Isle of Skye

That's how I feel. There is no escape. I can't see any release. My mum phoned me today from Kampala just before she left for the airport. And she said it's okay, you'll be coming in February. Yes. And dooming myself. The Luscher test that I am prone to taking decisions without thinking them through. WHAT THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO DO? I really have nobody. I have a frigging stupid arse for a father and I don't know. Emerson thinks it's so easy to do this individualist thing. You were a fucking white Christian man. You ended up being appreciated for your vision, philosophy and poetry. Even if it was three centuries later. What the fuck do I have to look forward to? I am alone. I am completely and utterly alone. I have no hopes for the future. I have no marriage about to happen, I have no career waiting to happen. And I know, I am supposed to bring these all about by myself. Well, what the fuck is this all about that us INFPS are like the soil who absorb the light ...

Everyone feels. We all suffer the same emotions. Some of us can sublimate and come up with a song or a film, others just break. Others just pretend they don't have feelings. I really am in hate with Umair . He pisses me off big time. Why the fuck does he write to me after 3 months of silence, only to go away again? Fucking twat. So what if he thinks I'm too intense? Doesn't he have the decency to TELL me that he doesn't want to write to me any more? That he thinks I am crazy to want to lend him money for a plane ticket etc? I know that already. Kiersey is so fucking right - I am projecting all of my values onto him; imagining him to be this soulful artist when he is just a plain old artisan, hedonistic in his worldview. Not that I am any better. All I do is stay at home and sulk. I have an opportunity to go out tomorrow but I have no idea at this point if I will go. I need to get out, eat some aaloo samosas and just talk to a friend. Emerson says that we shouldn'...

...was a desire I never knew I had. It made me laugh so much. I love them. I hope to get out of the house today as soon as I feel able and take my camera and hoping the ice is still there so I can take pictures. The temperature has risen again. The past couple of days have been a nightmare. How can C tell me to give it more time? How much more time? She doesn't even know why I said that it's a mistake, coming here. She doesn't know that I physically assaulted my father, hitting him repeatedly on the head and breaking his £400 glasses. The optician won't even be open till the 4th of January. That's 10 whole entire days. Zafar (from Kartography) is right. The monster is alive in all of us, lurking. God, where the hell is the redemption? I have, for years imagined the monster gone. Only for it to emerge in full force and I wasn't even in control. It was like a dream. I do not care what Fadhlallah has to say - that there is no such thing as I was not myself. What do...

The quiz accused me of playing the 'victim' and blaming others for the fact that my life has stopped. That I falsely use self-justification and that I am stubborn without reason. Unrealistic hopes and expectations. Shut the feck up. Let's try the free writing again. There's so much creativity in music. It is amazing how there are a limited amount of chords or notes yet people can use those to make millions of different melodies. I do nothing, Shut the feck up. Men are funnier than women but it's because it is their defence mechanism. It's humour, not denial or projection or...well, sublimation is the most mature and highest form of a coping strategy. She said that she said, "I only remember the good times, not the bad times." Well, darling, I think the bad times are worth remembering. The strangulation will always haunt me, even if you didn't press down on my windpipe. I was fecking 12 years old and grieving for my lost grandmother. The changing ro...

I woke up at 7 am this morning and switched on the computer because I really had the need to write in an entry. And now I've run dry and can't seem to formulate anything. So I am going to do the ten minute free writing thing I learnt from Macaulay. From now. The sun is shining and I stink and need to take a shower. My nails have grown the longest in a long time. I haven't cut them for two weeks. I feel disgusting and disgusted. There are girls, eleven year olds getting married off to 40 year old men in Afghanistan or little boys in Bangladesh being made to load bricks on their heads or being molested in Pakistan. And here I am, depressed and unwilling to do anything. I saw myself as someone from the outside would and what I saw angered me. I have no pity on my dad and no wonder I stress him out. I smell and I mope and I have not a smile to share or a thing to say or a thing to do. I disappoint him and don't buy the knee guard. I try to reach out and then withdraw even q...

I said, "I'll buy you lunch." He said, "Really?" I nodded. He said, "Are you sure?" I nodded. He said, "Thank you." I nodded. Lunch was good because there was this 74 year-old Pakistani guy; a language purist who has lived in London for 50 years but was damn proud that he could still pronounce ' chhoti qaaf ' and 'sheen'. It was entertaining at the time, hilarious actually, how he damned all English-speaking Pakistani code-switchers as " ghaddaariyon " and that he had cut off ties with half of his Pakistani family because they prefer calling their aunts ' Auntie ' and their uncles 'Uncle' instead of the Urdu equivalents. So bloody what? Since when did you have the right to tell us what to think or feel? If we do feel inadequate and inferior to the white Anglo-Saxons, maybe, just maybe, it's the result of assimilating to the colonialist way of living. After all, it's an amalgamation of a zill...

I said, "I'm depressed." Pause. I added, "I'm taking pills." And I think, why is it that taking those two tiny, round, chalky pilules verify my mental state? That being dropped to and picked up from South Wimbledon each week, where I read OK! magazine and then talk rubbish for an hour justifies my telling strangers that I am unbalanced, slowly getting into a self-induced schizophrenia? I wrote, "Don't say sorry. You can't deal with this. I don't expect you to imagine the pain I am going through." And I think, isn't this slightly too dramatic, even for me? Isn't this too much of a cry screaming 'please, save me, love me, my only guy friend on whom I am projecting all my desires?' Isn't this just too sad for words? Sad. Disgusting. Dependent. Clingy . Ah ha. There we go. That word fits my actions once again. Damn you. Why couldn't I have developed an ESTJ personality? Me and dad would have gotten on just fine. O...

Listening to 'All Rise' (Blue). Couldn't think of a better heading. Going back on Facebook was a mistake. Wait a minute. I just deactivated it again. That's three times in a year. It's just too fucking depressing, mate. Too depressing. Just me. Being a loser. I even poked Zuby and messaged Hareem. And Elaine. I mean, come on! Keeping on thinking and writing along those lines. I had a wonderful story in my head yesterday. And then forgot it. Fuck. She has completely denied any molestation took place. So either she is lying or the other woman is. I hope to God the other woman is lying. Seeing as she has become an expert. It would be too much emotional drama for me if it were my mum lying. But who's to say. Memory is a tricky thing. Who was the goddess of memory? Mnemosyne. I forgot where I came across it though. I really and truly have been murdered. Everything has a toxicity to it; I always have a distaste in my mouth. 'I'm about to explode...yeahhhhh...

A shudder had just passed through my head. I am not sure whether I should be writing this right now. But I have to. There is no one to talk to about this. Not even Anouska . After all, we're supposed to be talking about me and my personal definition of what makes my life so shit. And, after all of this, I am still depressed and I still lack self-esteem and I still have no idea how to claw myself out of this. And yet, my mother. I never thought I would be able to make any linkages today. I really didn't. But I have repressed this because I thought that there was nothing to be done if she wouldn't speak to me about it. Fuck. I want her to go into therapy. How on earth could they be so stupid? How could my Nana's obsessive desire to stay in the good books of the family make him sacrifice the integrity of his own family? Screw the fact that Batool has schizophrenia. And for that fucking man who doesn't deserve the name he was given. How could he send Mummy so far away...

First things first. I went to sleep yesterday at around 6:30 pm, and if we ignore the frequent wakings up that has become routine, I woke at 7 am. And went back to sleep on the stupid mattress and then woke at 10:30am. At least this is a sign that the double dose is now kicking in, because my hands have begun to shake again and I didn't feel hungry so I have only just eaten lunch. Bread, mayo, cheese, banana. Oh, and three rich tea biscuits. And two green teas with bergamot. No chocolate as yet. But then again, I ate a 100gms in 1/2 an hour yesterday. So I think that the chocolate quota has been fulfilled for the month of December. I also took a shower. I think that it has to do with fact that my dad called me a 'smelly nelly' as he kissed me goodbye this morning (thinking I was asleep). And the fact that I have to see my GP and my shrink tomorrow. While I was in the shower, the post people came and rang the bell and flapped the letter box and I realised that it was my book...

And it makes me sad. And pathetic. I went back on Facebook two days ago. Because I was bored. And I saw that life has continued for everyone. They all are faring better with the same intensity of problems and neuroses and disappointments and delayed gratification. They live in the here-and-now. Kamal wrote such a nice email to me. Poor thing; he has no idea about me. But at least he took the time to try to help. Bless him. I haven't showered in a week. My mum has not phoned me since Wednesday. She can go and ruddy clean other peoples houses and play with her frigging Montessori kids. And send me ruddy forwards. What kind of a mother is she? I can't even censure her because God says no. So what do I do? I keep going back to this perceived parental neglect. I don't respect my dad. You know what he told me a few days ago? He said that I had been turned against him by everyone and that I have hatred in my eyes for him. That was quite perceptive for an ESTJ. And I am shit at hid...

Type 4: The Romantic The Basic Proposition You lost sight of the original state of a deep and complete connection to all others and all things, and came to believe instead that the world abandons you and that something important is missing. So you focus on searching for an ideal love or perfect circumstance to make you feel loved, whole and complete again. In this search for the most unique, special and fulfilling, you feel envy and a longing for what you idealize but is unavailable. Your attention naturally goes to what is missing. The central issue for healing Ironically, an outward search for the ultimate, ideal, deep heart connection, and complete fulfillment where nothing of substance is missing, serves only to perpetuate a Four’s dilemma. All your well-intentioned searching in the wrong place only creates more intense feelings of deficiency and longing. A Romantic’s primary task, therefore, is to realize that wholeness and completeness come with acceptance and appreciation of wha...

That's going to be my job description if I ever get back on Facebook . I am actually not missing it, which is fucking excellent news. I have been eating crap, crap and more junk since forever and I really hate myself for this. And Longley actually comes up with 'Comfort eating isn't dangerous - everyone does it' - I was looking at her and wanted to think ' Hmph . I am not everyone and who cares what you think, you skinny bean? I have principles, and one of them is not to comfort eat and to treat your body like a temple.' Then again, if I am willing to drug this body of mine with frigging paracetamol and hypericum , then my argument doesn't really stand, now does it? I had a series of really weird and nonsensical dreams. The one that was last one and the one I wish had continued was about how I was in a relationship with this slim, attractive white male in his early 30s (but shaved head) and he was hurt because his ex-lover had said some mean things to him...

I've broken the washing machine by overloading it. It just stopped working and I can't open the door to take the clothes out, I can't drain the water. Can't do anything. I am really in the shit. He is going to blow his fuse. And tomorrow is my appointment and he will have taken off to drive me there. Guess I will be dying soon and it's going to be homicide, not suicide. I really can't believe this happened. I usually say Bismillah , today I didn't. Herein is the effect.

I am a simpleton. I've established that much today. The question is that whether it's just a result of my lack of intellect or my upbringing. I think it's the result of both. I have a simple-minded family. My mum, my aunts, my dad just think about the day-to-day. But it's not really just that. They are just simple. For lack of a better adjective. After all, it has been established that I have no intellect so it's not as though I will be able to express myself anymore. And me with my stupid imagination. I've watched the film Bubble Boy. I'm that. Since I prefer the masculine over the feminine. I live in my bubble. I have no experiences. Not with the five senses. It's the bloody myth of a sixth sense that I don't have. I don't know how to use my five senses. To experience things. I've been to Havana and to Iran. And how the hell did that help me? I was least interested in what my five senses picked up. I was worried about preserving my religion...