I sat across from an engineer – a colleague from another team – for two days in a row and felt first sick to my stomach, disgusted at myself, then sad like I was dying, for always wanting men that I cannot have.
Why is it that I always want what I fucking cannot have?
From general appearance to skin color to cultural background to characteristics and best traits – they form a pattern; since childhood, I have an obvious preference. When I was younger, this was a constant inside joke used against me by my three older sisters; now, it is a crutch. I feel handicapped, ill equipped and disqualified before anything could ever take place. Because more painful than not knowing how to make them mine – maybe they belong to another, though truthfully they simply never noticed me – it is always this that stops me in my tracks, both in mind and reality: they are… non-Muslims.
This is where that unspoken but acknowledged line is drawn.
I don’t know how to be brave in this pursuit. I don’t know how to walk that line. I don’t know how to make another person cross a bridge that I could never, dare not. I have personal accounts of painful outcomes; the grand winner is always reality.
Today everything about growing up just breaks my fucking soul.