Feeling so weird and slightly panicky. 

I have my exam in about 3 hours. I don’t know if I’ll be able to go and give it. I can’t sit up straight, let alone study. Why does everything go to shit just when it’s so important for it to be normal.

I feel like evolution has really fucked up with these mental disorders. How the fuck do you adapt to such inertia. 

It’s not my fault that it happened to me, but is it my fault if I don’t defeat it.

Just posting this here because I love it so much.

“Depression is humiliating. It turns intelligent, kind people into zombies who can’t wash a dish or change their socks. It affects the ability to think clearly, to feel anything, to ascribe value to your children, your lifelong passions, your relative good fortune. It scoops out your normal healthy ability to cope with bad days and bad news, and replaces it with an unrecognizable sludge that finds no pleasure, no delight, no point in anything outside of bed. You alienate your friends because you can’t comport yourself socially, you risk your job because you can’t concentrate, you live in moderate squalor because you have no energy to stand up, let alone take out the garbage. You become pathetic and you know it. And you have no capacity to stop the downward plunge. You have no perspective, no emotional reserves, no faith that it will get better. So you feel guilty and ashamed of your inability to deal with life like a regular human, which exacerbates the depression and the isolation. Depression is humiliating. If you’ve never been depressed, thank your lucky stars and back off the folks who take a pill so they can make eye contact with the grocery store cashier. No one on earth would choose the nightmare of depression over an averagely turbulent normal life. It’s not an incapacity to cope with day to day living in the modern world. It’s an incapacity to function. At all. If you and your loved ones have been spared, every blessing to you. If depression has taken root in you or your loved ones, every blessing to you, too. Depression is humiliating. No one chooses it. No one deserves it. It runs in families, it ruins families. You cannot imagine what it takes to feign normalcy, to show up to work, to make a dentist appointment, to pay bills, to walk your dog, to return library books on time, to keep enough toilet paper on hand, when you are exerting most of your capacity on trying not to kill yourself. Depression is real. Just because you’ve never had it doesn’t make it imaginary. Compassion is also real. And a depressed person may cling desperately to it until they are out of the woods and they may remember your compassion for the rest of their lives as a force greater than their depression. Have a heart. Judge not lest ye be judged.” — Pearl

“You’ve gained weight”

Thank you.

Without your information, I would not have known.

I understand that you are more aware of my body than I am

Because where I saw flesh

You saw fault

And where I saw skin

You saw with disgust.

So thanks for pointing it out.


Don’t know what I’d do without you.

Maybe I’d accidentally forget



Even my smile

for being so damn heavy.


I’m researching the anti depressant medication my psychiatrist prescribed and ironically, or poetically, it’s very depressing.


I can’t believe I’m categorized in the “Severely Impaired” category. I can’t believe I can’t share this with anyone. I wish I could email it to my school, so that they’d understand why I miss so many classes. I wish I could explain this to the kids at school, why I just can’t make new friends anymore, that even talking to the old ones gets exhausting. I wish I could tell this to my friends, without them either getting too worried or sad for me or some of them making it about themselves with a “so what we all get depressed sometimes.” I wish I could show it to my mom without making her depressed in some way. She has enough problems.

I can’t believe I’m so suicidal.

I need to talk about this with someone. My shrinks are too impersonal, and I see them once a week and now probably once in two weeks. I don’t have a support system. I hate sharing such information with anyone, I don’t want to seem like some fragile weepy person that people need to monitor themselves around.

One of the worst parts of this is something my shrink said in passing. About how I am so affected by my family. She said it in a way that implied that everything I am, is because of them. My anger, sadness, depression, and even personality is basically molded by them. And I hate this. I cannot accept this. I am so much more than their impressions on me. My individuality exists. I have a personality that isn’t coated by their residue. And this isn’t a cry for importance, I’m not going to plead me me me. I swear that I am my own person, and though I may be affected by mankind, like John Donne said, I am not a carving of all the marks my family has left on me.

I’m constructed by a lot more. And this nature v nurture shit isn’t clear cut. You guys can debate. I’m going to be a me without them.

The idealization of suicide needs to stop. The self harm, which I am so disgusted by, needs to stop. I need to stop the self loathing. I need to get out of my brain.

What I do wonder though, is how much of me is me, and how much of me is the disease.

I wish I could talk to someone. Wish I could make someone understand.


I went swimming today, after forever. It felt beautiful.

though some random old woman whose nipples are always prominent through her shirt first took over the whole changing room and forgot to lock the door and then when I walked in on her changing, bodily forced me out. Didn’t even say sorry, just looked sheepish. Then later she told me and my sister and her friends off for not wearing a swimming cap. Hello lady, you’re ruining ma mooooood go awayyyyy.

Whatever, it was still great.

Then I raced to pick up Ghazaal and took her to watch Divergent with me because I just really wanted to watch Theo James be super sexy and Shailene Woodley be bad ass. It was fun.

Then I sneaked a smoke on my balcony and enjoyed the smell of my hair and the cool wind.

I’m loving Karachi’s weather these days. Makes a little grateful sometimes for being here. Weird, that something as small as the weather can make such a difference. I’m not a poet, I don’t take the weather so personally. But it affects, ya know?

All in all, it was kind of a good day.

I took my first anti depressant. I had a minor moment of extreme rage, but otherwise it was okay. I don’t ever wanna rage or make anyone afraid though. That can’t happen.

Why must I end on a negative note. 

My hair looks fab.

There. Not so bad.

I’m awful with titles so dunno what to call this poem

When I was born my grandmother cried because I wasn’t a boy

“My son’s life is ruined. He’s ruined.”
“To top it off she’s so dark.”
My cries were louder than hers. I was too eager to live.
An unwelcome troublemaker from birth

But that’s not where my story starts

A few hundred years ago, some men sailing on blue waters wound up on brown land
And they decided they’d walk on anything that wasn’t white

I remember scrubbing my face with a “formula” at age 12
3 tubes Fair and Lovely
2 tablespoon bleach
Countless years of colonialism shoved into my DNA
An old ancestral recipe

I’ve seen light-skinned become default beauty
I’ve seen makrani and bengali become an insult

Dad told me to wear a dupatta
Dad let me wear shorts on a different continent
Dad controls the length of my kameez

I remember being pushed around
My chachoo pinching all the fat he could find on me
Joke’s on him
I pissed on his bed when he was abusing the maid
I may not have a penis
But boy can I aim

My story started before ’47
Even before the start of that century
I was born in rebellion
They called it mutinous
But we bathed in the independence of our own blood
I was born in that revolution
I hear the sword clashes every day

I have been denounced for colour
and country

One time I flew a kite in New York
When it reached as high as I could take it
I let it go
I will not hold on to limits

I will let my hair remain dark
I will not buy lenses of a lighter shade
I will not paint my skin white
Brown is too fucking majestic to erase

I was born on the land of the poor
And I will not fool myself with the luxury of diaspora
I was born on the Earth of men
And I will not die with the gates of misogyny open

my name is Sana
and if you wept when I was a child

you will quiver when I am a woman

a pinch of anxiety

I’m feeling ambiguous.

I started seeing a psychologist and on my first visit I basically cried for the whole hour when I started my family sob story. It didn’t feel cathartic. She let me ramble on and the conversation derailed from one event to the next and the chronological order I had tried to start with kind of fell apart and I really don’t know what happened.

The second one was better. I was a little tipsy and I’ve realized (after drinking just one other time) that I’m a horny-sleepy-laughy drunk, so I was just very sleepy when I got to the hospital. Almost fell asleep during the approx. 20 minute waiting period… Which, btw, shouldn’t exist because I have an appointment? I was much much much muccch more calmer this time. Actually managed to have a conversation.

But I’m so afraid I can’t be helped. Because how can anyone convince me otherwise? How can anyone convince me that there is something to live for. I can find beauty in the arbitrary chaos of the universe but will it be enough to drink from when the class barriers are so visible to me and enrage me in till I taste bile and rape can never be justified and everyone fucking sickens me because everyone lives with blinders on in a system built to oppress in one way or the other and unnecessary and stupid social cues and mindless rituals that no one pauses to rationalize about. How can anyone convince me with reason and logic and kindness about the shadows that don’t leave

I have taken to alternate universe with world and world with universe. My view of the world is so big now. My universe recognizes multiverses. It recognizes inter-sectionalism and variety and grandiosity and minimalism. My world is so big. Your god is so small.

I miss god. I miss the feel of the jaanemaaz on my forehead. Putting my head on the ground silenced a lot inside. But you can’t go back into the dark once you’ve found light. Even if it’s ugly and fluorescent and elongates the shadows. So god is out. How else to cope?

Everything is silly. We’re animals who accidentally stumbled on low-fat-soy-latte-with-extra-vanilla. What have we become. How can we live in such filth? Tall structures of concrete next to tiny slums filled with the trash that acts as the residue of our luxury. Paying people to clean our toilets and then having the audacity to not see them. To argue about military spending when the fundamental is lacking. Even me, debating political correctness because I am so privileged to not starve, so privileged to have a place to keep the whether out. This is happening. This has no foreseeable end. This has no greater cause or promised heaven.

Convince me to stay.

Meeting Jaded.

I showed up stoned to the orientation. I was high for the first time in my life. Everything was funny. I was so glad, because I needed it. The tiny, grey infrastructure seemed suffocating and the vacant expressions just brought on a sense of foreboding that I didn’t allow myself to be prejudiced by because come on, at least give it a shot.

The presentations were mundane, the head of the law department had a very eccentric way of pronouncing everything and I was staring at the black wall next to me, watching the mosquitoes take their aim. I was also ignoring Easa staring at me and softly commenting on how stoned I was. I had a force field of charas around me. SZABIST could not touch me.

Then this teacher came up to the podium and she was angry, for what reason, I’m not really sure. But she was angry. She was the wick in the wax, burning the dull. I kind of liked her. Easa hated her and I started to laugh. I remember slapping my hands on my mouth because I was having fits of laughter. I kind of liked how angry she was. I kind of loved how high I was. She vaguely reminded me of someone.

When we left that sorry excuse for a hall, I met Hana and asked about the angry teacher and Hana told me something along the lines of how she totally knew I’d like her because that teacher was a feminist. Hana told me I’d get along with her. Easa said something negative, as per usual, and I finally had someone to look forward to in a place that… I don’t even know how to describe it. It’s nothing personal, SZABIST, and maybe that’s the worst part. It’s not you, it’s me. It really is. But it’s a little bit of you too. Actually yeah, there’s a lot about you that won’t make it work between the two of us. We’re just not good for each other. Any way.

So the first time I met the teacher, who I will now call Jaded, she asked the class to each name something we’d never done and would like to do. I said some bullshit about wanting to visit Jerusalem, I think, which is so bizarre because wtf visiting Jerusalem isn’t even on my top 30 to-do list. Anyway, she let me see a subtle feminist side because she mentioned being happy about all the girls having adventurous ambitions or something. I was so ready to let her teach me something. I thought, yes, maybe this won’t be so bad.

But then I discovered that she was patronizing. She would smile and insult and not even give the class a chance to respond. She expected us to not do the reading and she felt herself a moral superior in every way. She isolated the students who really needed her help in learning (who then never asked questions (they became intimidated and indignant) and eventually stopped showing up) and she kept letting on the fact that she had given up. She came to class unprepared and only interacted with the students when she wanted to pick one of them out for their political ideology or familial background (vaderas, military parents etc). She said things about how once she would make her students read some interesting commentary on the cases but now she “knew better” or how she told us to read her blog where she’d called our entire generation entitled and stupid. She hated the system she taught in yet she’d do nothing to change it and then she insulted some Kashmiri kids and according to whatever authority behind the rumors, wanted an apology instead of giving one. I need to emphasize once more on how patronizing she was. Smiling while insulting. I watched her silently. I watched her a little hurt. I couldn’t participate; she suddenly didn’t seem worth it.

It’s not her fault. It’s no one’s, perhaps. When I say no one I may be referring to the unnamed perpetrators in charge who let such a system exist or the arbitrary chaos of the universe. She’d spent too much time, perhaps, with people who didn’t care to learn all that she had to teach. She’d experienced the workings in both the school and the court, enough to retrieve her comfortable ambitions and destroy her illusions of saving the world. It wasn’t fair of me to expect so much from someone who shouldn’t have to carry the weight of the future Pakistani justice on her morale. I don’t blame her.

But I do blame her too. I wanted a figure of authority (though the external program grants her very little) to look up to. I wanted to learn law beyond textbook law. I wanted to be believed in but she didn’t even give us a chance. She wanted to despise us. She was both Elizabeth and Darcy without the growth and resolution. She took the job, and the job belittled her. Her bitterness is not her fault, but if she has the job, she should fucking do it. And I don’t mean do it on automatic textbook mode. She knows what I mean. It’s what she set out to do before she lost her way on the road eroded by the toxicity of reality.

Maybe she did us a favor. Learn the book, learn the law, keep your head down.

I can’t end on this negative note, so I’ll mention her saving graces. She had sparks of inspiration. She became herself for a few moments and room 201 (or whatever) became a classroom. She did try a few times. I’m not romanticizing her. People feel affronted when you tell them you know them without them having told you any of their secrets. But this is an age of social vomit. Everyone’s insides are a mess spat out. Even if you don’t want to clean the mess, you can’t help but watch, speculate the diagnosis, rationalize the prescription. I will abandon this metaphor now.

I wish my teacher could have been a teacher. It’s not her fault I eventually stopped going to class and decided I couldn’t participate. But she sure didn’t help. I have 3 other teachers, but this one hurt most because I accidentally expected something.

Fuck it all. Nothing matters. Ugh, nihilism, how did you seep into this drunken blog post?

goodamn existential musings

Intelligence matters most to me. I find myself feeling irritated at people who trivialize logic and facts or just don’t value information or the rationalization of consciousness. 

This could very well make me seem pretentious. But I don’t feel like I have to defend myself here. I have to stop focusing on that enshrined societal more of making people like me. I like people who are kind, who have an inner warmth. I feel like there is a greater understanding of consciousness in those who choose to be kind (or it’s my projecting what I desire in the world- smart, kind people). But I can respect those with a lesser regard for niceties and social connections too. I find myself fluctuating between the two often enough. For a while I felt like perhaps I had a faulty heart, that forgot to function sometimes. Then I’d feel frustrated at myself thinking in terms of “heart and brain” when the job of my heart is simply to pump blood and since I’m alive and quite healthy in that regard, my heart is doing it’s fucking job perfectly. 

What is it then, that feels?

When I think, I have never physiologically narrowed it down to the upper torso of my body. When I think, I think as an entity. As an entirety. Like Avatar Aang in the cosmos, I can describe it as my whole body being alight. 

It upsets me when people live blindly. But then I realize that perhaps I envy their lifestyle. If it is ignorance, it is not okay. But if it is chosen ignorance, then it is. We all, at some level, have selective blindness. We choose to ignore or continue with a vice regardless of the harm we then expose ourselves to. Whether the vice is religion or forgiving an abusive lover, if there is such a radical thing as free choice, Mr. Sarte, then choosing ignorance is something I can understand and even maybe value. I wouldn’t choose it for myself, but then other people’s lives aren’t about me. 

I feel like an anthropologist, looking in from the outside. And like an archaeologist, looking for the remains of my past that will help me understand what happened to me. Discover and reason my being. I know who I was, I’ve studied her enough. 

I choose to ignore who I am right now. Until I become a better, evolved and adapted version of who I want to be.

Also, I hate adapting. I hate how we are all refined and molded and distorted. We are, none of us, pure. We are contaminated by oppressive systems, by conveniencing each other. Every time we adapt, we kill the species we were. We drag a shadow of extinction wherever we go. Only sometimes visit the graves of all the people we’ve killed, ourselves and others too, when we asked something of them that changed them.

Maybe who I am is glued to what I am. Am I for me or am I for others.

ABC’s ‘Alice in Arabia’ Is Racist

Featured Image -- 236

Originally posted on TIME:
American Muslims have lost control of their narratives both online and in the media. While violent Islamic extremists have grown increasingly adept at using social media to craft their messages – as have anti-Muslim activists –…