A really shortened summary of what ensued: we moved to a new house on the golf estate in which we reside. I soon got an infection in my left leg and it became an abcess, which required surgery. I stayed in hospital for a week and spent three weeks recovering. The minute the doctor and wound nurse said that I could drive again, I got into my car with a friend and we drove down to Cape Town on a road trip. It was a week-long trip and it was sorely needed. We listened to jazz, ate good food, laughed, did voices and impressions, and I got time to find myself buried under a year’s worth of rubble.

I got back to a new day job, which helped me get back on track towards an active life again.

I haven’t blogged in so long that I feel empty of words at this point. I’ve been living squarely in my head for the last period.

There have been many fights and arguments with parents. There have been many slow, crushing days where I’ve contemplated mortality to the point of inducing a spell of cold terror into my existence. The best thing about the last period was that in between Cape Town and the operation, I managed to rediscover some old loves. I picked up reading again; I’m currently reading Plato’s Republic and Sartre’s Being and Nothingness. I started to listen to music for the mere aesthetic pleasure, mainly jazz. I discovered new loves: playing the guitar and cooking. And watching a lot of BBC Lifestyle cooking shows.

I got into a very helpful routine every day during that period also, just getting myself to focus on structure and achieving simple things. It did wonders for me and added meaning to my days. Unfortunately, when I got back from Cape Town, the amount of arguments and resulting anguish distinguished the fire of Cape Town in no time. And I went back to that black place, where routines routinely die.

I’ve been recording my descent into experiential despair and disillusionment with my faith on my Facebook profile via the Religious Beliefs field. People were taking note, but no one was commenting. The rawness of what I was sharing must have been off-putting. But last Saturday, the descent took me to new lows. I suddenly was overcome by the realization that it’s a year on from my breakup with my former fiancee-to-be. I started going through Facebook and I flushed her out. I removed tags of her on photos, deleted whatever comments of her still around, and deleted whatever photos that I no longer wanted on there. At the end, I was tired but I was content.

The next day, Sunday evening, I met up with my friend and business partner Sam at her spot, Spur Fourways. By the end of it… I came face to face with myself, all my faith doubts and rawness, and I drove home a different person. I was looking down when I was sitting at the table, knowing that this is when a person, not a saint or a mystic, just a regular struggling guy, meets God. There is no smoke or voices, no apparitions; just a realization that you had it all wrong, completely wrong!, and God reigns, not to injure and torture me, but to love me.

And since then, I’m walking in the opposite direction. I’ve been praying more in the last 2 weeks than I have in the past 2 years. It’s the beginning of the road and I’m not scared for God is with me.

I was angry at God for a very long time – I hated him – because I believed that he chose not to intervene to teach me lesson after lesson, where it stops being disciplining and becomes sado-masochistic. It may be that that realization that Jeremiah struggled with, when he wrestled with God and asked him why he’s silent. I never forget the words of Kierkegaard: “God is God and not what you think of him in your mind”. How they ring true – I could say that I’ve hated the God that I knew in my mind, the one that I’ve come to think I’ve believed in this year, but not the one revealed in Scripture and church. And, as hard as it is to accept for a student of theology and scripture, it’s obvious that I don’t know him at all. I haven’t opened my bible in a very long time. All I have is previous knowledge and old, dusty recollections of key verses and doctrines.

So, right now, it’s about the two wings of this newly born eagle – Scripture and prayer.

I hope you all like the new design. It’s completely new and different, a reference to the recent shift in my life. I’ve been going to the gym recently, almost every day, and it has done wonders for my energy levels, sleeping, and focus. A part of my workout now is swimming and it’s exhilirating. When I got into the pool, I heard myself think: “I’m home”. I started out with 100m and I felt it; my whole bad was sore. Then yesterday, I did the 100m and felt strong; I wasn’t tired yet. So, I pushed myself and did another 100m. So, I’ll be starting a new type of post on here, documenting my progress with swimming.

I want to breathe in fresh breath in this blog after so many posts about my parents and my inner turmoil. I also want to live life. Really live it. So, this blog should be a celebration of it and also a record of my writing.

It started in April 2001 at the Resurrectional procession on a Sunday during Pentecost. I had stumbled into church, partly hungover and partly thirsty for meaning, and stood in the middle pews by the end, in case I wanted to rush out in a moment of defiance. I knew a few people but I didn’t really maintain any of the relationships at that time. So, that liturgy in 2001 was the first time in a long time I’d been in church. I remember one deacon’s face as he slightly motioned hello and smiled; I had met him a few times before.

After the liturgy, I met up with those I knew and they invited me to come and sit with them. That meeting would be the first time I discover myself in church. I started telling them about my background, my studies, living in Oxford, and my artistic interests. It was in the lower room of St. Mark’s, next to the baptismal font, a room littered with books and memories for many that sat in that room. They started telling me about the services and activities. My eyes widened and my mind lit up with ideas. As they spoke and I spoke, we realized that there was a space for my ideas. Someone suggested at that time that they had been wanting to do a professional and high-quality concert. I, being the Peter that I was, rushed forward and said, “Let’s do it!”. They were hesitant and offered all sorts of sensible reasons for it not working. I remember insisting and saying,”I can help you with that.” At that point, the idea of the annual concert was born.

And also at that point, Midiane the Servant had been born although it would take many months until it became official in ways. I went to church a lot more. I stayed at church a lot more. I made friends. I spoke more Arabic. I learned more Arabic. A very gracious and loving father figure taught me Coptic and the Midnight Praises. I started developing my then modest knowledge of hymns and rites through the man’s lessons and effort. I got involved in a lot of activities very quickly. I drank less in Oxford. I tried to pray more and read the Bible more. I became aware of my dire situation and started repenting, as best I knew how.

One day, I was going to the downstairs rooms in the St. Mark’s house to take part in the choir practices. My dad called me to say hello and to see how I was doing. I remember that day: a dark winter evening in Kensington, the bright yellow lights bursting from the bottom building window. Excited and animated, I told my dad that I had been invited to serve in official capacities in the choirs and preparation for the concert. My dad told me, “May God give you grace, my son.”

A whole string of defining moments, like this last one, followed. As much as this will undoubtedly involve a narrative of what happened from my memory and perspective, this is more aimed to be a commentary on the things I learned and observed in church.

The concert idea had been borne and I had started holding meetings to organize the pre-production, to conceptualize, and to mobilize the force that will make this happen. People found these meetings strange as this disheveled, scruffy guy could have such a clear vision and unabated passion. Soon, the concert was taking shape and we were discussing theme and content. I had told them that I had a concept for a play and I had written a first draft. I printed out a copy and I handed a copy to the father figure I mentioned before. We’ll call him Man.

The play was not approved because of one scene where it’s suggested that a young couple were about to fornicate. The main point of the scene was the ironic line the Satan character delivers, this is my trinity, but to get the people involved, especially Man, to understand this proved futile. It was my first experience of censorship and dealing with the conservative mindset of Egyptians in church and arts. No matter how hard I tried to explain the point of the scene and that the suggestion of sin is coincidental, it made no difference. Man decreed no. And no one else really objected at the time, although they could see my side. I learned later on that I had to fight a lot of my battles on my own and that when people would come up later to tell me that they agreed with me, it meant little. I still lost the battle on my own with no support.

That play incident was also the first stone in the memorial of disappointment. The reasons given to me weren’t satisfactory and I took their disagreement as cowardice. So what if people read the wrong message or understood that sex is suggested? Sex happens in young couples and it’s delusional to try not to deal with it on stage or in writing. No, they said. Sex does happen but we don’t have to announce it. I really was disappointed. I spent many hours and nights working on that script. I decided to flirt with diplomacy and came back with an edited script. Still, it didn’t pass. The memory from the first draft stuck and I increasingly felt that I was labeled the ‘rebel’, the ’subversive writer’. This play or any revision thereof wouldn’t see light of stage.

But I kept on writing. For upon me flowed the most fruitful and rich time of renewal in terms of my writing. I wrote poems, translated songs from Arabic to English, and filled notebooks and pads with thoughts, lyrics, and ideas. My mind had woken up after drowning in drinking, loneliness, and futility. I wrote more sketches and songs, all the things I wanted to incorporate into the concert. I didn’t realize at the time that although the concert was being driven and shaped by me, it wasn’t my call. It wasn’t my concert. It was the Man’s concert and ultimately, St. Mark’s concert. I felt a deep sense of ownership towards the concert but it wasn’t mine. I was just a surrogate mother. The concert couldn’t call my womb home.

I was involved in the Friday meeting, youth meetings here and there, and other services with a nearby bishop. I had developed a routine where I go to London on Friday, attend and serve at the youth meeting, stay for Midnight Praises, sleep over in church, wake up in the morning for the liturgy, spend the day milling around, come back in the evening for Vespers, mill around, have Coptic and hymns lessons, and then crown the day with Midnight Praises. Sunday, sleeping in church again, was the liturgy and then service until 3 or 4pm. This was every Sunday for a very long time.

The 1st concert happened. I was MC and performer in multiple spheres. No one really knew whom I was, but they liked me. They laughed at my jokes and I connected with the crowd. I ran around between choirs and segments and the front stage. It was manic but it was surreal. I felt at home, affirmed for a change.

We started planning the 2nd concert afterward and then things took a relaxed approach. I was still my passionate, driven self, but things lagged. We still had the theme discussion and conceptualization meetings, but they weren’t like before. I made suggestions to write this or that, and I was told to write. I brought what I wrote. Sorry, not this time, next time. In hindsight, I realized that I didn’t know how to read people at the time. I was young, naive, and passionate, all the characteristics that set you up for crushing disappointment in that environment. I didn’t understand and started getting angry. I still pushed things along and we got ready for the 2nd concert. By that time, new faces appeared and they were taken in, much like I was. I had written a few funny sketches, in Arabic of all languages, and they weren’t accepted. But the new faces had ideas and those ideas passed. Why? I don’t know. I never got a convincing answer from anyone involved, including Man. A young man appeared and wanted to rap. I wrote sanitized Christian lyrics that he would have performed, but both Man and Bishop felt that it was best to avoid it. I believed them and agreed with them, although deep down I didn’t. But I wasn’t prepared to let go now and have nothing again. The guy was also disappointed and promised with better opportunities. I don’t remember anymore what happened with him in that respect. Anyhow, 2nd concert happened and passed. I started feeling my place and position diminish and fade. My baby was being taken away from me, you know, the one meant for another mother.

My writing started to wane, but it wasn’t dead. But it spoke more of my frustration and anger than my excitement and optimism. With the 3rd concert on the horizon, I saw new, even more influential players enter the ring. And these would usher in a new era for the arts ministry, let alone the church. They represented a new force sweeping the church, a force that many older servants felt that they had to placate and absorb back into the mainstream. They were energised by more Protestant theologies and thinking, and they represented a very real threat to the church in many ways. One of the main players however, as much as he was involved in the movement, had no plans to rebel against the church nor change things. He just wanted to find God through his art and service. And that he did. And as he represented this movement in many ways, he was taken in by Man. Let’s call this main player Boy. So, Boy was taken in and Boy was given basic free reign. Definitely, he found his place and was given solo spots in the concert. And that drove me crazy. I became so jealous of him and resented him. For everything I suggested, it was turned down, at this point, with little explanation from Man. And Boy came forward and his ideas were, in my mind, implemented immediately. I really can’t think of a time when Boy wanted to do something and it wasn’t granted.

I fell away after the 3rd concert. And I went through a long period of hating Boy and resenting him so badly that if I even heard his name in connection with something I was involved in, I would pull away. The Boy branched out with the Bishop and that bishop gave him free reign too. It was bound to happen that we would end up ‘competing’ in a sense. One year, maybe the final year I attended a youth conference because I wanted to, I was invited to conceptualize and take part in the conference song, then a fairly new idea. I went away with some ideas after a meeting with the bishop and other servants. I came back and just as I was about to pitch them or mention them, Boy had been commissioned to come up with it.

The song by Better Life goes, ‘gaz fe nafsi seif…’. In English, it translates to, a sword went through me. Far from the feeling of sorrow felt by the Virgin at the Cross, it was the sword slaying me. I felt so useless and so incomparable when Boy was around.

I didn’t attend the 4th concert. I bailed on them after I had said that I would attend as a main vocalist for the Arabic choir. It was November and it was dark. And I was crying and screaming into the phone with a close friend of mine, one whom was involved in the arts council. I had had enough. After that point, I never took part in another concert or arts event or service. I did end up going to apologize to Man for how I left things with the 4th concert, but I remember going because a very close friend advised me to. I didn’t want to, but I did it, feeling guilty, pressured, and too weak to argue with him. So, I apologized to Man and saw my overall relationship with him and his family cool for a while. It is now polite and phatic, but every time I look into his eyes, I remember the eyes of the father figure whom really took care of me when I was new to St. Mark’s. But I also remember the eyes which looked back at me, telling me, no, next time, next concert.

At the pinnacle of my ministry, at the time I was most active, I was in Basingstoke in Hampshire, doing my placement year and still traveling to London every weekend for my grueling routine. I remember being asked to write a piece for a small-circulation publication, run by a friend, aimed at young Christians in London called the Grapevine. The piece was never published: another example of the phenomenon that I’ve explained above. Here it is:

It is a very common thing to hear someone say when approached about joining the arts’ services at churches,”… But I’m not artistic.”

Like only a few are. In fact, we all are.

And if some are more than others, it is solely because of a gift that God has granted them. Also, it is because that person chooses to keep that gift alive in them by practicing it and honing it for the glory of Christ.

But what about everybody else, those perhaps who are not given a talent in the arts?

Well, I am one who believes that everybody can act, sing, and paint. Yes, everybody. If this were not the case, then we are being deceived by all those academies of art, drama, dance, and singing. Those academies were instituted to turn the desire of being an artist into a reality.

Everybody can act, sing, and create masterpieces of iconography or any kind of art. That which stops people is something called inhibition. Basically, another word for fear. No confidence. Stage fright. Fear of failure. Well, call it whatever you want.

In the end, when we consciously avoid trying to explore ourselves to see if we have an artistic gift within us, we are in a way denying the unlimited power of God the Father who is the Source of All Gifts. Just if we give up ourselves to Him, the Spirit of Gifts then will turn even a small seed of desire to sing or act and turn it into ability unmatched by any humanly developed skill.

The arts make up such a limitless medium to spread the gospel of our Lord Christ. Through spiritual songs, hymns, plays, icons, pictures, poetry, stories, sayings – you name it – , we as the members in the body of Christ serve each other and glorify Him. The mouth will sing love to the ailing foot. The hands will paint new colors in the tired eyes.

In conclusion, anyone can become an instrument of the Holy Spirit like St. Ephraim the Syrian. Anyone can develop a voice that will make God in heaven hush up His Angels. Anyone can get on stage and make us a character so well we forget where that person ends and the character starts.

It’s a matter of letting go of our inhibitions and allowing God to mould us into the creatures of praise He made us to be in the first place.

The arts are such a fundamental part of us.

Let us all then make it fundamental in our church as well. And please, let us enjoy it at the same time.

It’s naive, clunky, and stylistic, but I wrote it from the most honest and sincere part of me. I believed every word I wrote and I tried to live every sentence. And how it hurt when I would revisit these words and realise that I put in so much of myself to see me come out with nothing. Now, I see the progress of St. Mark’s and the Bishop’s work documented and advertised in Facebook, and the nights will come when I get so angry, seeing an idea I suggested back then implemented now. And the feelings of inferiority and inadequacy creep up as I remember their weak and empty reasons for not implementing them. I felt humored and placated like a child then.

The following is a collection of excerpts from an e-mail I wrote to the former fiancee-to-be as part of our long e-mail exchanges in getting to know each other:

…

I realized St. Mark’s and the Bishop didn’t want people like me. They wanted the players from the sweeping movement. Like in high school, I couldn’t be Danny in Grease, I couldn’t be Tom in Look Back in Anger, a play by John Osborne I did in uni, I couldn’t be a servant truly respected, empowered, supported, and pushed forward like the others. I was a weak, childlike, naive young man who just wanted to serve God. And I was quietly patted on the head and brushed aside on my many occasions so others could shine. I was never deemed important enough to shine.

I tried to rationalize and justify this by saying, perhaps I’m the seed that must die in order for others to grow. Then, I was swept in some people’s bitter, twisted pastoral theology about how God orchestrated all this pain to teach me a lesson. What lesson? What have I done wrong to be taught a lesson? I later rejected this theology outright. In and out of church, I saw Boy and others rise and do what I wanted to do, even proposed to do, as if the priest took it out of my mind and mouth and empowered others to do it. No one ever took me seriously. I struggle every day to be taken seriously.

Recently, when I met up with Greg [my high school English teacher] for dinner, he told me something very powerful and poignant. He quoted Dr. Johnson, as he always did during high school as my English and Philosophy Teacher. (Dr. Johnson is a famed writer and critic). He said that Dr. Johnson taught the two main forces writers struggle against: to be misunderstood and to be ignored.

Right now, as back then during ministry, I was constantly and systematically ignored. No matter how much I grew up or changed or tried to be less child-like, and I was became more belligerent towards clergy and servants, people still would ignore me. Like many at church, they’d crack a fake smile and let me think that I actually matter. Those morbid, transparent fucks.

…

I wanted to pursue the arts in the church like one does in the world: free, unfettered, and given space to explore. I was naive as I really didn’t understand the breadth and depth of the Egyptian culture that drives every Coptic church. But the kind of arts I want to pursue is not possible. I would even hazard to say that even with the most free-thinking or unconventional priest, it is not possible. There will always be a social more or common sensibility offended at some point, and when that happens, priests and servant shrink and take the path to least resistance. They will spout all sorts of mangled verses and theological justifications for their reasoning. If you’re an artist in the Coptic church, please be careful. Please. It’s very probable that if you don’t tow the party line and wish to explore an alternative path that you will be ostracised or sidelined. It’s only evitable in the environment most churches are in. If you want to do nice, staid plays about the love of Christ and the saints, you’re game. If you want to do funny but pointless skits about young guys in tunics and galabiyas, wow, you’re game. But most likely, you want to do a thought-provoking play or piece of music that talks about the very real struggle of young Christians, please be ready to be shot down with the precision of a sharpshooter. Arts in the church is possible as long as your definition doesn’t fundamentally collide with servants or priests. It is possible if your art is something you could perform or exhibit in front of a socially and intellectually conservative monk, priest, bishop or patriarch.

I end this post with a short anecdote. Back then, I translated an Arabic song Ad’oo el Elah into English, I Call on the Lord. It’s really my most favorite and my most personal song, both in arabic and english. Each language strikes me in a different way. The Arabic is nostalgic, reminds me of my innocence and simplicity in service and in prayer. And the English reminds me of how dedicated and driven i was as a servant, and how i ended up being on the fringes after all that hard work. Friends of mine still make fun of me with this song because how they thought i used to sing it at youth meetings and at conferences. No one knew or would understand how personal it was every time i sang it. It got to the point where the bishop would ask me to sing it in prayer meetings. Once I was asked to sing it at a conference. I did it in front of bishops n the Patriarch. It was very embarrassing, given i was sweaty from running around earlier; I was so nervous. I shudder at the memory. I was such a child-like person back then… I did anything to serve.

I really did anything to serve and create art, to make sense of those things God seems to have impressed upon me. Now, I do it far away from the approval and awareness of the church. The time may come when my art will collide with them. Remember that play from before? It’s now being rediscovered as a short film that will pave way for a feature film adaptation of the original stage play.  C for Conquer will see the light, any light, soon.

Will I ever serve again in that capacity? I don’t know. What do you guys think?

And if you’re interested in hearing I Call on the Lord, drop me a mail on midiane at lymone dot com or a comment below.

… I did anything to serve.

It's a great flat, very similar in feel and function as my flat in Cricklewood, Northwest London. I will furnish this from scratch. This weekend, I bought cutlery and basic kitchen amenities.

In 2006, I left my friend Sam to go live in London after leaving a comfortable and cosy house in Oxford. In 2009, I'm leaving my family home to go live on my own. Both are lofts. Both are homes of great memories, comfort, security, and ease.

In 2006, things had cooled and soured by the end with Sam, as he was going through his own struggles. In 2009, things have become so difficult at home.

Lord, I thirst for their connection to me. Lord, I thirst for someone or something to heal the gaping wounds in my heart, from their words, silence, negligence, their shouting, their insensitivity, their lack of understanding, their flippancy, their bile, their wrath, their lack of care. Lord, I thirst, my soul longs for life.

I laid in bed today, the tears starting to cradle in my eyes, hearing my mother talk to my sister. They then fell out of the cradle while taking a shower and getting ready for work. I hear my mother's voice directed at me and I shudder. I shake. I'm terrified of her. I'm terrified that the next word will be silence, a dagger fired, disapproval, hard hurtful tones shot at me. Whenever she speaks, I am transfixed and am horrified.

I went downstairs to have some breakfast; she had knocked on the bathroom to ask me if I wanted some and also packed lunch.

Whenever I scrub up, my mom's running joke is that I'm going to meet a girl. In another time and in another me, I would have said something emotive and showing my longing for affirmation, positive feedback. But this is me now. The me who quietly said no, no girl and kept on eating his jammy toast.

They could come in and talk, ask me what I'm doing with my life, what am I working on, what I am feeling, whom I am meeting, what I am thinking and feeling. They only seemed to do that when they approved of my existence, when I was about to marry that girl and they felt that they had to intervene. So, then, they put on their Sunday best of words and speech, and came to speak to me. Now that there is no threat, and that they just plain disapprove of absolutely everything I do, no need to go talk to him. He will bury himself in his arrogance and blindness. He will destroy himself. And we'll stand by to watch him waste away as we try to engage with his sister. The more worthy out of the two. The one worth trying to talk to, the one worth trying to reach out to, the one worth trying to put aside all my fears and hurts and anger for! But not the other one.

Not that mess of a human being. Not that rude, lying, disrespectful, sorry excuse for a man. Not that pile of dog shit who takes up a room every day, comes home at late hours, and uses me like a maid. Not that sorry fuck for a human being. No. Not him. The daughter, yes. But, the son? No. He's a lost cause. He's an eternal mess. He's a past failure.

He cannot be spoken to. He is emotional and illogical. He is rude and hurtful. He is weak and pathetic. He is forgettable and distorted. He's lost, confused, depressed, and thus worth ignoring altogether. Let me focus on the healthy one, the one that is willing to play my game.

….. my parents don't love me. They watch me waste away, day in day out, asking me who's hurting me and upsetting me while my blood drips from their fingers. While their hands carry the smell and imprints of my face. While their words are found, nuzzled and shooting hot cum into my cheeks.

I hate them while I lie in this prison, waiting for the day to release, to simply go to another prison. And one day, if ever, while I'm in the new shiny loft prison, I may find deliverance and peace.

Let him move out. Let him reap the consequences of his childish and arrogant decision. Let him fall and fail and be destroyed. And let my conscience be clear in front of God. Let me be pure and righteous before Him. And let my son die. Let my son fail so I may succeed. Let my son fall so I may rise. Let my son die so my ego and self-confidence may rule eternal and unmatched.

My mother doesn't love me. And my father doesn't care. And my sister enjoys their courting, while I fester in despair.

I'll never be good enough in their eyes. I'll never do anything of note that can get something positive. I'll never do anything properly, exactly as they raised me to it. The moment is here. I am a complete and unsalvageable failure in their eyes. I am a mess and sinner. I'm a horrible, horrible person. I'm the Devil himself, I'm possessed by him, I'm run by him, I'm chasing after a sinful dream of making film. I'm not a man. Just a walking sack of water, shit, and dreams, daring to live differently than them. I'm garbage. Real garbage.

I am a fool for moving back in with my family! I'm a fool for believing I could have a meaningful relationship with my parents! I'm a fool for thinking that they love me. I'm a fool for thinking that they care about me… I'm a fool for thinking – that they even care about my feelings, my fragile self-esteem, and my tattered emotions… I'm a fool… *crying*.. I'm such a fucking fool… *crying*

OH MY GOD, ANOTHER 15 DAYS IN THIS HELL! 15 DAYS!!!!! 15 FUCKING, 15 FUCK-ING DAYS… WHY!!!!! WHY!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I WANT TO DIE!!!!!!!!!! I WANT TO DIE!!!!!!!!!! SOMEONE SAVE ME!!!!!!!! SOMEONE SAVE ME!!!!!!!!! OH GOD WHY!!!!! WHY, WHY, WHY, WHY, WHY!

*screaming* WHY!!!! WHY!!!!!!

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

I wasn't even aware that I was seceding everything to absolute nothingness, unproductivity, and despair. A cold sense of irony pervades me as I write this; having championed and fought so hard for self-awareness, I didn't sense I was falling and with it, my plans and hopes for a very new direction in life whistling down through the air with it.

I'm now sitting in front of the television every night with them, hating everything but doing nothing about it. My room is where I sleep and escape, my desk – the one I spent time on organizing and personalizing – is no more than a glorified filing cabinet.

I have no desire to do anything. The environment I come home to every day is one preoccupied with preservation and avoidance of all disturbances. At all and any costs. After a while, as I wasn't vigilant in countering this by writing, creating, struggling, because I gave up, the environment affects you and soon after, you're sucked clean of all your anima.

I'm scared that if I stay in this environment any further, I'll condemn myself to go back to that hungry circle where I feed off myself, saying how I feel so constricted in doing anything, how crap I am, and how I'll never do "what" I want to do. I never want to go back to that circle. I've made progress and I've moved forward, I'm not prepared to go back. I'm not going to go back to that circle and then convincem myself I'm shit when I know I'm not.

My parents think I don't listen to them and I always ignore their advice, but I do albeit on a selective basis. The things to do with thinking, talking to them, making decisions: I've implemented all points they've advised on. I come to use it with them and no, it's not good enough. Nothing is good enough.

Could they see I spent 5 months to come to this decision after many unexpected turns and events, after much self-analysis and circumstantial evidence, after reviewing all my plans about staying at home for at least 1 year, and after realizing that I'm doing everything I can to adapt to home life and they're doing nothing.

They don't. 

My environment, implicitly – directly, says that it's not worth trying anything in case you fail. It's not worth doing anything else lest you tire yourself. It's not worth doing anything because it's a waste of money, time, effort, and energy. Why would you want to spend all that on something useless when you could do all the same in front of the TV?

On Monday night, I spoke to my parents about my desire and plans to move out.

I might as well declared I'm now a homosexual Muslim.

I was upset by what they said and how they said it, although I expected it. Expecting something doesn't make you immune from the natural emotional reactions to people and events.

They didn't understand me and they consequently embarked on a campaign to make sure any of my decisions seems stupid, harried, and ultimately going to permanently scar me. I was sure of my decision but now, I'm not. Not because they unlocked something in my awareness that makes me now want to live with them even more.

They tapped into a well where all my self-doubt and self-anxiety lays still, rotting. Then, I go through the whole process of "Man, can't they just support me once? Can't they say I've done a good decision once?"

Then, I still try to stay analytical. I go back quickly in my head and think about the last major decision I made – the one to move back. And then smaller ones since I've been here. I could see just one pattern emerging. If the decision doesn't fit them or fit the idea they have of me or doesn't align with their desires and plans, then it's a decision that will get raped to death.

So, they've been egging on me for years to be objective, to take time in my decisions, blah blah BLAH!, and now if it's not something within their mental framework, it doesn't even matter if I want to become a priest.

By the end of the conversation, my dad did the usual silent, withdrawn thing. My mom kept on talking but we weren't getting anywhere.

Last night, I come home very tired from a long day and a long schlepp in traffic. I walk in and there's a frosty air to the living room. I sit down to have dinner. They continue their conversation as I'm there. My dad barely gives me eye contact. My mother speaks to me a few words. Same with my sister. I give myself an hour to relax before I go up to do some private work.

I couldn't take more than 30 minutes. I'm being ignored and it's obvious. I kept on thinking and rechecking, thinking back to the last time this happened, that retarded fight with my mom and sister. Yes. Exactly the same behaviour, body language, tone, and atmosphere.

I go up to my room and slide defeated on my bed to calm down. I end up passing out and waking up very early.

Perhaps someone came up while I was sleeping.

I woke up this morning and it continues. My dad just says hello and nothing else. Then my mom asks if I'm angry or upset with something at work.

Keeping my cool, I say that everything is fine and I was quiet last night because I was very tired.

I'm tired every day after work but I don't come home to a house call by the Ice Scapades every day.

It drove me crazy as I was preparing my breakfast. Why do you project your shit on me and make it as if I'm the one who alienated myself?!

In response to this curt exchange, I get dressed and leave the house without saying goodbye.

My mother interrupts me driving out of the driveway. I lie. Flat out, unabashed lie. She knew it. I knew it.

I left in a huff and puff.

I'm being treated like I've betrayed or failed them. How can that be? How? I just want to move out to have my own place.

I keep on doing real-time Transactional Analysis (TA)  as I deal with my family. I always get treated and spoken to like a child, no matter how much I change or adapt my behaviour upon their request or on my own accord. All I can feel is despair because I've run out of options. Confronting them doesn't work, talking them through the process doesn't work, ignoring them is not something I do, and trying to use humour or hyperbole just exacerbates everything.

I was venting to a friend about this this morning and I came to a conclusion as he was trying to help me out.

It's a metaphysical catastrophe for me (the word I used in the discussion was crisis, I use catastrophe here after more thinking) to accept that there can be no fairness or decency with your family. I expect shit in the world, with friends, with lovers, with wives, with your colleagues, with your managers, trying to pay a phone bill, trying to get your money back.

I expect shit in church. From priests, from servants, from deacons, from bishops and patriarchs. I expect spineless treatment, done in the name of Christ, by well-meaning, incompetent people at all social and ecclesiastical levels.

But not inside my family and my home. Please God, no.

A home doesn't have to have divorced parents to be a broken one.

I can't accept this right now as much as I will have to or else I'm headed for another theological state of turmoil.

If every unit of God's economy – church, government, secular society, believing society, friendship circles, relationships, the workplace and family – has become for me places where I encounter hardship, what else do I have left?

My friend told me this morning,"Yourself and God".

That's a lonely, lonely last resort. If this was the desert and I was hermit, fine.  But I live in the secular world and interact with people.

I can't give up on the concept of having a barely functional family. I can't just rely on myself. Not because I can't.I don't want to. I tried it before, have seen it in others, and don't want that. At all.

… I will accept the unacceptable… I don't see any other way around it. I won't stick around anymore and wait for something to change towards a more agreeable state for me.I don't know what's the consequence of accepting the unacceptable if I won't be doing the whole "myself and God only" thing.

But with my family? I give up. Really give up. Nothing will ever change. They won't change. I will follow their rules at home and listen passively, react to them and proact when I have to.

Otherwise, default plan of action is withdraw, become a hermit and rock up for dinner to eat and be treated like a child.

For the rest of the day, the mention or thought of my now departed grandparents achieved the same effect in me. I am not a crier. The fact that I use humour to express myself more than calm dispassionate words is testament to that I’m not a walking basketcase.

My sister brought back food and books from Egypt. Everything reminded me of them. The sight of food they bought for me as a child was enough to tear through my resolve. I found myself running away from my dad and sister to go upstairs to deal with the surge of emotions. The last time I felt this raw and bare was a recent breakup with a girl.

My father and I spent a lot of Sunday in the car, going to see a priest. Looking up into the sky where I believe my grandparents are, the skilled drone of Fr. Stephanous Rizk’s fractions soothe me, yet bring on more tears.

I took a writing pad with me in the car and wrote as if a message demanded to be conceived in lead. I did. I put it down, humbled by the memories of a prior innocence. Images and words came freely, I couldn’t write fast enough.

Nothing could hold them back. They seem foreign, but I welcome them. They seem wrong, I feel my dad’s unease seeing his son in an unexpected vulnerability, but I don’t hold back. I need them. I needed to feel I care enough about someone else than myself that I can let go.

It was a charged day with ebbs and tides. We received a penetrating words of benefit from the priest we visited, but they quickly vaporized when I got home. I escaped soon after and that was that.

It was a surreal Sunday and as I write this watching the sky beam blue with morning, it’s still surreal. Yesterday, as if a hot knife seared through me.

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.

Why am I writing? To whom am I writing this? What’s the effect on me? What’s the purpose?

This time, I don’t have answers to any of those questions. When I go still, quiet, and empty, I think of my blog. I think, “Perhaps, if I write it out, I won’t act out, I won’t drown, I won’t despair..”

That thought, incredibly redemptive. Only if I follow through on the thought, as it transforms from thought to state to practice to path…