When in Pakistan, a Female is Better Dead

I keep struggling with whether or not I should write this down. Is there really a need? I’m not suffering anymore with what I did, so, is there really any point? I don’t know the answers to all these questions. What I do know is that a lot of people will read it. A lot of people from my social circle and some family members might too. Is it worth the risk? To be honest, I really don’t know anymore. Does this deserve the attention? I would have said no if I hadn’t known better, but now that I do, yes. It deserves all the attention it can get.

Yesterday, on 9th of January 2016, Saturday, I woke up and walked out of the sitting room. This is where I had slept instead of my own room because I had just finished my final exams and was too tired to clean up my room and sleep there. As I walked out my older brother was sitting in the living room, he shouted at me about how much my cats have started to stink in the house. How I don’t clean up after them and the smell is killing him and on and on he went.

Still half asleep, I continued on my way to the bathroom, did my business and came out and there he was standing in my face. He yelled at me again about not cleaning after the cats and how much their litter stinks. I told him I do it all the time. I was busy in my exams, I’ll do it, stop bothering me right after I wake up. But since he doesn’t understand simple Urdu, he kept on yapping. When he wouldn’t shut up, I glared at him, warned him to shut up or I’ll start talking too.

He glared back, with his face right in front of mine and said the same to me. I thought, what the hell, he’s asking for it. I yelled back about how much he smokes in the house. It suffocates us too but we never complain to him. And we never get impatient with him like he is being right now. His eyes grew bloodshot. He screamed at me to shut the fuck up. I asked why? at least my cats’ litter won’t kill you, your smoke is gonna kill us.

And I think I heard his vein pop in anger before he pushed me. I got defensive. I pointed my index finger at his face and warned him, “don’t you put a hand on me.” I was pretty serious about it. I had tolerated a lot of his bullshit, his beatings were the last I would put up with. But as I said before, he doesn’t understand simple Urdu, he pushed me back harder and punched me on my shoulder blade.

I hit back, mostly I just hit the air cause he was holding me to his arm’s length and his arms are longer than mine. So basically I kept hitting his bicep while he hit my shoulder and neck over and over. All the while my father was standing beside us, trying to stop him. Now my father is a strong sturdy man, to the point that he carried my 70 kg younger brother on his back when he got really sick and had to go to the hospital. The hitting continued with my father trying to separate us, all the while I kept screaming curses and every warning I had in me. I kept screaming how dare you hit me, how dare you hit me.

At the end he pushed me against the wall with his one hand gripping my neck and started to choke me. his hold was so tight that I finally realized why in all those movies people find it so difficult to get themselves free. He held my neck and choked it with such strength that my father kept pulling him but he failed to loosen his hold. My father punched my brother in the back around four times so that his hold would break but it didn’t. It wasn’t until my younger brother, who is 6 feet and 3 inches tall and weighs around 80 kg now, woke up and pushed my brother in the wall next to us that he let go of my neck.


This is the result of choking me. You can imagine what the punches would have done.

I ran to the kitchen as I got free and grabbed the first weapon I found, a knife. Sadly the knife had a round tip and could not be used to stab, I could only cut him with it. I flung it around blindly, crying and hyperventilating while my younger brother grabbed me trying to stop me. I hit him a few times then ran again in the kitchen and this time I grabbed the iron tongs to hit him with. I did the same with them and hit his arm a few time as he defended himself and my younger brother held me so I couldn’t reach him.

In the end, my father and younger brother had succeeded in separating us. My hyperventilation got worse and seeing this my pets started panicking. My caged chickens kept jumping and screaming so in that state and I went and covered their cage with a cloth so they wouldn’t be able to see me. I sat on my father’s bed trying to catch my breath, continuing to cry as well. My younger brother watched. After a while I asked him to bring me a glass of water, he did, I drank and as my breathing slowed a little, my father started.

He yelled how much the cats were causing the trouble. If it wasn’t for the cats this never would have happened. How I keep saying that I will give them away and keep stretching days. I was hyper and since him and I haven’t talked in eight years (while living under the same roof, yes), I screamed and started throwing things off the dressing table at the mirror. This was a sign for him to shut up since I couldn’t say it it to him directly. I threw a deodorant on the mirror, then threw the can of olive oil and then I threw the big steel alarm clock with all my force, and ended up breaking the mirror. It kind of felt nice seeing the mirror shatter and break in front of me, so did the silence that it brought from my father.

I got up, got to my room, continued talking how I would throw them all in jail. How they just watch what I do to them, how I’ll call the police if they ever land a hand on me. I was babbling to myself and you know what happened? My older brother shouted from the living room, “do you want me to give you the police number?” “let me give you a ride there”. He taunted me. I screamed at him again, swore at him and started to charge at him as my younger brother held me.

I started to get my stuff and wanted to pack, my father seeing this, kept telling my younger brother to put the stuff back. Since I kept going, my father toned it down a little. Started talking nicely that shit happens, families fight, you don’t leave home. Your home is your home, this is where you live, no one leaves, everyone makes mistakes, you forgive and move on. I kept scoffing on the inside.

When I knew they wouldn’t let me leave, I called my friends. Told them everything and asked them to come home and help me pack since my ‘family’ wasn’t letting me. They came instantly with bags and everything. It was three guys. Some of my closest friends, I opened the door to my house and they came to my room and started packing my stuff. You would think that seeing three big guys, my family would be intimidated. But my older brother started threatening them. He said that he would make them disappear. He would accuse them of robbery. He would tell everyone that his sister was involved with three guys at once and get all of them killed in the name of honor (including me).

I kept telling them not to listen to a word they say. Then my father started. Told them I didn’t like how you guys came inside without even greeting me as I’m you elder.


He was mad that my friends, in an attempt to save me, forgot to convey him salam (the Muslim greeting).

My younger brother (Samad) all this time had kept begging me not to leave the house. He is also the only one I talk to anyway. He tried talking to my friends. When the threats continued and my older brother (Sohaib) kept giving them death threats, I told them that these people won’t let me leave like this.


My older brother took this picture to threaten my friends with.

For around two hours my friends sat and listened to all the bullshit my family spewed about me. They showed their real face to them. They showed them how much they hated me. At one point they were mad that I’m cruel to my cats and I don’t give them food, then the next second they spilled the shopping bag that had cans after cans of cat food saying I waste a lot of money. They said that I waste money on cats, get them to the vet and waste 2000 rupees in one go when I don’t have money for my tuition fees (which by the way, I pay on my own).

They said that it was outrageous how I had cut my hair short in front of my paternal grandmother and aunt. How I wore jeans on shirts (the length of shirts being till my knees and sometimes even below them, with dupattas mind you). My father tried gaining sympathy by telling my friends how much he has paid for us. He said ‘I paid 55 thousand rupees for Samad so he could prepare for his university exam. I paid 1.5 lac rupees for Sohaib so he could give his CFA exam’ and I swear to the cosmic powers that I believe in, I was laughing on the inside when he said that.

My friends knew that my father doesn’t give me a single rupee to spend. One of my friends tried bringing up how my father didn’t pay my university fees. I tried to shut him up because honestly, I don’t care anymore.  My younger brother told him to carry on and so he did. He asked my father why he didn’t pay my fee. He answered that she dropped out and ran away from home after 3 semesters. Why would I invest on someone who is a waste to me?

Mind you, Samad paid 55 thousand rupees twice because he couldn’t pass the university exam in the first attempt. My three semesters that lasted over a period of a year and a half costed a maximum total of 50 thousand rupees since I studied in a government university, University of Karachi. I was enrolled in the Psychology program there and dropped out when I ran away from home to escape the abuse that kept going on.

I came back only because my paternal family from India was visiting and my younger brother had begged me to come home. He had promised me he would take care of things, he wouldn’t let me get hurt. But as he was sleeping yesterday when all of this happened, he couldn’t help me. My older brother and father kept fumbling around with things to accuse me of. When nothing worked, they played the religion card. They complained how I don’t pray or recite the Quran (*rolls eyes*). I intervened that this isn’t about that. This about an attempt to kill me over the smell from the cats’ litter box.

My brother proudly declared, why aren’t you dead if it was an attempt to kill you. How come you’re alive? Stop exaggerating. If it was an attempt to kill you, you wouldn’t be standing here. My father said the same, tried defending my brother by saying she talks back to her older brother, she hit him too. I punched him too. I even made him apologize. Samad has been crying in front of her begging her not to leave and look at her. The disgrace she is, it would have been better if she was dead.

I told them, hey, if you can’t deal with me, then let me go. My older brother goes, if this wasn’t Pakistan, I’d drop you off myself. But since we have to follow the customs, we have to tolerate you. I told my friends that my condition for staying here is that they would never hit me again. When we put this condition in front of them, my father goes, conflict happens between siblings, they fight even after they get married and have kids of their own. Fights happen. This will happen again. And listen studs, you can’t blackmail me in my own house. What are you gonna do? Call the cops? Who would they listen to? Me, the owner of the house or you, three random men who forcefully entered my house and sat alone with my daughter?

In the end, me and my friends decided that nothing can come out of this at this moment. So, they pretended to agree with whatever my family said. I agreed that I won’t leave the house again. But to be honest, I’m looking for a safe way to get out of here and live my life without fear.

Change and Me

Did you guys notice how WordPress changed itself? It bothered me at first and took me some time to adjust to that change, Moving the Tags and Categories section to the left hand, why?

While we’re talking about change, I changed my psychiatrist.

I went to a more expensive one who changed my medicines. Those medicines make me slow, hence, no update about my treatment. I stopped going to the last psychiatrist a few weeks ago.

Writing this down is difficult for me because of the medicines I’m taking. I’m slow and I’m making a lot of mistakes which would never happen before. I was actually becoming proud of how well I could type.

The medicines I’m taking now;

Prozac: Two capsules in a day. One in the morning and one before sleeping

Clonazepam: 2 mg before sleep

Remeron: 15 mg before sleep

They put me to sleep really quick. I am not even sure what I’m typing right now is either grammatically correct or not because my brain is really slow. I can’t comprehend things easily, I zone out, I take time in making decision (more than before), I’m making a lot of mistakes and I can’t multitask which is the hardest because my life is all about that.

Just in the above three lines I made around ten mistakes which are, repeating letters, missing letters, jumbling letters and spelling mistakes (eg: because).

My new psychiatrist wasn’t any good. He was totally against my therapy. I like therapy, I think. But he was against it. He was like he’ll do my therapy “life is beautiful. It is a gift from god. We should celebrate it’ and all that crap.

Honestly, nothing pisses me off more than bringing your religion in curing my disease. I know life is beautiful, I can’t experience it. That’s why I’m here to see you, jack ass!

I’ve never seen any therapists against medicines (there must be, ones who talk about mindfulness and meditation and shit) but I have seen psychiatrists against therapists. I don’t know what war they have going on.

But one thing he said that matches what my therapist said; I should be skeptical about my diagnosis. I should be skeptical whether I have BPD or not.

I don’t really care about that. What I care about is I’m hurting myself again. Which needs to stop. I’m getting suicidal again and without a reason. We all know that, right? There’s never a reason, just these tendencies.

Taking these medicines also gives me major headaches every day I wake up. I don’t know where to end this post so I’m just gonna leave saying that I’m thirsty and I need to get some water.

You’re not alone.

Describing Things

It stood tall, tall enough reach over the two storey building in front of our class. It was mighty yet miserable.

It tried reaching out to others of its kind with its wilderness from every direction. There were at least five others lacking the lonely aura that surrounded it all over and gave it a shadowy appearance. It tried hard to relate to the others but the denial in their appearance, as it was totally bare opposed to them, didn’t let it.

They were different, visibly enough their branches covered in green. But with no leaves on its branches, the huge tree stood tall; mighty yet miserable.

I own no copyrights to this picture.

I own no copyrights to this picture.

Elixir of Life

There’s the life saving,
The hope making,

There’s the lifting of spirit,
Loosening of all knots grit,

That hold a person back,
Make them lose hope, and snap

From all that’s happening,
In the world all around them

Oh, there’s so much to tell,
So little words to dwell

On. When there’s a heartbreak,
Or a soul that aches,

When there’s pain everywhere,
And no one who could hear

to what you have to say
a shoulder for your head, to lay

the beat kills the scratches
Lurking on your skin patches

The melody drifts the demons free
Aerate when you think and breathe

That’s what music is
It’s a gift, a dream.

It’s a prayer, a scream,
Held under, inside and beneath,

Armors of ignorance and denial,
Hidden deep behind a false smile,

It’s the shake and fist pump
That releases the anger and burns

It’s the groans and grunt,
With the beats of the drum.

That follows loud shouting and singing,
Along melody, life saving poison’s sinking.


So, I’m back on Prozac again.

My depression hit the highest note when I was off it. Right now I’m taking four medicines.

Prozac (Fluoxetine): One capsule of 20 mg every morning,

Lamotrigine: Two and a half tablets of 25 mg every night,

Aripiprazole: Half tablet of 5 mg every night,

Clonazepam: Half tablet of 2 mg every night.

….. Writing that down makes me sad. I’m on so many medicines and I’m still not stable.

I went into therapy, finally. My first session was around 3 weeks back and there was a break, between it and my second session, of two weeks. In those two weeks, I cried every day. Every single day, I couldn’t stop myself from crying. I opened up to my therapist and told her everything about myself.

In my first session, in which nothing happened but chapters of my past were opened and lain in front of me. In my second session, I was told my case has been transferred to some other therapist because the first one would be out-of-town and the second one would be dealing with me from now on.

The second one, I liked. I liked the first one too but she went out-of-town while I was hanging in the middle crying for my life every passing day. That was irresponsible of her. The second one made me tell her everything again. Asked me questions and I answered them as well as I could.

She also asked me why I wanna go to India and not come back. I wanna go there, visit my mum’s grave and I hope to die there. I haven’t planned my life after it or for it or before it.

I just wanna be there and then cease to exist.

She asked me; “Is it because your mother went to see her mother and never came back?”

and boom!!!

I had never! Ever! Thought of it that way!! Do you realize what our subconscious is capable of?

My mother went to see my grandmother and she passed away there and never came back. I had no idea that was what I wanted for myself. I mean, she left me speechless with her question.

She also insisted on my being alone in therapy instead of being with someone. She said it doesn’t have to be now, it doesn’t have to be in the next session. It can be when you’re comfortable, whether tomorrow or next year but I would like you to be alone in your sessions.

Therapy is fucking expensive but if she gives me a realization to handle after every session, I’m up for it. Also, I have to report to my psychiatrist on Monday.

Apart from that, last night I had a panic attack. I don’t know what initiated it. Most of the times my panic attacks are triggered but I don’t know what triggered it last night. And in that I kept wanting to hurt myself.

And I did.

I broke my streak of quitting from that. It was only light scratches, nothing much but I still did it. I had been clean for over a year and I broke down. That made sad too.

My therapist also said that I should be skeptical about my diagnosis of having BPD. She said, you only stayed in the hospital for the weekend, you can’t be diagnosed in that period. You needed to be observed more. you might have the symptoms of it but not necessarily a Borderline Personality Disorder.

So, yeah.


In the fast lane of rushing thoughts,

In attempts of not being mediocre,

You go and take the wrong way

You enjoy the adrenaline and the thrill

Running down your spine and through your veins

Through your cheeks and through your brain

The feeling is confidence and self-esteem

It’s everything you look up to

It’s everything you deemed

Impossible in your nights of dread

The time passes with flashing lights

Until you come to a halt, to that one step

That you tried to avoid and overcome,

That you tried to push under your carpet

Of denial and anger, and you cry

You cry so hard you pass the night

Then you pass another night

thinking of why you cried

And you cry again, harder this time

You keep at it until you’re out of breath

And into the abyss of numbness you fall

you feel yourself falling and you’re helpless

You drag your nails through the walls

But there’s nothing you can grab onto

And you despite your knowing it’s not a well

You fall

The clock ticks the other way,

As a reminder of how you were

Avoiding to be the mediocre lay

You were calling and pushing

Thinking and throwing

Covering and showing

Your bruises and mourning

Over the reflection on your past

And sticking to the hand of the clock

That won’t stop

And take you

Wherever it wants

You can be good and not

In the end you get

What you secretly want,

Wanted all that time.

It’s about Breasts

So, today I wore a tight shirt. It was tight enough to show me how fat my belly actually is and to show others how I have breasts (!!!!).

I go to school daily to teach (did I mention I’m an O-Level’s teacher?) (I had to brag, anyway,) and from where I live, the distance is about an hour-long. That’s around 15 songs on the way (rock genre).

I have to wait at the bus stop and then make a stop at a qingqi stop then go in one to my school. For those who don’t know what a qingqi is here in Pakistan, it’s a six seater auto rickshaw + motorbike morphed into one.

It can seat three people in the front, behind the rider and three behind the three already sitting. If you can get it

It can seat three people in the front, behind the rider and three behind the three already sitting.
If you can get it

When I was waiting at the bus stop, a bike rider and a car stopped to pick me up and I had to walk away. Apart from that, there were stares, constant stares, and not at my face but at my breasts, covered with my shirt but their shape revealed because of its tightness which was surprisingly round!!

Like Miley Cyrus here, she maybe prettier, but I can use her as an example (and no one can stop me)

I did not take this picture and hold no copyrights to it.

I did not take this picture and hold no copyrights to it.

And my shirt was long, it was till my knees. Now, the point of this post is that men stared at me and what I was disgusted to find was that not boys my age were staring at me but men, middle and old age fucking gross men were staring at my boobs. Their eyes constantly at my breasts made me feel like maybe I should cover up.

Maybe I should use a dupatta

I did not take this picture and hold no copyrights to it.

I did not take this picture and hold no copyrights to it.

Or maybe a scarf

I did not take this picture and hold no copyrights to it.

I did not take this picture and hold no copyrights to it.

Maybe a muffler,

I did not take this picture and hold no copyrights to it.

I did not take this picture and hold no copyrights to it.

or anything just to cover up my breasts a bit so I would stop feeling so embarrassed.

Than I asked myself, what am I embarrassed about? My breasts being stared at or the shameless people who were enforcing guilt onto me by their hungry stares?

It wasn’t my fault I was wearing a shirt long enough till my knees. It wasn’t my fault that hungry animals, cannibals in human skin were leering at me. It wasn’t my fault that they were staring at covered breasts but wreak havoc when they see a naked one in public being used for its purpose (breast-feeding). It wasn’t any of the women’s fault wearing burqas, head scarves, dupattas, shawls or whatever to try and stop the stares and the women who weren’t doing it weren’t at fault either.

Because the stares never stop. Whenever I’m wearing the requirements to avoid stares, I still get stared at, either it’s my face or hair or my feet. I swear people will stare at your feet or eyes if that’s the only thing revealed. If anything isn’t revealed they’d still stare at you because they know that inside this cover is a thing.

Yes, a thing they can eat, feed their eyes off.

So, next time you’re wearing something tight or revealing and are getting stared at, know that it’s their shit-faces’ fault who can’t control their eyes, not yours. You’re not doing anything wrong by wearing the clothes you like.


You’re so amazingly beautiful in everything you wear. You don’t look fat at all.