It sometimes hurts to tell my story…

Bismillah ar-Rahman ar-Raheem

I feel sorry for whoever will read my childhood diary. Deathly sorry. It’s so biased. It’s filled with pages and ink blots of grief. But that’s not my entire childhood. I only wrote in it at times of extreme excitement, sadness or rage. I was silent in times of happiness but outspoken in times when the world seemed strange and un-understandable to me as a child.

As I read back and gaze at the pages of tear-stained grief, I wonder what it was all about. Alhamdulillah my life is not as grief-filled as it is anymore. Either I have grown stronger or the loud voices of fighting in my life have gone away. They still scare me but they can no longer make me run and hide. I cannot be corned any longer. I have Allah. He is my best friend.

Those long nights of uncertainty when my mother asked me the question ‘Would you rather stay with your dad or come with me?’ as she stood at the door linger in my mind clearly. My younger brother’s comforting words sound so ironic to me now. He told me, ‘Don’t cry, Baji (older sister)’ while I struggled to hold back tears, knowing I could no longer pretend how to be strong, controlled and poised around him; now we barely talk about these issues…we kind of just ‘know’ things are not how they should be. Sounds and words stick with me because they still continue today. But images, oh my, those images. They will never end. The car speeding away from the house as we drove away. My mother cursing under her breath at my father who forced her to live with psychologically deranged in-laws. My father struggling to survive and encourage all those involved in the tug of war between his wife, mother and sister who all lived with us. In one instance, I saw blood. And I knew it was not alright. None of this. None of it was normal or acceptable for Muslims or human beings.

Fake smiles and superficial relationships ensued as I struggled to be the ‘nice’ one to all the family members. I kept my duties. I still do, or try to. Loading and unloading the dishwasher while a family member takes her medicine and ‘crashes’ to sleep after a long day, trying to change the subject when one starts backbiting another family member, trying not to cry when my father tells me he is proud to have ‘two perfect kids’ who survived the BS of circumstances…these are still with me.

But how pathetic and inconsequential all of seems when you cannot cut the problems from their roots. How I wish I could go back and change up these peoples’ childhoods. How I wish I could change the way we live.

How I wish I did not grow up in a joint-family system.

It’s not the only thing I do. I know there are issues. I know there are discussions our community has not had. I know religiously following one’s culture and culturally following one’s sacred religion of Islam often ruins everything. Perpetually.

I am not going to be a doctor as all my relatives had dreamed of. Well, I won’t be a doctor in the typical sense of the word. I am going to go to the roots of the problems. I am going to be a doctor of the heart, insha’Allah. I will aim to be a Muslim psychologist who can address the issues in my family using the modern and traditional methods of psychology with the Qur’an and deen we are all craving. I truly believe the Qur’an is the healing for our souls. We have been cut off from our source of peace, serenity, love and happiness which is God. He is Allah, the One, the Supreme, the Merciful, the All-Loving. We have strayed from His guidelines. We don’t look to where healing is, and as He says most wisely:

“And We sent down in the Qur’an that which is healing and a mercy to those who believe: to the unjust it causes nothing but loss after loss”. (Qur’an 17:82)

This is a discussion which can continue. I know it. But the realization of the solutions out there, creative solutions, our community can work on to address issues arising from joint-family systems, psychological issues, divorce, in-laws, valuing culture over Islam, not addressing one’s anger in the Sunnah way, using bad language, mistreating relatives and not addressing rights of relatives in the proper way…all these have a solution. We just need to talk about them first. I share my very personal accounts with you not to make you feel sorry for me. Far from it. I come out to fill a void. Our community needs to begin sharing its stories.

By: Sister chocoholic892*

*chose to remain anonymous due to the personal sensitivity of sharing her experiences