My Teachers' Pet Complex

Since I was little I've always been my teachers' pet. Not only because my own mother was a teacher herself and I used to go to the same school that she works in, but also because I worked hard to be so (i.e. to be my teachers' favourite student). As a matter of fact, I don't know if it was luck, mere coincidence or success that I was always the favourite one to my teachers.

That should make anyone happy. However, I am sure those of you who were in the same shoes before know what that brings on you. War. Everyone is at war with you. Sometimes you would think that this serves you right. You got one thing, you have to sacrifice another. Other times you would think to yourself: "Why should I sacrifice ANYTHING? What have I done wrong? I work hard. I deprive myself of so many things to be an ideal student." And that's the problem. An ideal student. Or so you might think.

I remember more than anything the wars launched at me by students. Some of them would take revenge by cutting my notes and books to pieces (obviously they did not mind a punishment), they would also attack me during the day, eat my dinner, push my petite body to the ground, scratch my skin, play tough in general. My mother always used to defend me and say: "They are jealous, and you should never have them in your life anyway or even think about them. You only have to work hard and prove to them you are the best."

So, as the years pass, from kindergarten years to college, I let it be. I remained my teachers and professors' pet. The one who they always say: "Marwa, you are the BEST. I don't know why your colleagues don't follow your example, bla bla bla." Can you imagine my face at times like these. Happy? Sad? Actually a mixture of both. I knew each word my teachers or professors say would punch a hole in my little boat of hope for acquiring new friends other than my childhood ones.

As a little girl, I always reacted. It's natural. My mind reacted to cope. If you are not willing to be my friend, then rest assured you will not gain my friendship. Even Sahar Gouda, although she was not a teacher's pet herself, had her share of the war only because she was MY friend. They hated her because of me. At the primary school, children would rip my bag and cut my notes to pieces. At the prep school, they would reject and tease me and never include me in their group. At the secondary school, they would attack Sahar at the backstreet of our school. At college, they would talk to me only to use the notes I write and the books I study.

I wish I can call that an ancient history, but I'm not that lucky. Ill-fated maybe. The curse remains at the workplace. I'm my managers' pet!

Conquering fears

When I was little, and part of being that, my folks and neighbours and others loved to see the expression of fear on my face when, for example, they turn off the lights and leave me in the dark, boo me out of nowhere, threaten that there are monsters under my bed, tell me that the dead never really die and they can just knock at the door any time, or point at dogs or cats and tell me if I'm not a good girl they'd let the dogs or cats eat me.

So, you can see I was about to be the first 3-year old child that dies of a heart attack. I grew up almost scared of anything. Literally. The only safe place, the shelter I used to run to and hide behind its walls was my old room. It was somewhat contained. At the time, I doubted that any thing can get me while I'm in that room. I'm saying my old room because we moved out a long time ago. And since then I never felt safe. I mean my family took away the only place that I really wanted to be in the whole universe. Ever since that day so many nightmares attack me while sleeping - not to mention the ones I have while fully awake - and every time my mind is used to making a mental subconscious attempt to escape to that room. Each time I felt real scared, I closed the door of that room behind me and walked to the opposite wall watching. My old room used to have two windows. Both somewhat big and made of glass. And yet, no mental monster managed to break the glass and invade my shelter. I could see them trying while my back is to the sky-blue wall. After a while the monsters go away. Well, for some time.

With time, I found my mind so week to push me towards my old shelter. Or when it manages to do so, I find cracks all over the place and I feel so certain that the walls wouldn't hold forever. My fears became vivid. So vivid that I could almost touch them, almost hear the laughs of so many monsters happy to invade the (inaccessible) walls of my shelter. However, they are no longer the fears of a child. I mean I'm not scared of dogs or cats any more, not even of the dark - unless it is a dark and deserted street. My fears now are bigger. And there is no defence. The fear of the Unknown. Fear of dying. Fear of dying in a terrible way. Fear of getting old. Fear of looking old. Fear of being old. Fear of having not enough time to do all the things I used to dream about and thought I have all the time in the world to do them. Fear of having to make a hard decision. Fear of being alone.

The Door

In the past, it used to be really helpful for me to redecorate my room whenever I felt down or upset. I feel melancholic lately. For a long time actually. And the dark thoughts are more haunting now. My old strategy is not working any more. I changed the colour of everything in my room. I hanged new pictures. I changed the location of my bed, desk, and library. It is not helping any more. I feel like crying all the time.

In the past, I used to open my diary, let my feelings go, and then my tears would drop on the pages. I simply write. I just keep on writing until I can't feel my fingers, because I write with anger, sometimes with hope. Yesterday, I opened my diary. I don't know why I quit writing. To my greatest astonishment, I found the last page ever I write in my diary reads as follows:

Today I came to Your door. I had the hope in my heart that You'll be there. You are always there, because this is what You keep on telling us in the Holy Book. I was totally desperate. Rage was eating my heart. I climbed up the stairs to you. With each step, hope within me grows. There is a way out for me here. And... there I was. Standing in front of a closed door. Speechless and shocked, I knocked with so much anger and rage. My strong feelings pushed words out of my mouth, or was it my heart?: "Open the door. Open the door. You have to listen to me. You have to prove to me that You care". A veiled woman came running down from the upper floor and said: "What do you want? The mosque is closed for women except on Fridays." In my mind I was screaming: "But I need to speak with Him RIGHT NOW. I used to talk to Him anywhere, but he stopped listening. I thought maybe if I came all the way down here, He'd know that I really need His help". But I said nothing.

That day hope deserted my heart, and life has been awful ever since. Something in me has no will to ask for anything. I just wanted to be left alone.