Bad Hair Day

Whenever I feel depressed I redecorate my room. I change the places and positions of everything. I bring my library down, arrange the book in an easy, reachable manner and then put the library back up (the library thing is so exhausting because I spend about 3-4 hours minimum trying to arrange the books). I change the way I put the bed sheets, change the hanging photos and pictures, change the places of my sofa and mirror. I even throw away my makeup and buy new items. In short, I erase everything that might remind me of my depressing situation.


That used to work so fine in the past. It made me feel utterly new and refreshed especially each year when I finished my exams. But when it stopped to be of any use lately, or at least of any great use as it used to be, I tried to search for new ways to change my mood again and make me happy even if it was for a short while. So, I wanted a new look.


First I started with my style of clothes. I got rid of the things that really don't make me feel comfortable (chiefly psychologically rather than physically - although I use the damn high heels that is about to break my back). Then I shifted to the most important thing that really worried me. My hairstyle. I mean It's been years and years since I had a nice haircut. And it was so long that I didn't want to let go of my beautiful long hair. I guess I finally took the decision in the spur of the moment. I just headed to the beauty salon on my way home from work. I asked the stylist to make my hair shorter in less than 10 minutes or I'll regret it all. I used some mask. I got pedicured. I had facial and hair masks. In the end, it was such a great feeling. You know? To feel like you are a different person. I look in the mirror and for a moment I don't recognize myself.

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.