thoughtdumpshitposts

[thoughtdumpshitposts]

We don’t talk enough about how fanfiction writers love to give character large amounts of non-specific paperwork they hate doing

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Love is in the Heart

18.02.24

I dont love anyone who's not family. I don't love my friends. I care for them, I worry for them. I show them affection. I say I love them. And it is not a lie, but it's not really the truth either. Because I don't. Not in a way that is cruel and crass and closed off or a vain attempt at sounding cool in the superficial sense. I feel for them exactly what they feel for me, but I simply worry too much about semantics and have a tendency to over intellectualize myself. But I've always been so curious about what I feel about love, and how exactly I feel love, and I didn't find out until much later.

I love my family. When I feel love, I feel it physically. I remember a post about how everyone feels every emotion in a seperate body part and it's right. And as corny as it sounds, I feel love in my heart. It is not an abstract thing - hawa mein baat nahi. When they're hurt, not even in a major or physical sense, but when they are hurt - I don't feel concern or worry or sympathy. I feel my heart constricting. I feel it physically. My pain is tangible and so thick in the air that I could literally cut through it. Literally - because I mean none of this figuratively. My chest feels too small and suffocating for my heart. It can't move, it cant breathe, it cant pump my blood fast enough. I feel the pain course through my upper body, my heart desperately trying to claw its way out for air, clogging my throat, pricking and gouging out my eyes with its nails, still searching, still climbing, still desperately finding an opening to escape and be free.

Love is different for all, sure. There's familial, platonic, romantic, erotic. Maybe the way I feel familaly can never be attained elsewhere. Maybe the proximity, the socially constructed idea of family, is what drives it all. But I'd like to think not. I'd like to think I would feel this way for anyone who's mine -- not as a possession but in the way my family is mine. People I can fall back on. I don't think everyone in my family feels as intensely as me or simply for me as I for them, but that doesn't matter. It's not that I don't resent any of them -- I could never resent anyone as much as I do them. No one has betrayed me as much. Yet, here we are.

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@the2headedcalf / On Love, Alain de Botton /  @tilthat / Céline Sciamma / Twitter: Nightshiftmp3 / Twitter: Thepartypope / Portrait of a Lady on Fire / The Clean House, Sarah Ruhl / The History of the Band-Aid / weird-facts.org / @roses–and–rue

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pms tears

27.02.22

i tend to write off all the breakdowns as pms, and yes, they are. it's pms. but sometimes I realize pms mental breakdowns people talk about are supposed to be about little things. pms crying is when I can back from Murree and cried when I didn't have a gift to give to papa, because I was scared his feelings would be hurt and I wanted him to know I love him. it's not about sitting on the washroom floor, choking on tears and struggling to breathe, thinking about the things I put off. because if you put them off they'll catch up eventually.

I usually don't feel. things happen, memories resurface, I get dreams, I make connections and realizations and I think: oh. and I move on. and I move on and on and on. and I feel nothing. at everything. I feel tired, but I move on. and it's easy to forget always. to get lost in my phone and friends. to laugh with them, with my family, with the people who made me the way that I am. and there is no bitterness or lingering hatred. I laugh with them and I love them, and that's it.

but a word, an action, a conversation. a happening. happens. and I can't breathe again. I'm choking again. and I'm somehow on the bathroom floor, thinking and crying and sobbing, not making a sound but the ones that slip out when I'm choking too much.

but it's pms, and I know it. it actually, really is. there was only one time when it wasn't, and that was when things caught up. the things that happened in my life may have stopped, but there are many repercussions that I have always been aware of. but I put them off as I still do, i go with the flow, cross the bridges when I come to turn. so the bridge came, and it was rocking and unstable and I almost fell. I handled it by choking on the bathroom floor, texting bhai. but I haven't crossed it. it has been evaded, the bridge is stable. but it will rock again. and I will choke. again.

but other times, it's still pms, and I've always put it off as such. but. sometimes I think I deserve better than what I give myself. because these aren't years about hurting someone's feelings, about not being able to satisfy a pms craving. it's emotional instability because of pms, yea sure. but I deserve a few moments to feel. to compensate..I deserve it. I always deserved better.

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but like I hope this means he's changed and also I'm happy he did this I was running out of ways to sabotage the marriage prospect

hello my brother who molested me rejected a marriage proposal because we're cousins BABWHJAHSJJAKAJAJWKJSJAGWJJWHAJKW

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hello my brother who molested me rejected a marriage proposal because we're cousins BABWHJAHSJJAKAJAJWKJSJAGWJJWHAJKW

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I love toxic romance as much as the next bitch but tbh it can’t hold a candle to toxic sibling relationships where there’s rage, yes, and maybe even hate, but love too, and you can’t escape it and you can’t embrace it so what’s left? No one will ever know you like they know you, and no one will ever be able to hurt you like they can. This hole in your side and you can either stand by them even though what they’ve become turns your stomach or you can try to leave them behind but it doesn’t matter how far you run because they’ll always be your sibling. They’ll always have a piece of you. You were born knowing them.

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13.10.21

currently thinking of a few years back when I was in O2 and visiting my mum's school and her HM said something along the lines of

ab shukar hai pyaari ho gayi hai mashallah werna pehley [which I assume is 6th or 7th grade-ish] mujhey dekh k bahot dukh hota tha k haye aap ki ikloti beti aap jitni pyaari nahi

????????????? fuck you? I mean she was super nice but yea wtf. also the people who get offended when someone else says that I look like mum. like personal ley jaatey hain k nahi, nahi lagti itni.

I have learnt in my 18 years k if someone (like in the extended family etc) says I look like my mother they mean it as a compliment, and the people who don't think I'm pretty always say k hmm mixture of features hain maa baap dono jaisi lagti hai

also on the flip side - the people who fucking dare to snub my mother by saying I'm as pretty as she "once" was and generally try to fat/age-shame her. fucking hate them more than anyone else. fuck them fuck them fuck them.

anyway I have to go study CS now so I'm not going to bother formatting this, but this is basically one the biggest reasons I'm insecure - that no matter how pretty I am, I will always just be a watered down version of my mother's grace. also the weird flips they my mum has/had about all this, but those are strange and I haven't figured then out yet, for example I remember back in middle school ig mum always hated it when I had my hair open? and then one day we were going to chachu's and I thought my hair looked nice open and Kim was really pissed, and before we entered she turned to me and said "ager kisi ney bhi kaha k meri jaisi lag rahi ho, dekhna mein hasher kia kerti hun" and that was the first fucking thing my Chachi said. the look my mother gave to me in ingrained in my head. anyway yea I don't fucking know. goodbye.

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All in Good Fun

28.09.21

Sometimes I feel a bit ashamed. Or rather,I feel like I should feel shame. I should think it's pathetic. I don't. I don't really care. But I suppose it is a bit shameful:

I grew up reading books, and in books (or any piece of media, really) every time someone opens up about their suffering, they say the same thing, react the same way, in rage; don't give me pity, don't feel pity.

But I want pity. I want the attention, the reactions. Sometimes I want to shout about everything, just because I'm curious to see how the other person will take it. Sometimes I want them to hear every single thing and understand. I hurt, and sometimes I want someone else to hurt for me. I want pity. I want to send this link in a fucking group chat and get all the pity I can. Quite pathetic, but again, I don't care.

I don't see the point in secrecy. As a child I used to think I needed to hide it from everyone. Now I just know that I have to hide it from the family. No one effected by it can know. But others? It doesn't matter. It's just an interesting fact about me I think. Not even that interesting, since it's quite common and wasn't that bad. The only reason I don't say it to everyone is because I know people don't agree, and I've been seeing too many anti- trauma dump posts. Please know I'm not trauma dumping. I just think it's funny.

It's why I don't like talking about it to people who've been through worse, or know someone who has. They don't react like I want to.They think what I've been through isn't as bad. And it isn't, and I think it's not bad at all. But I don't want people to agree.

I do think it's a bit concerning sometimes, because I don't always hurt (I rarely do, to be quite honest). It isn't always a cry for help and companionship. Sometimes I really just want to see. I think it's funny. It is a bit funny, a bit amusing. Heart-warming. It's like letting someone in on a joke, it's nice seeing the way their brains turn over the news in their heads, how they express it. Sometimes I think it's funny, but I still choke when I say it. My voice still cracks. My throat still clogs. I think it's funny but I still can't breathe. I think it's funny but I still can't really tell them what happened and I can feel the tears prick my eyes and my breath leave and my body tense. It's funny but I still can't say it.

It was my fault, did I tell you?

Of course it wasn't actually my fault, but in a way I was the catalyst of my own suffering. I think that's worse to think about than anything. Not what he did, but how he stood and watched. Watched me seal my own fate, really. Watched me catalyse it. But it's okay. It's still funny.

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Sep 19, 2021. Unedited thought dump.

It's so tiring, just exhausting, to look at old pictures of our childhood. It's generally sad to look at any of them, but it's the childhood ones that really hit, especially from particular times. I look at them and I think they were so fucking small, so cute. they were children like the rest of us- how did they become the people that they did- the monsters? and I look at myself and think to myself i was so fucking small. so fucking cute. a goddamn child, a baby. how did he look at me, his only baby sister, and do everything that he did, for years and years and years? sometimes I forget, but I remember. A wasn't always my favorite brother. it was him. when I was a baby, it was him. he was so affectionate, so doting. and that changed as he got older, and as I got older, for no reason other than how people just changed. and then eventually, there was another reason. I wonder if A ever made the connection, if he ever thinks about when I casually started saying that S was a bad person, just joking. I wonder if my friends think of it, about how I'd causally talk about how much I hated him. casual. always casual. and I wonder if A ever thinks about the days I said mein ney nahi sona is kamrey mein. I think of how I eventually really didn't care. I knew I wasn't going to get hurt, so whatever, right? sab ho he gia tha. aur kia bacha tha? and I think sometimes. I think about, in my later childhood, a particular day when he was so, so, so, so nice. I remember that day. I remember saying nahi sona idher. And then I remember the red cape, the story of his Pied Piper play, I remember him chasing me around the house, joking and laughing. and I thought _he's changed he's changed he's changed. he's back. he's back. my brother is back._ he wasn't. my mother asked, _kahan sona hai?_ and I looked at him and I smiled and I fucking beamed and I said yaheen sahi hai. I think that was the last day I really expected good of people. I think that was the last day I thought someone acting good meant they truly were. that was the first real lesson.

and I remember another day, a different house. just us, and my little brother. S was never known for being nice, and never lenient with our little brother. but that day, for the first time I think, he casually told him khel lou ps4 and he set it up for him and settled him down. I remember being half-asleep, just listening to the conversation, thinking how odd, how sweet. and I remember thinking to myself oh, of course a few minutes later. I think I remember that day so vividly because of two things – one, it seemed like a mirror of the first memory: the only two times he was truly loving, affectionate to either of us. the high of having a loving sibling, the crash of realizing how disingenuous it was. and two, that was the first day I really heard his voice. Up till then, I had survived by dissociation, by pretending these are all different people. maybe not even who I thought it was, maybe just a ghost. but it wasn't. of course not. the realization truly hit that day, when he stopped to attend a phone call. mom, of course. a casual conversation. he's playing PS4, she's still asleep.

asleep. of course I wasn't asleep. but sometimes I would realize what was happening, and I was so tired and so used to it, I'd just fall back asleep. maybe sometimes I never even woke up. I only remember fragments. i don't know how frequent these were, how long they'd go on, or what even happened in its entirety. I just remember being tired and sad and done. exhausted.

so I look at old pictures, and I think to myself we're all so little. we're all children. how how how. why. why. why. I'm in sixth grade in this, he's in A2. why. how. why. I'm in A2 right now. my little brother is in fifth. how. I could never, so how? god, how could he?

Mom. Mama. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I hate you for things you don't even know happened, I'm sorry I blame you more than I blame him. I'm sorry I feel nothing when I look at him and I feel rage when I look at you. But I hate how I have stayed silent for you, only for you to find me worse than him. I have stayed silent, only for you to call his psychotic outbursts "cute" and me standing up for myself the worst, the most disrespectful child. I hate how you hate me when all I am is the worst parts of you filled with the bitter hatred he gave me. and I hate how I am blamed for it. I have stayed silent, because I love you. and so I think I'm allowed to hate you. so I will love you and I will hate you and I will feel nothing for him but discomfort. and I will over-compensate for all of this by over- verbalising love and joy I don't feel for any of you, not truly. but I really do, I swear. this culture thinks that a woman's love, her strength is her silence. resilience against things she should never have had to be resilient against. I'm an ideal woman then, and ideal daughter, no matter what you think of me. I know you love me as a mother, and I know you'd hate me as a person. I know you already do. but it's okay, because I love you as a daughter, and I can't bear the kind of person you are. it's okay. we're okay. we'll be okay.

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"Tum mein ganda khoon hai"

I think about this phrase a lot, ever since it was first said to me a few months back. I think I've thought of it my entire life really, but it was the first time that a single phrase really encapsulated what I felt. Ganda khoon. Dirty blood. I know (I think) blood and genes don't really have much to do with how terrible certain people are; how abusers and molesters and sex offenders are, but that doesn't stop this phrase from pulling on some string at the very core of my heart. How can't it be the blood when we're all family?

I remember being in sixth grade, staying up all night thinking, as if plucking out the petals of a flower – Brother 1 is fucked up, Brother 2 is great, and I'm fucked up, so my little brother should turn out fine, right? I remember breaking down on the prayer mat, begging some omnipotent entity to not let whatever messed up my first brother spill onto the other two. I think someone answered those, or it just wasn't ever written in the cosmic plans. I think. I hope.

And that's all I really ever do. I think, and I hope.

And I'm good at thinking and not caring, and hoping without any real expectations. I'm good at feeling and then forgetting; of detaching myself from the emotions.

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what's bothering me? everything. i thought id list down stuff to clear my head a bit.

academics.

im so fucked. i wasted five months (and the entire year, i didn't attend classes idek what's in the syllabus). SAT's in less than a month, CAIEs in less than two (and with a terrible schedule). and bss is a bitxh so my scholarship has dropped from 100% to 40% (it's not just bss's fault. i could've done so so so much better than the bs i pulled last year). and now my parents have additional financial stress on top of their (completely valid) concerns about my lack of studying. they've paid so so much for CAIEs, and SAT, and now school too. and what have i done for it? nothing. and if (when) i fail, not only will i be putting them under stress and wasting all their hard-earned money, i also have a reputation to maintain, for them and me. the reactions of the rest i can bear, but dad's side of the family? the embarrassment it will cause for all of us is indescribable, and all because i don't hold even an ounce of work ethic.

family drama.

there is so much to say here. so much. silence is for the strong, i think. i remember my cousin talked about the relief she felt when she finally spoke out, and I'm glad for her. for them both. I'm glad and I'm proud. but I wish they were smarter. I wish the adults weren't like they were. I wish I was the only one who thought silence was better. I wish I didn't think this.

bhai, and what the future holds.

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who did you hurt?

26.07.21

word count: 

have you ever wondered looking at your friends that this really fun socially awkward kid who has all the same interests as me and is the most unproblematic drama avoidant person ever may have forced his 9 year old cousin into terrible things at the ripe age of 13? and then to other cousins too, different ages, different years?

that this other really great guy who's respectful and funny and great may have molested his sister for five years or so starting from when he was the age of 16 or 17?

you don't know.

you can't know.

you'll never know that these amazing fun wonderful people who don't look even slightly threatening may have done horrible, terrible things.

as children.

to children.

how do you know?

think of their names. could they have? no one could've thought these men boys did to us what they did. you don't know. you can't know. you'll never know.

maybe they stopped. maybe they never did it to anyone else ever, never again to anyone. but how do you know they never did at all? you'll be married for fifty years to a great man, and you'll never know what he did when he was 14. how can anyone know? can they be forgiven? should they be?

anyway, i think about that sometimes. i don't think it'll ever stop me from making friends or anything, but i think about it all the time. im used to everything, so it doesn't really effect the way i live life or the bonds i make, but still i i look at a boy – or at anyone really – and the first thought i always think to myself (that i have always thought to myself, and will always think to myself no matter how long i have known them) is always the same (has always been the same, will always be the same) – who did you hurt? who do you hurt? who will you hurt?

i won't let it be me again, but i know that it will be me again. eventually.

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mommy issues innit

edit, update:

“dupatta nahi pehnti ghar mein, sirf mein nahi notice kerti, papa ney bhi mujhey kaha hai itni dafa k baat kerun”

five days of ignoring her, we talked it out. not really, but almost made mum cry. she came to me, hugged me, tried again when it was clear i still hadn’t forgiven her. she probably did cry. she didn’t remember saying the phrase, the words. and she apologized and said they were wrong and she probably didn’t mean them but she said them. i know she meant them, some part of her always has. and her justifications were exactly what i hate: 

“tumhari harqatein bhi aesi hain”

but she said it so earnestly, begging me to understand. she looked like she was about to cry and i know she was, and she practically begged k chor dou ghussa, tum tou shukar kerti ho maa sey baat nahi kerney parti, maafi na maangey tum tou ignore he kertey raho and these sound like angry manipulative tanas but she didn’t say it like that, i know she didn’t mean it like that. her eyes were red her face was red and she just wanted it to stop. she just wants me to understand.

i know she loves me. i know she cares so much and i know she thinks she’s right. but she’s not. and it still sucks. because she’s wonderful and amazing and i hate this country and this religion and this life that makes her the way she is. i just want to live, and i wish she does too, some day.

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don't tell me clothes aren't a big deal when you've never been insinuated to be a shameless whore for not wearing a dupatta in your own damn house because bhai aur baap ghar per hain – your brothers and father are at home.

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a letter to papa;

to be written.

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a letter to mama;

to be written.