That's how I feel these days. No other word describes it.
Diffused.
Who am I?
Yes, yes, I know: I am. Any other label limits the self.
Nonetheless.
Am I a sinner?
Am I still a submitter to Allah?
Do I still trust in Him?
Am I lover?
Am I a hater?
Am I going somewhere, or waffling about nowhere?
Am I deluded?
Am I protected?
Will I find love?
Will I love again?
Will I ever love myself unconditionally?
Do I make sense?
Do I have the courage that's needed to continue, step after step?
Doing the Wimbledon route again this weekend showed me:
I really do want affluence. I was observing people coming back from their holidays, or from cycling, or shopping at the exclusive shops I only go in to look at what I can't afford to buy, driving their swanky cars and living in their lovely houses.
I tried acceptance. I did. Didn't work so much today. Felt small. Felt out of place, an intruder.
And then, when I was taking a break in the mall, the guy sitting next to me. Jeez. I felt so bad. He had bought a Basics brand of instant noodles, and opened the packet and ate it raw, along with the taste sachet. For lunch. I wanted to offer him my apple, but felt too ashamed to do so. I wanted to offer to buy him a sandwich, but literally had only pennies in my wallet and, to be honest, I could have used my debit card, but felt too ashamed and uncomfortable to bring up the topic.
I talked to him about the weather, thinking maybe that would lead into a conversation that I could offer him something to eat. But it didn't come. And then he left.
Sigh..... I know I can't save the world, but I could have offered him a proper lunch. Once again, I fail.
I got yelled at today by one of the residents in Wimbledon. Made two mistakes: put wrong envelope in wrong door. Was tired. Will have to face the music tomorrow.
There's an opportunity to do this again next month. Thankfully, the decision has been taken out of my hands. I can't do it because I will be unavailable, have already planned something more worthwhile on those days. I think this is it. I can't stand it any longer. I might do the postal ballot supervisor thingy, but that, too, I will think about.
Am running on low battery these days, haven't felt any inkling to write on my healing blog in ages.
Just sitting here, aching shoulders, listening to my Grooveshark music.
Am I even human?
And, looks like I still haven't served my entire sentence of karma. I keep torturing myself by thinking of him. In very generic terms, as a faded memory, as the past: but it's still not stopping yet. How long, God? For how long will You punish me with remembrance?
I understand the need for precise justice and balance, but Allah, aren't you being a tad too vengeful in your punishing me for firstly disobeying you, secondly for completely shedding all sense of propriety, modesty and haya and thirdly, for being so unconsciously rude to him?
I didn't even mention this, did I? Probably because I finally realised that it's no biggie, but it's highly annoying. And I do like recording all the miserable gory details so they can eat away at my self-worth later on.
Last Saturday, when I went to visit relatives in the north of London, I saw two things:
The bus conveniently passed a barbershop called Imran Men's Hair Stylist in Kingsbury. Who the eff calls their barbershop Imran? JESUS!
And then, when my dad's friend kindly dropped me to the tube station, he took the wrong turn on the roundabout and passed Northwick Park Hospital. Nothing wrong with that, except I remember that Imran told me he was born there. I then think of him. Again.
Blah.
Bugger off, memories of the Khoja man-boy. Stop tormenting me. Go bug the new, wonderful Eve female in his life. Scat.
I know, at the end of it, it's all really moi. But do I really have to take responsibilty for everything that happens? It's seems unfair. God has to come somewhere into the equation.
Do you know, I still send him metta and healing? Sometimes before I send it to anybody else, sometimes even before I send it to myself... it's so ridiculous.
Two of the boxes to tick off in my Clean Sweep questionnaire that was given to me in my life coaching course are:
There is no one I would dread or feel uncomfortable "running across" in the street, at a party, at an airport.
I have communicated or attempted to communicate with everyone whom I have damaged, injured, or seriously upset, even if it wasn't my fault.
I have until the middle of June and the last meet-up to tick those boxes. It's not just Imran, but he's going to be the most difficult. I've actually forgotten who the others are, funnily enough. At least, right now I have.
S.I.G.H.
I think I'll just deceive and cheat and force myself into believing that were I ever to meet him, it would be perfectly normal.
If I'm honest, I still have this little hope or desire that I shall meet him randomly, and be on my best behaviour and diffuse it all. Gain closure.
Must stop believing in Jane Austen and Bollywood crap NOW.
Diffused.
Who am I?
Yes, yes, I know: I am. Any other label limits the self.
Nonetheless.
Am I a sinner?
Am I still a submitter to Allah?
Do I still trust in Him?
Am I lover?
Am I a hater?
Am I going somewhere, or waffling about nowhere?
Am I deluded?
Am I protected?
Will I find love?
Will I love again?
Will I ever love myself unconditionally?
Do I make sense?
Do I have the courage that's needed to continue, step after step?
Doing the Wimbledon route again this weekend showed me:
I really do want affluence. I was observing people coming back from their holidays, or from cycling, or shopping at the exclusive shops I only go in to look at what I can't afford to buy, driving their swanky cars and living in their lovely houses.
I tried acceptance. I did. Didn't work so much today. Felt small. Felt out of place, an intruder.
And then, when I was taking a break in the mall, the guy sitting next to me. Jeez. I felt so bad. He had bought a Basics brand of instant noodles, and opened the packet and ate it raw, along with the taste sachet. For lunch. I wanted to offer him my apple, but felt too ashamed to do so. I wanted to offer to buy him a sandwich, but literally had only pennies in my wallet and, to be honest, I could have used my debit card, but felt too ashamed and uncomfortable to bring up the topic.
I talked to him about the weather, thinking maybe that would lead into a conversation that I could offer him something to eat. But it didn't come. And then he left.
Sigh..... I know I can't save the world, but I could have offered him a proper lunch. Once again, I fail.
I got yelled at today by one of the residents in Wimbledon. Made two mistakes: put wrong envelope in wrong door. Was tired. Will have to face the music tomorrow.
There's an opportunity to do this again next month. Thankfully, the decision has been taken out of my hands. I can't do it because I will be unavailable, have already planned something more worthwhile on those days. I think this is it. I can't stand it any longer. I might do the postal ballot supervisor thingy, but that, too, I will think about.
Am running on low battery these days, haven't felt any inkling to write on my healing blog in ages.
Just sitting here, aching shoulders, listening to my Grooveshark music.
Am I even human?
And, looks like I still haven't served my entire sentence of karma. I keep torturing myself by thinking of him. In very generic terms, as a faded memory, as the past: but it's still not stopping yet. How long, God? For how long will You punish me with remembrance?
I understand the need for precise justice and balance, but Allah, aren't you being a tad too vengeful in your punishing me for firstly disobeying you, secondly for completely shedding all sense of propriety, modesty and haya and thirdly, for being so unconsciously rude to him?
I didn't even mention this, did I? Probably because I finally realised that it's no biggie, but it's highly annoying. And I do like recording all the miserable gory details so they can eat away at my self-worth later on.
Last Saturday, when I went to visit relatives in the north of London, I saw two things:
The bus conveniently passed a barbershop called Imran Men's Hair Stylist in Kingsbury. Who the eff calls their barbershop Imran? JESUS!
And then, when my dad's friend kindly dropped me to the tube station, he took the wrong turn on the roundabout and passed Northwick Park Hospital. Nothing wrong with that, except I remember that Imran told me he was born there. I then think of him. Again.
Blah.
Bugger off, memories of the Khoja man-boy. Stop tormenting me. Go bug the new, wonderful Eve female in his life. Scat.
I know, at the end of it, it's all really moi. But do I really have to take responsibilty for everything that happens? It's seems unfair. God has to come somewhere into the equation.
Do you know, I still send him metta and healing? Sometimes before I send it to anybody else, sometimes even before I send it to myself... it's so ridiculous.
Two of the boxes to tick off in my Clean Sweep questionnaire that was given to me in my life coaching course are:
There is no one I would dread or feel uncomfortable "running across" in the street, at a party, at an airport.
I have communicated or attempted to communicate with everyone whom I have damaged, injured, or seriously upset, even if it wasn't my fault.
I have until the middle of June and the last meet-up to tick those boxes. It's not just Imran, but he's going to be the most difficult. I've actually forgotten who the others are, funnily enough. At least, right now I have.
S.I.G.H.
I think I'll just deceive and cheat and force myself into believing that were I ever to meet him, it would be perfectly normal.
If I'm honest, I still have this little hope or desire that I shall meet him randomly, and be on my best behaviour and diffuse it all. Gain closure.
Must stop believing in Jane Austen and Bollywood crap NOW.
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