reason they say words can either make or break a man. It is an often-overlooked fact that verbal abuse has more lasting Psychological effects than physical abuse. Words can pierce even the hardest of shells, and it can harden even the softest of hearts. At times it leaves me wondering whether the childhood lesson of “sticks and stones can break my bones, but words can never hurt me” has any kind of legitimate substance after all.

It’s interesting to me how I have never actually appreciated my native language of English (how I wish my native language was something more interesting) until I began to study a different language (namely, Spanish). While yes, Spanish is far more beautiful in my humble opinion, there are also certain quirks that English has that you miss when forced to express yourself in other languages.

English, although fairly limited, has words that sound quite nice even though they mean simple things. Take the word “serendipity” for example, which is a word that tops many people’s “list of favorite words” or “list of most beautiful English words”.  It sounds lovely, but all it means is “a happy accident”. (For the record, I have yet to use the word serendipity in conversation…)

However, the fact remains that I’d rather a guy talk sweet to me in Spanish than in English. But then I wouldn’t quite mind Hindi either, so I suppose it’s an “I’m a hopeless romantic so shut up” kind of thing.

I’m not entirely sure where I was going with this, and I’m not even sure where it ended up.

Point: Language is beautiful. You cannot appreciate your own language until you study others, so go study others. I wish to marry a pious, sweet, Hispanic guy… who knows how to talk sweet in Spanish and doesn’t speak some horrible drawling “Spanglish” in place of actual legitimate Spanish.

Yes well, clearly, I need to get out of Miami.