Writing Like a Mental Patient

These past couple of days, I’ve been writing bull crap. Complete, and utter bull crap. I didn’t understand why, though. I was never this bad. I mean, it was well written, I’d have all my principles and techniques in place, but it was just ugly.  At first, I thought I was getting worse. I thought I was growing up, and my love for writing had slowly been fading. Then, I thought I was just stressed and needed a break. So that’s what I did, I stopped writing for a while.

And in my writing break, I realized my stupidity. You see, it’s not all about how good your vocabulary is, it’s not about how well you apply your writing techniques, it’s not about your imagery, or how well you know all your principles. It’s only partly about that. The other bigger and the stronger part is the (Ready yourself. This is going to be cheesy.) heart, and the soul. I’m not the best, or the wittiest, but I can definitely say, your writings are absolutely terrible if you only write with your mind. Trust me, writing is more than accumulating a bunch of words together, in order to create a paragraph. Writing is picking certain words, allowing them to collide, and create a masterpiece of itself. It’s, seeing beauty inside your mind, it’s letting the reader see the fireworks so deeply applied in each, and every line. It’s your own beauty.

So, what I’m trying to say is, when I write, let I let my heart speak for itself, let it do most of the work, let my mind do the other half, and then let my fingers wander around the page. It’s, unlimited freedom on a piece of paper, pretty much. It’s letting your soul breathe; letting it live.

And, when it comes to story writing, it isn’t exactly about me either. My stories aren’t exactly… mine. All of it, every single aspect of it, belongs to whoever’s doing the talking inside my head, if you know what I mean. When the main character’s an old man. The voice inside my head is an old man. When it’s a young girl, the voice inside my head is a little girl.  I just let the characters live, and hope I don’t end up with schizophrenia or DID, or something.

You see, when you unleash the crazies you actually come up with something pretty cool. Trust me.

Dear Emily,

August 3, 1990

Dearest Emily,

How are you? I miss you. I don’t want to bother you, and I’m sorry if I ever did, but, when you first got married, you said you’d write me everyday, since I don’t exactly know how to use those imails, or emails, or whatever you call them. I’m sorry your pap is an old-timer, sweetie. We haven’t heard from you, you’re mother and I. I know it’s only been a couple of days, but I can’t help but worry.

Oh, and how’s Ethan? I’d known he’d make a remarkable husband; I’d always known he’d be perfect for you. I hope he’s giving you all the love you deserve.

And if you’re wondering, we, your mother and I. We still make Lasagna every Tuesday.

Remember? When you were six; the moment you wake up, you run out your room, with hair un-brushed and clothes unchanged, yelling ‘Lasagnaday!’ even though we don’t make lasagna at eight in the morning, you still spent the entire day guessing how it would taste this time. Remember how, even when it’s always the same, we always had our remark: ‘Too salty.’ ‘Too much sauce.’ ‘Too much white stuff.’ And your mom would go crazy.

Tuesday is my favorite day.

I love you, darling. Please, write back to me. I miss you. If you’re too busy to write back, I’ll always be by the phone.  At least I know how to use that, right?

I’ll check the mailbox everyday.

Love,

Mitchell, your lasgnaday partner.

September 7, 1990

Dear Emily,

I still haven’t heard from you. Have you moved? Am I using the wrong address? Did I upset you? And how are you, again?

 I miss you more, and more everyday. I know you’ve grown up now, but I can’t help but miss carrying you on my shoulders when you were little, and you’d spread your arms, shoot your head to the sky, and challenge all the birds, as if you were already victorious. I miss playing King and Princess with you. I still have the getup. Remember when we used to build a castle out of the sofa, and end up sleeping in it. Remember what your mom would say? ‘You’re ruining the couch, it’s silk!’ But she didn’t understand our very important tea party, did she?

Anyway, where have you been? Have you travelled?

Oh, and remember when you were so upset we didn’t throw you a party when you turned sixteen, and then surprised you with tickets to Rome, for us, and all your friends? I still remember the look on your face. You were crying in your bedroom, with all that black stuff you so, religiously apply everyday, running down your face. As if it finally caught freedom. I must say, sweetie, you looked like a zombie.

But that tormented zombie transformed into a less haunting version of itself once we gave you the tickets.

But I do admit, you make a beautiful zombie.

You don’t need to write me back, you can send me an empty page, and I’ll be just as happy. I want to make sure your okay. I still miss my little girl.

I’ll always wait.

Love,

Mitchell, your loving king.

September 8, 1991

Emily,

It’s been a year, and I’m still writing, still waiting by the phone,  and still checking our mailbox. I’m even still having lasagnaday. I stopped knowing why though.

I waited everyday. Everyday, since the day I sent my first letter.

I sleep three hours everyday, I’ve lost my appetite, and I haven’t seen your mother in a while. I don’t blame her, though. Once she told me the news, I turned into a monster. We spent everyday arguing over things I forget in the morning, and I could tell your mother was getting sick of me. It all started when she first told me. It was like a part of my flesh was ripped apart and thrown away. I’m sorry, Emily.

You always meant the world to me, always will. I would turn sand into pearls for your happiness, I would kill a hundred bulls, and I would flip this entire city upside down, and heck, I’d learn how to use imails. Just to see you smile.

But I failed this time. I failed, miserably. And I don’t really know why I’m writing this, now that you can’t read it anymore.

 I wish I was in that in car, on August the third, nineteen ninety. I wish I sent that stupid letter earlier. I wish it was me. I wish I could protect you.

I’m sorry I let you slip away. The castle, lasagnaday, and Rome will never be the same without you.

Love,

Mitchell, the man who lost his princess, and his queen.

Let Go

Two hooks, each bit down, gripped, and hung to the arid atmosphere of my old sea. With prominent spinal cords stretching down, making the living that I am, seem dead.

The hooks were held by the ropes, which held the mountain I long pulled, and dragged.

My bare, and grazed feet, barely lived with their wounds, and their cuts. My body; composed of nothing but skin that covered bones, and small, dangling little arms, hanging like broken chandeliers. I was a broken chandelier; the kind antique stores would keep locked in basements.

 My rainless lips, two other hooks, on each end, stretched it upwards, and dug itself into the ends of my brows. For the people who passed, for the people to see me bright, for the mountain to be hidden.

And a layer of burning wax, poured itself down, and covered the features I have butchered.

But I still walked, and I still dragged.

 Dear,

Whoever's reading this.

We all have them.  Those days when we just want to crawl inside a room with no windows, no people. Just yourself, with yourself. We all felt empty, we all felt as though we deserve absolutely nothing, we all despised ourselves, we all put ourselves down, and have others put us down. Really, it’s typical.  And typically, you’d expect me to say something like “Be strong, and keep moving!”  Or “Don’t give up!” and “Don’t let others get you down!” But, I’m not going to say that, what I am going to is: You’re stupid.  Why? Because I was trying to think of something you wouldn’t expect, and that’s the first thing that came up.

What I am going to say is, it’s alright. It’s okay to fall apart, it’s okay to cry, it’s okay to feel like an invisible bubble floating around careless heads, it’s okay to fake a smile every single Goddamn day, because you know, none of them will ever understand what hides beneath. It’s fine. Really, cry your soul out, cry until your eyes dry out, if you must. Cry until your heart’s dried out, until nothing’s left inside. Just, let it out. Scream, if you have to.

Just, breathe.

Why? Because we always hear the same damn ‘motivational’ statements, quotes, or whatever the hell you call them, but we never actually listen. Why? Because we’re being told, and because we’re taking our emotional baggage, throwing it somewhere in the back, and forgetting about it, convincing ourselves we’ve moved on. But then, when a spark pulls it back again, humpty-dumpty has a great fall, all over again.  Calling all the king’s horses, and his men, to somehow put him together again.  But, the question is, is he really put back together again, if he’s just going to sit back on that wall, and fall again?

The problem is, we don’t face our pain, and instead, we throw it, and forget it until that certain moment that strikes, pulls us down, and smashes us to the ground. The solution though, is… quiet obvious now. Face them. Sit down, in your room, alone. And just think. Council yourself, and become your own therapist. Now I’m not going to lie, and say you’ll feel ten times better in a matter of minutes. No, the time the pain will take depends on how long it takes you to seize it. It’s a kind of, a proportionated-relationship. If your negative thoughts increase, your pain increases. And if they decrease, your pain decreases. The process however, depends on you, and you only. Though to begin that process, you'll need yourself, positivity, and Allah.

Then maybe, you’d stop dragging that mountain, the hooks would unhook, and the wax would melt away.

This though, is coming from a pessimistic outcast. So maybe it’s not you; maybe it’s just me. I have this habit of throwing away all my emotional baggage, and somehow calling it ‘moving on’. But, if you are like me, in a way. Then, let go. Just, let go.

Sincerely,

Maryam. Just, Maryam.

MY GODDAMN FLAWS.

Flaw #1:

I have a fear of socializing. I know the first thing that snapped inside that meat of yours: “WHAT?” Yep. I theorized it might be the reason that resulted my introversion.  But I just can’t control it. No matter how much I try to breathe, no matter how much I try to stay calm, it always jumps right back, and digs its nails right into my brain, having control on my thoughts entirely.

I remember before, whenever I used to talk to my mom in public, the thoughts would compltetly control me. It was almost like panic attacks… How do I explain this more clearly? It’s like, feeling as though the entire world is judging you negatively. It’s feeling very, very small when conversing. It’s feeling as though people hold this form of superiority while you’re the vulnerable, impotent little pauper. It’s anxiety. It’s not being able to make an appointment at the salon. It’s not being able to reply. It’s… so hard to explain. It’s not just being “shy” it’s ten thousand times more than that. It’s feeling defeated at the end of every conversation, or any interaction, because you were just too humiliating.

Just picture this. I presented something, a research thing; presentation about The Renaissance, or whatever. Exteriorly, I spoke, went back to my seat, and another person got up to present. Interiorly however is an entirely different atmosphere, my mind is enveloped by destructive thoughts, my heart thudded, rather than pumped, and a stone stretched my neck, as it forcefully pushed the tears out of my eyes, but I knew perfectly well how to swallow them back. I was humiliated; actually, I was always humiliated. My actions were all humiliating. I am a humiliation.

Flaw #2:

I cry easily.  It’s as simple as that. I almost cried in Toy Story 2, I cried when my dad scared my cat, yeah; I’m sixteen by the way! I even cry when I’m happy. But, I always try my best to always cry privately. When my dad hit my cat, I sat in my room, and cried until the tears ran out. laugh all you want.

It’s just because I was a huge crier as a kid, I mean I still am, but I couldn’t hold it in back then, as I do now. The only reason I cry privately is to avoid humiliation, so in a way, this fault is connected to my previous one.

Flaw #3:

My eyes look like they’re about to fall out my face, my eyebrows are freakish, my ears stick out a little, I have a burn on my calf, I lack vitamin D, my lips are chapped, I have the darkest, and most prominent under eye circles, and tired lines, my eye lashes are too short, my facial structure is too big, and I think I look like a boy.

I am not perfect; in fact, I am a big ball of imperfections, an ocean! If I must. I’m the girl everyone would like to avoid,  I’m the girl who’d much rather watch TV in her favorite pajamas, rather than go to some party with her friends. I’m the girl who’d cancel any outing, because her favorite TV show is on in a couple of minutes. I’m the girl who’d eat like a cow, just because she can. I’m the girl who goes out with pajamas under her abaya, with no makeup whatsoever. I’m the girl who spends hours, and hours on her computer, watching countless videos on youtube, and learning absolutely nothing.  I’m also, that girl, who fangirls over any random picture, video, or gif of her favorite celebrity.  I’m the girl who sings, and dances like a freak, in her bedroom, just because she wants to.  I’m the socially awkward, and clumsy daughter who’d spill the guests drinks, and embaress her mother. I’m that retarded friend, who would love to spend the entire day doing the most idiotic things for… no obvious reason, really.

My main point is, I’m okay. I’m fine. Even with my flaws, and my imperfections, I’m just fine. I mean I like being weird. I like randomly singing in a loud voice, I like dancing like a drunken homeless man, and I’m sorry you guys- the people who are just not ‘okay’ with it- just can’t get over yourselves. I’ll be me. I’ll be my idiotic, filled-with-flaws self, and I’ll flaunt my goddamn, disturbing flaws.

P.S. Literarily, this must be the worst piece I have ever written in my life, because all I want to do, is get this message cross instantly. And plus, how do I send this message of being okay with your imperfections, with a perfectly written piece?

And thank you, for keeping up with my terribly beautiful writing.

Freedom Slaves

"الله اكبر" The witr prayer, subsequent to the shafe'h prayer.

You all stood, line by line, shoulder by shoulder, heads bowed, arms raising slowly with hands held up towards our savior, in a way that resembled a pauper in need asking for the king's sincerity.
Freedom slaves.
"اللهم اهدني، فيمن هديت" The imam's voice, harmonized by the quiet whispers of "Amen" coming from different ages, different voices, different races, all together sycned as one. "وعافني فيمن عافيت" The soft purrs, elevated the masjid. You are all one. You all stood togehter, as the emotions in the imam's heart poured out to his voice, the tears stretched down the lines, and then back forth again. But we were not alone.
Millions of masjid' spread like blossoms worldwide, with millions of people standing together, with hands raised to the sky, asking; like the indigent people that we all are, for heaven, for happiness, for freedom, for eternal paradise, for seeing our brothers, our sisters, our mothers and fathers joy in the land where happiness is eternal. And picture them, the people with tears shedding down even the manliest of all men's cheek, to the God that we stand so impotent to.
Picture the beauty of neglecting the fact that we are from different ethnicities, or the fact that the millionare stood side by side, with the man that had a few crumbs in his pockets.
As the prayer ended, the form the impotent soldiers possessed, broke apart, revealing once again, the jell-like form we all hold, and waves of people gathered by the door.

By Mariam (twitter: @MHBazinga)





I open my eyes to the typical cycle of familiarity.






A 5-minute stare at the ceiling.


96 seconds for my feet to contact the ground.


17 steps to the bathroom.


47 strokes of synthetic bristles skirmish my teeth.


As the cold water splashes against my irritated skin, I feel hope.


I WISH.


I DREAM.


I DESIRE.


All of what is out of my reach.


I watch as the lifeless reflection stands, observant.


Finally, I break the silence.


Cascades of what seem to be pessimistic thoughts are suppressed by an expulsion of an estimated 0.750 L of fluid.


As a part of my daily routine, my uniformed attire hangs neatly in my cupboard. No sign of creasing or wrinkles is displayed.


I violently tug on the Oxford-cloth like cotton.


I AM MAD.


Only 8 steps closer to the dresser.


A Customary kit for screening an undesired face, lay costumed, ready for use.


I look past through the stalking eyes within the magnifying mirror.


3 layers of liquid foundation.


3 assorted concealers.


2 color correctors.


An extra coat of powder foundation, and as usual, a dust of translucent powder to wrap up the face masking procedure.


The unchanged typical technique, for good days at least.


Even the inconsistent irritation on my face, with its unpredictability is at least HABITUALLY predictable.


But as I battle ahead this rough stationary peak, I have to ruminate on what I’ll see when I stand at the uppermost summit.


I IMAGINE.


Another anticipated view?


No.


I will roar with thunder.


Triumph!


Victory!


Glee!


Bliss!


I ANTICIPATE.


I am enfolded by a placid tone of hope.


Ultimately, breaking the cycle.


The norm is well executed.


Everyday is distinctive.


Nothing is familiar.


I AM HAPPY.


Eyeing around, who’s going to heed to my grumble and boom?


Who’s going to share the elation?


Who’s going to thrash their chest from the thrill?


Who’s going to join me on my own quest?


Who’s going to enroll themselves?


Who’s going to breathe in ecstasy?


Who?


I’m not surprised.


This is a part of my routine.






Mariam. Let’s go. You’ll be late for school.


The consistent familiar voice.


I AM LATE.

Speak

“DESPICABLE!” “RIDICULOUS!” “That, right there is what a Wildman looks like, unjust and sick in the goddamn mind!” Their yelling, and bashes roared as more men joined in to express their hatred towards the president’s decision.  Beer bottles clanked louder than usual on the counter, disapproval shed down all across the bar wooden bar (I was surprised it hadn’t imploded) and approving comments moved alongside it. I sat by the counter, a couple of seats away from the TV hung above the heads of the angry men sitting across me, and the bartender stayed silent, as he wiped the drippings of beer from the bottles of the angry men.

We were all angry, even the men gathered by the pool table, and the men sitting by the tables behind the counters came closer to join our name-calling, and our bashing, except for the bartender. He only stood there, cleaning the drips of beer that shot out of the bottles of angry men, served more beer, he served everything from Budweiser to Carlsberg Vintage, yet the only thing he didn’t serve was opinion. He didn’t say a thing; he wasn’t like us, the men who yelled louder than the music. So I asked him “Afraid to speak up?” He looked at me, with an expression that shifted from total serenity, to sudden humor. He laughed, and said “Son, you’re telling me I’m afraid to speak up, when you’re sitting your lazy ass, drinking cheap beer, and doing nothing but complaining. If YOU weren’t afraid to speak, you’d go up and tell him.”  He said, pulling his towel out from the beer mug, and using it to point at the president in the screen.  And just like that, silence swept the room, as all eyes targeted the bartender and I. Then, just when you think the yelling was finally over, heads shot back and laughter raised the roof, all over again. All heads did, except for the bartender’s; he only raised his brows, exposing the ripples on his forehead. As the silence ended, “Yeah, yeah. Someone ‘ought to tell him, and kick that damn president outta his chair.” Said a man sitting a few seats away from me. “You’re telling other people to take action, when you’re sitting here, getting beer all over my damn counter. Don’t you dare tell other people to do something, when you’re not doing anything at all.” Said the tender, with a hand on his hip and another one quickly cleaning the counter. “You don’t know shit, geezer!” “Yeah! Shut that mouth, and do your damn job.” The bartender did nothing but laugh “Aren’t you all a big sack of flaws? You’re all sheep, lead by a sheep for a leader.”

As their arguments grew louder, and as my anger grew bigger, I gathered myself, walked out of that bar, climbed in my car and drove away.  I drove down the dark road, illuminated by yellow street lights that stood a few feet away from each other, causing parts of the road to quickly switch from complete darkness that made my car’s lights prominent, to faint light that made them look inconspicuous. He was right, that tender. We speak, and we yell, and we comment, and we get angry, and we call for people to stand up, when we clearly aren’t doing anything. I don’t even understand why we speak any more. What’s the point of having a voice with no hands?

Dearest reader,

My point’s quiet clear.  If you were to speak up, speak up with action. If you disagree with the unjust, don’t just say it, do something about it.  And another point I didn’t make potent, was how robotic we’ve become. It’s like we took originality, creativity, and innovation, then shot them out the window, and planted our focus on what the majority was doing, what the majority was wearing, even what the majority’s media was portraying, to the extent that every unpopular opinion is now perceived lowly by those who just can’t appreciate what the minority has in store.

And thank you,

Sincerely,

The mindless.