I Am A Muslim Who Doesn’t Fast

When I was five years old, my mom allowed me to fast for half a day for the first time. I was eager to do it because it was something that all the grownups did. My dad bought me a Happy Meal from McDonalds to reward me for my short fast.

When I was seven, I fasted for the entire day on each Saturday of the month. When Ramadan came to an end, my parents threw me a roza kushai to celebrate my fasting for the first time and I could feel God smiling over me with pride.

When I was thirteen, I fasted for the entire month for the first time. During that month, I developed the habit of praying almost every day that stuck with me (for the most part) throughout my life.

Ramadan has always been my favorite month. In high school, my faith wavered quite a bit — from waking up at 4 AM for fajr to skipping prayer for weeks. But this holy month was always the one time I was guaranteed to be the most devout Muslim I could be. I wanted to make my mother proud, who was the only person in her large family to observe Ramadan. I wanted to please God, who had given me such an amazing life.

Last September I started my first year of college. I was going to my dream school and tried my best to continue praying, even if it wasn’t five times a day. I went to parties with my friends but refused to drink. I went to Jummah every week and cried during the khutbahs. I did an extra prayer and carried a tasbeeh with me before my exams.

But during my second semester of college, the traumas of my childhood that I buried came back to haunt me. I became extremely sad and as a result I shut myself in my room without eating, missed class repeatedly, and arrived to Jummah too late. I began to think that life was too much for me to handle.

When I finally decided to get help in March, I was admitted into the hospital because the counselors I turned to were afraid I would try to take my own life. The psychologist there told me that I was depressed and that I needed to be on antidepressants and see a therapist every week. When I was finally discharged and started seeing my therapist, she kept pushing me to take a medical leave, but I refused.

While all of this was happening, I lost interest in everything. I stopped listening to music, paying attentions to the news, and hanging out with my friends. Worst of all, I stopped praying and was mad at God. Someone once told me that there would be a time in our lives when we are completely alone and would have no one but God; but when I lying down in the emergency room waiting to be moved to the psychiatric unit, God was not there with me. I cried myself to sleep in the hospital bed, furious that God had given me everything but happiness.

When I came home for summer break last month, I started to get better because I was with my family. My parents made me eat and urged me to get out of bed, and my medication was beginning to have a slight effect on me. But I was still pretty bad.

Despite my decrease in faith and my anger at God, I decided to fast this month anyway. For the first few days, fasting was easy because my appetite had already decreased so drastically. So all I did was not eat food or drink water. I didn’t pray, try to be the best person I could be, or change my habits. I just didn’t eat.

When I saw my psychiatrist this month and I told her that I was fasting, she warned me that it isn’t safe for me to do so. “You’re ill,” she said. “You need to eat if you want to get better.”

And although she is technically right, I don’t feel ‘ill’. But I decided to follow her advice anyway and broke my fast in the afternoon instead of before sunset. My parents were understanding and agreed with my psychiatrist, but told me to not tell anyone about my depression.

I see posts all over Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram about how precious this month is, how we must celebrate it as if it is our last. Ramadan, which has always been such a special month for me, doesn’t feel like Ramadan. I hate lying to my aunts and uncles and tell that I am fasting or getting a disappointed look from my cousin when he sees me eating before maghrib. I hate not being able to relate to my Muslim friends about their struggles of not eating. I hate that I haven’t prayed once this entire Ramadan. I hate the guilt I feel of enjoying iftar while the people I eat with are the ones who fasted and deserve to enjoy it. I hate that my illness makes me feel like I am not a good Muslim.

Even though I feel so guilty, I try to remind myself that God understands. God understands that I am suffering, that I am sick, and that I am trying. Even though I haven’t been praying, I have been thinking of God more than I have in the past few months. I started whispering prayers before I sleep or get in the car. And yesterday, even though it was only for a few seconds, I felt a presence around me that willed me to pray.

Overcoming my depression and returning to Islam will not be easy. Maybe I will start praying again this week, or maybe I will not pray at all for the rest of the summer. But I know that one day I will get better, and until then, God is waiting for me.