Growing Up In a Dysfunctional Family
The lights are off. There is darkness, around me and inside of me. It feels miserable to be locked away in this darkness with only a small window to the outside world from where I stare at other kids playing and happily running around. I am miserable and tired of pretending. Of constantly fighting the resentment and the urge of feeling jealous of other people and their lives. Everyone has a test in life. THIS! is my test in life. But how long will I be able to fight it? I am 27 but THIS — seems to be a never-ending battle. And I am slowly losing it. Or at least it feels like I am.
The reason why I began writing for The Coffeelicious was that it was here where I found a community of like-minded “broken” people like myself. “Broken” as the world sees us but strong and resilient as we see ourselves. I am one of the minority Muslim writers here despite the fact the vast majority of America view Muslims like me as the “other.” However, the truth is that we too go through similar life struggles as everyone else. In fact, it is nights like this dark and lonely one, when I cry my heart out to God and feel sorry for myself for not fully belonging in the Muslim community where people criticize me for being “too open,” “too desperate” or “too depressed;” but then not being accepted by those who don’t share my faith either because I look and dress differently. After crying for an hour and debating whether I should write or not — given the judgment that comes with writing — I finally gave in due to my vow of living freely and vulnerably. It’s tough. But this is how life has to look now because I am simply tired of hiding and faking it.
My parents and brother are visiting me for spring break. A couple of hours ago I posted a happy and smiling photo of my dad’s attempt at taking our selfie on social media. Only an hour after we were screaming, then crying after my brother’s manic episode, and eventually hugging and kissing. I followed my routine from childhood: locked myself in my room, turned off the lights, cried, pretended I was asleep and then, started writing. This time on the internet and not in my journal.
A few weeks ago, one of my classmates asked me if I am close to my parents. I asked her, “Why do you say so?”
“Because you never visit them.”
It’s sad that physical distance is considered as a sign of lack of love but that’s another story for another day. Rather, I responded to her, “We live paycheck to paycheck. I don’t have the luxury to visit them during every break in the academic year.”
I only get to see my family once every year during the summer and that too, very sparingly because I barely live with them whenever I am back. Deceived, people think I do all these cool things over summer breaks like working on a farm and traveling. Unfortunately, what they don’t know is that I do that only to create ease for my family. Paying for food and the bills of one less person is a greater relief for my dad. I’d rather alleviate his burdens than add on to them. Hence, this is why I work every summer and don’t overcrowd our living arrangement, one that is as ephemeral as the lifespan of a fruit-fly. One moment we have a place to live and the next we don’t, and this is how I have known life for a long, long time.
For 19 years of my life, I lived in the house my grandfather and uncle made with their own hands. However, this house was full of all kinds of dysfunctionalities since the day I opened my eyes. My oldest aunt and grandparents lived with us and let me tell you, my memories of childhood are not so pleasant. When I am asked to recall about my life, 19 is a single block and then every subsequent year is a block of its own. As you can perhaps guess, I left home when I was 19.
Contrary to the dominant Pakistani culture of arranged marriages in the 80's, my parents married for love. Hence, my dad’s family never fully accepted my mother because she is Punjabi (province split along the borders of Pakistan) while they originated from near the sophisticated Delhi, India. I recall my aunts always fighting and unnecessarily blaming my mother for petty things which sometimes, unfortunately, resulted in my mom’s spurs of self-harm. Till this day, I get nauseated when I smell blood because there were times as a child when I remember fearing not being able to see my mother ever again because of the amount of blood she would lose after those episodes. I remember hiding the knives in the kitchen and being traumatized and waking up from nightmares to see a world without my parents.
Then, came my grandfather’s dementia and manic episodes. He would become physically aggressive towards my aunt who would lock herself in her room while he spent hours screaming and banging her door until nightfall, only to fall asleep and wake up to the morning with the same cycle, all over again. In order to escape, I would sleep immediately after coming back from school and wake up only when everyone else was asleep. That happened for years until my grandfather passed away in 2005.
The house in which we lived in was my grandfather’s only asset which meant that it had to be sold after his death for his children to claim their inheritance. My dad was in an out of jobs and so he kept extending the time of selling the house which brought about emotional and psychological torture from his sisters. When he eventually did sell it a year and a half ago, he ended up borrowing money from them because my family’s home in Karachi, Pakistan, costed more than his own inheritance share. Even though my family moved 1000s of miles to the US afterwards, the taunts haven’t stopped because my dad is in financial debt to them. Right before taking the selfie above, he had hung up on my oldest aunt because she accused him for never returning the money. It happens every time we call back his family in Pakistan. They think we are living the American dream in the States while we don’t even have a permanent place to live here and keep hopping around from one state to another, in search of better opportunities.
People ask me why I go for therapy or to my support group. This is why I do. For seven years after leaving home, I pulled through but I finally snapped last summer when one after another dysfunctional relationship with “Muslim” men (yes, I find that necessary to mention) pushed me to my knees. That’s when I gave in and figured that it was my dysfunctional childhood which was impacting my interactions and choices. Hence, I had no option but to pause and reflect. Thank God, I was finally able to break free from the shackles of judgment from myself and others when I eventually decided to seek professional help and step out of my comfort zone.
It is excruciating painful facing my demons and dissecting my past but to speak the truth: it’s SO worth it!
I now realize how much my dysfunctional childhood has affected me and those dear to me. From my depression to my brother’s anger issues to my dad’s anxiety. People just don’t understand why my wish to settle down and have a home and family has meant so much to me in the recent past. I crave the sense of family, but mainly stability; because I have seen very little of it.
That being said, alhamdulillah (all praise and thanks to God). Alhamdulillah a million times!
Because this is where faith is so crucial. THIS! is how I survive because I know that better and more beloved people to God have had it worse. They too have had dysfunctional families from Noah being taken as jest by his son, Abraham being hurled into a pit full of fire by his father, Joseph’s brothers’ attempt to kill him, to Muhammad — as he held his infant son’s corpse in his hands with tears streaming down his face — being jeered and ridiculed by his own uncle who went screaming in the town with the words, “Muhammad has been cut off (i.e., from progeny) tonight!”
Hence, I know I am NOT alone.
That there are others who are in my shoes. Right now! Some even worse or some similar. Some who have gone through a dysfunctional childhood themselves while some who have witnessed others go through stuff which doesn’t only seem unfair but unfathomable.
Therefore, I hope — Oh God! I really do hope— that if you identify yourself or anyone in any of the above categories, then PLEASE reach out for help. Reach out to a therapist or chaplain, or a support group where others share the same narrative as yours so you can finally be free. Speak or write! Break the silence. Let it out. So you can finally feel normal. And not feel alone. Not anymore.
No more.
Thus, I finish this piece tonight with the lyrics from my favorite song (below) that that if I request you tonight to live fuller and more vulnerable lives,
Will I scare you? Frustrate you? Upset you? Irate you?
Challenge your lifestyle or weaken your trust?
Or will you see my effort, my passion, sincerity?
Will you see just a little of yourself in me?
Will you take off your mask so we can both be free?
Connect Deeper
If you resonated with this article, please respond, highlight and write. Let’s open up. Let’s start talking. Let’s begin with being real. Let’s be free!
Together.
