Enme

[This is a journal entry from November 19th, 2007]

I’m bruised and exhausted from this last week. I’m numb and distant, an unwanted but understandable reaction. I feel like a tree whose sap has been sucked out with calculated malice. I’m eating my breakfast. Unlike my first month in South Africa, I’m not looking ahead to my week with excited and enthused eyes.

I’m back in my jail again. I am suffocated and I can’t talk freely. I’m back at a place where I can’t even throw out random ideas or dreams. Everything said passes through a pragmatic and analytical filter. How will this work? Doesn’t this contradict what you said 3 days ago? It will fail, why bother? This will distract you from your main job, why can’t you make up your mind?

That difficult week experienced coincided with me finishing Stephen King’s book On Writing. I ate up this book with a rediscovered voracity. Like the old times, I read it in a matter of days. I read a few of his fiction books in middle school, but I never understood and appreciated them. I even watched a few film adaptations with little enjoyment. Horror and fantasy never appealed to me. This is so for I never understood the purpose or appeal or the point to those genres.

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This is technically last night’s evening writing section, part of my self-enforced routine to write twice every day. So, when I say “yesterday”, it should read as “today”.

I’ve picked first thing in the morning and last thing in the evening because they are the hardest, darkest times for me. My vision for this routine is to help me punctuate my day and to retrain my writing muscles.

Yesterday (today) was only a moderate success. I checked off items off the to-do list I compiled in the morning. I didn’t complete all the critical tasks, but I’m content with what I did do in the end.

I spent the rest of the day stuck inside myself, escaping, and giving into the pain.

The pain is a buildup of all the frustration, hurt, anger, and exhaustion of the past two weeks’ worth of issues at home. I thought with all my walls that I’ve erected over the years, I would be able to withstand and move on. I did that for most of the 2 months I’ve been here. But I have to confess to myself and to chase away that lying thought.

My walls may be tall but they are porous. I may be distant and strong, but when the attacks pore in, I absorb it somehow while being numb. And then, when it’s all quiet, I let go and fiery pain replaces the numbness.

Yesterday looked, felt, smelt, and taste the same as any of those harrowing days alone in London. It was being back to black in a 4 room house, eating home-cooked food rather than my usual cooked rice fix.

I finally passed out around midafternoon. Interrupted by a few phone calls, I descended deep into dreams and woke up relatively refreshed. My mouth still tasted sour from the day’s warfare, but I got up, had dinner, finished some housework, and watched some TV in peace and 5.1 stereo loudness.

It brings me to now writing this, sensing nature soothe me with its deft display of a light blue sunrise.

After I publish this, I’m going to make a cuppa, light a shisha, and start a new day. Then after that, I’m doing my morning writing.

I will get there. I’ve learned after yesterday, it’s very important I learn to process and deal with my pain on a day-to-day basis, rather than store it up and try to fit it all into a weathered suitcase.

I have admitted now that I am affected by negativity around me, especially about my work and future. I am not immune, no matter how much I try to convince myself. Their words do sear into me like unwanted knives. I want a dream to come true, where my family support me wholeheartedly without reservation and in full genuineness. I don’t want their lectures or advice; I want their encouragement. I don’t want their veiled humour; I want their support.

It feels wrong that I’m saying this because I’ve defined myself for a good 8 years on being anti-family and a loner. I just want the dream to come true, even as I am convinced my parents won’t change and their ways will always seep into my sibling.

I wrote a journal entry about deep-seated dreams and desires. I’ll post it as my morning writing slot.

It’s a new week. I’m home alone and it’s a dour morning.

And I’m back to black. My chest feels narrow, the plum-sized mass lodged there is inhibiting my motivation. I got up early this morning and sat in my reclining chair by my bed to set in motion a new routine. For the past two weeks, I’ve lost my energy, motivation, and joy. I’ve barely written anything in my blogs, journal, or film work. I’ve languishing in my dark escape valves.  So, I’m going to sit in my chair twice a day, morning and evening, to write about anything or something. Even if I have nothing to say, which is hurtful enough given I left England to become a writer, I’ll sit here until something comes.

The one hurtful fact raping my thoughts is that I do have a lot to write about. My mind never sleeps from finding, compositing, generating, and unearthing ideas, based on what I see and hear. I have writing projects from years ago. I’ve come up with so many concepts since I’ve been here. Yet, I’m unable to pursue them. Please meet the second faceless fact-individual this mental gangbang. All I know is that when I have to fend off negativity and constantly explain myself in terms of my calling and future, I get tired. And when I’m tired, I can no longer write.

That plum-sized mass lodged in my chest must be a sign, an end to the gangbang. Can hear the beltbuckles rustling as they get dressed to leave and I’m lying numb.

I’m watching quarterlife, this new on-line series. I stumbled upon it today while looking for something on youtube and as I watch it, it becomes frightfully relevant.

The main character and narrator is Dylan, a writer stuck in a deadend editorial position, who blogs about her thoughts, life, and friends.

In this episode I’m watching as I push myself to write this post, she says, “You said to write whenever something moves me…. I’m sorry, it’s like a fetish…”

I’m so envious of Dylan. She writes at ease and in volumes. I don’t agree with her, I don’t think you’re chained to writing to the point that you can’t defer to a higher set of principles like your moral code or conscience. But, I won’t get too moralistic on Dylan, I mean, she’s writing and I’m not.

I relate to Jed, the tortured artist. The one who falls in love with the girl who’s either taken or doesn’t return the feelings. I don’t want to be that tortured artist. But it seems to me that I am. My torture comes from thoughts of grandeur revealing themselves to me and then when they disappear, all I see is my inability to make them happen.

I thought the first sign of being pretentious and doomed to failure (which in this business equates to being ignored and humoured)  is when you think or are tortured in your pursuit of your art.

I don’t know if I will ever make it to first base should things continue this way. I will fail and I won’t be able to show my face to anyone. Then my family will be right and I will sink deeper into myself until I die.

I fear I will fail. I fear I will never complete any project. I fear I will never amount to anything.

It’s 10 to 10 in the morning and I’ve just written something for my morning exercise.

Well… I’ve achieved something.

Dad: “My kids are really connected to Egypt. I mean, they never grew up there, but they’re still very much attached. Sarah can speak Arabic albeit as much as he can -”

Mom: “Mina can read and understand… ”

Dad: “It’s really important for your kids [referring to our guests] to keep the language. I mean, it’s been a pure personal effort on Mina’s part to learn and know [Arabic].”

A profound moment for me. I’m so touched my dad has identified how much effort I have put into learning and wanting to speak Arabic. And especially in front of guests, friends of ours who are just getting to know.

It could be because my dad has been helping me organize and unpack my vast amount of books, a lot of which are rare or unconventional or classic Orthodox Christian books, mostly in Arabic and the ones in English are not the usual ones found in a young guy’s library.

It could be a multitude of things and frankly, as the title suggests, I don’t want to poison it.

I’m so glad. I’m so vindicated. It overturns a small conflict with my mom a few weeks ago when she did the opposite. Since I’ve been here, question of identity and Egyptian heritage hasn’t really been pervasive to me.

And today it has. Thanks, Dad.

Today was a sublime, surreal day.

Two dreams were fulfilled within hours of eachother.

I’m going to be working for this reputable consulting company, starting January. And until then, I’ll be working (hopefully) as a junior editor and writer at this small marketing support company.

Yeah, an IT company.

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I was really down since I wrote the post about that girl who messaged me recently on a dating site I joined. All of yesterday, I was just bitter and angry. I even came up with a website concept, one that would be a large database and community site to document, track and publicise scammers.

I may do it, but for now, I joined this Yahoo! group called Romancescams that I found randomly while researching this mystery girl who e-mailed me. It’s a fulfillment of that brief image I had in my head yesterday. So, I’m going to stay on there, get to know the people, and join the community. And as a side goal, learn more and become skilled in smelling out a scammer.

Not that I need training with all the experiences I’ve had with fake people on dating sites, but perhaps just to quell the sense of despair I have about it all.

Will keep you posted.