Freeing or Fleeing

Chapter Three - Self Reflection

Chapter Three

I slipped on a black abaya over the green salwar kameez, preparing to go out. I grabbed the same hijab I took off earlier and stood in front of the mirror. As I wrapped the hijab around my head, I focused on my face; my eyes were glistening, waiting for unshed tears and my cheeks were flushed as if I'd been exercising. I watched my reflection gaze back at me for some time and it only made me angrier. I unwrapped the hijab and threw it next to me as I took a seat on the floor, still facing the mirror. I remained like that for a while.

"Who are you?" I whispered eventually.

I almost expected a reply. I wanted a reply. I needed a reply. Instead, what spoke back to me were my own thoughts.

"Why?" It began. "Just why can't you do anything right? Why does everyone hate you? You had a shot; a fresh start. New life, new home and new people but you had to ruin that too. If you were a boy, maybe Abbu would have paid more attention to you, but instead in the odd occasion he was home and awake you are reminded that a daughter's job is to make sure everyone else around her is happy. Do you remember that one time he came home from work at 2am and saw you washing the dishes, which you did on many occasions, or you thought you did, to reduce the burden on your mother, only to hear him say 'so you can clean after all, then why don't you do it?' You didn't do enough then and you're not doing enough now."

I don't know when my anger towards my mothers turned into anger towards myself. It hurt, hurt to know that I had never made my parents proud. I thought I was doing enough; I thought I was displaying the manners and respect my parents expected with the odd arguments here and there but they always found an opportunity to tell me otherwise.

"You're heartless, you don't even spend time with me."
"You're so lazy. You think you're a princess, you never lift a finger."
"You're too thin"
"You're so dark"
"Why can't you be more like Khadra?"

Before marriage, while I still lived with my parents, it felt like they always conveniently forgot about all my achievements, but now, knowing that many of the things my parents reprimanded me for also extended to my mother-in-law, it felt as if I really hadn't done enough. If many people are saying the same thing, then surely it had to be true.

My unshed tears had spilled over my waterlines by then and wet patches were forming on my abaya just under my collarbone.

I shouldn't have let my thoughts go to such a dark place. I should've talked myself out of the negativity and pulled up all positive things; like how every morning Amma used to come into my room and snuggle up with me just so she could spend time with me, like how my parents bought Mishti and laddoo (India Sweets) and distributed it amongst all our relatives when they found out I got a first on my university degree, like how Abbu used to randomly give me money on good days and how Amma cried the day I moved out to live with my husband. I should've told myself that Allah made me a girl who is precious and should be protected. I should've told myself that Allah doesn't make mistakes. At that point, I should've turned to Allah but I don't know why I didn't.

My tears had long turned into repeated gasps and hiccups as I caught my breath. I sniffed a few times as my nose became runny. My thoughts continued to spiral downwards and my heart felt like it was physically being stabbed at, all the while still looking at the mirror.

It was the sound of a message on my phone that pulled me away from the destruction I was putting myself into. I used my abaya sleeve to wipe away my tears as my vision had blurred from them and glanced at the mirror to make sure any signs of crying were gone, which I didn't do a good job of but there was nothing more I could do. I proceeded to untie my hair and retie it again into a neat ponytail as it had resembled more of a bird's nest than hair. I pulled out my phone from under my pillow and unlocked it.