You found my nudes today, despite how strictly I remember deleting them. You asked me so many questions, when, to whom…why? I certainly couldn’t tell you the truth, because if I did, you wouldn’t understand.
Amidst continuous sobbing, multiple “mesh ana oltellek w haketlek w wareetek el banat elly bete3mel keda beyehsall feeha eh”, and occasional slaps, I realized that you don’t actually care about me, about how I feel, you only care about my – your – reputation, how i “smudged it in the mud”, how I’m a disgrace, how much of an unappreciative little brat I am.
How could I possibly betray your trust like that? How did I forget how hard you work to provide for me? Oh, fuck me, undeserving of you.
To save myself countless beatings and even more questions and dehumanization. I told you what I knew you wanted to hear; I told you that I loved him, that he manipulated me, that I was in too deep with him, and pulling out would hurt me.
I told you it was my first and last time, that I felt like shit afterwards, that I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror anymore, because of how disgusted I am with such a haram, unethical and dishonest action.
Needless to say, I wasn’t in love with the guy, nor was it my only time. Why do I truthfully send nudes? It makes me feel good about myself, I was attention and affection deprived, as a child. I have validation issues. I don’t know what I’m worth. I hate my body and myself. I hate how my boobs bounce when I run. I hate how I lost my hourglass figure as a result of stress eating, because my anxiety levels are constantly through the roof. I hate my stretch marks and acne and body hair.
But most importantly, I hate how reliant I am on someone to love me, because I can’t love myself, because I learnt that loving myself – even a little bit – is wrong.
“Don’t look in the mirror too much.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, you have gained at least 2 kilograms, you’ve been eating like a cow this week.”
“Don’t cut bangs again, you look like shit.”
“Oh scheisse, you inherited your father’s ugly genes.”
But mom, I never complained; I never told you about how you manage to crush every single bit of self-esteem I try to build. I never whined about how depressed I am, because you always find it fitting to make a point about my vileness, about how I should always remain grateful and euphoric and smiling, and about how my problems are nothing compared to what unprivileged people deal with on daily basis.
Today when you thought I was shedding less light on my genuine reasons, and pressured me to tell you more. I figured that maybe you’ve changed, maybe you’ll understand, maybe you won’t take the dubious honour in making me look even further down on myself, but it was only 5 minutes later, that I unearthed how faulty my gut feeling was.
I stopped trying to convince you with how i honestly feel, with my depression, with my non-bogus suicidal thoughts. It didn’t feel like I was on fucking cloud nine, when you made me feel like I was lying about my mental state, when you made me look like I’m seeking sympathy out of being sheerly frank. I am sick and tired of you turning a blind eye to the truth. It wasn’t like I was laying casually in heaven, when I asked God to send me down here and out of your womb, this was all you, and I despise both of us for making the whole of me suffer so indigenously like that.
But in the end, it was never about me or my mental state or the nudes or the sexts or anything really, it was always about you, about the extraordinarily phenomenal human you are.