"I fear those shadows most
That start from my own feet."
— Theodore Roethke, from The Surly One (via violentwavesofemotion)

(Source: untamedlovatic)

I hate being stuck here, cooling my heels, waiting for a future that never comes. Every time I think I have an escape route, that I see the light at the end of the tunnel, the door slams shut with a clang and rattle. Just like prison doors. I’m in prison. It may ultimately be a prison of my own making — I got myself here, after all — but leaving it is not within my control. 

I’ve finally gotten to a stage in my life where I find myself nearly ready for the Peace Corps. So I started filling out the application again, getting farther than I have at any time in the past, only to get to a section where it asks if you or anyone in your family have ever worked for an intelligence agency. 

Fuck. 

So much for that plan. 

My stupid freaking sister is screwing up my life again. 

Sometimes I think I might hate her. 

She’s so perfect in every way. Everything she touches turns to gold. 

And her life is the opposite of mine. She works for the government. I want to work for NGOs. She is adamantly against me going (back) to Afghanistan, and constantly fills my parents’ heads with tales of death and danger and how it’s not worth it. I think it’s worth it. She lectures and criticizes and we argue. 

We have a lot in common yet very little in common. 

I want to travel so much it’s a physical ache inside me. It actually hurts physically, as well as emotionally. I’ve been in limbo for the better part of the last decade, and I see no signs of that changing anytime soon. But until it does, all my hopes and dreams are on hold. Even watching shows like Anthony Bourdain are too painful, because they make me want things I can’t have. 

I just started reading ‘Eat Pray Love’ and it’s killing me. I almost burst out crying at work today because I understood what she was going through, shared much of it, and hated her for being able to fix what ailed her. For being in Rome. And India. And Indonesia. While I’m in small-town suburbs with no friends and nothing to do. 

I hate that. As much as the thought of going back to Kabul terrifies me, if I get that internship with Afghanaid, I’m taking it. Despite the nuclear destruction it will wreak in the form of my parents. 

I can’t stay in limbo any longer. I have to live my life, even if that means danger and hardship. 

cocoavalentines:

captainkirkmccoy:

chaffeebicknell:

thebutterflysgrave:

am I sick from anxiety or am I actually physically ill? a memoir by me

am i lazy or horribly depressed: the sequel

does everyone hate me or am I just very insecure: the completion of the trilogy

Is it all my fault or am I self deprecating: the prequel

  1. Camera: Canon EOS-1DS
  2. Aperture: f/8
  3. Exposure: 1/30th
  4. Focal Length: 12mm

She sent me a summons to come downstairs; I wrote back that I was tutoring Maryam so I couldn’t. Then Maryam had to go so I went down.

She just wanted to ‘talk.’ Because she talks to everyone else (read; everyone else she’s ever met in her life) daily, and I ‘walk through without saying a word’ — which, I might add, is patently false.

1. I’m not exactly what you would call a ‘talker.’ 2. My mother is not exactly what you would call a ‘listener’ - which is probably why I’m not a talker. 3. There’s not a whole lot going on in my life right now for me to talk about, and the things I do have going on and/or are interested (tutoring, Maryam, Afghanistan, etc.) she is constantly dismissive of and berates me for wasting my time on.

Also, anyone who knows me can tell you that you can’t make me do anything I don’t want to. You can talk me into stuff, but you can’t force me into it. So pushing me to do something is only gonna guarantee I dig my heels in more. Which of course my parents are apparently completely unaware of.

Unless, of course, they just don’t care. I’m not really sure which is worse.

Also, I wage a daily battle for my self-esteem. It’s pretty much rock-bottom and doesn’t take much to completely wipe out. That and my anxiety are so bad that pretty much getting out of bed is a significant accomplishment for me.

But my mother constantly rags on me in big and small ways. She always sends small digs, like this email:

U can’t do her work for her. Tutor lessons are an hour. I will tutor u in cleaning & cooking-u might as well get something out of this year

Because obviously I’m such an idiot that 1. instead of teaching Maryam I’m clearly just doing her homework for her. 2. Tutoring lessons only last an hour, every time and for every person and occasion, obvies. 3. I’m such a complete waste of space that I don’t even know how to cook or clean, despite having lived on my own for years. 4. My life is such a complete waste and I’m doing absolutely nothing worthwhile so I need to learn something so stupidly basic to keep this year from being a complete and utter failure. 

I have got to get out of here. Kabul would be heaven, but the more dangerous location the better, because living in a war zone is nothing compared to what my parents do me.  It only gets better from here.

This too shall pass.

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

Maybe if I keep repeating these to myself enough, I’ll be able to get through this year without killing myself.

Despite my mother’s best efforts.

It’s ironic, really: I’d never seriously contemplated suicide until I was forced to move in with the people who are supposed to care more about me than anyone else in the world.

But it’s pretty damn obvious that they really don’t, so I guess that explains a lot.