Who is Anisa Haque?

Chapter 22 - Worth a Thousand Words

There's this thing I do when I'm upset: I tiptoe around the situation and avoid the person upsetting me for as long as possible until I find a solution or get over it.

Sure, it's difficult to do so with my parents seeing as we live together, but it had to be done. If I allow myself to confront the situation, I usually end up saying some painful truths that I can't take back which worsens the tension in the house. It's better I stay away for a while. At least during the day.

That's why I left home quite early this morning before anyone had awoken.

Last night was quite emotional for me. It's like I was taken back to a very dark and emotional period of my life 8-10 years ago that I'd been trying so hard to suppress.

The weird fluttery feeling in my stomach is back and more intense than Saturday. For the first time in a while, I felt a little insecure.

I made a promise to myself after all that drama a decade ago that I will no longer let the past dictate my future. I would always live for the present and hope for the future. And if bad things happen in the future, I would blame no one but the circumstances and I'd brave it like a champ and come out the other end a stronger person. I would no longer latch my happiness to a human being.

I've been able to keep this promise all these years except the last part. The latching happiness bit. I've broken it for four people; my parents, Maryam and Ibrahim. I let the love I have for these four overwhelm my common sense and as a result, I've allowed three out of the four to hurt me so much. Maryam is the only one that hasn't.

Try as I may, I can't shake off that need for my parents approval in all that I do.

This has been going on for as long as I remember. I can recall setting my art project ablaze out of anger when Mama refused to acknowledge that my abstract clay sculpture (which had fetched me first place) was real art. "This nonsense isn't art," she said with the dismissive flick of a wrist. "Just a misshapen blob of clay. Win a trophy in science, then I'll know you're good at something."

I was only 12 then, but I can still taste the disappointment. It's not dissimilar to the one I'm feeling right now. I cried for an hour in the bathroom and when I was truly cried out, I snuck to the backyard and built a tiny pyre out of dried leaves, plastic bags and they very last drops of an empty bottle of kerosene.

As the sculpture burnt, so did my Interest in art. I promised to drop the fine arts and focus on Science.

I never won the trophy for science, but I came close a couple of times, making my parents somewhat happy, if only for a short period of time.

You would think this shouldn't keep bothering me 15 years later, and frankly, you're right. As I grew up I became more defiant and less affected by their criticism of my actions. In fact in the last few years, you could call me a little bit of a rebel.

But I had only suppressed the feeling and a tiny speck still lived inside of me, often rearing its ugly head every now and then in periods of emotional uncertainty.

It's not that I need approval to succeed, no. I'm doing just fine without it, aren't I? So why is it so hard for me to not care what they think about my career choice? Am I not too old to still be affected by all this? Have I been lying to myself all along? Is my desire for parental approval the real reason I work so hard? I wish I had the answers. All I know is that I feel safe and happy when my parents approve of my accomplishments.

I have to change that.

Then there's that idiot Ibrahim.  Who does he think he is, calling me to recite cringeworthy poetry? He'd caught me in a moment of weakness and I'm going to make sure it never happens again. I might even get Muda and his crew to send him a friendly reminder: it is NOT okay for him to call me.