How Do I Love Thee

How do I tell you I love you


Do I start bold? Shout it

In between the punches you throw at my mom when she asks for money when the food runs out

Or do I whisper it soft?

When you’re burning cigarettes on my forearms

Ripping my books apart

Explaining in your own way that fantasy is a farce


You hit me in the face when I asked you why you were never home anymore

You pushed me to the ground when I didn’t say salaam to you after I found out about the affairs

You laughed when I asked you to quit smoking so much


How do I tell you I love you when I fucking want to burn you to ashes and shit on your remains.


Sometimes you need a responsible and practical person in your life to help shove you off the path of self destruction. Troubled people need that. 

But sometimes I think they prefer another troubled person who may not be as smart a choice as an emotionally stable one just because…. Empathy. The biggest factor that people forget to consider is that only troubled people can understand, truly, holistically, understand the other’s situation.

People who’ve made it to a stable point forget that feeling of utter loneliness that doesn’t get fixed by friends showing support. That loneliness only lessens when you recognize your own problems in someone else’s sorrow. 

That’s why I think depressos choose to stick to me instead of people who’re much less self destructive and the more pragmatic option.

I used to be my own person. And I don’t just mean that in the sense that I was the one person I could always rely on for strength. I was what the world resolute would look like in a human form. But what I also mean is that I belonged to me. This sounds schizophrenic and asexual, but let me explain. I worked hard through all the messes in my life and I put a lot of effort into building myself. I chose my decisions carefully, I picked out the qualities I wanted in a perfect human being and I tried each of those on for size, adjusting where it didn’t fit, making alterations where I experienced lack of comfort. I built the person I was. I chose who I wanted to be and I struggled each time I wasn’t her. Soon enough, I knew myself. I loved myself. I allowed myself the appreciation I lacked from people who mattered to me. Basically, to reiterate, I was independent and home in the skin I was in.

Now I’m noone’s person. I’m nothing. I am a million different people with a million different people. I exist with a chameleon soul. I am who people need me to be, who people don’t feel molded around. I am the person people want me to be individually. I’m no one’s collective person anymore. Two people from different groups can talk to each other about the same person and end up in a paradox.

Sometimes, I don’t even know how to be a person.

A Cancer of the Spirit

Depression makes big people small
It makes runners into crawlers and dancers into sleepers
Depression makes you not hungry for your favorite food
and makes you too sad for your saddest song
You can’t even listen to the music without wanting to throw up

It makes you not yourself. 
It makes you fragile. Your unconquerable soul-

Depression is no small monster
It makes a fight out of everything
Your bed is a war zone
Your sanity is the cartilage bleeding on your pillow
You are an army of one
against everything you ever feared,
in one giant clinical diagnosis.

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.