You’re Beautiful

You tell people that they deserve to be loved just the way they are but you’re incapable of believing the same holds true for yourself.

You admonish people who bring themselves down regarding their physical traits but you don’t hesitate to cut yourself down when you look into the mirror.

coffeeYou can be somebody’s biggest cheerleader but nobody brings you down harder than yourself.

You’d never destroy someone with malicious, malignant words… so why do you allow yourself to shatter your own heart with those thoughts?

You’re an exquisite body, whether you believe you were formed from clay with life breathed into by the divine, or a magnificent accident made of stardust from distant galaxies.

Don’t you see how beautiful that makes you?

Don’t you realize your soul, your spirit, your essence… the very thing that makes you want to reach out to others and lift them up so they don’t feel what you feel… is what makes you so alluring?

If not, then maybe it’s time you should.


L’appel du Vide

The following deals with suicidal ideation. If you find talks of suicide or self-harm triggering, I urge you to please not continue.

Back when I was 14 I went on a road trip one summer with my aunt and a few of her friends and their kids from Karachi, Sindh to Quetta, Balochistan. If I could sum up Quetta in a few words, they’d be intense dry heat and steep, rocky mountains. We stopped near the edge of a cliff to stretch our legs and get a view of the mountains before us. I remember walking to the edge and, while staring hundreds of feet down to the ground below, having a thought that shocked me before it had fully formed in my head.

What if, right this minute… I jump off this cliff?

My heart skipped a beat and I quickly stepped back, pushing that thought out of my head. I didn’t tell anyone about my thoughts, afraid I’d be called crazy. I was horrified with myself for even thinking about doing it. Life was perfect. I was happy, made the honor depressroll, was experiencing my first silly teenage crush and the feeling was mutual at the other end. At the time, my entire world was colored in different shades of rose. So it didn’t make sense for me to have thoughts of putting myself in possibly fatal danger. Yet, it wasn’t the last time I did.

A few years later, I came across the French phrase “L’appel du vide“.  Translated, it means “Call of the void.” Basically, it’s that little nagging voice  in the back of your head that tells you to swerve your car suddenly into oncoming traffic. Or  jump off a cliff. But the fact that there was an actual word for it and the fact that many people in the world experience it made me feel some relief that I wasn’t the only one with thoughts of doing something crazy like that. The point is, these thoughts are not necessarily associated with depression and suicide and are often fleeting and not connected to any emotion.

But the problem wasn’t that those thoughts hadn’t stopped. The problem was that up until recently, every time I had those thoughts, I’d be filled with a sense of peace. Relief.

During my ER rotation in nursing school, I followed a nurse whose patient included one who tried to commit suicide by overdosing  and was found and rushed to the ER to have his stomach pumped. A cop sat outside his room, nursing a cup of coffee and a paperback. After we left the room, the nurse sighed impatiently and muttered, “Waste of space.”

Surprised, I turned to look at her. Noticing my disapproval she quickly added, “In the ER we save lives for people who want to live. If he doesn’t want to live, that’s his problem but he shouldn’t be wasting resources or my time. Or the doctor’s time. Or this police officer’s time.” Being a lowly student and hence, at the bottom of the food chain, I couldn’t risk answering back and getting kicked off the floor, so I stayed silent. She glanced back at his room. “Psych will be here soon to take him. Do me a favor and remove his IV, will you? Thanks.” And she walked away.

I turned on the light in his room, introduced myself, told him what I was about to do. He stared at the wall ahead and didn’t acknowledge me. Taking his silence for consent, I approached his side and quietly took his hand. As I gently lifted the tape securing his IV, I stole quick glances at his face. From his chart I knew he was in his mid-thirties but he looked so much older. His gaunt face remained expressionless but those clear blue eyes held so much grief. I slowly removed the catheter from his vein and said, “I hope I’m not hurting you.”

He still didn’t say anything but turned to stare at me. As I bandaged his hand, I smiled at him and said, “Thank you for being so patient with me. It’s my first time doing this.” It wasn’t.

He gave me the slightest of nods.

I didn’t know the circumstances that lead to him downing those pills. But I understood the drive that made him do it.

The thing about harboring suicidal thoughts is that you can’t really bring yourself to tell most people because they might react in one of two ways. They might treat you with over-exaggerated care, afraid to talk to you or joke with you, walk on eggshells around you… as if you’re something fragile and you’re going to fall apart. Or at the other end of the spectrum, you’ll have people who, like the nurse, are going to think of you as a total waste of space because the fire inside you has been extinguished for some reason, your will to live, much less thrive, has been stolen from you. Either way, their image of you will forever change. You’ll no longer be the quiet girl with  surprisingly a lot to say, who loves to laugh and joke around and tease people. You’ll just be looked at cautiously as a mentally unstable suicide risk, which you’re really not.

Before I continue, I want to stress that I won’t kill myself. There’s nothing brave or cowardly about my decision. I was raised by people who sacrificed so much for me. To end my own life with my own hands is to throw away a gift they’ve given me so selflessly. It’s a slap in their faces. Their love for me, even though both of them have passed on, makes me both grateful and resentful for keeping myself tethered to this world. There’s no question about it. For their sake and their memory, I’ll never do it.

Depression isn’t always feeling sad. It’s not always crying all the time. There are moments where you feel so incredibly numb and your heart so hollow. You lay in bed at night, staring off into darkness, wishing for the sweet oblivion of sleep to embrace you and it doesn’t. It’s like you’re living your life and you see people and stuff around you but all the images have blurred into unidentifiable shapes and all the colors are a now murky gray. You wish you could feel something, anything. Even pain. And that’s when your thoughts turn to self-harm.

I could never bring myself to cut and it’s not because I’m afraid of the pain. I needed pain, to remind myself that I could still feel. But at that point I also realized that I was heading down a very slippery slope. And I recognized that I had a serious problem. So I started to look into why it was that people cut beyond experiencing the distraction offered by pain. Endorphins. And if there are two things depressed people lack it’s endorphins and serotonin.

I started running a few weeks ago. Actually, I use the word “running” very loosely as I’m, as the saying goes, “slower than a herd of turtles stampeding through peanut butter”. Yet, I still run. And each day I run a little faster, a little longer. I run when the sun is shining to get my fill of serotonin. And though I feel so sore after a run, being outside in the fresh air, surrounded by nature, and that high I feel after a run is completely worth it. And more importantly, each day I’m finding reasons to smile again.

Becoming a runner has become my salvation. It’s that thing I need when ‘L’appel du vide’ rears its ugly head back at me because I now know what to do with those thoughts. My world, while not completely in bright jewel tones, is now in different hues of pastels and the shapes from before are a little more recognizable.

10 Things I’ve Learned in (Almost) 30 Years


Technically, I haven’t hit the big 3-oh yet. But my soul is restless, my mind is racing, my fingers are itching (to type, my fingers don’t normally itch), and I figure since these ten things took me nearly three entire decades to figure out, I doubt my brain is going to be discovering any earth-shattering revelations in the next two months. So I’ve cracked my knuckles, tried to crack my neck all badass-like, the way they do in the movies (and pulled a muscle)… and ten minutes and some IcyHot ointment later, here I go.

1. Blood is thicker than water but…

…the sad thing is, sometimes this phrase is nothing more than a comparative description of the viscosity of both liquids. Just because you are bound to someone by blood, doesn’t mean they’ll love you unconditionally.

2. For some, wisdom does not come with age.

Some people live their entire lives, from cradle to grave, with a sense of entitlement. They never grow out of the “gimme” phase and feel that the world owes them something. They hold on to petty grudges, they refuse to take responsibility for their actions. The entire world is at fault but them. And you can’t change these people.

3. Hairsprays do not kill roaches.

Even if your lungs feel like they’re on fire after you accidentally inhale these noxious fumes. And no, they don’t freeze in their tracks if you pretend to be Subzero from Mortal Kombat and that the blast from the hairspray was your freezing special power. Invest in some good bug spray. The cheap, dollar store stuff won’t cut it. Cheapass.

4. Your first love is not necessarily your greatest love.

And that’s okay. The beauty of first loves is that for many people they are the first of many. So your first love ended in devastating heartbreak. Maybe it was their fault, maybe it was yours. Maybe it was nobody’s fault. But if the reason it ended was because of lies and deceit on their part, then think about this: if you could love the wrong person so much, can you imagine how much you could possibly love the right person? Don’t let that experience harden your heart and turn you bitter. You will love again. And you’ll realize that love shouldn’t have to be so difficult.

5. That scale in your bathroom? Throw it out.

If you have a scale, step on it. Look at your weight. Now drink two cups of water. Step on the scale again. You are now a pound heavier. You’re smart enough to understand the logic behind this. But years of mental conditioning will still leave you panicking. All the scale does is show you the combined weight of all the fluids, organs, bones and tissue, that’s wrapped up with skin. Here’s what it won’t tell you. It won’t tell you just how incredibly beautiful you really are, inside and out. It won’t tell you how talented you are, nor will it tell you how awesome of a person you are. It won’t show your sacrifices and hard work you did to be where you are now, to become the person you are now. The number on the scale does not determine your worth. It means nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch.

6. This world was not created for the meek at heart.

It’s okay to be a quiet person. It’s okay to be an introvert. There’s nothing wrong with that and you don’t have to change for anyone. But darling, this world was not made for the meek and timid. There’s a difference between being an introvert and being painfully shy and overly submissive and it was high time I stopped pretending they were the same.

7. Take nothing at face value.

That jerk who has a mean, snide remark for anyone who crosses him? Actually an incredibly sweet guy who volunteers in programs involving the disabled. That girl with many tattoos whose every other word is a profanity of some sort? She’ll end up becoming one of your closest friends who’d stick up for you no matter what. On the other hand, that lady who keeps pestering you about how you should go to church more often? She won’t stop making incredibly racist comments or talking about her “friends” behind their backs.

8. Trust your intuition.

Whether you believe your intuitive abilities were a God-given gift or a skill you’ve developed from quietly observing people for years, if you have it, never doubt it. Listen to the vibes your body is giving you about something or someone.

9. The quote “Be like a candle that burns itself to light others” is total bullshit.

Be compassionate. Be giving. Do things for others. Here’s the thing, though. In all that you do selflessly for other people, don’t forget that you are a human being who deserves happiness, too. Don’t sacrifice your entire life in the pursuit of helping others. Do the best of your ability. But don’t do so much that people start to take advantage of your kindness and good heart and start becoming leeches, draining the very life out of you. Because if your entire life consisted of sacrifices for others, on your deathbed you’ll look back on your life and have nothing but regrets… regrets for missed opportunities involving love, happiness, things you’ve always wanted to do but kept pushing off for others. And when you’re dying, regret shouldn’t have to be one of the emotions you experience.

10. Do things that scare the ever-loving crap out of you.

Take a sky-diving class. Run a freaking marathon. Okay, half marathon. Look up that person you’ve always had a thing for since forever and strike up a conversation if that helps you reach your adrenaline quota for the day. The point is, step by step, little by little, conquer your fears. Take chances. It’s true that sometimes in life shit happens. But it’s also true that life has some truly amazing things in store for you. The catch is that you can’t wait for it to happen on its own. You gotta make it happen.

Falling on Deaf Ears

 Now Playing: “Daytime” by The Stereo System

There’s this video on YouTube. It’s about a 29 year old woman who had been born deaf and was able to hear for the first time with the help of cochlear implants. There are other similar videos, some with the subjects being as young as toddlers. And watching them be able to hear for the first time feels so surreal, their conflicting emotions so apparent on their facial features, that you just can’t help but feel happy for their excitement.hearnoevilfinal

Music has an overwhelming influence on me. The right notes, arranged in just the right way, can wake up in me something spiritual that otherwise remains mostly dormant. Some older notes have the ability to wrap me in a blanket of nostalgia, allowing me to travel back to a time of teenage angst and innocent optimism and remind me of how grand youth was. And other notes have been able to seduce my senses, much like a lover’s touch. I couldn’t imagine never being able to experience any of those emotions if I couldn’t hear.

I used to imagine them missing out on all the wonderful sounds of nature, like the crash of ocean waves, or even hearing their child’s first word. I would sympathize with not being able to hear beautiful music. And that was before realizing how ignorant I was. After all, Beethoven was deaf for most of his life, but that never stopped him from creating beautiful symphonies.

At the other end of the spectrum are the people who believe that their deafness is a gift. And while I can never fully empathize, having never had a hearing disability myself, I do sometimes wonder about how nice it would be to just block away all the excessive noise of the world. And I’ve always found sign language to be a beautiful form of communication. The graceful flow of movements of the hands somehow bring more meaning and depth to the words being “spoken”.

My random Saturday morning thoughts.


The Bazaar

One of my fondest memories of living in Karachi, Pakistan when I was little was going to the bazaar, or market, with my grandmother. She’d go almost every morning and on weekends I’d tag along. I loved everything about it. The sights, the sounds, the smells… well, most of them. The streets would be lined on either sides with stalls made of just a big slab of wood on wheels, with a pole at each corner and sheets of brightly colored cloth attached on top for shade. Fruit and vegetables were piled as high as possible and I always stared at them, trying to make the tower of produce topple over via telekinesis. I was a weird kid. My grandmother and I were regulars so the sellerschili would greet us and give me a handful of cherries, some lychee or a piece of sugarcane. Back in the early 90s, the city was a much safer, friendlier place. The air was filled with the sounds of sellers and shoppers yelling at each other, haggling over prices, chickens clucking from their cages, and Indian music blasting from the lone music store in the market, right next to the dairy shop. If you’ve ever smelled raw, unpasteurized milk and yogurt that’s been sitting in a large container in the heat, you know it isn’t pleasant. 

As we got closer to the center, where the butchers were, the smells would get a little stronger, the sights a little more… gruesome. A couple of stalls sold goat meat, which I never cared for much. Too gamey. Goat heads lined the tables, the eyes glazed and staring at you blankly, the tongues lolling out of mouths gaping wide open. The headless carcasses hung by hooks from ceilings, flies buzzing about. There would be plenty of hawks, or vultures, or buzzards, I could never tell what they were. They’d often circle these particular stalls or be perched on telephone poles nearby, hoping at least one of the men would get careless for a second and turn their backs.

A fisherman sat on the ground with large straw baskets full of fish that displayed iridescent colors when the sunlight touched their silvery skin. The same fisherman had one of his hands chopped off 10 years later on that very spot by a rioter, when it became too dangerous to step outside even when the sun was shining.

I remember this butcher, a big, burly man with shoulder-length unruly hair and a handlebar mustache, in his blood soaked apron. He would greet my grandmother respectfully and give me a kind smile, while turning the meat grinder. Every now and then he’d cut off and toss pieces of fat, skin or, if he was feeling generous, meat to the three-legged, black-and-white stray cat that wandered the street, searching for scraps. My grandmother didn’t approve of me touching stray animals but even she would smile when the cat would rub against my legs to get my attention.

I would stand very close to the cages containing the chickens, staring at them while they stared back at me, and I’d pretend I was in a staring contest with them. Then came the part I didn’t like very much: one of the butchers would deftly grab a chicken, expertly slide the knife through the jugular and toss the chicken into the barrel to allow it to bleed out and calm down. And you could hear the chicken cluck and thrash around wildly in the barrel before losing consciousness.

Sometimes I wonder to myself if watching all this butchering from an early age has desensitized me a little where seeing flesh cut open and blood doesn’t bother me anymore.

Eventually I entered adolescence and my grandmother discouraged me from going to the market with her. But when I close my eyes, I can still hear the shouts of the shopkeepers. I can feel the warm air, thick with humidity. I can still smell the sweet fragrance of the sugar canes being juiced. I can still hear the chickens clucking madly. I can almost taste the amazing halwa puri sold by one of the stalls, a taste that no one has been able to recreate here in the US. I can still hear small glasses used for drinking chai clinking together or against tables, as men, young and old, sat together for brief moments of relaxation before returning back to their stalls. I can still feel the soft fur of the cat on my ankles. I can still hear the Indian music blasting from the music store with the dairy shop on one side and the arcade on the other, where Pacman, Super Mario Bros, and Donkey Kong were the only games available but that didn’t stop the arcade from being packed with boys. I can still see the colorful rickshaws swerving expertly between other vehicles, people and even between a few cows.

When I close my eyes, I can still picture the Karachi that once was. The Karachi of my childhood.

Windows to the Soul

“Stop that.”

My friends turned to look at me. “Huh?” said friend #1.

“Your eyes. They’re all shifty. Look at me when you’re talking.” I looked at friend # 2. “You, too. What is up with you guys?”

A few years ago, I met up with two people, one who happened to be my best friend for years. The other was friend #1’s love interest, at least for the moment. Friend #1 had sort of adopted this “shifty-eyed” look from friend #2. They couldn’t look right in your eyes when they were talking. In fact, they couldn’t look into each others’ eyes either when they were speaking to each other. I thought that was really weird.

Friend #2 said to me, while looking everywhere but directly at me, “Your gaze is too intense.”

“My gaze is too intense,” I repeated, a little confused.

“Yeah.” He looked at me and when I looked at him again, he quickly looked away. “It makes me feel… naked.”

“What?” I chuckled.

“No, he’s right,” said friend #1. “When you look at someone, it feels like you’re looking right into their soul.”


I’ve never had trouble locking eyes with someone I’m speaking to. Even strangers. Maybe especially strangers. In fact, I think of it as one of my better traits. I’m a very private person and there are things about me only a select few are privy to. So while I’m looking into someone’s eyes, I’m letting them know that it’s okay. They have my undivided attention and they can trust me, without giving away too much about myself. And it works. I know stuff that mere acquaintances and even total strangers have themselves divulged to me. But maybe it’s still a bit disconcerting for some.

The only time I’ve never been able to look somebody in the eye is if I happen to have strong feelings for someone and they don’t know it. Eyes are the windows to the soul after all. And while I can guard my emotions pretty well, a more observant person can read my eyes like a book.

I haven’t had to worry about that in many, many years, though.