Sometimes I feel like I was I was born with some kind of sadness mixed with my blood, but with a spirit that refuses to accept defeat. I was the funny friend of my friends group. You know the one that gives you advises and listens your problems. I was the joker of my childhood friends group. I was always carefree and friendly. I still remember one of my friend saying, “Noor ko to kabhi kisi chiz ki tension hi nahi rehti hai” (Noor is never worried about anything), but I still remember crying alone and not sharing my problems with anyone because I thought only fools share emotions and as if it was a weakness. I remember bottling up my thoughts and emotions. It was all bearable until I was thirteen. But after that things began to change not just at home but in school as well. I began to indulge in a lot of overthinking. In eighth standard I got separated from my friends group as I got section A while they got B. I started feeling a little left out as I became that friend who was mostly unaware about the things happening in our group.
Sad part was that even there I started feeling an outcast and that hurts. In my own family I’ve always felt like that for some reason. We are a family of six members—my parents, my elder sister, my elder brother, me, and my younger brother. We were always a normal middle-class family. My father was always busy in his work (finance agent) and my mother is also a school teacher, so she was also busy. They didn’t get much time to give the emotional security to their children. And I don’t blame them either. It’s just that when I turned fourteen my father came to live with us, and before that he would only come for a week or something because he was working in our hometown while we moved here for our education. My father was very different from my mother. He has changed now with age, but back then he was this young, angry man who demanded much from life and from everyone around. But he was also very loving sometimes. He gave us the best education and he only wanted the best from us. But I was kind of used to the laid-back and relaxed environment that my mother created, so it was new to me and a little difficult, I admit. Not to say I don’t love him. But I guess my relationship with him was never very good.
My parents never had a romantic kind of relationship; they were mostly involved in arguments. We grew up watching arguments and fights. Perhaps both of my parents were at fault; you can’t just blame one person, but I was too young to know. When I turned fourteen, I started thinking about everything—it’s like my mind became an enemy to me. I started being paranoid with my peers as well. I remember how I stopped talking too much or laughing in school as I expected my friends to be there for me and stay patient with me, but I remember being mocked and called as becoming ‘Antonio’ (with nameless melancholy) (Shakespeare character) by a friend. But I guess when you are in those times no one really understands the inner struggles that you are going through. As they say, “Pain demands to be felt.” My pain was funny to the people around because I was supposed to be the funny friend.
But I was tired. I was sad, and I was tired of pretending anymore. That friendly, goofy girl became an aloof and serious girl. But I thought my friends wouldn’t leave me. Perhaps it was my fault; I stopped being the friend with jokes and advises, but I became the one who needed it. That’s when I became alone. Maybe it was my fault, but I just needed someone to understand what I wasn’t willing to talk about because I didn’t know how to. My “friends” abandoned me.
My family was dealing with financial issues as well. We lived in a rented house with two rooms. Privacy was only a luxury. I still remember trying to study for my board exams while my parents and siblings talked loudly or had arguments. It was hard. Not anyone’s fault, but it was all taking a toll on me. After tenth standard, I got the opportunity to go to Delhi by getting an admission in Jamia Millia Islamia. So I studied hard and prayed to get into it. Although I was really pessimistic, I got selected, and it was something that made me truly happy after a long time.
Unaware of the million challenges awaiting me there, I just decided to go there, and my parents were supporting enough to send me as well. In Jamia, getting a hostel was really difficult back then. At first, I stayed in a PG with a friend that I made in the entrance exam. As the tiffin services were expensive, we decided to cook on our own. It was terrific. Our dal would get burned. Our sink would get clogged. We had to do the dishes after coming back from school. Just two seventeen-year-old girls trying to settle in a new city while the owner annoyed us with his unexpected visits. So after a month, my friend decided to leave, and she didn’t tell me about it when I had already paid the rent. One day her brother came while she packed and left. I cried that night. Felt alone and broken.
Nevertheless, things got better, but then my mother asked me to shift to my relative’s house who were living in Delhi. They had a family of five—my uncle, aunt, their two sons, and a daughter. I was scared to live with them because although they seemed nice, I felt wrong about it. But seeing my mother’s trust, I agreed. When I started living with them, that’s when my mental health kind of deteriorated. It was just that I hated how sarcastic they were about everything, also how insensitive people become sometimes. Not that they abused me or anything but just something I can’t quite explain. I felt like a total stranger burdened on them. Perhaps I was, but when I complained about it to my family, they made it look like I was someone who needed more comfort, someone who was arrogant while they were ready to keep me.
I never tried to paint them in a bad picture, but I just wanted someone to understand. I was so young. I was a child. I wasn’t a villain. But asking for something bare minimum made me feel like it. It’s not that they were all like that; it wasn’t even their fault—they were doing their best for an unsolicited guest at home. But my family should have understood. But I guess no one is to blame but the circumstances. I remember trying to explain to my brother how bad I felt, but then him making me feel like I am creating unnecessary drama and as if suffering in silence is what everyone’s supposed to do. Not that he didn’t love me, but I guess it’s just how he was. I still remember crying alone in that room upstairs. No friends, no one to listen—just me and my agony becoming closer to each other.
But that’s when I also became closer to God. I stopped expecting anyone to understand me. I started relying more on God. In those times, I realized no matter how many explanations you give, people can only get your perspective within their emotional intelligence. Now I am not saying that people are dumb, but just that expecting someone to understand your situation truly is perhaps asking a bit too much. Perhaps becoming your own best friend, learning how to be kind to yourself, and being patient with your own self is very important.
In 2020, I got diagnosed with retina degeneration. I had to get a laser therapy done. My eyesight was getting worse. I still remember crying suddenly and shivering. The uncertainty about the future would give me immense anxiety. It’s like I could be laughing at a joke halfway, and my mind would remind me about how my eyesight is so weak and how my future is bleak, and I would just start feeling worthless all of a sudden. I would cry, sometimes loudly, sometimes quietly. My family called me crazy. I felt like a bad child, ungrateful about the blessings.
But I swear to God I was grateful, but I was afraid. I felt so alone. I needed someone to tell me that it’s only God who knows the future, and the way he has taken care of me until now, he will take care of me further as well. After all, he doesn’t burden a soul beyond it can bear. Times were tough, and I still go through phases of sadness, but now I suppose I’ve stopped asking much from life and the people around me. I know I am not the best version of myself, but I’ve learnt to accept this imperfect and not-so-best me.
And these days, I am just trying to be more compassionate with myself and be more patient in my journey, just like I would do to my best friend. I am trying to befriend myself.
(Noor E Hera)
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