Since I came back from Pakistan, I have tried to block out all of the memories. They aren’t fun to think about, and I thought I would come back stronger and more rejuvenated than ever. There were a few things that happened along the way that weakened me, and other things that made me stronger.

When I arrived in Pakistan, I was overwhelmed with joy and love. I needed sleep, desperately, but as I lay on my cot, I couldn’t turn off my brain. I’d just met my oldest sister, and she was full of warmth, love, and happiness. My younger brother, M, was patient and loving. My mother wanted to see me and touch me; she babied me in a way that I hadn’t felt since I was nine years old.

Suddenly I was transported back to the time when I was nine years old. We had just moved to Milwaukee so that my father could study in a peaceful environment. My mother’s younger brother was also studying to be a cardiologist. He was my uncle, and he was very loving and nurturing towards me.

Things had begun to change around me, and I wasn’t aware of it at first. My mother stopped studying with me; in fact, she neglected me for the most part except to feed me and launder my clothing. She no longer took the time to brush my hair, and it looked like a wreck. She was starting to get sick - she would have huge bouts of coughing that would never seem to cease. I thought she might die at any moment, and I was filled with anxiety. Now that I knew I wasn’t their daughter, their biological daughter, I wondered what would happen to me if my mom died. My dad certainly wouldn’t take care of me. He stopped talking to me since we moved, and wouldn’t make eye contact with me when I was in the same room. I was filled with fear of the unknown - what would happen to me? Would my uncle take care of me? He was very nice to me, and rewarded my good grades with treats of some sort. But he didn’t seem to love me the way he loved my other cousins. There was a distance between us that I couldn’t describe then, but in hindsight, I know what it was. He was never affectionate with me, and I saw him be very affectionate with my other cousins.

As time progressed in Milwaukee, I noticed that no one was affectionate towards me any more. It made me feel very unloved, and I remember the slight onslaught of depression, especially at night. I started to daydream about what would happen if I had a family that loved me, that supported everything I wanted to do, and if I was really pretty so that everyone would want to be my friend. I was either concentrating on reading, studying, or I was daydreaming about the life I wish I had.

After Christmas time, my mother’s health continued to get worse. Her coughing bouts would actually console me because I knew that she was alive. I couldn’t sleep at night because I was worried she would die in her sleep, and the moment I couldn’t hear her snoring or coughing, I would know she wasn’t breathing and maybe I could run into her room and call 911. So I would lay awake in bed listening very carefully until I couldn’t stand it any longer. I would wake up early, and run to her room to see if she was still alive. When I was in class, I was already so far ahead in my studies that I stopped listening to the teacher. I would nervously wait to run home to make sure that my mom was okay and alive. I didn’t know why everything had changed around me: why my mother wasn’t as nice to me anymore, why my dad stopped talking to me, and why I couldn’t have friends over anymore. I was filled with anxiety and fear.

I knew something was wrong when my mother sat me down one day to tell me she had cancer. My throat tightened, and I felt like I couldn’t breathe. “What kind of cancer do you have?” I asked.

“Lung cancer,” she replied. She was looking me directly in my eyes when she said it.

I started to cry, and I asked her if she would be okay. She told me she didn’t know, and I would likely have to go back to Pakistan to live with my biological mom. I was told that my biological mother lived in a clay house with cow dung inside. She couldn’t read or write. She didn’t know how to cook, and wasn’t a very good woman. I couldn’t eat that night, and I didn’t know why no one else was reacting to the news of my mom’s cancer. There we all were, eating at the dinner table, and no one was addressing the central issue. No one was talking, and I lightly poked at my food. My justification for their behavior was that they probably felt guilty about sending me back to live in Pakistan with my poor mother.

Almost eighteen years later, I was in Pakistan. I was laying in a cot, in a modest home that had very modern amenities. My biological mother could cook, and quite well. She fed me tea and a delicious paratha with some mint chutney to the side. She kept wiping her tears discretely with her chador, and couldn’t stop looking at me and smiling.  She didn’t know how to read or write, but I could tell she was astute and had a lot of emotional intelligence. She was honest. She was full of love. And while I couldn’t relate to her on a personal/intelligence level, I knew that she was the reason why I still believe in love, because after everything that she endured in her life, she didn’t harbor ill-will towards anyone.

The mother who raised me, on the other hand, was just the opposite. I found out she lied to me about the cancer a few days after she told me, because I started crying uncontrollably when my Uncle took me shopping as a reward for my good grades. When I spoke to her on the phone a few weeks before going to Pakistan, she yelled at and said horrible things about my biological mother that were simply untrue. 

It’s difficult to balance the cerebral parts of my thought process with the emotional, because I know that I have a natural tendency towards being happy and extraverted. However, years of living with someone who was so abusive towards me, in every way possible, shows it’s effects on me every day. I have to remind myself that I am worthwhile, smart and capable. The evil words she would taunt me with haunt me, but I think I am finally getting to the point where I can see past them. I don’t know if I can forgive her completely. She is crazy. She is mean-spirited. She is capable of love, but something gets in the way. 

It was difficult for me to enjoy my stay in Pakistan despite having a mother that was so positive and full of love. It was another reminder of the life I could have had; my siblings and mother were so connected. They grew up together, and they loved each other unconditionally. They share similar experiences and stories. I felt like I was an observer looking into the family that might have been, and after a few days, I wanted to go home to reality.

As I write this, my heart is literally beating a million miles a minute, and I am filled with anxiety for what is to come tomorrow along with what has occurred in the past few minutes. I have received some constructive criticism for my input in a project that I am very passionate about; while the advice was constructive, the criticism still stung, and I am struggling not to internalize it. I think that is the challenge of growth in any situation - how does one handle a stressful situation and make it such that they illuminate the best of themselves versus the worst?

As I endure this emotionally tumultuous time in my life, I am forced to ponder what is really important to me. My latest adventures in Los Angeles, and my behavior in Minneapolis, makes me realize that I am in dire need of an escape of the reality I am creating. I am actually looking forward to Afganistan where I can push to learn more about myself and overcome difficult situations with a professional and empathetic demeanor. A part of me feels as though I have matured while a larger part has regressed in maturity which is evident in some current actions/reactions. 

Anyway, I just want to have a thought dump as I am in desperate need for a catharsis, so here it goes (forgive me in advance for my tangents that are likely not to have a connecting string throughout):

I am struggling to seek independence and have a life/career that has meaning. I want to inspire people to act and make the world a better place through my art and my words. I want to be the best person I can be, and right now, I am not sure if I am incredibly liberated or running from situation to situation in search for a distraction for the painful memories/feelings that I have such difficulty overcoming. Granted, I have overcome my painful past - it’s just that it continuously haunts me in my everyday pursuits where I wonder if my effort is enough, if I am enough, and how I can overcome my minute neuroses that affect the way in which I perceive a situation or person. One example of that is my dealing of a happy go-lucky co-star of mine in the movie that I am working on - he laughs really loudly, is somewhat uncouth in his demeanor, and very touchy feel-y. On the other hand, he brings so much positive energy to every situation that he’s in, and that energy is infectious. I want to be able to overcome the fact that I find his mannerisms to be so repelling to everything that I am. I like people who have depth and can engage in intellectual conversations while remaining composed. People who laugh out loud in an egregious manner make me uncomfortable, and I am unsure of why that is, but that is also the primary reason why I discontinued investing in a relationship with J in Los Angeles. It’s a small neuroses, and yet I have such difficulty overcoming it. It’s pretty much the same thing when I hear someone chew with their mouth open. 

Then there is the stress of dealing with seeing my aunt and mother for the first time in nine months. I am scared of what condition my mother will be in, and how that will affect me. I already am plagued with guilt on a daily basis for having left her when I turned 18 years old when she was so dependent upon me. I left her to fend for herself, and when I think of her struggling to do the things that I did for her on a day-to-day basis (which ultimately prevented me from doing well in school while living wit her), I am filled with sorrow. I don’t know if she will be able to walk properly, I don’t know what she will be wearing, and I don’t know if she will be angry and bitter towards me. When I spoke with her last, she told me that she doesn’t have a daughter anymore, and that she thanks god every day that he didn’t bless her with a child because children are selfish. It is such a toxic situation to walk into, and I don’t know why I have agreed to deal with a scenario that could plague me mentally for months to come. Will I be overcome with guilt once more? How can I channel that horrible, negative energy into doing something that is productive and helpful versus internalizing it? I am literally filled with apprehension and fear for what is to come tomorrow. I want to deal with it the best I can, and not have it affect me terribly but that could be wishful thinking. 

With these situations at hand, coupled with a myriad of others, I wonder if I seek these dramatic scenarios as a means to escape the issues that are plaguing me at this very moment. Do I use them to not deal with the present, or is this all meant to happen as it is to bring me to the next journey in my life. I don’t want to leave things to fate and yet I take comfort in knowing that ultimately everything will be ok. All of this uncertainty is driving me crazy and I can’t wait to go to Afghanistan where I will have a focus/mission every day, live a minimalist lifestyle, and get back to the basics. I just want to cleanse myself of all the mental toxins that I have accumulated in the past ten years and use this experience to remind myself of what is really important to me. 

A few weeks ago, I was hell-bent on finding a job, so I buckled down and applied for positions that I thought would be compatible with my skill-set. I wrote cover letters that I thought were inspired and indicated that I was an intelligent, creative woman with a work-ethic that mid-westerners are known for. My efforts led to no gains, and meanwhile, I haphazardly put effort towards a position that called for Pasthun speakers. I grew up speaking Pashto at home for the duration of the time that I spent living with my mother and father; currently, it is a language that is high in demand as it is spoken in Northern Pakistan and Afghanistan where many terrorists reside. The United States is also making a concerted effort to stabilize Afghanistan for a multitude of reasons - quite frankly, I wish we invaded Afghanistan instead of Iraq, but that would result in an even lengthier blog post, and I don’t wish to torture you dear reader(s).

So, the haphazard efforts that I put forth in getting more information to be a linguist abroad has been more fruitful than all the efforts that I have put forth in the past few months. The opportunities that are available to me because of this one particular unique skill, that I have completely forgotten about, could pave the way towards a career that could potentially help fill the gap in my life that I have been trying desperately to ignore or cover up. 

One of the challenges that I face with attaining this particular position, where I will be a translator abroad (in Afghanistan!!!), is that I haven’t spoken Pashto in well over ten years. This is not an exaggeration - when I moved to the United States, my parents and family made it their primary goal for me speak English fluently and that I assimilate with my peers. Because of this, I think in English, so when I left home at eighteen years of age, I stopped speaking Pashto in its entirety. To aid this conundrum, I started studying Pastho by watching YouTube videos, perusing the internet and watching Pashtun films. But I knew that the best way for me to get back in touch was to start speaking the language and practicing with a native speaker, and who better than the woman that taught me the bloody language in the first place - my mom.

So, I called her last Friday to have a conversation with her in Pashto, and it was quite the experience. I haven’t spoken to my mom in over nine years, and the last time we spoke, her negative outlook on life resonated with me days after we would converse until I made the decision that I needed to cut her out of my life because the cons were outweighing the pros when I contemplated the impact she had on my life. More than anything, what I was missing from her was unconditional love and acceptance for the woman that I was becoming. So to speak to her after nine years, and having the knowledge that people don’t change easily, I was expecting the worst. As to be expected, she delivered the results I was prophesying mentally. She asked me why it had taken me so long to give her a call, and asked how I could deny her a relationship when I so readily accepted one with my biological family in Pakistan.

“They didn’t change your diapers, or take care of you and raise you. That was me. I’m your mom too, ” she said to me on the phone with a condescending tone. The infliction of guilt had already started within minutes of our conversation. 

“Mom, I can’t talk to you because you get so angry.” 

I attempted to reason with her, but to no avail. After some time had passed where she felt that she had appropriated the right amount of guilt onto me, she began to ask me of other matters that were of grand importance to her. 

“How are you dressing in Los Angeles?” she asked.

“Um, I don’t know. Like a normal person, I guess.” I replied.

“Do you dress like an angreza? Like an American?”

“I wear jeans and shirts.”

“Do you wear pants or shorts? Are your legs revealed?”

“Yes, mother. Sometimes I wear shorts.” 

There was an empty silence that permeated the air where I was wondering what she was thinking and when she was going to condemn my sinful behaviour. I was raised as a Muslim girl who was to be chaste and dressed modestly. And for those who know me in the least bit, I certainly do not fit into that archetype at all. As I sat in silence pondering her thought process and what line of questioning was to come next, I couldn’t help but feel angry at the prospect that the matter of my dress was more important than whether I was happy or safe. Didn’t she care that I didn’t have a job and how I was supporting myself? Those were not the questions that were top of mind to my mother; rather, she was interested in perserving her ‘face’ to a Muslim society that, in my opinion, had done nothing to benefit her except to give her hope that when she passes away, she will be heralded into the gates of heaven and finally have peace. Meanwhile, her existence on Earth has been a painful one, and she is not intent upon improving her circumstances. Rather, she had succumbed to the mentality of a victim, and in her eyes, that makes her a modern day martyr. 

The silence was finally broken when the second line of questioning began to take place. “Don’t let men touch you, Hina.” she advised.

“What?”

“Don’t let any man touch you until you are married. Do you have a boyfriend?”

“No, mom. I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“Well, until you get married, don’t have sex or let anyone touch you. After you are married, you can do whatever you want.”

“Ok, mom.”

“There are a lot of nice boys in Pakistan. Do you want to go back and maybe meet them? You have a lot of cousins in Pakistan.”

“Mom. I am NOT going to marry anyone from Pakistan, and I most certainly am not going to marry any of my cousins.” I replied with a firm tone.

“What is wrong with marrying your cousins? You don’t like that?” she asked innocently.

“First of all, I don’t know if I want to have kids so I don’t need to get married. And the genetic ramifications of marrying your cousins makes that option completely unacceptable!” At this point, I am embarrassed at the prospect that my mother wants me to marry my cousins, and that I am unable to articulate my argument completely in Pashto to explain to her that this would never happen. 

“Well, maybe you could go to a Shia mosque in Los Angeles, and marry a nice man there.” she advised.

“Ok, mom. I’ll think about it.” Now I was feeling humiliated and angry that I was partaking in this conversation, and that my mother lacked the intellect and depth to understand that the imposition of these social norms is exactly why I left home in the first place.

 Our conversation continued, and I practiced my pashto with her throughout which helped give me more confidence in my abilities. At the same time, I kept thinking that this was one hefty price to pay to be able to work abroad. Would I be able to tolerate conversations such as this one on a daily basis for an hour? I was so depressed the whole time I was conversing with my mother because I could see how limited her perspective was on life as a whole. It made me sad that she was unable to relate to me at all, and that my education coupled with life experiences allowed me to be the adult in the situation. It’s a sad day when you are talking to your elders and you can say from a completely objective point of view that you are the rational party at hand. That you are the adult in the relationship.

I spoke with my mother for approximately an hour or so before I had to go and tend to my other obligations of the day. We wished one another well, and I told her that I wanted to see her when I came to Minneapolis. She said that she would like that, and we bid each other adieu. Afterwards, I went for a workout downstairs when suddenly the emotions that I did not allow myself to feel came to the surface. As I was pushing myself physically to my maximum limits, it dawned on me that my mother cared more about whether I appeared to be a good Muslim girl and that my happiness and well-being was not factored into the equation whatsoever. When I came home, I started to cry at thought that I was missing what is so incredibly pivotal in any human being’s life - unconditional love. I longed for the idea of having a loving mother who accepted me for who I was, and for who I could seek consult without fear of judgement and excommunication. From what I know of my friends and their relationship with their families, I think that many people long for that type of relationship, so it gives me a minute amount of comfort to know that I am not alone but that doesn’t take away the pain of knowing that I will likely never attain it. 

This weekend, I really delved into Eat, Pray, Love - a book written by Elizabeth Gilbert that was quite a breakthrough novel and spoke to so many women a few years ago, and continues to inspire women today. Her memoir reaches on many levels, and while I have yet to finish it, I can say that her candor allows any reader to relate on some level: e.g. the pressures of a corporate job, a life of monotony, a relationship that is like a square peg that we’re desperately pushing into a circle. 

I drew many parallels between Gilbert’s experiences in Italy, and mine in Los Angeles. Last weekend, I visited Minneapolis, where so many of my friends and acquaintances asked me, “What are you doing for work?” or “Do you have a job?” I don’t, and replied as such, an answer that was met with responses indicating surprise and lots of unsolicited judgement. God forbid should I have a few months where I am able to gather my thoughts and recollect myself. It appears that it is sinful to take time to reconnect with oneself especially when you are only 26 years old. I shouldn’t have had that large of a crisis that I need to take that much time off. Lets take into consideration that I have only been in Los Angeles for a month and a half now. Further, when I share my aspirations to be an actress or my desire to play a role in the entertainment field, I am met with even more eye rolls and judgement. Judgement that reeks from body language that suddenly turns defensive and emits negative energy.

While I was in Minneapolis, a big part of me felt so glad to reconnect with friends, and the other half - the bigger half, really, was longing to be home where I was surrounded by like-minded individuals that are seeking a career or path that directs them towards self-actualization.

Going back to Eat, Pray, Love, it’s evident that in Italy, Gilbert has received extensive training on making her mind and body direct its energy towards work, and connecting many of her activities so they are goal oriented. It appears that towards the end of her stay in Italy, she has allowed her mind to relax and just be. That is the stage that I am at in Los Angeles, and I am forgiving myself for just being the person that I am today. The person that writes, but not with such conviction so as to publish a novel. A person that exercises not only for the sake of gaining definition and losing weight, but for the rush of endorphins that are released into my body allowing me to channel my positive self. A person that is pursuing only the activities that will allow me to live happily and comfortably; a person that is living to live and not living to work. That is the person that I am, and I am loving who I am becoming. I am channeling positive thoughts that will come to fruition, and allow me to be successful and happy in my own way. I am paving my own path, and for the first time, I am okay if no one approves of my decisions. I am taking risks, I am loving my life, my friends here, and my lifestyle. I don’t wish to apologize for it for I am optimizing this opportunity so that I can flourish independently. 

Finally, I want to end this post by writing about how pets can be so indicative of their owner’s personality. Take my cat Cuddles for instance - she was incredibly loving, and wanted tons of attention at the same time as a trade for her affection. She and I were definitely cut out of the same cloth, so to speak. And then there is M’s mom’s dog - loving, affectionate, but completely unhealthy. I’ve met so many dogs here where I notice that the dog has taken on the owner’s good + bad qualities, and I realize that if someone has a pet like a cat or a dog, that can be more telling than a first date where one must endure 20 questions. 

So, those are the morsels of my thoughts and what I am contemplating today along with the meaning of life. ‘Til next time….

And so it begins - the countdown to my birthday. Every year, I think that I am going to finally be over the anguish that this day causes me. I tell myself that I will plan an epic party, or do something that will help to take my mind off of the fact that this day represents my independence. This year is especially momentous, as it will mark the tenth year of me leaving home for the last time. 

TEN YEARS!!

Ten years ago, I recall sifting through all of my belongings and deciding what I would bring with me to the next leg of my journey. Each book was examined and considered for the emotional value it represented, packaging from my CDs were disassembled and minimized to allow for maximum capacity, each clothing item was thrown away or packed neatly, and this process continued for a few months before I left. I made it a point to never get too attached to any belongings because my mother was a pack rat and kept absolutely everything. I made it a point to give away the very things that I really loved to ensure that I would never become too materialistic. 

At midnight, I began the packing process and stuffed everything into two garbage bags when I was positive that my mother had fallen asleep. My father was off to work at the hospital for the evening, and wouldn’t be back at home until six or seven in the morning. I rummaged through every corner of my room to ensure that there would be no evidence of my having ever lived there. I fell asleep that night with my heart pounding erratically. I cried and mourned the loss of my family, especially my little cousin who I helped to raise. I couldn’t imagine how hard it would be for him to run downstairs to my room, and see that I was no longer there. I would never come back, and we would never have our ‘play time’ where I would force him to use his imagination to create fantastical worlds with complex, multi-dimensional characters. My mother would never have anyone who would clean up after her constantly, and there would be no one to take care of her except for her sister. It was such a harsh lesson, and I hated being the person that had to teach her not to take anyone for granted. I remember telling her, earlier in the evening, that she should never take anyone for granted, and that one day I wouldn’t be in her life. Her sentiments were something along the lines of, “Good riddance.”

And so on the 15th of April in 2001, I stood outside of my home waiting for my best friend to pick me up. My father was asleep, and didn’t hear me sneaking out the door. I had two garbage bags next to me that composed of my belongings, and maybe $245 in my checking account. I was working part-time mentoring and tutoring youth, which was rather ironic considering that I was unsure if I would be able to graduate high school with my lackluster GPA.

What I had before me at that very moment was absolute uncertainty, and I never feared any of it. Not once did it ever occur to me that I might be destitute in the future. I was that driven. The statistics were against me, and I was destined to live a poverty-stricken life marred with poor choices related to drugs and the like. That was not the future that I envisioned. I imagined a life of art, of passion, of finally having the freedom to wear whatever the hell I wanted to wear, say whatever came to my mind, and being able to dance the night away without any fear of retribution. That was the future that was before me - a life full of wealth because I equated wealth with freedom.

The actions that I took ten years ago were incredibly brave, and somehow I always knew what kind of choices to make that would ensure that I could be self-sufficient and mentally strong. I hung out with the right people, and cut the negative ones out. The Universe gifted me with the kind of friends and mentors that would guide me to make choices to best equip me for uncertainty. Money somehow naturally trickled into my hands at times that I needed it the most. Somehow, things always worked out when I thought that they wouldn’t. I know that I have endured many challenges in the past ten years, and I still consider myself to be the luckiest person I know because my life could have gone down so many terrible paths and they didn’t. I was taught many lessons in life, but somehow, despite all the statistics, I made it this far. I still feel very emotionally distraught at the anniversary of that momentous date because I always wish that I had the kind of unconditional love that only a family can bring. But I feel so grateful that I’ve come this far in one piece. Cheers to the next decade being better than this one, and for all of my dreams coming true. 

Having become recently single and in a brand new city, I made a commitment to myself to be open to meeting all kinds of people and being as open as possible. Perhaps that is why I allowed my friendly car mechanic to set me up on a blind date with a person that he told me would be perfect for me. “You are his type completely. He will love your eyes!” he told me enthusiastically with a tone that exuded confidence.

“Are you sure? How old is he?” I asked.

“He is around your age. You will love him! I will give him your number. Tomorrow he will call,” was his reply as he ushered me to the door.

It was only two hours later that I received a very enthusiastic text from the young man whom we shall dub as Senior Douchebag (Sr.DB). It read, ‘Hi this is Sr.DB. I got ur # from Albert. Call me when you get a chance.’

This was followed up with a phone call only an hour later. I was certainly impressed with his persistence especially since in LA it is the norm to play hard to get. Men in LA take their time, and it can take a few days before you can get so much as a text indicating any interest in a date. As Sr.DB was taking the initiative, I decided to call him the next day since I was already on another date when his persistent text/call came through. I asked him to meet me at a popular cafe in West Hollywood.

“Do you know where Popular Cafe is?” I asked him.

“Of course. Everyone knows where this is. Everyone. It is famous.” he replied.

I experienced some dissonance at the thought that my choice was so pedestrian that everyone knew of Popular Cafe.  So I inquired, “Do you have another preference?”

“What?”

“Another preference.”

Insert a long pause.

“I don’t understand what you are saying.”

Suddenly it occurred to me that he didn’t know what the term preference meant. I needed some more information about him because his accent, tone, and personality was rather reminiscent of a previous relationship I had with somewhat of a guido-esque figure.

“Are you on Facebook? Can you add me?” I asked innocently.

“Yeah, of course. But are we going to meet tonight?”

“Um, I need to check in with my friend first. She’s making dinner so I’ll see when that is going to take place, and I’ll give you a call back.”

It was only a brief moment later in which I received a Facebook invitation to be friends with Sr.DB. Sure enough, his profile had douchbag written all over it. There was the over gelled hair, the ubiquitous striped, button-down shirt paired with jeans that appeared to be a derivative of True Religion - his clothing along with the pictures of him posing with his friends screamed douchebag.

After a quick analysis, I knew even so much as meeting Sr.DB for coffee would be unbearable, and I am not jumping to that assumption because of how telling his Facebook profile was. I am making that assumption purely on the fact that he could not understand me when I used terms that ought to be, in my opinion, a part of everyday vernacular. Basically, I don’t want to dumb myself down; I need to be challenged.

After waiting for approximately half an hour, I finally texted Sr.DB, and wrote, “Tonight won’t work. Sorry!”

He responded pretty quickly and left me alone for awhile. A few days later, I did receive a few more texts that were laden with grammatical errors. They included this particular gem,”Hi jobs (autocorrect analysis: Hi Hina). U don’t have to take anything serious with me yet however I want too see ur beautiful eyes n meet u up for coffee.”

That message alone was a total fail. Let’s do a quick analysis because I literally have a physical reaction (shuddering, nausea, vomiting, etc.) when reading that message:

“U don’t have to take anything serious with me.” What the hell does that even mean? Why would you assume that I want anything serious? Especially with poor grammar - the thought of anything “serious” is nothing but comical.

“I want too see ur beautiful eyes n meet u up for coffee.” You can see my “beautiful eyes” on Facebook. In terms of meeting me up for coffee - that sentence alone makes me not want to meet you up for anything.

So, now I have Sr.DB as a friend on Facebook, and I don’t really care because he doesn’t post a lot or have any activity that is of particular substance. However, I did want to post something on my wall regarding the term preference, because I find it absurd that a college educated man doesn’t understand what that term means. I refrained, of course, and the moral of the story is: Don’t ‘friend’ a person on Facebook too quickly because you might want to talk smack about them first. Talk smack, get your comical feedback from your friends, take a screenshot of the feedback you receive, delete said post, and then add the person.

I have recently relocated to Los Angeles from Minneapolis, and I am pleased to report that it is incredibly easy to date in this city! All it takes is an inquisitive glance or snapping out my iPad from my purse (a great conversation starter), and a conversation ensues. Numbers are exchanged, sometimes awkwardly, and it’s onto the next thing.

I have certainly gone out on my fair share of dates here, and it is a really interesting experience because in Minnesota, I generally attracted businessmen. Businessmen who were employed and financially stable. In LA, practically everyone that I’ve met is an actor, screenwriter, musician, and any other cliché you can drum up. Sometimes it’s obvious because the men here are incredibly good-looking, and you just know that someone who is that good-looking can’t possibly be working nine to five. Other times, it is less apparent, and even those characters have an incredible amount of confidence and exuberance when engaging in a conversation.

After the initial meeting and the exchange of digits, there comes the waiting period. Sometimes it’s a day and other times it’s a few hours. The text message arrives, because it’s all about passive communication these days, and there is an inquiry for the first official date. As I have made a personal  commitment to be open to all people and opportunities, I always say yes. This is followed by a fervent exchange as to where and when the get together will take place which is inevitably marred with indecision or poor choices (location, location, location!) because the location that is suggested can say so much about the person.

It is this initial date that I find to be most challenging. When I first meet a guy, I am not setting out with a specific intention in mind. Certainly, I take time to dress well for any occasion outside the home, and that is a reflection of my love affair with fashion. On a date, however, everything can be so calculated. What to wear? Jeans and a shirt with character? What message does that send? Is it the right message? Should I wear a dress instead? Will that be too much? My internal dialogue is running at 90 mph, and everything is up for interpretation. The truth behind all of our efforts is that regardless of what we wear, say, etc., there is usually a physical attraction between the party at hand and, as women, we know whether or not we are going to so much as contemplate sleeping with the individual at hand.

Alas, the date commences, and the conversations ensue. The conversations usually have a natural flow and come easily (for me, at least). Food/drinks are served, and then the check arrives. This is where I become very nervous. Traditional norms suggest that a man always pays for the female party(s) at hand regardless of any variables. I know that, and my date is aware of that as well. My natural instinct tells me to pay my portion without regard to what his financial status is. Why? Primarily because I am not comfortable with the implications  that are inherent when a man purchases something so much as a drink or an entire meal for a woman. Perhaps he is expecting a kiss afterwards. I may want to kiss my date - I just don’t want to feel obligated to kiss him because they purchased something for me. So, with the consideration of my neuroses, I always offer (sometimes insist/force) to pay my half, and usually the party at hand allows me to do so.

Being a woman, I find it my duty to make the situation more complex in my brain, because whether a guy did/did not pay for my drink/meal affects my perception of him. From an evolutionary perspective, it is a clear indication as to whether my partner will be a good provider. Generally, I prefer to pay my half especially when I have absolutely no intention of letting the friendship move to any other stage other than companionship. On the other hand, if a guy actually allows me to pay, I wonder why he asked me out in the first place. This thought is justified because both parties are aware of what the social norms are. When a man allows the tab to be split in the middle, I am left wondering ‘Is this not a date?’ If it’s a date, then the man should always pay. There is no easy answer to this conundrum, and the conflict arises quite frequently in Los Angeles where everyone is a starving artist, actor, etc. What are your thoughts? To pay or not to pay?

Alas, it has been far too long since I have written last. So much has occurred that I don’t even know where to begin. I feel as though perhaps, for today, that it would be best to start with the thoughts that resonate with me in the present. That would include how the thoughts that I could cover up with my love affairs in the past three/four weeks are resurfacing once more as I spend countless hours by myself. 

 Yesterday, I came back to the apartment that M and I shared for the last time. I packed the boxes into my car that were left in the apartment since I moved out. I also encountered Cuddles, my cat. She came towards me when I entered the door and gave me an inquisitive look. She proceeded to cuddle next to me and meow while I held her. It was as though her intuition was telling her that today would be the last time that I might ever hold her again. She continued to meow and look at me with curious expressions while I moved the boxes away.

Upon seeing her and leaving, I was filled with an intense emotion of sadness. From Cuddles, there was an unconditional love from a being that cannot express emotions with words. Instead she lay right next to me as oceans of tears were being disposed of onto the sheets and blankets. It was as though she was a guardian angel of sorts that was meant to be there and protect me as I conquered my own fears. I was angry at M for having neglected her – I could feel the neglect from her as I held her. It was weird – she was craving touch and feel more than anything else. Perhaps she reminded him of me, and it was his way of dealing with things.

I also noticed that he went to Cupcake for dessert for Valentine’s day and that he ordered food from Origami – our favorite Japanese restaurant blocks away from our apartment. I could tell that he ordered for two. So, it was further confirmation that he had some sort of Valentine’s date. Funnily enough – I went to Cupcake as well to get some treats for my Minneapolis Guru and my roomie. It was his birthday (my Minneapolis Guru, that is), and it was absolutely wonderful. That is for another post though.

 So, after packing in the boxes, I finalized things at home and made my way onto the road. I was so…nervous at the prospect of conquering the road for ten hours. Ten hours! Further, thoughts to Blue Eyes, my latest lover, kept haunting me. I desperately wanted to crawl back into his arms one more time to give him a proper good-bye kiss and maybe even to tell him that I loved him. Because I do. There is something that he and I share that can’t be put into words. He is mysterious and very transparent at the same time. The physical connection that we shared was elevated by the feelings that we had for one another. We always had these intense discussions since the moment that we met about politics, love, everything and I was never quite sure what he thought of how opinionated I was.

 The thing that I find really interesting about the two of us is that I don’t think either of us thinks that we could make things work if were to work towards being married to one another. I say that because I have been raised as a Muslim girl for 18+ years, and I know that I don’t want to revert to those cultural norms that he values/expects. At the same time, I think that he may be more open to being open about those things with more experience. Specifically, experience in a real, long-term relationship where he moves in with a significant other. Regardless, what we shared was quite meaningful and enjoyable which made the whole experience that much more worthwhile.

 Back to my driving experience, I have been having a lot of fun listening to music at very loud levels and singing along. The whole experience was relatively stress free until after I drove past Kansas City. It was approximately 8 pm, and there was dense fog everywhere. I literally could barely see 10 feet in front of me and it was so dark. I can’t even begin to describe how scared I was, and how much I craved the comfort and warmth of home. I wished, desperately, that I could somehow be transported back into my bed or in the arms of Blue Eyes. I was shaking with fear and I felt as though I was driving in some sort of sordid horror film. Finally, I decided, after paying the toll in Lawrence, Kansas, that I was going to find the nearest hotel/motel and crash for the evening. And so I did. It was so nice to lay in a warm bed and not think about driving as it was such a stressful experience for the last hour before arriving at the hotel. Trucks  and cars were speeding past me at 70 mph while I clutched the steering wheel with white knuckles. To finally lay in bed and talk to Blue Eyes was incredibly comforting and everything that I craved at that moment.

 There is so much more to write but that will have to come at another time. It almost 11 pm and I am going to bed early (for me) so that I can wake tomorrow at a very early hour and become a road warrior.

 XO

 (The image above is literally what it was like for me driving late at night with dense fog - a scene out of a scary film.)

This horrible cycle keeps repeating itself in that I start to recuperate during the weekend and finally feel as though I am making progress in healing my heart and whatnot. Then I come back into work on Monday and I am right there again – in the throes of anxiety and all those terrible feelings that sometimes take over. I mean there is only so much blocking that I can do, and I still have yet to perfect that art.

Yesterday, there was that snide comment that B made to me which continuously bothered me more as the day progressed. Specifically he said to me, “You were way out of line for going through M’s computer.” I knew that to go down the road of rebuttals would lead me to nowhere fast, so I channeled my inner sweetness, which I am attempting to make stronger, and said, “ Well what’s done is done. I am glad that we got closer in the past few months, and when I get situated in Los Angeles, you are more than welcome to stay with me.” The conversation ended on a positive note, and I really shouldn’t have brought up the issue again with B and M’s mother. However, she and I are very close, and I feel as though I can be very candid with her. I don’t even know how the conversation got started, but I relayed the sentiments of me being out of line, and asked her if she respected me less based on actions that I took, which did cross ethical boundaries. Her response is that she probably would have done the same thing. And then she followed that up with other sentiments relating to how proud she was of B for finally standing up for his brother. And how she felt as though there are some misconstrued messages between M and I where I feel like I was mistreated and her thoughts are that he was in the right to do whatever he wanted to after Las Vegas because it was a marking point of the break up. 

Obviously, she is not privy to the conversations that M and I had subsequent to the trip to Vegas – there were many mixed signals and messages that were being sent from him to me. Essentially, we both wanted to have our cake and eat it too. We both meant well, and we both did things that we shouldn’t have done to one another. What bothers me the most is that I am the person that everyone in the family seems to be able to say, “What you did was out of line,” or “You weren’t mistreated,” etc. That is what pisses me off. Pushing me with such brute force that I literally toppled over backwards twice and dragging me to the bathroom so that I wouldn’t call my friends is wrong. Leaving condoms in coat pockets after a drunken tirade is wrong, especially considering the circumstances (you can draw your own conclusions here). Flirting outright with another girl while I am living in the same space is hurtful and could have been avoided. There were a lot of things that were done that indicated a lack of sensitivity and compassion. M told me over dinner, the night before the condom incident, that what scares him the most about himself is that you can usually tell what kind of a person someone is when they are at their worst. And the way in which he was acting was …bothering him. Anyway, the point is that both of us fucked up royally in many ways in how we handled this whole break-up issue. I get that. I just hate that I feel as though I am bearing the brunt of the repercussions when both parties did wrong. Further, the whole thing is between the two of us, and I don’t know why I welcomed an audience in to watch the circus freak show from hell go down in flames.