"I"

I, considered mysterious by some and deemed an open book by some.
I never write about myself. I cannot. I don't think anyone can measure the nervousness I'm feeling whilst writing this. Even though, my poetry and prose are my only solaces, it scares me to write about myself. That's the only reason all my diaries have white, empty pages. But I'm too tired of enduring this pain within my heart. I've to let it out. I've to breathe, for once. I've to let it out.
Narcissism is my favorite word in English literature, my definition of myself when I talk to people, but I never really got to taste this narcissism in myself. I lie about it. I've never really loved myself. I am selfish, yes, not a narcissist. I'm sorry for lying, I'm sorry to myself, I've believed in mirages for 19 years. I'd like to be a narcissist today. I'll write about myself. I will love myself for what I am, for once.
I'm going to use this place to vent, to rant and to whine.
Today, sitting in the balcony, looking at the dark winter sky, I realized that the parts of my soul are darker than this wide, bleak, oblivious sky. I've always believed that I'm weak at heart, I've believed that I give up, but I was wrong. Oh, how naive of me, for not even realizing who I am. Each star's fading light reminds me of my triumphs, every cloud sings the story of my victories, but I always chose to listen to this imbecile who told me I was weak. No, I'm not a loser. No one knows of the hardships I've gone through in the past one day, in the past one month, in the past one year, in the past 19 years. No one knows about the sips I took of the bitter life that was brewed in sorrows everyday. "You like the things that represent depression?", someone said this with a very uncertain look on her face, thinking I was a wannabe, trying to be cool with all the dark stuff I carry within myself.
No, I don't like the things that represent depression. I'm depression. Do you have any idea about what I go through everyday? Do you know how hard it is to wake up to the feeling of "nothingness" everyday? Do you know how it feels when you know that you don't have a future? That no one is going to love your existence one day for the abnormalities you were born with? No, you clearly don't. I do. It's been 3 years that I'm living with the bitter realities that no one, but I, know of. It's been 16 years that I first realized what sharing is. I'd to share the love of my life, my only hero with someone I hated. It's been 8 years that I first came to know about how this is a male dominant society. "Ssshh, Sidra you won't utter a word about this, no, or you'll bring shame to us and everyone, no, please, I beg you."
The age, where probably I was going to experience my first heart break like everyone, I'd learnt to get over it. My life's very hasty, the revelation of everything before time and the unwanted surprises proved it. The age where I was to cry about how I lost my dolls, I experienced the worst heartbreak. No, someone didn't ditch me, it was worse than that.
I lost my faith in everyone, men, women, brothers, family.
Then, I came to know about something that changed my life forever, and I'm living with that change, and I've to live with that change. "DO YOU LIKE DEATH? WHAT ARE YOU SAYING?", if I share my views on death, I'm showered with this question . Yes, I love death, and it's probably the only thing I love. And I'll answer it for you today. It's easier to die than to live with a curse forever. It's easier to embrace the soil than embracing the shattered pieces of yourself everyday.
3 years back, I was diagnosed with depression. My parents thought it's the hormonal changes, my friends thought someone broke my heart, I thought I was going to die. I thought I was going to die. I think I'm going to die. I am not dying.
I'm not dying, yes. And I've lived this truth everyday. I won't die. There's no good in self harm, it won't bring me peace. There's no good in crying out to everyone, it won't bring me peace. There is, however, one thing that brings me peace, kneeling down to the One who created this confused creature. The stars today remind me of Him. And He reminds me of how strong I've been. I live everyday, gathering all the broken pieces of mine to put it up and complete a puzzle that walks confidently, disguising her sadness with a smile. Yes, I'll laugh in public, I'll laugh in person, I'll laugh when you'll ask me to stop laughing. I'm tired. I cannot take this anymore. Yes, you people can continue to call me weird. Yes, I'm not weird, I'm normal. I'm normal with all my flaws. I'm normal. I'm a narcissist for now. I love myself, and it's taken very long for me to love myself, but I do, I love myself.

Sane and insane.

"Insane", "maniac", "lunatic", her pet names, awarded to her as an unwanted present from society. What were these? Mere alphabets consolidated in a bunch of syllables that formed words? No. They were the reason for her misery. The only things that sabotaged her.
Some times, the words wreck us. We never pay heed to the destruction these alphabets hold. We have no notion how the drizzle of our words can act as a hurricane in someone's life, vandalizing it.
She was a part of this destruction as well. Crippling slowly, rotting with every passing second by the judgement she faced everyday, resulting in the dearth of her faith in fantasies. The fantasies, which were the reason of her sanity in this mad world, yet she was accused of being different. "Schizophrenic? No, you're an attention seeker". Even her command over psychedelic art couldn't earn her what she deserved. She was an innocent angel dressed in a white attire in this dark and bleak world. Unaware of everything around, with no hunch of the monstrous-cum-judgmental society.
Today, she was ridiculed again, amidst the crowded streets, among the sane people for committing the crime of dreaming. She dreamt of the other worlds and people who were just like her. She fantasized a place with no woe. She painted a valley, that she claimed, exists somewhere, far away, where we can touch the horizons and they turn into bits of glitters. A place she yearns to go because there' a downpour of stars.
"What kind of a sane person would think it rains stars?"

A journey.

2003:
I was 8 years old, 11 years back, and the memory is still fresh like yesterday, even after so many years. My family took us to this exhibition right next to the place we used to lived in. I was wearing my casual jeans and shirt with the bob haircut I'd always adored. The moment I entered the exhibition, I noticed every eye focused on me. Men of every age, young boys, old men, the mullahs and the so called modern people. That was the last day I ever wore jeans and a short shirt. I wasn't forced to wear kameez shalwar but my sensitivity imposed the traditional dress on me. I was judged by my friends for wearing those clothes and eventually they left me, but I couldn't compromise my self respect.
2006:
I went to Murree on a vacation with my family. I was wearing my mother's dupatta, which was twice as long as my height. I couldn't carry it, but I wore it anyway because of the fear of being stared, like it'd happened in the past two years. But people stared at me anyway. I thought it was me, who was wrong, I thought it was my fault and eventually it led me to a promise that I made to myself, "I won't go to a bazaar no matter what happens." Also, I decided to cover my head in the public places. My Pukhtoon father didn't make me cover my head, I did.
2012: 
For the past 7 years, I couldn't go to a bazaar, if I did, it was to the malls with very few people around. I was having zero fashion sense, I was conscious when I was in public. Even though I was a debater, I couldn't face people. And then a sudden transformation happened. I learned to be myself among everyone. It took a lot of courage to go to weddings, public places, bazaars. But this time too, I wasn't spared. The thirsty eyes of the inhumane men stared. And I started wearing a white chaadar, thinking, it'll make them realize my modesty. No, no one oppressed me, it was my choice.
2013:
The time had come when I was to step into professional life. Too bad, it was completely different from what I'd imagined it to be. I was chased by lusty eyes even in one of the prestigious institutes of my country. The dream was shattered. All of my freedom was gone. I couldn't express. I couldn't communicate. An extrovert that I was, a winner, all of it faded away. I became a shy, introvert and self conscious person. I started to prefer toe length clothes and humongous dupattas over everything. My days started with arguments like "MAMA, I AM NOT WEARING THIS, YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND ANYTHING" and ended with anti-depressants. But I was still bullied. I started wearing abaya in public places like bazaars.
2014:
Today, I was in the famous bazaar, Saddar, with every kind of people around me. My love for traditional ornaments, bangles and ear rings, took me there. The fear of being looked at by strangers made me wear a niqab. I was happy when I wore a niqab over my abaya because I used to think that people don't stare at modest women. But what I faced today broke me. The eyes filled with lust and filth followed me again today. No, I am not oppressed. I was awarded with every kind of freedom by my parents. Nothing was imposed on me. It was my choice. It was my way of rescuing myself from people.
Am I still not a good woman? Should I cover the two eyes that were left uncovered as well? Should I stop going out? The dilemma is savaging me brutally.