Halloween
may be over but there seems to be an ever so slightly lingering spooky vibe,
no? Just take a look at this past week and the results of our election! Pair
that with the aftermath of a frightened America and what do we have? But let me
steer clear of politics (for now) and veer back on to the clichéd path of Lady
Narrator—love or, better yet, the lack thereof. Stay tuned for an upcoming blog
post on the ever so notorious question I’m frequently asked: What ever will you write about once you
actually find “the one?” Until that comical, political and social piece,
here’s the usual nightly special.
October
is a time for ghosts and ghouls and a great many fools—emphasis on the latter.
It’s a month that brings to life my beloved (closeted) gothic desires and
welcomes in the autumn winds far better than September ever does. But oh those
autumn winds, what surprises they blow in unexpectedly, like…wait for it…my
ghost from scorching hot July [read here for further clarification: http://ladynarrator.blogspot.com/2016/07/the-perfect-crime-remix.html].
After
three months of finally healing, it literally felt like a knife carved open the
wound I managed to close without closure. Suddenly all of my curiosities were
reawakened and I refused to go down without a fight for my right to know. Why?
Because that’s who I am and I’ve finally accepted that I don’t walk the same
path as a great majority of those around me. Any other woman would have easily
said, “Bye Felipe,” from day one and moved on to the next guy and then the next
and then the next and so on. My problem? I approach people with absolute
genuineness, possibly more than they deserve, and so I unconsciously invest
kindness and faith.
Recently
someone reminded me that compassion hurts and nice guys/gals finish last, so I
believe it comes with the territory of being a third generation humanitarian. I
start with humaneness and often forget that it may not be reciprocated. Anyway,
I digress.
The
night finally arrived and there we were, my ghost and I, standing beneath that
crisp October night sky, having so much to say yet not knowing where to begin.
But I think he knew; he sensed the weight of the words I had bottled up for
three long months, and so he started.
“Were
you offended,” he began, breaking the gut wrenching silence I lost all courage
to break, “that I had only reached out to you for sex?”
I
suggest we all take a sincere moment of silence to mourn our sanity.
Let it
register.
…
No,
you’re still not ready to read on? Take another 60 seconds. Go ahead. Re-read
it.
Yes, you
read it correctly, I promise.
I stood
there flabbergasted, wondering how well my facial expression resembled the
utter shock and violation I was overcome with. Did he just say sex? Did he just say that three months
ago his three-hour confession was a very well worded attempt for a one-night
stand? Wait, is he still expecting a
one-night stand? Wait, is it even a one-night stand or is he asking for a repetitive
ordeal? What the @^%$ is going on?
People
had warned me about this shortly after my divorce, I just never thought it was
possible considering who I am, who my mother is, and how I carry myself.
Suddenly this man had me second-guessing my entirety as a woman and I found
myself further suffering for yet another month. I cannot express the toll that
this disrespectful revelation made on my sanity and perception of life, religion
and men. But what made it weirder? Within the next four weeks it was like a
tsunami of men had flooded my world and now I’m wishing I knew how to swim.
Left and
right there were men suddenly sending me messages to ask me petty questions
that were obvious attempts at making small talk and I could no longer distinguish
between who legitimately wanted to get to know me as a human being or who wanted to
sleep with me. Men who had known me for years and never once looked my way
suddenly wanted to know about my day. Men who met me for a few minutes and
suddenly were convinced they had to have me in their lives…and I don’t know
what that means anymore. Had this become my status? Is this what I had been
reduced to because one unstable already divorced man decided to take a virgin and spit her back into society as
a divorced survivor of domestic abuse?
For
weeks I struggled between anger, disgust, depression and finally a state of
surrender to hopelessness, all while trying to stay alive. The irony? I had
lost so much weight people were complementing me on how glowingly beautiful and
thin I looked. Apparently stress suits me! It was like this ghost catapulted me
back into the coffin of worthlessness my ex-husband had built for me and
hammered in the final nail to seal it shut. Two years of moving on and I found
myself back in that darkness I believed I would never be blinded by again.
At one
point, I asked the ghost something, out of sheer genuine curiosity. I knew I
was not the only option on his menu, but I wondered, of all the women he can
(and does) get, why me? The relatively moderate—not too conservative yet not THAT liberal—head covered woman,
daughter of a religious educator, the passionate outspoken feminist author, why
her? He sent me a “LOL” followed up with the claim that I measure above par of
all the others he’s had.
Was that
supposed to flatter me enough to yield? Could it have? Maybe that was the plan.
Push me into such a disorienting state of vulnerability, after knowing my story,
and expect that I’d lose all sense of self worth and value and run into his
arms. This segues into a chapter I have in my upcoming book where I speak about
this very sickening fetish or attraction some men have about taming the wild
women because they find absolute pleasure in that challenge. Something about
that confident vibrant ambitious woman turns them on because she’s this exciting
opportunity for breaking.
I remain
at a loss for words, not just for this particular incident but at the state
that the Muslim community has sunk into. Religion has become such a watered
down concept in life I have found myself at far too many crossroads lately. I’ve
adjusted without sacrificing my own practices, but I never in my life imagined reaching
a point where this, this was such a norm that men felt comfortable enough to
expect/demand it, and from women like me. Me, of all people! And yes, I do
think of myself so highly because I am not that kind of woman. And damn, even
if I was, I’d still have standards and expect that only a man courting me or
dating me would be the one I’d give it up to.
Then
people ask me why I’m not optimistic about men and relationships. Here you go.
But I am
grateful because it was through this experience that I found myself reassessing
my relationship with God again. I’m learning that trauma sends one through a roller
coaster of connectivity with the Creator. There are ebbs and flows that we need
to navigate and it was something my mother said to me, about two weeks after the
ghost dropped this bomb on me, that reminded me. Amid our conversation about
the evolving implementation of religion in society, she paused, let out a sigh
and said, “May God protect you and your brothers. It’s a frightening world.”
If
you’re Arab, you know that growing up there are those repeated phrases parents/grandparents
say as prayers for children/grandchildren. All my life I heard my mother
frequently say, “Allah Yirda A’laikon,” (May God Be Content with You) or “Allah
Yiftah A’laikon,” (May God Open Paths for You) but I never recall her ever
saying to us directly—maybe during her own prayer sessions she does—“Allah
Yihmeekon,” (May God Protect You). And for the first time in a long time I felt
my heart say, “Ameen” before my lips gasped it.
A
resonating pang hit my soul hard and it was like a wake up call for the dead
inside me. How had I let someone so worthless, so dysfunctional, manipulate my
self-perception? Had what I endured in my previous relationship left a broken
essence within me that no amount of therapy or time would heal? I pondered this
thought deeply as I miraculously allowed another man from the tsunami to have a
chance.
There
was something utterly appealing about his exciting and eccentric demeanor that
made me agree when he asked to meet, despite feeling an emotional hangover from
my heart’s previous hauntings. I felt like I could trust him. He was the
opposite of every man I ever agreed to meet and I was pleasantly surprised, I
mean much more than I expected, and yet I nervously anticipated the other shoe
to drop, because, doesn’t it always? And then, there it was, the rainfall of
other shoes pouring down. Apparently the tsunami was over, the wave had
retreated and I found myself on the shore of contemplation alone again, wondering
whether or not I should even attempt to rebuild all I had previously mended together
over the last 730 days.
Then
Trump was elected president and it was the cherry on top of this hot @^%$
sundae! Just like the rest of my fellow Americans I wanted to fall apart (maybe
I sort of still do) but I stumbled upon another Godly reminder I needed; a
verse from the Quran that states, “You may hate something, and yet Allah has
put therein much good (4:19).”
I’m a
firm believer (even if I need reminding) that everything happens for a reason,
regardless of whether or not we discover that reason. I’m also a firm believer
in fate—whatever is destined to be will be regardless of how much we try or
don’t try. And I say this regarding both the path of love and the path of
politics. So as a teaser to that next piece on what I could possibly write
about if I ever do find true love, simply know that this poet will eternally
find inspiration from the grand adventures life takes her on, whether or not
there is the presence of a solid supportive partner.
