The Art of Leaving

It took me a while to get going today, but two hours into my medical exams, I finally got a room laughing out loud. No medication, no caffeine, no food, and sleep-deprived, yet I managed. I don’t know where I keep coming up with that “all my charm is from my medication” nonsense. It was a pretty solid joke, too.

I’m back in the waiting room, waiting for my next x-ray, and the longer I wait, the more my mind fills with junk. An older woman is next to me, maybe in her sixties, but she is full of life. In what reality would I envy her? When it was time for her imaging, she struggled a little to get up. I jumped up and handed her her cane. She laughed it off and went with the radiologist.

When she returned to the waiting area, she sat down, took out her phone, and called her friend. They reminisced about the old days, and she kept laughing out loud. She laughed with her whole body, even stomping her feet when something was worth more than a booming laugh.

She interrupted her friend to answer another call from her daughter. Her tone changed, but she kept the same intensity. She asked her daughter if she had eaten yet, then launched into a 15-minute conversation about their favorite fast-food restaurants.

I could hear both sides of the conversation because the phone was on speaker. Their words replaced the junk in my brain, fighting for valuable real estate. I wondered if I could ever get to that point, where I would be in a hospital waiting room, waiting to see what new disease was wrecking my body, unable to quickly stand up, yet still full of vigor and echoing laughter.

She must be twice my age, and we both spent four hours of our lives doing this exam, yet the four hours passed very differently for us. While her laugh filled the room, I was wondering what it would feel like to take a potato peeler to my skin, peeling it off layer by layer.

A friend died last week. I claim an abundance of empathy, yet I can only write narcissistically. My entire collection of writing, every letter I jotted down, every verb, noun, and adjective, was an attempt to reflect myself, my perceptions, and no one else. My vocabulary, while occasionally vast and at other times severely limited, lacks any semblance of care for others.

A friend died last week. I sent him a voice note yesterday and told him that I was excited to be back in Riyadh to see him. When I woke up today, I saw a message that he had passed recently, with no further explanation. I wasn’t sure if it was his work phone or personal number or who responded. At first, I thought it was a sick prank from one of our insane coworkers because we always mess with each other without boundaries.

A friend died last week. He was a good man. I won’t pretend he was perfect—he had flaws like the rest of us—but he was a kind soul. I wonder if an unbiased observer or his loved ones would claim the same. During my first week, when I was an anxious mess, just starting consulting and unsure of my capabilities, he was the first person to sit with me and explain the entire project. Consultants are notorious for never having enough time, yet he dedicated a portion of his to ensure I had the right footing in this cutthroat industry. I owe him, among others, my success in the internship.

A friend died last week. Yet, as I write this and see the first sentence, I realize I somehow managed to make it about me. A good man is dead. He had just resigned and got a better job, was getting serious with his girlfriend, loved civilization, and was waiting for the new one to come out. His universe was unrelated to my own, and I played no significant role in his life.

A friend died last week. But I can only think of things in my own context. I first thought that he or someone else from the office was playing a prank. The second thought was that I would never get to hang out with him when I returned and hear his stories. The third was that he would no longer provide me with the professional guidance and support I had grown used to. Lastly, I wondered, since he was the same age as me, if it was something self-inflicted and if I could have been a better friend to him.

A friend died last week. Yet, reading back on what I just instinctively wrote, every paragraph is filled with “me” and “I.” His entire being evaporates in an instant; his soul leaves our plane of existence, and I can only think about how this will alter my life. Not his family, not his dad who lost a son, not his girlfriend who lost a partner, not his best friend who I instantly called to check if it was a prank or reality.

A friend died last week. And the extra irony-cherry on top is that while processing how I made it about me, I took it even further into my circle in the Venn diagram, to the point where his circle no longer touches mine. By extension, the self-hate grows into a lush forest that I planted, which I cannot escape.

A friend died last week. Yet I cannot love, suffer, hate, fear, dream, or even grieve for others unless there is a “me” involved.

The ground beckons, the open window calls to me. Even without advanced measuring devices, the distance between me and the earth below is precise and calculable. If calculated, this distance would be precisely the exact distance between my dreams and my reality. Though I may not reach terminal velocity, the fall will undoubtedly be lethal.

I wonder if I’ll hit my head first or manage some flips like an Olympic athlete, albeit with a drastically different reward. There’s a patch of soil below, with plants that might soften the impact. Perhaps my blood would nourish them, a worthier recipient than I ever was.

The window is open now; the wind nudges me inward. Why does the wind blow into the window and exit through the apartment’s front door? It could be pulling me outwards instead, yet it refuses to do so. It does not matter; other forces are at work.

Every deafening thought, every faded memory, every distant hope, and every whimsical fear clamor solemnly behind me. I feel a gentle nudge on my right shoulder, a forceful shove on my lower back, an insistent palm on my thigh, and a sharp kick against my hip. For once, they have all gathered here to encourage me.

My head is already out the window. I swore to everyone I would never do this, but is it really me if I’m being pushed? I struggled a little to show that I tried—one last performance before I faded from memory. I’ve never had a soul beyond the characters I performed for others. No core, no depth, no essence, just a hollow vessel surrounded by props of different shapes and sizes.

Most of my body is finally out of the window; I am untethered. I am finally free of my limitations—they can only motivate me, but will not follow me where I need to go. I can feel the wind beneath my wings, but it can no longer control me. As I look around, I wonder: why is it always a beautiful day when you have to leave the city?

My mother, she is concerned about me. She says the medication I’m on is rotting my mind.

My mother, she is worried about me. She says my therapist is filling my head with ideas.

My mother, she is afraid for me. She says I will go to hell because of how I live my life.

My mother, she is distressed over me. She says the books I read are the reason I have strayed away God.

My mother, she loves me, but does not accept me.

Perhaps there is more to life

There are warm fires

And cold hearts

Echoing laughs

And sad songs

Moments of peace

And others filled with strife

We torture our minds

With dreams we are yet to acquire

There are the paths we follow

They all lead to the pyre

There are the passions we chase

That burn us like fire

In sorrow, desire

In love, grief

In passion, obsession

The bitter and sweet

The falling and rise

Make the sublime tapestry

Of our lives

I’ve never seen the Hudson so unbothered. I can’t see a single boat moving on the water. I can hear a little bit of some car horns in the distance, and the highway sounds from the HH, but otherwise it’s quite beautiful here in the morning. The sounds of the city never really bothered me anyway. I love writing as a normal human being, as myself. I’m no longer writing to be a “good” writer, whatever that means. I’m writing for a bunch of different reasons, but mainly to keep track of my chaotic mind.

I adore listening to the city when I’m overwhelmed. It’s quite a strange thing for someone with ADHD, but the chaos of the city really calms me down. The sounds of the city have different weights depending on the season or time of day. My windows don’t open all the way, because of safety reasons, I guess meaning suicide, which is a funny way to design anything. It’s a sign of the times, when you have to consider that people will want to jump out of the window, rather than live in the apartment.

Even though the windows don’t fully open, if I stand really close, and close my eyes, I can hear everything all at once. There is a comfort in knowing that the world is still moving, regardless of your intentions for the day. The city is often described as ruthless, but I don’t know if that’s true. It really doesn’t care if you’re anxious or about to frantically fully open that window with your $6 screwdriver tip you bought from Amazon. I used to carry cat food with me in Riyadh, now I carry a little oatmeal for the pigeons because of a wobbly pigeon I met. If you try to decipher the sounds of the city, if you genuinely attempt to hear and distinguish them, then you’ll find an exorbitant amount of kindness wafting through the ether along with the unfortunate smell of sewage.

I was once walking down the street heading to the 59th street station trying to catch the B train. I always tried to time my pace to be efficient and not stand too long at intersections. It annoyed my friends significantly, but kept me preoccupied. I couldn’t get the timing just right that day and got delayed a bit getting to the station, the train was arriving and I started to shuffle. I went down the stairs and saw the train, a few feet away, about to leave. There was a guy standing inside the car right by the door, he saw me pacing, and he rotated his foot slightly to keep the door from closing. What astonished me the most was how subtle it was. He didn’t really mind if I saw him trying to help me or not, there weren’t any theatrics or words exchanged, no thank yous and welcomes, and if I hadn’t glimpsed down by chance, that gesture would have disappeared forever.

Finally the first boat is here, and the water is disturbed for the day, but there will be tomorrow.

She had been waiting for this moment for over two decades to finally reunite with him. The hug was warm enough to wake up years’ worth of emotions. They separated after a long and silent embrace. Did you feel my love? She asked solemnly.

For 22 years, my love for you has been a constant, with every breath, through the rise of every tide and every waning moon. I have loved you through happy tears and cries of laughter. I have loved you while awake and as I slept. I have loved you with every letter I wrote that was never delivered, with every word I uttered.

With every waking moment, I tried to fill the world with as much of your love as I possibly could. There were moments when the love was so painful that I could not recognize myself. Every time I glance at my reflection, I pause to ask if I’m a horrible person.

Every moment of my day was filled with thoughts of you. As I drove to work, as I stood in front of my students, I wondered about you. I wondered if you were still out there, if you still held a place for me in your heart, and if you remembered the shape of my face. My heart has been beating in agony, solely in the hope of seeing you again.

Leaving was the hardest decision I’ve ever made. It was a necessary choice, but it tore me apart. The day I walked away, I left a piece of my soul with you. And with every sunset that passes without you, I feel more of my soul slipping away —fragments I can’t seem to find or reclaim. I’m not a monster; I’m a just a broken being. An empty vessel. A vase that has never known the sweet scent of flowers.

So tell me, have you felt it through all these years? Have you felt my love?

I’m sitting here in my apartment wondering when will my rescue arrive. I look over my phone. I open WhatsApp. I glimpse at all the unopened messages I received. I feel like a disappointment for not answering them. I wonder what they think about me. Do they know of my love for them? Do they know I care? Do they know how debilitating it feels like when I cannot reply and tell them that I love them and I miss them? I look at all the ignored messages I sent. It’s now the other way around. Do they miss me? Do they care that I messaged them asking for companionship? Things spiral from there.

I close my phone and I look around and try to absorb the present. I consciously try to activate my senses. To listen to what is around me. Yet within a few seconds the thoughts take over again. I ask myself who I can message right now. Who can come to my rescue? I just need someone to tell me I am a good person. That things will be fine. That I’m catastrophizing again. They don’t have to believe it themselves. They could be lying and I would know it, but I couldn’t care less as long as I hear it from someone else. I believe I’m a rational person, unless the rationality needs to be extended to encompass myself. As soon as I request the same standards I hold others to, the rationality is dismantled. The system immediately feels corrupt if it includes me. Call it a conflict of interests.

I attempt to interrupt my thoughts again. My therapist tried to introduce me to Socratic questioning. I point out logical fallacies in defense. I try to introduce counter-evidence. I call my memories as witnesses to the stand. I object. I offer rebuttals and refutals. I object. I object. I object. But the proceedings move forward. The prosecution does not rest. Soon, the noise from the courtroom of my mind becomes intensely overwhelming.
I pace the apartment for a few minutes. I open my phone again and immediately close it again. Physical pain adds another layer of complexity. My tooth aches. My lower back flaring up. My right foot numb. My stomach upset. I ask myself what does my body need right now. Food? Water? Am I dehydrated? Am I sleep deprived? I shake my knee uncontrollably as I sit at the desk, staring silently at my to-do list. I’m two weeks from graduation, and I still haven’t submitted my final papers.

I shift to another approach. Lets aim for some encouragement. I write a letter to myself. I scribble aggressively on a scrap piece of paper with my pen. You’re strong I say. You are capable. You have been through worse and succeeded. I shower myself with positivity and encouragement, with a mixture of hope sprinkled on top. I glance my reflection in the laptop monitor. “I despise you” I murmur to the person I see in front of me. Simply seeing the person responsible for my suffering evokes a repugnant rot in my throat. The illusion of self worth is shattered.

As I fail to defend myself, I attempt instead to escape. I look around the apartment. What vice should I participate in today? How can I cloud my mind and put a stop to the noise? If I can’t fight my way out perhaps flight is the better option. I scour the kitchen. Coffee will make me focus, herbal tea might calm me down, but that bottle of vodka has a better chance to dampen the noise. I contemplate mixing it with something. I decide it’s too much effort and pour myself a shot. I gulp it down. In a few seconds, the prosecutor decides to take a recess.

Creatures of sublime wickedness are parading all over your body. They whisper to you. They tempt you to heed their words. They supply you with a torrent of information, with varying levels of accuracy and logic. You tell yourself that their strength is born out of your weakness; if you don’t listen, they will soon shrivel up and die. The sheer weight of the creatures binds you to the spot. You tell yourself that you only have to believe a little longer, but their whispers grow ever louder.

The wicked creatures start with the skin. They crawl right under the surface. You may feel a slight burn around your body—a minuscule but persistent itch that you just cannot seem to scratch. It starts to grow. Ember turns into flame. The creatures ask you politely to reconsider, and for a second, you actually do. They begin to simmer in anger as you pretend everything is completely fine. Their grip tightens over your being. They create a layer between you and the outer world, permanently separating you from the chaos. In return, they demand a sacrifice, but you ran out of offerings.

The wicked creatures take over, as they brute force their way into your mind with a cocktail of emotions in hand. You pretend you had a say in the matter; that it was you who made the decision, but at this point, it really makes no difference to anyone. The flood gates are open now: the anger, the ecstasy, the fear, confusion, hatred, anger, anger, anger, and the despair.

The wicked creatures now sit on the throne of your mind, yet the whispers continue. You have fed them every part of your soul, but they remain insatiable. They seek to deprive you of organs you have always placed your faith in. This is not your body now; it is for them to claim. Your last wall of defense crumbles, yet they do not take everything; they leave enough of you behind to understand the magnitude of the devastation.

The wicked creatures show no remorse, for they are not wicked at all. 

There is a saying that goes “kill them with kindness.” The idea is to overwhelm an aggressive attack with a flood of kindness that disarms the assailant. The truth is that kindness does kill. It is a weapon equally dangerous as a firearm or a crowbar in the hands of a deranged person. A person wielding kindness is no less dangerous. The twist is, that kindness only kills the actor, and not the recipient.

This world was not built to accommodate kindness. It corrupts the kindest of souls. A kind soul is left with two options: To leave the world that does not want to abide by the amount of kindness they have to offer. The other option is to abandon their kindness and accept the cruelness of reality.

Many wanted to rid the world of cruelty and suffering. And many have died in vein with their souls depleted and broken. There is a common misconception that the world has good and evil, light and dark, kindness and cruelty. Yet the default state of the world is cruelty. It is the essence of life and the soul. Kindness is merely a mutation, a freak accident, a glitch in the natural order. To go against cruelty, to support kindness, to try to alter the way of life is an insult to the divine order of the universe.

To choose kindness is to embrace a solitary path, a journey marked by disillusionment and sorrow. In this grotesque existence, where the world appears not only indifferent to kindness but actively hostile to it, those who harbor a benevolent soul wander like ghosts, estranged and misunderstood. They are a lone tree in the middle of a storm, yet they can solely blame themselves for defying the bewitching song of kindness. It promises salvation and redemption to the broken, and a mirage of a better world.

When you offer kindness to others, you offer pieces of a finite resource that you have, you offer pieces of your soul. No matter how small these pieces, even if microscopic, they remain prone to depletion. And one day, months, or years later, you find yourself scraping for the remnants of your soul.

Yet to abandon kindness is to succumb to the existential dread, to become one with the shadowy figures. To accept the cruelty is deliverance from the illusions of kindness. To be liberated from the suffocating burden of guilt. To grant oneself the sinister liberty of exploitation and selfishness. Cruelness and exploitation is how the mightiest empires have been built, kindness is how the noblest of mankind have fallen.