Drowning in Darkness

Mariam Hadad

Laying in bed, the hours seemed to tick by, slowly like a river flowing through a small stream, a gentle sway in nature, silence echoing in the forest just waiting for a scream to splinter through, anticipating the danger. My stomach dropped, eyes wide open to the blank ceiling above me.

My limbs felt heavy as if I was made from stone. Every crack in my rigid posture was another flaw I had yet to conceal. Every moss-covered texture was another part of me that I'd forgotten. How was it possible to have lived into my adulthood and still feel like a stranger to myself?

I sat up, sighing. There's no point in sleeping now, might as well make another video.

The only issue was my brain was dead silent. All I wanted was some peace, some quiet, relaxing sleep to ease the stress of moving to another state on my own, yet my mind seemed to hate my idea and preferred to be buzzed with useless thoughts.

Moonlight seeped through the parted curtains, pure, iridescent rays draping over the boxes I forgot to unpack, molding to the harsh corner and bringing clarity to the unfamiliar. A chill ran down my spine, skin crawling. Reality sank into me, ripped into my thoughts, and all sense of light faded towards my silhouette.

I didn't want to let go of the life I had, but I didn't want to live it alone. I didn't want to stay in this dark room abandoned to my insecurities. Part of me itched to run away.

I already did run though.

Falling back on my bed, my arm fell over my eyes. What's wrong with me?

After leaving my hometown, escaping from painful memories, I managed to fall right back on what I ran away from. It was an ugly, terrifying truth for any woman to wake up and realize. Scratch that. It was a torture for any living soul to experience.

I was sad.

I could have laughed at myself. Sad didn't begin to cover the scars of my past, but it definitely held true to its meaning. I loved, and I lost. I wasn't a widow, but I would have been.

Perhaps it was the mercy of Allah to keep my engagement ring from ever touching my fingertips. Sometimes, I didn't understand how the timework of life existed, nor did I comprehend the clock that ran gears in my head, telling me I was too far behind, that I couldn't keep up with my friends.

How can I still compare myself to Amina or Sania?

They were married. Amina had her first child, would be applying to medical school Inshallah (if Allah wills it), and was settling into her life with Subhan, with her family and brother by her side. Sania never moved out of this town, and married an affluent man that had diamonds at his fingertips, and she carried his baby in her womb.

It wasn't fair of me to be jealous or to compare myself to the blessings of their lives, I knew that. However, I couldn't stop the toxicity that fueled my blood, that taunted my intentions. My faith felt weaker, detached from its roots. I knew that I was wrong.

My friends didn't achieve anything without their own set of tears, without their own storms. They struggled so much to find the one they loved, suffered many times to chase after their dreams. When everything fell into place, Allah still tested their faith, and every time He did, they tried their best to rely on their deen (religion).

I removed my arm, turning to the window again, and watching the moon stare down at me, guiding me with its light. My eyes wearily followed the trail of white, a pathway towards redemption, to my own salvation, and without a doubt the answer rested against the wall.

My prayer mat was there, and Allah was only a call away. In college, whenever Amina felt overwhelmed, she would stop everything to ask Allah for guidance, to focus on her spirituality. I admired her for it, and wished that I could one day hold that same faith.

Allah would help me. I wasn't alone.

Swinging my legs off the bed, I knew what I had to do. Spirituality needed nourishment too, and in my case, my faith seemed to slip, so I had to fight harder to keep it safe.

* * * *

*Oh Allah, without Your guidance I feel lost like I don't belong or that I'm an outcast.

You've given me so much, more than I ever deserved. I have people who cherish me, and a family that supports my every decision. Thank you for all that I have.

Oh Allah, I still feel lost. Even though I've so much, I feel empty and unsatisfied.

Allah ease this lingering jealousy from my heart. Protect me from shaytan's (Satan) whispers, and save me from going astray.

Give me the opportunity to use my influence for the sake of You, Allah. I have no one at my side now, except You, so please, save me, help me.

I beg You to guide me.

Ameen*.

* * * *

3:02 am.

My camera was set up again, lights flashing, blinding me with an artificial radiance, a luminous moment shrouded by the lies it told. This camera brought a persona, my internet one. It didn't tell the truth, not always. Like me, the lights added around my room were a false glow to make others believe that I was as perfect as they thought.

The reality was much more disappointing.

Applying the last touches of makeup, I plastered my usual smile, my mask stitching itself together and preparing me for that picture perfect look. My smile was wide, teeth white and shimmering like the moonlight, my lips rosy and red to contrast my pale skin. Smokey eye makeup made my lashes flutter like wings and the intensity of eyeliner led the path to a smoldering, confident look.

At first glance, I appeared as perfect. Little did my viewers know the burden that rested against my shoulders.

What could I make this video on?

By Allah's will, a memory drifted into my mind, Amaar's deep, sensual voice infiltrating my thoughts. He noticed what everyone else did not. He recognized my plea for help before I realized it. His words may have been a few passing words, but they meant the world to me.

I had people who believed in me, people who watched my videos for a hint of joy in their lives. They watched me day to day put on this ridiculous persona, this half-truth to entertain them.

Amaar was right. It was okay to admit the difficulties of the path that I'd chosen.

With a new set of determination, I pressed the recording button, the blinking red coming to life. My eyes stared at the camera for a moment, heart pounding. Deafening drums haunted my ears, cheeks feeling flushed at the certain scrutiny I'd face if I tried to reveal my true self, tried to speak of my heartaches.

The heat rushed through me, and my hijab seemed to suffocate me under the pressure, a pull for push scenario blistering all my determination, enabling me, and forcing me back to square one. My lips parted, but was voice was mute.

Under the scintillating lights, my face tingled, painful sprouts of pain rising as if my skin was teared off, the mask refusing to budge. Allah, please let me be honest. Let me use my influence for this deen again like I used to.

I tried again. I would not let darkness consume me.

"Assalamualaikum," I tightly smiled, voice raspy. Allah, give me courage. I beg You. "And hello to all my non-Muslim viewers. It's been a good hot minute, huh?"

The more I talked, the more I settled into my usual greetings, my usual composure, the more I began to relax. The pounding subsided along with my burning ache to escape, but one thing stayed the same.

My lips couldn't stop the lies. My eyes couldn't stop pretending.

"It's really late at night, and I was a millisecond away from a peaceful night of sleep, and I shockingly remembered that I still had to finish this week's video. I can't believe you guys are keeping me up at night too," I teased, shaking my head with a disappointed look. "Ah, I'm just joking. I love y'all too much to be mad."

Why couldn't I stop myself? Allah, let the truth slip my lips, let me tell my viewers what really bothers me.

"The truth is..." I trailed off, staring blankly ahead. Ambivalence tormented me, my insecurities choking my ability to speak.

Under a wave, I felt water circle me, felt the judgements pouring into my thoughts, an ocean swallowing me up. I was drowning in my own mask, and I was killing myself over it. Every lie I said whether it was posted on social media about my perfect life or if it was the smile I posed for my friends tortured my fragmented soul, darkened my tender heart.

How many times did my heart have to be stomped on for me to understand? How many times did I have to sit through my false personality till I realized the harm? I was my only enemy, and I was my only critic.

Maybe it was the trauma I experienced, or maybe it was the fact that my friends were living the life that I wanted for myself. Whatever the reason was, I felt the tears water my eyes, felt the hot, pain-ridden drop trail down my cheek.

My visage shattered like broken glass.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Of course, I couldn't do it.

Shaking my arms outstretched towards the camera, effectively shutting it off again. Anger boiled inside me, fury growing like a wildfire, yet delicate trails of sadness and despair bristled through those emotions, and created the hurricane of my heart, of a faulty truth, weak and unmoved.

My shoulders fell, shaking with heavy sobs that ripped from my lips. My vision was too blurry to recognize any of my furniture, my head too light to think. Nothing felt right anymore, nothing felt rewarding.

Allah, how do I fix my broken soul?

Prayer alone did not solve my all problems. Perhaps I wanted to impress Amaar by showing him that I was fine, and that I could be honest to myself. In the end, I rushed myself, and thought that a simple prayer would fix all my problems without any effort myself.

In Islam, duaas (small prayers) was only one part of the equation, effort was the other. Like all my previous attempts, I failed again. I was only trying to prove my worth again, was only trying to see myself the way others did.

Reaching out for my phone, I searched deep in my contact history for one person's number. I prayed he was still awake and wouldn't question my late night call or judge me. Tears still rendered me useless, still raked my body with tremors of clawing pain, of scorning dissatisfaction, but I needed something, someone to understand, to help me.

I needed him to tell me it would be alright like he did at Amina's place.

It was wrong, and when my finger hovered over his contact, hesitation followed. Amaar wasn't anyone to me. We weren't even at friend level to even share a phone call. At most, we were acquaintances, but my head still kept spinning, still kept screaming its insults.

I had to do something. Amaar was the only one who understood. He was the only one who saw through my facade, and he managed to shred my defenses with his knightly charm. Using his heroic smile and soothing voice, he told me everything I needed to hear that day.

It was wrong of me to want it again.

It was forbidden.

Yet my finger still pressed the 'call' button. Forgive me, Allah.

"Mariam?"

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