I was a burden since I was born and I can still feel the shame my family felt for me.
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The person you see on the screen in front of you, does not reflect the person that truly exists.
We exist beyond the square photo.
THIS is me.
9 months is around 273 days.
That was the first time she lied to me. When she carried me inside her womb for those 9 months. To carry, to ultimately bring into this earth, to have. But she didn’t have me, I wasn’t hers. I was an alien that she desperately wanted to get away from.
There was an excitement to give birth, a relief, but the relief she felt wasn’t rooted in holding me or loving me or to comprehend the miracle of life that just happened for the first time; the life that grew inside her, that she made. The relief was the detachment, to pass me onto other hands and eventually leave, never to come back.
26 years later the pain the trauma brings hurts so deep that it feels almost physical, and for the first few years with her, it was. From the beginning, I always felt like a burden and not a bundle.
She missed my first tooth falling out, the first book I read, my first day of school, my first exam, my first grades. A lot of firsts. She left me with a family that I attempted to squeeze into, but I never fit. They didn’t miss any of my firsts, but often my ‘firsts’ were not good enough.
I was simply a young, brown, Muslim girl trying to grow, both into the world I was brought into and the world at home. I learnt that I couldn’t please both. I split myself in two because I desperately wanted to feel safe.
Living two lives was tiring. I gave everything out and felt empty inside. Seeing the world move around me, growing, I knew that there was something wrong. I didn’t see colour; I felt drained, I felt numb, I didn’t feel sad, or happy. I felt nothing. I felt like leaving and never coming back.
I spent years setting myself on fire to keep those at home warm. I did things that made me unhappy, I didn’t talk about how I felt because depression doesn’t exist in our culture. Suicide is a sin. I kept all that pain inside, I lived with the feeling of not being wanted by the people who are meant to keep me safe forever, and eventually realised I will never ever have that.
I let them down by not becoming a doctor, a lawyer or an engineer. I saw the disappointment in their eyes and realised the stereotype definitely holds up. They constantly went through my things - they wanted a reason to push me out. I spent months, years, being scared to come home. I had panic attacks at school, I needed help. I had nobody on my team to help me navigate through the chaos. I just wanted to live a life like the people I saw outside of home, who were happy; going through struggles as everyone does, but they were happy. It was a feeling I wasn’t familiar with.
I never got to spend my teenage years going out with friends, having fun - I wasn’t allowed to stay at friend’s houses, go to shows, or do all the things that teenagers do. But I lied and snuck out of my house. I did everything I could to chase that happiness and relief. I would spend days watching the way normal families interact, and it broke my heart because I craved it so badly.
I spent a lot of time pretending to be okay. I would overcompensate by being funny, and always smiling. I would make sure people around me were laughing because I hopelessly wanted to belong somewhere…anywhere.
They found out about the other life I was living outside of the four walls at home and that I had a boyfriend and he wasn’t Muslim. That was the first time I felt like they hated me. The memories from that specific time are a bit of a blur because I refuse carry them with me for the rest of my life. I shut all the pain and suffering out of my mind, because it was far too much for me to handle. I had let them down because I finally had a little bit of happiness in my life. I felt angry at myself for letting this happen.
“What have I done? This is my own fault. I should have never betrayed them.”
They didn’t speak to me; they didn’t even want to look at me. They were so embarrassed and they didn’t want me at home.
So, at 16, I left.
The next two years were the darkest of my life. I spent those two years trying to live, to make sense of life and figure out what I deserved. I forced myself to believe that it was normal for me to be unhappy.
I can acknowledge today, that it was never my fault and the voice in my head told me over and over again - leave and never come back. I understand now that the act of living two separate lives was not the problem, it was the shame I had brought into them. People were talking about me and my family had to keep their reputation clean.
I came back and they manipulated me into thinking I could have happiness with them and with me, but it was the same thing:
“Think of what people will say.”
“You’re bringing shame on the family.”
So, I did it. I married him.
And I hate them for it, I hate them for making me feel the only way they could ever love me was if I did things for them.
At first, I thought I was happy because I had finally pleased everyone around me. But I was 18 years old - a baby. I didn’t know what I wanted in life, I had missed out on so much, yet, here I was married. In their eyes, I would be for the rest of my life and they were satisfied - not happy, but at least now people won’t talk.
At 20, we divorced.
He was my first boyfriend and he wasn’t going to be my last. To me, it was just a break up, to them, it was so much more. I was hurt, I was sad, but I would get over it. What I didn’t get over is how they treated me after. They still challenge any decision I make, because “it didn’t work out before”.
They have always been disappointed; they still are and probably always will be.
I sacrificed years for them, and I almost left and never came back because of them.
But I am still here, I am writing this. I haven’t figured it out and I’m not sure if I ever will, but I have come a long way.
And if they can never be proud of me. I will.