An Epilogue, and a Prelude

Trigger warning: suicidal thoughts, abuse, depression.

The past few months have been a complete whirlwind, and I have to find space and time where everything isn’t upside down in order to write this blog post. Even when I do, it seems like writing a dissertation: I don’t know where to start. In this case, the next best thing is to start from the middle. It’s a bit of a wonky story anyway.

June 2018: My room is in boxes. It seems as though my whole life, my past, my home, my beginnings are in boxes. I have a strange relationship with Dubai, but I cannot deny that it is my fundamental vessel of knowing the world.

For the past few months, we’ve known this shift was coming, but we had no real idea where our destination was. Now, any mention of the Kingdom of Bahrain and our ears perk up. My sister’s first reaction is excitement: “we’re going to live in an actual kingdom??”

I smirk and explain to her that this makes her a commoner, and it’s nothing grand. She sticks her tongue out at me.

July 2018: The party is wonderful. Kuki’s (my sister) friends come over in the morning, and I have the pleasure of being the cool Older Sister in College. I give them counsel on movie choices and photo editing apps. This giggling bunch of 13 year olds turn our sitting room into a cave of popcorn bits and hilarious stories about that boy in their math tuition (he puts so much gel in his hair, it looks like a wall!!). Cue more giggles. I can’t help but smile to myself and wonder what I was like at this age. Probably just as full of wonder as they are.

My friends show up in the evening. I have written them letters. Everything feels so final. The internet is powerful, I think, but I don’t know if Snapchat streaks will keep our bonds going. With the last six months of my life being so psychologically draining, I have my doubts about all the relationships I’ve ever held close. These school friends are no exception, but once faced with the circumstance of having to let go of my proximity with them - all the memories come flooding back. Evenings spent ogling at boys on the football field, paintings made in the art room in utter silence, knowing stares across the classroom when an opportunity for an inside joke presented itself. Chits passed in class. Carefully curated lists of songs scribbled onto notebook paper for someone who was going through a tough time. Dreams of mansions and multiple dogs and endless sleepovers. Comparing hands after class to see whose fingers were the most stained by all that blue ink.

And all of it to culminate in this. Dinner cooked by my mother, Rick and Morty on TV, and a bunch of flashbacks. One of us is here in a suit: he comes straight here after work. Some of us (almost) lawyers, scientists, designers, programmers, bankers. All of us crazy and known to each other since before we could spell.

We sit on this couch one last time, and cut cake. The party is over, and the house is quiet again.

April 2018: Every bone in my body is pushing me to fling my frail self off the sixth floor. I can’t do this anymore. I cannot be this burden on everyone I love. I have reduced myself to a cavity in a wallet, and convinced myself that I am nothing more. My eyes never leave the floor anymore. I can recognise everyone in college by their shoes, so I know who is going to stop to say hi, and who will push into me like I was never there. Since February, I have barely shown up to my commitments - social, academic, or professional. Nobody has noticed. I spend all day in bed, imagining murals on my dorm room ceiling. This is a slow death I would not wish on anyone. I don’t remember the last time I’ve talked to somebody and they’ve said anything that resonates. Resonating implies feeling. I’ve lost that ability.

It’s an artifical state of being. Even leaves quiver in the wind. Flowers bloom. The stomach of a tiger rumbles. A bear snores in the winter. A mosquito bites. Me, I am a corpse. I do not hear the sound of my own heartbeat. I still have the freedom to cry, to know pain, to abuse myself constantly. I still have the ability to call myself a slut, a liability, a dunce, a fool. This much of myself I retain. All else is lost to the winter winds. And still, all I can think about is how much worse off my parents must be. They’re the ones hit by one man’s decision to liquidate an empire. They’re the ones who have to pay the bills: their own and mine. So I go for job interviews, knowing I will get it and decline, because I have committed myself to watching the murals on the ceiling.

And so one day, all the feelings I have reserved since New Year’s Day erupt in me. My body is quietly convulsing on the floor of my modestly-sized dormitory and I am possessed by Death itself. I imagine it is much like purging. Kind of like I’m forcefully sticking two fingers down my throat so that my gag reflex could somehow choke up my soul and leave me be. Even the One Thought I always use to knock sense into myself in these kinds of situations does not work. I tell myself: your sister. she will never forgive you. how will you forgive yourself if you leave her?

and then, Death speaks, in a raspy, alarming voice: she is old enough. she will be fine. get on with it.

This sends alarm bells to all corners of my brain, and I somehow drag myself out of the room (consciously avoiding looking down) and then knock feebly on the next door. A familiar face opens it: a batchmate I don’t talk to very often. At that point, I must have looked like a sputtering pressure cooker in a kaftan at that point. All tears, unwashed hair and runny nose, I don’t remember much of what happened next but she and her friend took care of me well enough for me to mutter something about sadness and then black out.

The next day, I am invited to dinner with The Girl Who Opened The Door and her father, along with some of her friends. I am unsure. My first reaction is to be embarrassed of my pouring out into her the previous night.

At dinner, I feel safe. After a long time, the presence of an adult who knows what he is doing - a parental adult - comforts me like nothing could. I shake her father’s hand, and my palm goes limp from the exhaustion of last night’s episode. We go to The French Window, and order lavishly. I haven’t seen this much food in a while. I eat until the table is clean and still, I am hungry. I have never felt so tired in my life.

May 2018: In the six months before I turn 19, I have been hit hard in the face with reality, crumbled from a throne I did not know was made of matchsticks, been nearly assaulted twice, and found love in a place I did not know I needed to look in. Things are still tough, but now I have sisters to lighten the load. They are taking me out to dinner on the eve of my birthday. As it seems, our friendship revolves around dinners and doors. The three of us sit down, chat, and toast to us. I still cannot be grateful enough for the strange synchronicity of our lives. They did not have to pick me up out of darkness, dust the dirt off my shoulders, and pretty much carry me until my legs gained feeling again. But they did. They still do.

Story Time with Kaav (Chapter 3: Ready to Raise Hell)

By the weekend, all the chaos had settled down into different corners of my dorm room and wiped away with damp cloth. I was feeling recharged and ready to try again, and I could not be more grateful for that feeling.

And then I found this in my unfinished notes:

“freedom is a scary word, reverberates in my mind like peace and trauma.

i am still doubting whether to dip my toes into its lake, but i am terrified of the infinity i might encounter. maybe this is why i am scared of eagles - they bow to no one and the sound of their wings flapping into the river is enough to give me gooseflesh. maybe i am a predator who has mastered the art of pretending to be prey.”

I haven't stopped thinking about it since. I have always found safety in my own meekness, or in my will to please other people. It's just become a skin I know too well at this point - an emotional attachment. This weekend, however, while fumbling back home - I broke through. It was strange, and peaceful and fantastically motivating. Breaking through doesn't feel like everything you've dreamed of at once- it's more like little doses. A glimpse at the truth, just enough so you know that it's there and you were right all along. I'm finally comfortable with believing in my own confidence - it's something that's constantly shrouded my mind, but the idea of asking to be centre stage seemed ridiculous. 

This weekend, over greasy burgers and cheesy fries, I realised that my fear is only so big in my own head. In fact, while trying to explain it to a friend, I found myself scratching to find words. I'm an awkward person, but I pride myself on articulation if nothing else.

A life tip I've always followed: If you can't explain something to a six year old, you haven't understood it well enough.

People who've interacted with me will realise this is why I'm so quiet: I either find no reason to ask questions (because I've understood it) or I'm trying to consolidate information to fit into a second grader's head. I find this is a really great way to look at the world around us and actually know what we're talking about.

So when I had no idea why I was scared of freedom, the only possible conclusion was that I had convinced myself that I was terrified of such a thing, but in reality, it's my sole mode of operation.

Story Time with Kaav (Chapter 2: A Period of Frustration)

An aching body, splitting head, and starving insides is not a good feeling to wake up to on a Sunday. Working with only my left calf and my right thigh, I somehow managed to propel myself through the day. I must have been something to behold: a lean-framed girl smelling of forest, coconut shampoo, sweat, and Deep Heat.

There was no way it could've gotten worse, right?

As the great philosopher Justin Bieber once said, never say never. I got my period, which effectively meant that whatever parts of my legs worked decided to shut itself down for the rest of the week. I remember dragging myself through college, and genuinely feeling envious of one of my classmates, who in an unfortunate turn of events, broke her foot and required crutches to walk around.

While she was in complete denial of needing said crutches, my eyes were constantly darting towards them - like some kind of middle school crush (you know, the kind where you lock eyes for a second and one of you is a mess of butterflies and the other has no idea why you have such a staring problem?)

On Monday morning, I got to class late - and it was the same class that took us on that forest field trip - and was told I wouldn't be getting attendance. In some way, it was fair because my professor had informed us of this policy at the start of the semester, but all I could think of was the irony of me losing out on attendance because I decided it was a good thing to possibly save one of my classmates from being stranded in the hills at dusk.

It's okay, I thought. There's still the rest of the day to go. Keep it positive, Kaavie! You can do this!

For whatever reasons, I have a very immature bias against that class right now. Call it whatever you want, but I'm allowing myself this caving in to basal needs. Transcendence comes in stages.

Now, a thing about PMS: it's different for everybody. I know women who don't feel a thing, and can go on for that week absolutely fine. I also know women who cannot get out of bed, or cannot filter their thoughts throughout the day, or have to ingest heavy dosage painkillers simply to stand up straight and fake a smile.

I just cry a lot.

I get moody and watch Disney movies to keep myself sane, and more often than not, make more bad decisions to just keep my personal streak going.

This week was more difficult because of the lack of mobility, sleep, and general hectic work life. Keeping to my resolutions for the year, I have decided that nothing besides excellence is going to be enough for me - I'm tired of being just good enough of a wallflower.

Caught in the crossfire of extreme expectations and a failing body and mind, I broke down in my room by Thursday. I had missed four classes that week just from exhaustion, and lost my way in the ones I had attended. I wasn't on top of my game, and this threw me into confusion, manifesting itself into listening to Billy Joel’s Goodnight Saigon on repeat and crying to myself in my room for a good couple of hours. 

More than anything, I was scared. Scared of suddenly receding into the person I used to be. Shrinking back into the skin of the person I thought I'd left behind for good.

Story Time with Kaav (Chapter 1: Midnight Jungle)

This week, to put it mildly, has been a challenge. Throughout my shiny new positive demeanour for 2018, this week took my bravery and shoved it down the gutter. 

Let's start from where I left off last week: during a field trip to a hilltop forest as part of class (i've managed to take some really cool classes), we had the unfortunate circumstance of somebody being left behind. While I don't want to give away too many details (and losing out on some of the story in the process), what essentially happened is that some chivalrous side of me I didn't know existed announced to the rest of the class that I would be going back uphill to go and find this girl. Flitting in and out of mobile range, and in between average darkness and almost outer space level blackness, some part of me thought it was the best thing to do. (Sidenote: I haven't exactly kept to my fitness routine consistently this year, so doing this trek for the second time was the worst idea I'd ever had. I couldn't help but think, while trudging uphill, that perhaps ideals and bravery and goodness is for really stupid people.)

Two other girls and I eventually set out in hopes we would ourselves make it back from this Taken-esque adventure. After a good amount of walking into nothing, and away from electricity - we found her. She'd just realised she left her bag near a lake we visited earlier - and at this point, I was sweating through all my clothes and just about ready to hit myself for initiating this idea. We somehow found the lake, found the bag, and then made our way back down. After momentary praise and a numb, heavily abused body - we got on to the bus back home.

Cut to two hours later, and I find myself in a club surrounded by some of the most amazing people on the planet (s/o to new friendships). I'm dancing my decisions away, making new friends in the freedom that comes with a couple of rums, and end the night happy and justifying everything I've done throughout the day.

Getting Better

This week has been full of revitalised friendship, whether it’s new and strong, or old and healing. I classify as your stereotypical introvert, and on the few occasions I do go out and spend time with people I’m slightly amazed at how nice it can be. In light of this, I think one of my major flaws is my helpless dependency on one or two people I consider my greatest friends. This year is about moving on from that rut and trying to actually trust in my own company - and 12 days in, I’d say I’m pretty impressed with myself.  Comfort with yourself opens up a whole new arena of people who suddenly want to talk to you, or “maybe hang out sometime”. This beautiful girl in the pictures has shared a particular portion of my time this week - from chilly evening walks in the city, to snacking in her dorm room and discovering so much strength in ourselves. Of course, it sounds really wholesome and pure when I put it this way- but in reality it was more like stories about snorkeling, relationships, overachieving friends and the mysteries of adult life. 

I’ve also witnessed one of my closest college friends go through a really rough patch, and felt completely helpless in the situation. This month, she’s back and grabbing the world’s attention after a 4-month long break. It’s really hard to watch someone go through inexplicable sadness you’ve experienced yourself, but in all honesty, it’s harder when you know you’ve been in the situation and still cannot offer a helping hand. However, we had a good, energetic talk about the entire episode - and she said something I’ve never really heard before. 

Sitting at the cafeteria table in our PJs, she looks at me and says: “You know, sometimes talking about my wounds just cuts them deeper. I understand that everyone is told to talk about their issues and bring it out into the air, but sometimes it only makes things worse.”