I don't want to finish last

I remember a time when I was told:

“Treat others how you would like to be treated.”

“Do to others what you would like bestowed upon you.”

“Don’t dish it unless you can take it.”

…

I must have taken this advice too literally because as an adult I find that none of this helps.

The older and (hopefully) wiser I get I am learning that simply being “a nice person” does not fend well in the “real world.”

Yes, perhaps in the playground playing nice and being fair was okay (yes, just okay), but as an adult I see that you need to be callus, cunning and conniving. These are the people who find success, achieve greatness, and most importantly don’t get hurt.

Where is this sinister outlook on the world stemming from?

Life experience.

I am a nice person. Simple. If I like someone I place that person’s needs before mine, and when it is not reciprocated (and it usually never is) I get hurt. More than hurt, I am disappointed. 

… disappointed in myself for (and dare I say it) being “too nice.”

Friends, lovers, family (not necessarily in that order) have all hurt me because of this detrimental trait, but I just cant seem to switch it off. It is me, it is who I am.

People have left my life and their final words have always been “you’re so nice,” “stay being who you are” or the worst “you are the nicest girl I know.”

And I think “well okay, you’re walking away, does that mean you want people who are not nice in your life?” Or “should I have been more selfish, crude and spiteful, would that make you want to stay?”

I don’t get it, but the message is clear. Being nice doesn’t pay off.

And I know what most readers would be thinking – anyone who leaves my life because I was “too nice” doesn’t deserve to be apart of it. Am I right?

Yes, to a certain point.

I love to people watch especially in social situations. I once watched a couple argue on New Year’s Eve because She didn’t say that He was the best thing that happened to her throughout the year and said something else was, after he had iterated it to his friends and family earlier. He was devastated, and Her answer was “relax, just because you said it I don’t need to!”

I was stunned. How can she be so cruel? After He poured His heart out to his nearest and dearest she dismissed him, and simply didn’t feel bad!

I felt bad for Him though, and kept thinking how could never bring myself to talk to my partner like that!

But that’s my problem.

I am too nice, and time after time I am disappointed…in myself.

I will always be a nice person - that is who I am. But I guess I need to work on allowing people to earn it before I deem them worthy.

Oh and the couple who fought on New Years Eve, well He proposed to Her with a 3 carat diamond ring - just saying. 

The better unknown

On the quest to find happiness, true happiness, I have been hurt. I have cried, been lied to, manipulated, cheated on, used...well you get the point. 

...but I don’t care.

I am open to everything; to every experience, to every smile, to every tear…well you get the point.

There are so many people I have met who are afraid to be hurt, afraid of the unknown, and lull themselves into an existence where they are coerced (wrongfully, by none other than themselves) into being happy by finding comfort in the known. They are convinced (again, wrongfully) either by their own judgement or by the experience of others that where they are and what they know is that they want - but it is not. Fear holds them back, and it so blatantly obvious, to me anyway.

How sad. Bad experiences have made them shy away from living because they are scared of what might be.

…to hell with that!

The bad means I appreciate the good. It means I learnt something, and better ones are around the corner. 

I can’t be bothered to pretend - I am excited about life, I love life, and even though my eyes have cried, I don't dare to hold back because I know when it is all said and done I have lived – and to me that is more important than protecting myself from the unknown. 

In reality you don't know, and what you don't know may be better than what you do!

Zara - A Story About a Girl and her Hijab

Despite always having worn the Hijab, 25-year-old Zara* felt safe and welcome when she first arrived to Australia from Pakistan. 7 years later she finds herself the victim of glass throwing as she walks down the streets of Sydney, has people stare at her on the train, avoiding sitting next to her and even overhears mothers tell their young children to steer clear of her. Zara has become the epitome of racial slur and typecasting not because of who she is, but what she wears.

“Before I arrived to Australia my father warned me to be careful about what I say and do as I symbolise Islam because I wear the Hijab,” she explains.

“If I wasn’t wearing the Hijab and was doing something wrong nobody would say it’s a Muslim doing it, but because I wear it [the Hijab] he told me to be careful of what I say and do because people will focus on the fact that I am a Muslim, and that would incriminate me." 

But it has not always been this way for Zara. Over the past 3 years her Muslim identity has been magnified, especially in social settings, including on public transport, on the streets and in shopping centres.

Several times Zara has experienced people avoiding sitting next to her on the train, even though the entire cabin has been free. And its not just her, she explains how her friends from various backgrounds experience the same discrimination.

“…To be judged by what is on your head or body is a load of crap,” she exclaims.

“If I was wearing a bikini nobody would notice me in a negative light, so why should they point at me if I have cloth on my head?”

On the day that I conducted my interview, Zara explained to me how she withstood racial typecasting at her local shopping centre just a few hours before.

“I was in the shoe aisle and I noticed a lady circling where I was shopping, just watching me,” she tells me.

"But the moment I walked away I noticed her entering the aisle.”

While walking home recently a car full of young men spotted Zara and her friend and made a U-turn, specifically to yell racial slurs and throw beer cans at them.

“I was petrified,” she admits.

"I was being attacked and I didn’t know how to protect myself. I no longer walk on the streets after 8pm.”

She even experienced a group of males throwing glass bottles at her, which shattered all over her body.

“This made me so sad because I understand that I am a guest here, but is this anyway to treat me?”

Zara is not ignorant to the social stigma attached to Islam and wearing the Hijab. She is aware of the representation Muslims receive in the media all over the world. But what she argues is that her Hijab is not her defining point, and she does not personally relate with what the media portrays.

“Nobody wants to get to know me or why I wear the Hijab, they just want to judge me based on what they see on the TV,” she says.

“I started wearing it [the Hijab] when I was 10 years old and my parents flipped out,” she laughs.

“My mum doesn’t wear it, and they convinced me not to either as I was too young to understand what it represented.”

But today Zara wears it with a purpose.

Having been a victim of sexual abuse when she was just 13 years old, she found a sense of security in wearing the Hijab.

“When I am wearing he the Hijab and stand up against a man other men around me will come and protect me. But if I am not  I am considered 'loose property' and 'fair game' to any man,” she explains.

“No way, that’s not cool.”

Zara does not let the Hijab define her and does not have any issues with going to co-gendered amenities such as the gym or the swimming pool. She does not let the Hijab restrict her or hold her back from doing what she wants.

“To me the Hijab is just a sense of security,” she tells me.

"I don’t think all Muslim girls should wear it. It is simply a freedom of choice.”

Out of the 30 females in her extended family, only Zara and one of her female cousins, who is an American Olympic Weightlifting Champion wear the Hijab.

“It has not stopped her from competing, even though the American Olympic board initially disallowed it,” she says.

“She fought for her right to wear it. The Hijab did not stop her, in fact it empowered her to become who she wanted to be.”

Zara admits that her Hijab may "scare people," but she definitely doesn't feel sorry for herself.

“In fact, I feel sorry for those people who don’t understand Islam because their minds aren’t broad enough to accept people for who they are," she exclaims. 

"The funniest thing is its not just “Australians” who don’t accept me and my Hijab, but its other cultures also, which is ironic because all Australians (unless you are Indigenous) have come here from other countries so technically everybody is an outsider.”

 “I understand what the news says about Islam and I know that’s why I have been put in this position, but I am proud of my religion and my choices and I will continue to stand up for what I believe in. This is who I am.”

*Name has been changed for identity protection

Lessons of 2015

As another year draws to an end, I lie in bed and reflect on what I have learnt.

Today I came back home from living on my own in Melbourne for 5 months. What an experience! Meeting new people, a new job, just really putting myself out there and learning that I have the ability to do anything, I just have to believe in myself.

To sum up the year, it has been full of good times, great times, failed relationships, ended friendships, tears, laughter, pain, death and even insipid moments.

But when I really think about it, I have learnt a lot. Whether or not I apply these lessons in future years is another thing, but reminiscing on everything that has been, there is definitely something valuable to take out of the year that was:

• Don’t take anything personally. The way people act (and react) is a reflection on them more than it is on you.
• Strength comes from the mind. Your mind controls everything. If your mind is right everything will be right.
• Be patient. Don’t rush. What is due to occur in its own time.
• Don’t run away. Your problems/demons will only hunt you down and try to hurt you more.
• Don’t be so naïve. Giving people “the benefit of the doubt” will often result in heartache.
• Listen to your intuition. This is a big one. Usually what your gut is “screaming” at you is right. Don't fight it, you will only kick yourself harder in the end.
• Don’t assume everything will be okay. Make it okay. Things don’t just “fall into place,” you need to make the good stuff happen.
• Listen to your body. Don’t follow any so-called “rules.” If you’re hungry, eat, if you’re tired rest, if you’re happy smile and if you are sad cry.
• Always be honest. Whether it is with yourself, or with others. don’t try to sugar-coat things or beat around the bush. You will respect yourself and others will respect you more for it.
• Don’t be so whole-hearted when it comes to others. Everyone has their own agenda, and just because you feel a certain way about someone, it doesn’t mean they feel the same about you.
• Listen more than you speak. You will learn more.

So there you have it. That is what I have learnt. Lets see how well I can apply these in the years to come.

My favourite recipes

Panic! At the disco

Depression - such a bad word. Ugly. Almost… dirty. So many people suffer in silence because of the “shame” of it.

I was silent because I didn’t want pity. I was too proud.

“It is just a phase.”

“I am just moody.”

“Once this day ends it will get better.”

“It is normal to feel like this at this age.”

“When I loose weight I will feel better.”

“When I buy that jacket I will feel better.”

My silence was deafening to my ears only. But after years of white noise my screams started to be heard by others, even when I was trying my hardest to stay hush.

It feels like chasing your own tail everyday. You feel exhausted, sick and out of breathe. Your thoughts are racing constantly but mind is numb. Your thoughts are a whirlwind.

Cloudy, grey, the world is out to get you.

On some level you know that you are acting “silly” or “obnoxious”, but your doubts, fears and anxiety get the better of you. It’s a force you can’t reckon with. There is no beating it. It always wins. It has you right where it wants you. And you try to come out on top – you go out, stay in, smoke, drink, eat, don’t eat, whatever – but it always wins. Always.

And then came my highs. Feeling so happy that you could fly. My highs were another force you couldn’t stop. They took control of me. Complete control. I didn’t need to sleep, I didn’t need to eat, I didn’t need anybody – my energy was enough.

Moving fast, talking fast, stuttering, knocking things over, making rash decisions…. People just couldn’t understand me and I could not connect with them. I was on my own level, way beyond everyone else. One night I went clubbing with friends and I was the designated driver, so of course I did not drink any alcohol. I was partying until 6am! The bouncers thought I was on drugs! Talking fast, slurring, moving swiftly…too swiftly. My heart was pounding in my ears all night. That was my “natural high.”

I slept 2 hours and went out all day the next day. On Monday I came crashing down. Way down. I couldn’t  move. Taking steps was a chore and talking was a task. My entire existence was in slow-mo. I was telling myself I was really tired and my body was recovering, but it felt deeper.

And then came my massive panic attack. I was driving and suddenly I couldn’t breathe. I was trying to inhale, but my breath was being blocked. The car was caving in on me and my head was spinning. I could feel my heart pounding against my chest, I could hear it in my ears.

“This is it. This is how I am going to die.”

I thought I was having a heart attack. I turned into a street without looking and almost hit another driver. That’s when I pulled over.

“Go to the doctors you have just had a panic attack.” I rang my friend Deb, but when I tried to talk to her all I could do was wale loudly. My body was jerking, tears were streaming down my face and there was nothing I could do to stop. I managed to dispel a few words. She understood.

I sat in the car and stared out the window. I don’t even think I blinked. Suddenly, I snapped out of it and looked at the time. 2 hours had past.

“Depression and bipolar.” That was my diagnosis. I was petrified. I wanted to vomit upon hearing it. I did not want to be classified as insane. Mentally ill. Did I have to tick special boxes when filling out forms and applications?

Bipolar? Me?

I never even considered that. I just thought I was an “extreme” person. I guess I was more extreme than I bargained for.

That night I cried and cried and cried. I crept into my mum’s bedroom while she was asleep and cried in her arms. I couldn’t stop, and all I was saying was “What am I going to do I don’t want to be like this anymore.”

For an entire week after my panic attack my body ached and my eyes were swollen from crying. Everyday I felt exhausted, like I had a run a marathon. My head pounded, I was thirsty all the time and tears would flow down my cheeks at any given time.

I was prescribed anti-depression tablets, which is also used to treat bipolar disorder. I was petrified of medication. I couldn’t even bring myself to have a Panadol when I had a headache. “Let the body heal itself” was what I always said to myself, but this was no cold or headache. I needed to do something because my entire life was spiraling out of control.

A week after taking the medication I started feeling a lot better. You see, I had been suffering anxiety for a few years now and chose to see a therapist rather than take medication. I wanted to get to the “root” of the problem rather than conceal it. But these “demonic diseases” get you. They make you see things not as they truly are and you blunder drastically deeper into the disease. So everyday I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, and a heavy feeling in my chest. Inhaling at times was difficult.

“This is what normal people must feel like,” I remember telling mum on the phone. I felt free and unchained. I felt clear headed and light. I just felt…grounded.

The tablets have been a Godsend to me. Three months later I have increased my dose and I feel wonderful. No more attacks or “dark days.” No more mood swings, I am balanced.

From the outside I have always looked like a lead a charmed life. People would look at me and thought I had it all! I had travelled the globe, had a great job, two university degrees, a big family, friends, a social life and so much more.

But inside I was screaming. And my screams were getting louder. My panic attack was my boiling point, just like a pot that screeches until it overflows.

It was a blessing in disguise. My attack truly was the best thing that happened to me. Without it I wouldn’t have been prescribed medication, which has allowed me to feel better. I am able to make better decisions and see situations much clearer and don’t hate being me anymore. It feels wonderful!

The timing was perfect too. My work transferred me interstate to Melbourne about a month after my attack. I was excited about this move – new surrounds, new people and fresh perspective. The greatest part about it all was that I can do it all with a clear mind, and not be succumbed to the agony of my depression.

I moved 7 weeks ago and it has been the best time of my life. I am working, living with a flat-mate, making new friends and spending a lot of time alone, and it is my clearer thoughts that have allowed me the freedom to do all that.

Lentil Soup

As though the phone reception at my mums house wasn’t bad enough, I tried to hear what she was saying on top of the interrupting sounds of her banging, chopping, opening, frying… and so I asked her what she was cooking.

“Vospov shorba”, which from Armenian, directly translates to “lentil soup.”

Oh yum. It sounded perfect on this cold winter, Melbourne afternoon. That was the thing about living out of home. Your mother is not around to make you all those traditional home cooked delicacies that you grew up with.

I asked for the recipe, grabbing the nearest pen and paper I could find.

“Give it to me properly, not in drips and drabs.”

“Okay okay.” She took in a deep breath as she got ready to share her wisdom…properly.

I made the soup. It was...well perfect!

I changed around the recipe a little, adding a little more chicken stock.

I called mum to tell her how well it went.

“How is it?”

“To be honest, better than yours.”

“Oh its like that now is it?”

“Yeah sorry to bust your bubble.”

“That’s okay, just be careful, its addictive, you will probably end up going for a lot of re-fills.”

I was filling up my third plate as she was warning me. I put down the ladle, grabbed my bowl, sat on the dinner table, smirked and continued on sipping (loudly).