Shahd Alshammari's Blog, page 15

30

So when I turned thirty, it was supposed to be a big deal. You know, the big 30, you’ve left your roaring twenties behind, and are suddenly, supposedly an adult. No longer “young adult” but actually an adult. But I have always felt like an adult, always behaved like one, even when I was only five, explaining to my mother that we were friends, and she shouldn’t boss me around. Responsibility was pretty much part of my character at a very early age. But I digress.

I was very scared of turning 30. When I was eighteen, I thought I’d never make it to 30. Doctors told me that by the age of thirty, things would pretty much be over. But somehow, I made it to 30, semi-functional, and having learned a few lessons along the way. My friends celebrated my 30th, and I realized that having real friends was the greatest blessing. Friends who accept you for who you are, listen to you, hold you up, support you, and tell you when you’re being a douchebag. I was dealing with a loss that I still cannot understand, cannot seem to accept, because there is no sense in it. And yet, I have realized that sometimes you just lose, without explanations, without reasons. Life and loss are just so intertwined. You cannot control the equation, and you cannot control who stays and who leaves. You can only control your choices, how you deal, how you react, but nothing else.

So I wrote myself a letter, and as private as it is, I will share bits of it on this blog. Amongst the things I have learned are:

You cannot ever really prepare for the future. As daunting and scary as it sounds, you really just have to go with the flow. I always tried to plan things in advance, but it was just stressful and exhausting. Things usually surprise you, outcomes are always different.

You have learned to accept you, finally. You have met critical people, people who couldn’t love themselves, let alone love you, people who saw flaws more than anything. You have finally understood that negativity arises from deep within a person, and you can’t change that, no matter how hard you try. You can’t fix a broken person, you can’t love them hard enough to fix them, and you certainly aren’t a superhero. That’s okay.

When you look in the mirror today, you see fatigued eyes, no matter what you do. Your brain works harder than an average person’s, because with MS, the nerve signals are slowed down, and you have to work double as hard to do a simple task. Motor function is difficult, the brain has to adapt to “normal” functioning by trying harder. It can be draining, and yet, people can’t see it. People will make fun of you, they will criticize you, ask you why you look so sleepy and so dead, and there is never an answer you can provide. And that, too, is okay. Accept that people will not understand, and that’s not their fault, or yours. It just is.

There are those around you who have taught you what love is, and even if they are gone, you know that you learned a lot about life and love, trust, friendship, loyalty, and most importantly, human nature. You also learned to accept that when people walk out, it doesn’t mean you haven’t tried enough. You got to let go, and sometimes, you really just aren’t on the same page as the other person. We can be on the same planet, yet on entirely different wavelengths. Love is simply not enough, if respect is not in the equation. Respect, trust, and non-abuse is most important. Love only grows from that equation.

You are blessed that your mother is still alive, and is your best friend. You learned to cherish days that matter, because you never know when time is up. Because of MS, which people have seen as a curse, you are always living in the moment, cherishing it, savoring it, and enjoying being here, today, with your loved ones, able to see them, to touch them, to hear them, to speak with them. This is a beautiful part of life, to enjoy your loved ones’ companionship. People just let life slip by, and as cliché as it sounds, they don’t stop to think about these moments. They always think they have forever and another day to fix things. But if you don’t fix things today, if you don’t make it right, why are you so certain you’ll have tomorrow? I don’t understand this concept at all. It either is, or isn’t. Life is not meant to be put on hold, and neither is love, nor passion, nor doing the right thing.

So every time I feel down, I know I need to think about these things. I need to reconsider where life has taken me. I wish people could see things from a different perspective, that it really is all about today, that you cannot control the future, that security comes from loving yourself and being able to extend that love to those you WANT to love, those that you want to witness their life’s journey. I am still learning, but I know that I have at least solidified who I am by the age of 30. I look back at my eighteen year old self, and I think, you managed to become who you really wanted to be: an academic who struggles daily, but wouldn’t trade it for the world, a simple person who is grateful to be able to read, to drive, to enjoy the companionship of good people, and loves learning about this condition of being human and surviving it every day.

  

And sitting next to you, not reaching out for you, your e...

And sitting next to you, not reaching out for you, your eyes saying yes, your heartbeat ringing in my ears, I thought I had finally come home. And you knew you had the last bit of my soul. 

But the Moon never stays. And I will keep howling until I can reach it. 

وهل كان ذنبي انني أحببتك اكثر مما ينبغي؟ إذا قدرت ان تنسى...

وهل كان ذنبي انني أحببتك اكثر مما ينبغي؟ إذا قدرت ان تنسى، فلن أنسى .. وهذا ذنبي الأعظم.. يا من جئت نحوي مطراً وكنت لي.. أين الوعود والحب؟ 

Galbi

“Which one do you prefer?”

“This one,” I demonstrated. 

“I thought so,” you said, grinning at me the way only you do. Words failed to describe that look you gave me. A mixture of curiosity and a dose of desire. 

“It’s really simple, but so complicated. I just can’t help but pour my soul into you,” I explained. 

And yet all the explanations wouldn’t do. I now understand what is meant by galbi. The closest and most necessary part of your being. 

Your traditionalism. Your obsession with paper, your love...

Your traditionalism. Your obsession with paper, your love for doing things right, your endless perfectionism. That was all a part of it. But the day I watched as you placed the sticky tamir in your mouth, I realized even food wanted to be part of your lips, even words never wanted to part with you. I never liked the taste of tamir, despite my Bedouin origins. But you said you could live on it, and I wondered whether it would sustain our love. Long ago, it was enough. No need for materialism, for an excess of food, there was no greed. It was enough to just be near you, and you were content with that richness, that softness. 

And you are who I think about at 3 AM. The fingers curl,...

And you are who I think about at 3 AM.  The fingers curl, the phone taunts, the thoughts cannot be exorcised. 

Give me a moment, or else take it all way.Just like the ...

Give me a moment, or else take it all way.

Just like the sun, you were the light that shone through my cracks. The light demanded attention, and I couldn’t hide beneath the covers for too long. This love, lost, was ours again.

“Remember this?” you asked, as the heat pulled me under.

“I think I’ve done this before.”

“But there was a fireplace,” you winked.

Under your eyes, under your introspection, I stutter. I stammer. And I am left wordless, hesitating, unable to say anything comprehensible. And then there is the tilt of the head. The pout. The questioning, the daring, the buttons are pushed. My chest expands to fit all of you, and yet I cannot contain you. An other-worldly, godly creature, not to be caged. Not to be confined.

“How’d you know?” you asked. And as usual, I had no answers. The silence spoke louder. The explanations and evidences and signs were futile. Sometimes, in my world, it is best to just be. Sometimes, I am aware that we are nothing but atoms, and atoms collide, combine, and also collapse. Atoms also court each other. You loved the word court. I was fascinated with your fascination, and the way you lit up, the way every second was a first, and time ceased to exist.

And they ask me, since when is القلب هديه؟

The door wouldn’t budge. They were my keys, but they just...

The door wouldn’t budge. They were my keys, but they just didn’t seem to fit. I have always been fascinated with nouns, not verbs. You were all about verbs, action, and I was comforted by nouns. You make a scene, a production, light a candle, watch it blast into a fire. And I stand there, simply in awe of the state of being here, watching as the flames eat us both alive. 

Speed (noun). The adrenaline that comes from speeding past time, past all logic. Not speed (verb), to speed past you, watching your jaw drop, your unkempt hair making a statement, the wind echoing the loss. Does the wind have a say, too? It seems to mock the sheer panic. 

Panic (verb). To rush, to destroy you. To destroy the other. To feel your heart exploding, refusing to be tamed. But what cannot be tamed? 

Kill (verb). One blow, one quick and smooth action. The arteries you recognize. The sputtering dialogue, the last words. 

When I was seven, the closest person to me put out their cigarette on my flesh. The trauma comes back. 

Trauma (noun). All I have to dissect. No bodies to probe. The mind screams. 

Constellation

The sound of laughter, the allure of dancing eyes, of promises and words, the ease of friends, the unspoken commitment of lovers, and the bright stars you placed in the palm of my hand.

“Why would I need stars?”

“One star won’t do. You need a few, you need a constellation. It’ll remind you of us,” you grinned at me. Challenging me to argue with you, as you loved to do. Would I rise to the challenge? Your eyes dared me, and I thought to myself, if I could hold you in place, keep you, preserve you, I wouldn’t need any stars.

“Stay where you are,” I said, and reached for my phone, snapping pictures of you, as you threw your head back, laughing at my obsessiveness.

“A constellation looks different from every angle. But you’ll always find me. Depend on your imagination, but also look for signs. Trace the pattern,” you whispered.

“Like this?” I reached for you.

“Do you know why people wear a ring on this finger?” you asked.

“I wouldn’t know, but I’m sure there’s a story,” I said, listening intently.

“It’s connected, all the way to your heart. Here,” you said, tracing every inch, creating our very own constellation.

Maybe

Maybe the wolf needs the moon. Maybe the werewolf is only a werewolf because the moon is always gone, it doesn’t stay, it is always out of reach. Maybe the werewolf cannot be fully human, because being human means he doesn’t need the moon. And he knows he needs the moon- this is his excuse to morph.

Maybe a writer may fall in love thousands of times. A poet may experience heightened emotions, but there is only one, only one muse, only one that captivates and colonizes the writing. For every lost moment, a thousand are written. For every question, a thousand answers are re-born. Repeat. Remind me. Remind me how. Remind me when.

Maybe my memory fails me. There was a bridge, and I wasn’t sure. And then there was the jump, the leap of faith. I let go.. thinking the river will bring me home. Instead, the river took me elsewhere. I opened my eyes, and I couldn’t recognize my surroundings. It wasn’t you. It wasn’t me. Who were these people? Something told me to keep going.

“Try harder,” you said.

“But I did try,” I replied.

“Harder. Nothing is impossible,” you insisted.

Maybe the reality is, we run when we are most in love. We run when we are afraid of being consumed by the other. Me/you. Where is the boundary, the line that separates? I can’t seem to adjust to the darkness. But my eyesight has always failed me. I breathe in, and I can tell that’s your scent. The air is filled with questions. The room suffocates, and the words are raped.