The Perfect Perception of Pride

Pride is an interesting social construct. It is an idea based on perception, not fact. Entire personalities can be fundamentally hated because of misconstrued words and idiosyncrasies. We write people off as proud or egotistical only by interpreting what we see.

A little known truth is that, people’s actions do not always point to their true selves. Humans often display a smoke screen that creates an illusion that we are what we are not. Sometimes, it is easier to put on a facade of complete detachment and apathy simply because allowing reality to shine through can only expose our vulnerability.

“This is me.”
“You don’t like it, I don’t care.”
“I am who I am.”
“I will change for no one.”
“Get over it.”

These statements are thought to be nothing more than a verbal manifestation of a person’s high sense of their own grandiosity. However, they are not expressions of extreme hubris. More often than not, they are the words we hide behind to distract people from our floor-level self-esteem. When people are kept safely at arm’s length, the pain that intensifies when we’re alone in the dark is invisible.

Pride isn’t palpable. It isn’t easily discerned. It is often a cover for depression, anxiety, and low self-worth.

It is better to be awful than weak. It is better to be pompous than broken.

Be careful what you say, because your words are worse than sticks and stones. Broken bones heal. Broken hearts don’t. A simple sentence said can run races in someone’s mind until they fall apart completely.

And there’s no coming back from that.

Points of pride be damned.

To Whom It May Concern

To Whom it May Concern:

I have written many a post about depression and anxiety; I have explained it, described it, and defended it extensively in cyber space and real life. It seems, however, that despite all of this people still are unable to recognize it when they see it. This isn’t about me. This is about all of those around me that are subjected to labels by people who don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about.

The girl who stays up all night and sleeps all day isn’t just lazy. The guy who’s always on a screen of some kind, be it a computer, video games, or any other gadget that prevents social interaction, isn’t just addicted to technology. The people who keep to themselves for the most part do not think they’re better than others. Often, it is the exact opposite, and nothing is more terrifying than seeking help.

The girl who’s up all night is anxious. She can’t sleep, because all of the things that she thinks are wrong with her are running around in circles in her head. She is analyzing everything that she has ever done and is torturing herself over all of it, because she is simply incapable of moving on. Her mole hills are mountains she can’t climb, and when the sun comes up and she can see more than darkness, her mind finally lets her sleep.

The boy who is always staring at a screen is terrified of socializing. Crowds make him nervous, people make him anxious, and the real world is far more intimidating than the virtual reality he has created.

The girl who keeps to herself has low self-esteem. She compares herself to others and seems to always fall short. She looks down on herself and wonders why she couldn’t be as talented, smart, or beautiful as the people around her. It is easier for her to be alone, than to find herself in a position where her thoughts turn into self-deprecating beliefs that stick with her for life.

Just getting closer to God isn’t going to fix it. Being told that nothing is wrong with their lives, isn’t going to fix it. Telling someone that things are going to be okay isn’t going to fix it. Inserting our opinions and getting angry when the other person doesn’t get better isn’t going to fix it.

Telling people that it’s all in their head isn’t going fix it, because it is all in their head.

That’s kind of the point.

The Guy Who Can’t Stand Your Type

Generalized Anxiety Disorder

Looked into the DSM to check the exact criteria for anxiety, today. The handy dandy ol’ manual has shown me that I have almost every symptom of Generalized Anxiety Disorder except muscle tension.

Lol. Shocker.

…but I still won’t take pills. No thank you. I’m good. I’ll cope with a shit ton of Netflix.

But no chill.

Of Sleepless Nights and Anxious Messes

It’s four in the morning. I have been in bed for four hours, now. I can’t sleep. My anxiety is approaching an all-time high, and it feels like there’s a hole inside me that’s sucking up all the air I am trying to breathe before it gets to my lungs.

I’m exhausted, but not sleepy. I want to rest and forget everything, but my brain is buzzing. The only things contaminating my mind are the memories that remind me of all the reasons my life is so hard. And unfair. And just painful.

And I realize how juvenile it sounds. It’s as if I am a fifteen-year-old drama queen. I have so much to be thankful for–I know that. I know that I have so much to be thankful for, but that doesn’t make all the terrible things more bearable, and if you don’t believe me, I will list them for you. I will let you form your own opinion, as you read on.

I have Type 1 diabetes. I am epileptic. I wear flats in the dead winter, because shoes induce seizures. My memory is slowly wasting away because of my medications. I am fat. I am not pretty. I am not particularly smart. I am aromantic and asexual in a world that does not accept asexuality as a reality. I’m being dragged in the direction of marriage, and I am too deep inside the closet to protest it at all. I am alone in this, because not one person in my life has any of these problems. Not one. It’s just me, myself, and anxiety, and I’m struggling more than I can possibly explain.

I can’t breathe. I’m losing my mind. Even the things I’ve been told my entire life that I am good at have just led me to fall flat on my face. I’m a student at NYU. I’ve got that going for me. Hurrah for plan C, since A and B failed so tremendously. I don’t really want to be a therapist. I just failed at being a journalist, tanked my chances at becoming a writer, and needed something to do with my life.

And the worst part of all of this is, I am alone in a way that I can’t possibly explain. I am an anxious, depressed mess who covers it poorly with humor and sarcasm.

And for once, I’m not just being melodramatic. I’m quite literally seizing my days away.

And to fix this, I wrote a book loosely based on these experiences in a fictional story-line. Of course, my self-esteem is far too low for me to try to publish it.

I didn’t want to keep whining on here, but I can’t seem to stop.

Hend Salah–fucking up everything since 1991.

An Ode to Anxiety

Below is the shittiest compilation of words ever to be typed into the fickle debauchery contained in the interweb’s cyberspace, but writing this horrendous mess placated me through a full-blown anxiety attack.

And for this vomit of words, I am extremely grateful.

I know that I’m
Going to school
I know that I’m
Losing my mind
But I won’t
Take my
Laptop, with me
Because I’m not
In control
of me
I know of my
I know that I’m
Insane, slightly
I know that we
Have to believe
That things won’t go
Oh so, badly
I’m losing my
Mind in
This song
I know that my
Is gone
But this is where
Our souls
Are drawn
And this is what
We lost
Them on
If I stop this
And close
My eyes
I can’t give you
A reason
This song is so
But I feel like
Panic is fading
I know that I
Have lost
My mind
But I’ll leave those
Dead Fears
This is the end
Please don’t
Make fun
I know that you
Will laugh
A Ton
I know of my
I know that I’m

Everyone has something that keeps them from falling apart. Mine are nonsensical words that I later refuse to acknowledge came from my pretentious hand.

My lord, this is my 100th post. Not a milestone I am particularly proud of, at the moment.

At least I can breathe, again.

Anxiety Attack in a Hospital

I literally just burst into tears and had a severe anxiety attack in the middle of a hospital with my grandmother asleep in the bed.

My grandmother doesn’t speak English. That means there has to be someone in the hospital room with her as often as possible, because no one there can translate to Arabic.

And that responsibility has fallen to me. So, I wake up at 5:30 every morning, drive two hours to get to work, work for eight hours, drive two hours back, and then sleep on the hospital room couch–waking up every twenty minutes to get her a nurse–then rinse and repeat the next day. I have a shit ton of backed up papers and projects that I haven’t touched, work for this volunteer thing I already got roped into and material for a standardized exam I need to study for.

It built up astronomically today, and I just had a complete nervous breakdown.

And as if that isn’t enough, my blood sugar is over 200 every single morning, despite the fact that I eat basically nothing, now.

Why has this all fallen to me? Because my mother and one of my uncles are overseas, and my grandmother’s other children just don’t seem to think it’s fucking important to be here. They haven’t even fucking visited. Their excuses are just lovely.

One of them is a teacher, and said that she had an open house, so she couldn’t come during the long weekend (Labor Day). She had to work.

Another one of them does not work or go to school, but is too busy studying for a licensing exam to come allllll the way here. Yes, because it is so impossible to study in Jersey, right? No, home is the only place that she can read off a fucking index card.

Their mother has been in a hospital for eleven fucking days. Eleven. Fucking. Days.

How about a round of applause for the worst children ever?

They all know that I go to school and work 2 hours away from the hospital she is in. I spend ten hours of my day out, and then come back to a woman who needs my help too much for me to get some real sleep. I have epilepsy and diabetes. I fucking need sleep or I really will collapse. It doesn’t matter, because I have zero choice in the matter. She is alone for long periods of time as it is. I can’t just leave her like that.

I am constantly too tired to do anything at all, and everything is piling up into a huge mound of dirt that I am going to be buried six feet under very soon.

This is a really hard time for us, and I will keep doing my part and making up for their absence.

But I will never forgive them.

Hopefully, I won’t break down like that, again. My grades cannot afford for me to slip.

Just say a little prayer for her. Things aren’t looking up.