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Except cruelty can also be stealthy and insidious. Like dismissing one’s feelings, over and over again—until one day you start to forget how to feel anything.
blasting these videos that claimed things like It is permitted for Muslim women to be forced into marriage; it is sinful for them to disobey their husbands under any circumstances; any non-Muslims, regardless of how good of a person they are, would be damned to hell.
We shot emails back and forth, then talked on Facebook chat, before Facebook was a hub for grandparents and conspiracy theorists and ten-year-old memes.
But I hated being in a world that demanded women protect themselves instead of punishing the men who would harm them in the first place.
It’s not personal.” I’ve always hated that phrase. Half the time, whenever someone says It’s not personal, it feels like a get-out-of-jail-free card. It’s a way to refuse responsibility for hurting someone.
My mother announcing that she had changed, that the therapy had done its job, felt the same as the shadiest person in the world telling me to just trust them
But real, meaningful change needs no announcement. Real change speaks for itself.
Perhaps this is why we forgive people who don’t deserve it: nostalgia is a hell of a drug. It blurred all the bad, brightened the scant good, and told you pretty lies.
The stress of trying to get into law school was doing its damage on my soul and skin barrier.
“I know that, now,” he said softly. “So, I decided. I need to stop doubting myself and start doing what I want.” Before I could ask him what he meant, he went on: “I applied to a post-bacc program in Portland. At Portland State.”
“The thing is, Shaz,” Dad began, “even if you are gay or, or bisexual—it does not matter. To any of us. Okay? What matters is school.” “Uh,” I piped in, “I wouldn’t say it doesn’t matter—” “You know what I mean. The point is, being gay is no excuse.”
But I also didn’t want to sabotage my own happiness when there was so little of it to be had. And I was tired of carrying obligations to my family like stones in my pocket.
But every time people come to visit him, they tell him that it’s God’s will, a test from God. Who the hell wants to hear that when they’re dying?”
When he’d told my mom his therapist wasn’t helping, Mom had refused to find another, because this therapist was the only one who’d agreed to tell her the details of their sessions.
Sometimes I wondered if people used religion as an excuse to ignore the humanity of others, and instead reduce them to their sins.
We were surrounded by people we loved—and not, this time, for a funeral.
“Rarely, if ever, are any of us healed in isolation. Healing is an act of communion.”
Love—maybe love simply sees you in a room when no one else does. Love was a pat on the head at the end of a hard day, a kind word of acknowledgment in a world so damn hard to live in. Love was refuge. Love was comfort. Love was ease. And, sometimes, that was enough to hold on to.
