I’ve been depressed for a few years. I also suffer from an eating disorder which mutates from bingeing, chewing-&-spitting, and currently and most consistently: anorexia. It took me a long time to admit to myself that I had a problem. The combination of moving out of my parents’ house for the first time and living in a new country on my own, brought on a wave of loneliness and inadequacy so deep, I’d never felt so pointless before.
Help was needed, and I couldn’t figure which came first the depression or the eating disorder, but I did know I needed help. So I made the difficult decision of moving back home with my parents, admitting defeat about succeeding independently. The last few months of this year have seen me attempting to manage my disorder and my depression. I’ve been going to a therapist, taking medication, actively trying to change my thoughts patterns and while I haven’t made any breakthroughs, I can see small things changing every day.
What was and is harder for me is to share this journey with anyone. Firstly, a mental illness is an solitary affliction anyway; you cut yourself off from people and you curl deeper into your own emptiness. Secondly, having a religious family makes talking about mental illness difficult.
A mental illness is an solitary affliction anyway; you cut yourself off from people and you curl deeper into your own emptiness.
My mother and I are very close. We talk about anything and everything and we have been through a lot together — everything from telling her, after seventeen years of being alive, I didn’t want to wear my hijab anymore, to running away from home so I wouldn’t feel so suffocated under her rule. We’ve had ups and downs but we have come out on the other side closer and stronger than before. But we fail to see eye to eye when it comes to religion.
I am a Muslim and I like to proudly call myself as such. I was born and raised as one and as I’ve grown, I’ve negotiated my own relationship with God and religion which doesn’t correspond to my mother’s very conservative idea of what a Muslim is. I believe how we dress or who we find ourselves attracted does not matter — I believe in the goodness of what you do and that, ultimately, if you do good, that’s the best you can do.
My mother entered the religion consciously on her own quite late as an adult. Her own mother was similar in thinking to me, not giving importance to trivial rules and codes of conduct. But after my mother’s dad passed away from a heart attack, she had an awakening. She realised that life is fleeting and that once you die you don’t get a do-over. That was the start of her religious journey.
Growing up in the Middle East, it was easy for us to feel close to religion and for my mother to solidify her religious foundations. The call of prayer would ring through our ears five times a day, and I would go to school with girls as young eight, dressed in burkas and hijabs. Being religious was the norm, and the outward identifiers were given a lot of importance. After a decade living there, our family moved to western Europe. Twelve-year-old-me, a small brown girl with a unibrow who’d hardly seen two days of consecutive rain in her life was plunged deep into this new world of new people and culture.
As I grew, I began to think of my attire and the rules set out by Islam on how to live. I had known for a long time I was bisexual. But I always thought it was wrong. I always seemed to find joy in things such as romance novels and music, even though I knew that technically these were not allowed. It seemed that all the things I enjoyed would lead me to Hell. My mother would say constantly that this life is a test and it is not for enjoyment, we shall enjoy ourselves in paradise. But that wasn’t good enough for me.
I had known for a long time I was bisexual. But I always thought it was wrong.
I examined my relationship with God and came to the conclusion that God would not care about such trivialities. If he was a truly all powerful and just God, he would know that giving humans desires and free will would make it impossible for them to live their life without happiness. So I sought out a comfortable place for myself where I was doing things that made me happy and I was still connected to my religion.
Fast-forward to the present day. I recently opened up to my mother about my eating disorder and depression — to its full extent. She was receptive to it, unlike how I had imagined her to react. She didn’t think I was making it up, and she knew I was suffering. But for her everything starts and ends with religion and the word of God now. So in her eyes I am being tormented by Satan in various ways to keep me from being stable enough to follow God’s path.
She believes that the further I stray from the right path, the harder it will be for me to get back. She tells me God only tests us with things that he knows we can handle — some people physical temptations, mine is one that is mental and feeds on my own body. Instead of offering me coping mechanisms, practical advice or any empathy, she gives me a long talk about life and its purpose, reminding me that I have lost track of my purpose because I left God and I should return to him. I find this really frustrating.
She is one of the only people in the world that I would say I feel connected to in more than just a blood bond and I can’t imagine my life without her. For her to not empathise or offer me real world solutions or advice drives me crazy. I didn’t seek her out to be preached at, I sought her out for comfort and aid. The advice she gives me is to start praying again and to slowly return to my old ways. But in some ways, her way of thinking sometimes makes sense.
She tells me to keep it in perspective. For example: with the chewing and spitting, she tells me that think maybe one day your food will be taken away from you and you might have to scrounge in trash to eat similarly chewed up food. People in the world are starving and yet here you are rebuking God’s blessing. She also has this very belief that whatever we get in life has already been predestined. This can lead to even more frustration. Days where I don’t eat at all she will say, “tumhare hisaab may hi nahi likha hay,” which translates roughly to: it’s not been calculated in my predestined plan to eat that day.
She also chides me on these days for starving myself and tells me that this is a form of suicide. Suicide is forbidden in Islam and committing it sends you straight to Hell. I’ve struggled for a long time to find any value in myself and I struggle every day to just get out of bed and accept that yes, perhaps I did not choose to exist but I am here and I should do what I can. For her to tell me at a time when my body is in pain and my mind is under stress that I am killing myself and I will go to Hell makes me feel even worse. Her approach to dealing with mental illness has always been the religious route. Everything is willed by God, and so shall everything be solved by him.
Mariam Ahmad is a Dublin-based artist. See her latest exhibit online.
