the mind of a self-proclaimed كنداكة

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Entry #9: Men are trash

1. If you’re saying women are trash in retaliation to the men are trash wave, then you’re trash.
2. Same narrative as black lives matter. We don’t need to say that all lives matter because they do but what needs to be reiterated is black lives matter because they seemingly don’t to authorities in America. So, when we’re saying men are trash we’re saying that the way women have historically been and are currently being treated by men is inherently, for lack of a better word, trash.
3. We don’t necessarily hate men. We resent the system. Do you hold black people accountable when they’re mad about something “white people” do? No? Because of the institutionalization of racism.
4. If you’re not a feminist, i.e., you don’t believe in gender equality and equity, then you’re not a human rights advocate. You’re an oppressor. Being a non-feminist female is worse because you’re perpetrating patriarchal rhetoric about natural and traditional gender roles and condoning sexism and misogyny.
5. I respect all opinions but your opinion is oppressive, and I will not have it.


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Entry #8: Restriction

Wow, I wrote this in February 2013. Don’t judge me I was a child.

TW: mental health

I’m not insane. I swear it. My family having a history of mental disorders does not verify this. I’m not crazy. I’m okay.

I wasn’t analysed or given a legitimate reason to why I was institutionalised. I didn’t even take the alleged ‘Bathtub Test’ which I read about in that teenager-infested blogging site. I was dragged from my school, forced into a van and locked up in an eerily pale ward all by myself. I surrendered my freedom without a fight, which only provoked the paramedics. What was I supposed to do? Give them more of a reason to lock me up? I wasn’t willing to do that.

I’m not entirely void of emotion; I yelled, thrashed, wailed and attempted to take my own life away since I arrived in this depressing pit they call a mental institution. It isn’t the easiest thing to do when your limbs are confined in a straitjacket. No, it wasn’t the first time I tried to kill myself. It was the only way for me to escape this labyrinth of suffering. It pained me physically, mentally and emotionally to stay in this institution. If I was a hundred and ten per cent honest, I would say I had no idea why I was imprisoned in a mental asylum. I have been told countless times that I had psychotic tendencies but I am not crazy, promise. In spite of my ability to block out dreadful memories, I do recall the day I was forced in here with astonishingly faultless clarity.

It was late May and I had just had my Business and Management final. If there had been any chance for me to remain in the school’s honour roll, well, it was gone . The thought of my catastrophic performance in the exam was unbearable. As soon as the bell rang, I swiftly made my way to the Men’s room where I had a secret lighter stashed. I vehemently tore the wallpaper and snatched the lighter hidden behind. Impetuously, I attempted to set my own hand on fire. I didn’t take it into account that another male student was present at the time and witnessed the entire ordeal. Just before the fire alarm went haywire as a response to the smoke, the boy ran out of the bathroom screaming for help. I do remember he was an aspiring doctor who spoke to me with apparent and excessive conceit and plenty of times tried to convince me to seek help from a professional while claiming I had mild psychosis. If he cared so much, why hadn’t he attempted to help me directly, as opposed to consistently telling me I need it? Besides, there’s nothing wrong with the way I punish myself. Scars and extreme pain are constant and eternal reminders to not make the same mistake twice. The vivid presence of the wounds against my pasty complexion caused me to never repeat a blunder I had already committed.

The school’s guidance counsellor and football coach hauled me out of the Men’s room. That pretentious boy’s friend called 911 and was half-shrieking at the operator. I swear that freak is in love with me because she dissolved into tears the moment she caught sight of my bizarrely composed expression. I wasn’t wholly serene, I was in internal rage. I was appalled that I was being dragged out when I was absolutely fine. I wanted to return to penalising myself for messing this up. I wanted to return to my routine without being interrupted. Unfortunately, I was not able to as following their arrival, the paramedics spoke to that pompous lad, who explained to them the actions of mine which he had previously observed. The paramedics instantaneously contacted a psychiatrist and were told I should have been hospitalised ages ago. The only positive aspect of this abrupt, uncalled for ambush was that I was not in need of sedatives. I wasn’t frantic or agitated. This aggravated the paramedics more than it should have.

There you have it, the ill-fated tale of my inequitable incarceration. Subsequent to my imprisonment in this bleak room, my darling parents visited me. My poor mother wept and my father was indignant. He did not understand why his only son supposedly received the gene of mental instability. Unluckily, they agreed to keep me in the institution. Following their decision, the psychiatrist finally justified my captivity in this building. I was told that I, indeed, had psychosis and that most of my actions had been major symptoms. I never knew my belief that there was a conspiracy against me because of my unnatural talent in science was never valid. For all I know, many wanted to murder or seriously injure me because of my abnormal intelligence. It’s true, I was born a genius. I cannot help it if some people are envious of me.

I don’t recall the other symptoms but I do remember it was a fallacy. They are customary things to do or believe in. Since that first session, I spent my life in a puddle of depression and desolation. However, I felt elated in a peculiar why which would be challenging to explain, even for my above average mentality. I knew my liberty was on its way.

It isn’t like I haven’t had contact with mentally distressed people. I’ve seen them, I’ve heard them. I saw a severely bipolar patient with her wide, unblinking eyes that cried out for help. I witnessed a panic attack of hers on my way to the psychiatrist’s office. I heard her yell for the nurse to hand her any sharp object because the urge to let herself out of this agony was driving her crazy. I saw an anxious, paranoid young man who couldn’t exhale without checking twice that no one was looking at him. I saw his despair and misery. He was damaged beyond repair. I saw them and I’m not the least bit like them. I never threw a panic attack and I surely do not have that wild, crazed look about me. My appearance wasn’t scruffy and my hair was anything but unkempt. I was neat and organised. I’d never be at utter mental peace unless my raven hair was slickly combed and my clothes were faultlessly ironed.

I wanted to leave this place so badly. I wanted to continue my ordinary existence with complete freedom. Trousers frayed and arms gone sore beneath the straitjacket, I feebly attempted to escape. If I stay here any longer, I’d go mad. I don’t belong in this building for the deranged.

As though he read my thoughts, my doctor walked in. He eyed me with his drab, coal eyes. His effort to be sympathetic towards me was evident beneath his frosty expression. I could see the judgement seeping through his skin. The preconceived notions that shaped society, I felt them in my soul and his eyes were the mediator. The sight of his impulsive condescending sneer triggered me. Without any warning, I screamed with all my might. I screamed for the sake of my sanity. I screamed to release the exasperation I’ve had bottled up for far too long. I screamed to be liberated from this physical and mental prison. This isn’t a sign of weakness, this is my begging to get what I deserve. Soon enough, I was tackled by two nurses and had anaesthesia forced up my nasal cavity and down through my trachea. Before I was gobbled up the darkness, I had one thought: I’m perfectly sane.

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Entry #7: what you are

Bones, dust and energy. That’s what you’re made of. You are the essence of life.

From the bend of your nose, to the curve of your lips and the arch of your back, you’re made of divine geometry. The twists and turns of your brain, secured with intricate thoughts and emotions, a result of divine potions. You can never think too much, feel too much, experience too much, because you aren’t too much. Your every atom is worthy of existing.

How does your soul feel right now?

Does it carry the weight of the world on its shoulders, or the weight of your world on its shoulders? You’ve been through hell and back. It’s etched deep into your skin, I see it in the crevices of your eyes, I can only imagine it’s engraved in your soul. Your battle scars are life and art, and your soul should wear them with pride.

Don’t you see it now? You’re perfect. Love yourself. Believe in yourself. Be yourself.

Are you content now?

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Entry #6: thoughts vs thots

When he looks at you
You feel the whole world spring to life inside of you
You breathe in his scent and sense your whole soul being set aflame
A flame that burns like the coal skewering the familiar mixed molasses and tobacco consumes your senses
Sensing his eyes bore deep into yours and feel the sheer nakedness of who you are
Are you even yours anymore?

She tells you she loves you for the first time
Time ceases to exist. An ultraviolet supernova replaces the vacuum where your heart used to be.
Believe in it. Feel your fingertips lose sensation and nurture the fire that runs in your veins.
Venture into the hesitant lines of her smile and walk your lips along that trail.
Trail your soul behind where ever hers goes.
Is your soul even yours anymore?

I belonged to myself. I lost all possession of my being when I met you.