the mind of a self-proclaimed كنداكة

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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.

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Entry #5: Woman

I walked out into the harsh winds, ignoring the incessant biting of the cold winter into my frail bones. I walked down the marble steps, my worn out soul trembling, my faith shaken, my energy withering but my body resilient to any discomfort. I walked straight onto the rough granite pavement embedded with the footprints of distressed civilians, inconsiderate of whether or not I was crossing a pedestrian’s designated path.  I walked down the street, dressed in an abaya which served as a constant reminder of the tyranny I was coerced to live in harmony with under false pretenses of the religion I devotedly believed in, avoiding to look into anyone’s angry eyes in fear of the accusing glares deeming me a harlot in spite of my consented full coverage. I walked past the first man, lowering my gaze as I was expected to and felt, I felt his searing gaze scanning my body half-longingly half-distastefully, wrongfully judging the oppressed woman, the silenced voice underneath the humble black garment. I walked towards my destination; bearing the word “underdog” in my mind but having the taboo of a word “woman” emblazoned on my chest and carved into my features, ensuring the indifference my expression conveyed. I walked past the string of grimy stores, ignoring the monotonous words of the citizens while having my mental voice engulfing my thoughts with its anger and struggle to attain my lost rights. I walked on as the thunder rumbled wildly and the sky began to water the earth, inhaling the sweet scent of tobacco mixed molasses which reminded me of the fact men chose to harm their health while women couldn’t due to the social unacceptability of females smoking. I walked, embracing the soon to be transient nature of my suppression, promising myself it wouldn’t be long before I could behave the way I wanted to. I walked, swearing to Allah that they will rue the day they chose to regard women as the weaker sex. I walked and walked, hoping my legs wouldn’t give out and my mind would finally be quiet for once.

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Entry #4: An unapologetic apology letter

For a long time now, I’ve been apologizing for things I cannot control. I’ve been apologizing for my appearance, for not fitting into everyone’s standards. I’ve been apologizing for my attitude, for being unacceptable and unbecoming of a lady in the making. I’ve been apologizing for my ethnicity, for being unworthy of your respect. I’ve been apologizing for my beliefs, for oftentimes contradicting yours. I’ve been apologising for my capabilities, for not being a supreme fusion of all existing aspects of knowledge and talent. For a long time now, I’ve been apologizing for being myself.

The rest is under construction.


Entry #3: A short story

Clutching the edges of the icy marble sink, I exhaled heavily. Ochre fingers gone pale and mauve lids snapped shut; I gnashed my upper incisors into my bottom lip, which acted as a barrier between the two rows of calcium-strengthened teeth in my mouth. I could not feel anything, the pain was nothing, it meant nothing. Reluctantly, I opened my cocoa eyes and, with a wince, stared straight into the mirror ahead. I slowly traced my swollen face, momentarily lost in thought. My eyes were brilliantly bloodshot, my dark complexion had gone ashen, my nose was abnormally red and my chapped burgundy lips were conveniently bleeding. I watched myself die a little every passing day and remained neutral. I was a falsely accused psychopath barely struggling in my straitjacket, a vicious and vivacious lioness declawed, a faltering show of fireworks in the morning of the first of January. A choked sob struggled up my trachea, painfully suspended in my voice box. My eyes welled up with salty water, threatening to gush forth as I feebly attempted to hold the tears back. Ultimately, streams of saline water escaped my eyes as I gasped for air, an appropriate embodiment to the train of negative thoughts forming deep in my head.


A bristly gust of wind entered through the chestnut-paned window, reminding me of the unforgiving winter nights. Inhaling sharply, I dragged myself to the opening in the room, followed by the ominous sound of my battered boots against the rigid wooden floor. I poked my disheveled head out into the frigid December air and closed by lavender lids, savoring the frosty weather, fully aware of my subjection to hypothermia. This scene could have easily induced a panic attack in a cheimophobe like my Australia-residing sister but honestly, who cares? Fluttering my lids open, I gazed into the light morning sky, faintly glittering with distant stars, and think of how long winter nights and loneliness are a package deal, a deal no one in their right mind would agree to.


The stars’ withering luminance reminded me of my own, which only seemed to falter each passing day. I had repulsively been wallowing in self-pity and despair throughout the past month, blaming the world for my own mindless mistakes. Fuelled by revulsion, I heaved my exhausted body off the windowsill and grabbed the burgundy coat swinging lifelessly on coat rack. As I slipped my numb sienna arms into its velvet armholes, I marched towards the door leading to the street. On my way out, I clutched the lonely umbrella leaning against the slate wall and snapped it open. Holding it above my head, I exited into the vapid December air. 


There was nothing particularly distinctive about this day: it was typically bleak, disheartening and carried a sentimental kind of aura. The cadet sky had begun shedding its precious tears, which only meant one thing: impatient and dispirited civilians. Walking aimlessly amongst despondent pedestrians, I bumped into a tall male in a fine coat, a shade of maroon similar to mine. Unjustifiably unable to apologize, I stared into his prominent eyes, my insipid chocolate boring into his vibrant cerulean. Flashbacks of my childhood passed fleeting through my tired brain; my stunning mother running after me around the backyard, my handsome father playing soccer with me in the front lawn, my caring older siblings hissing warnings at me whenever I dared to defy my parents, my schoolmates singing me a happy birthday when I turned eight. Gazing into his dark eyes, I could not help but feel pure joy. His mere presence seemed to induce happy recollections in my worn-out mind. He halted wordlessly and lifted the right side of his cerise lips into a slight, ironic smile. Yearning an unexplained non-existent past including him, a wave of nostalgia washed over me. Who was he? He blinked his lashes once and muttered a quick apology, his deep, familiar voice reverberating through my icy bones. I nodded my freezing head once and continued down the granite pavement. I sped down the sidewalk, blissfully reminiscing while slowly slipping into an inevitable trance. As my consciousness faded, I felt my heart pound with adrenalin, hoping for another accidental encounter with this intriguing stranger. In spite of my heart’s pathetic desires, my dazed brain was fully aware of how far-fetched that was. It didn’t matter if those thirty seconds happened to change my mood to the complete opposite, I knew that it was one-time thing, a reminder that I am more than my fleeting emotions. And I was right. 

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Entry #2

As I adjusted my font to 10-point Helvetica, I contemplated how I had been battling myself endlessly on whether I should write about this or not, thinking it is far too ridiculous and insignificant but also believing it is necessary as I need to get this off my chest. I have never been much of a person who had it easy, talking about their feelings and clearing their head, since my annoying habit of overthinking usually behaves as an obstacle. Along with my writing/speaking complexities, this obstacle morphs into a brick wall, which further prevents me from growing as a person, something I find rather aggravating. Having grown sick of being stuck in cul-de-sac, I decided that I needed to get out of my comfort zone and start doing things which little ol’ me would not usually do. Seeing as “talking” is an issue in this area, this is me getting over it. Proud of me or what?

I suppose this blog is supposed to help me expand my horizons and explore my writing capabilities so I hope for everyone’s sake that I don’t sound as atrocious in reality as I do in my head, because believe me, sometimes my personal analysis of my thoughts and writing style perplexes me, and mostly not in a good way. I think the main issue here goes back and forth between courage and self-esteem issues. There is no wizard here to give me heart nor is this a situation where my “hidden talent” gets “discovered”; this is real life and I’m going to take it one step at time.

My writing issue isn’t the sole purpose of this post. As I mentioned previously, I honestly hope that through blogging I’ll be able to go through each individual thought I’m currently too preoccupied with. This isn’t going to be the only tactic I’m using to approach this issue, I sure hope I don’t become that spineless blogger who hides behind the screen all day long but this is one method I’m hoping to be effective.

Anyway, thank you for reading this and until next time!