Help! I’ve Run Out of Spoons

According to my mom (and many people like her), I am not suffering from depression or osteoarthritis – oh no, I’m just lazy. Granted, I am very lazy, but I do take my responsibilities seriously. I can take failing a class because I didn’t turn in an assignment (because I was too busy farming on DragonFable), but I won’t miss doing a chore.

It’s just that my energy levels fluctuate daily: one day I’ve got enough energy to do anything and everything under the sun in the 16 hours that I am awake; the next, I get out of bed and whelp, half of my total for the day has just been used up (my body’s like “Haha sucks for you, loser”). On days like the latter you’ll catch me taking power naps, cutting corners in chores, sitting in bed staring into space, staying in my room, avoiding guests, not talking to my siblings, getting mad at the smallest annoyances, and not in my mom’s room listening to her complaints.

But according to Mama, who has a Masters in Physics and a PhD in Momology, I am not physically and mentally ill to such an extent that I can’t function – illnesses which I have been medically certified for, and which I take medicine for (depression: self-diagnosed at 9, certified at 16; osteoathritis: self-diagnosed at 17, certified at 19).

So here I am, literally (literally) not able to enjoy the things I like, let alone the things I don’t like, because my body is heavy, my joints are throbbing with pain (unlike the achey kind of pain, which is a backdrop to my life, the stabby kind only happens every so often when my depression acts up) and my head is about to explode.

But yeah, sure, “You’re just lazy.”


Lazy Perfectionist

For someone who is so incredibly lazy that I contemplated not taking my medicines today – just because I had to walk 10 steps to the upstairs fridge for water to wash them down – I am also incredibly pedantic about other things. My room has a layer of dust on everything, but God help the person who decides to borrow something and doesn’t put it back exactly where they found it. My closet? A mess. My bookshelf? Sorted by height, according to content.

Case currently in point: I just spent the last half hour organising my Goodreads account so that each shelf only included books with a 3+ rating. Why? So that the recommendations are more tailored to my taste.

Fear and Silence

It’s pretty obvious that one of the tactics used to silence women’s voices – women’s dissent with the way things are, whether the criticism is valid or invalid – is fear. Fear of physical and verbal violence – rape, murder, abuse, assault, harassment, kidnapping; fear of rejection – from family, friends, boys, society in general; and fear of dismissal – not being taken seriously. And all of this contributes to women literally fearing to speak, especially when combined with the praise that the stoic, self-sacrificing, and calm women get (think Hazrat Khadija – there’s a reason she’s so exalted by a specific type of men) and the promise of the afterlife (because this argument has the added benefit of painting you as a non-believer and traitor, and as such a lesser being, if you argue).

And then men have the audacity to wonder why we don’t always speak up.

Woes of an Underling

The head of the editing team of my department newspaper, which I work for, just called me out in public saying that I edited an interview wrong. =)

That apparently it has “many overlooked grammatical mistakes” and she “had to go through it twice to make sure (she) didn’t miss anything”. =))

And then she advised us not to “ignore that green and red underlines that are fired by Word!” =)))

But when I checked my version again, it had 3 spelling mistakes (which were totally my fault and I admit to them) and 0 other grammatical mistakes. =))))

And when I checked her version, there were no spelling mistakes but 15 other grammatical mistakes, and I’m only halfway through. =)))))

But she’s my boss and so I can’t deliver a smack-down detailing all the errors in her version in the same condescending tone that she used. =))))))

I love editing! =)))))))

Of Webeteering and Bloggery

Introductions aren’t really my thing. I never know where to begin. Or how. Should I use a witty one-liner? Tell a joke? A catchy quote? Or skip the introduction altogether and dive right into the conversation, hoping that I don’t appear too awkward? Decisions, decisions.

My name’s Hiba. I’m currently studying Computer and Information Systems Engineering at NEDUET, in the second semester of my second year. And although I have quite an interest in my major, at the same time I wish to be able to pursue a side career in writing – as an editor, or a freelancer, or a novelist.

“Why create a blog, Hiba?” you may be asking (probability: low). I’ll tell you anyway. If I may say, I, ahem, do have a modest Internet presence. Nowhere near enough to brag about, but for the product I have to sell (poems, prose, snarky commentary and passionate discussions), not bad. However, said Internet presence is anonymous. Sure, I have a moniker. Can you tell it’s little ole me through it, and vice versa? No, and I’d like to keep it that way.

Call me a coward if you will, but it’s more the fact that some tasks are better done without having a face attached to them, without the consequences and repercussions which come with the rebellion against the norm. I like to think of it as being my superhero name. (Superpowers: procrastination, extraordinary arrogance, the ability to put people to sleep with my too-short or too-long essays.)

Ergo, when the time arose to list a website officially, like during the admissions process or when telling friends I write, I hit a snag: how to reconcile the person I am online with the person I am offline?

Simply, I don’t. It is a personal restriction, which I may or may not lift eventually. For now, however, welcome to my blog. Here you’ll find personal entries, essays, poems, opinions, recommendations, etc; whatever catches my fancy (being of fluctuating temperament, you’ll find that my interests vary drastically as well).