trigger warning: depression, suicidal thoughts, disordered eating
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Wet hair clung to Samira's neck as she lay in the tub, rubbing the redolent soap on her skin. Her puffy eyes speculated her bare body, its changes, its misery. Her hand fell over her lower tummy, caressing the empty cookie pouch.
A rosy smell lingered in the air; cloudy light seeped through the window. The tips of Samira's fingers were wrinkled; it'd been well over a half-hour since she filled the tub with scalding water, lying in it because the strength to stand no longer existed.
Don't leave. Stay.
Samira closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. She crossed her arms over her breasts, resting her head against the tub. The once steaming water was now lukewarm, but Samira felt her body stuck to where it was.
She inhaled languidly through her nose, her chest barely lifting. Utter emptiness dwelled in her heart, swelling with no one, nothing—not even herself. The love Samira wished to give herself was all gone. The undeserving, stubborn bitch that she was couldn't have any of it.
Heedlessly, Samira relaxed her legs. And she slid slowly.
She felt her backside touch the floor of the tub. The tepid water passed her collarbones. Samira parted her pale lips, attempting to liberate her voice—but her throat was numb from all that she wept.
Her body sank lower and lower, the water rippling. Samira's vision turned dark as all the water engulfed her body in the tub.
I can't do it anymore. I'm staying.
In one breath, Samira let go. Sonance swam in her ears as her head fell under the water.
It felt as though bricks piled up on Samira; she didn't hesitate to move.
It'll be over.
As bubbles left her mouth and ran to the surface, there was a heavy knock on the door.
"Samira, get out! You have to take me to soccer practice!"
At the sound of Elias' voice, Samira snapped her eyes open. The will that was long gone returned for mere seconds; she emerged from the water, nearly wheezing.
"Samira?" Elias stopped knocking. "Are you okay?"
Swallowing, Samira ran a hand over her wet face, eyes stinging: "Yeah, I'm fine."
Samira stood up, the droplets running down her body and back into the tub. She grabbed a warm towel, wrapping it around her body hastily.
Only if the knock came a few seconds later . . .
Fully dressed, Samira ran down the stairs to the kitchen. Awkwardness filled the room as she watched Wapa scroll through his phone with his glasses at the tip of his nose.
"Wapa?" Samira called quietly, mindlessly.
Discomfort crawled Samira's skin when Wapa put his phone down, getting up from the couch.
But before she could get her hopes up, Wapa walked right past her, as if she were dust.
For the last two weeks, he didn't bother acknowledging Samira's presence, nor did he pinch her cheek as an act of affection. No matter how much Wapa behaved this way, she was always so stung by it.
Samira felt neglected, like a child with no hand to eat from.
After dropping Elias off at soccer practice, Samira was back on the couch of Dr. Ayub's office. She ran her fingers through her now halfhearted waves. Dr. Ayub sat in front of Samira, giving Samira a few minutes to herself; Samira could feel Dr. Ayub's eyes burning holes into her.
"I think we should start checking your weight."
Samira looked up, creasing her eyebrows: "Why?"
"There's white in your fingernails." Dr. Ayub pointed at Samira's hands. "And your lips are pale. Have you been eating? Do you eat three full meals, Samira?"
Samira swallowed, shaking her head: "It's been hard."
"Alright, here." Dr. Ayub walked to a cabinet, taking a banana, a packet of crackers, and a water bottle. "Eat this. Please."
Her heart pulsated swiftly as she took the food from Dr. Ayub's hands. Samira felt her mouth run dry as her jaw remained locked.
"What?" Dr. Ayub sat back down in her chair.
Samira bit her lips: "I can't."
Dr. Ayub leaned close. "When do you typically eat?"
"When I don't—" Samira paused, looking at her jittery hands. "When I don't feel nervous."
A frown stretched across Dr. Ayub's lips.
"You don't eat when you're feeling anxious." Dr. Ayub took a note on her clipboard.
Samira blinked, caught off guard. Samira eluded eating—even if it was just a single bite—whenever something crawled her mind like an irritable ant. She recalled the somersaults in her stomach and the clamminess in her hands whenever she'd avoid having a whole meal.
"I think that's right."
"I had a feeling when I read your diagnosis from April. Your weight then definitely isn't the same, and that's not good for your anemia, either."
Bile rose to her throat, and her heart sank. Samira placed the items on the coffee table between them.
Dr. Ayub grabbed her phone, fingertips roaming the screen. A serene tone began to play.
"Why are you anxious, Samira?" Dr. Ayub asked softly, her voice calmer than usual.
"I don't know." Samira's tongue tingled as she spoke. "I'm feeling the same anxiety I did when I was in Liverpool. But it's so much worse."
"What's making you anxious right now?"
"I think it's my dad," Samira cried, tears damping the fabric of her clothes. "He's ignoring me. It's like I'm not there; I feel invisible. I feel like he's always mad at me, and I'm always disappointing him."
"Is that a fear of yours, Samira?" Dr. Ayub questioned. "Disappointing him?"
"It's always been." Samira nodded, sniffling. "Growing up, having to always do as he says, or else I'm a failure, or that I don't deserve . . . that I don't deserve love."
Samira batted her eyes, stunned by her own words; something clicked in her mind.
"What are you thinking about?" Dr. Ayub tilted her head, resting her cheek in the palm of her hand.
A childlike version of Samira was pictured in her head, alone in a dark room. Samira kutty, as Wapa called her. She thought of the number of trophies and certificates, all of the verses of the Quran she'd memorized, the help she gave to her parents, the hospitality to her relatives, and the maternal love she provided to her younger siblings.
For all that little Samira did, she put her hands up, searching for someone to hold her and tell her they were proud.
But there was no one. All of her smiles, hugs, help, accomplishments, effort, love—none could suffice.
"My childhood scarred me so much. I was taught to never ask for more . . . not even the bare minimum. I couldn't even cry because my feelings never mattered." Samira's shoulders shook as she sobbed in her palms. "But I was told to do so much for others. To let the ones I love ask for more until it kills me, even while knowing it'll never be enough for them. Especially my dad."
Dr. Ayub's eyes softened, not once looking away from Samira.
"Did your father emotionally abuse you as a child, Samira?" Dr. Ayub asked. "Did he force you to be the version of yourself that he wanted you to be?"
Samira gulped, rubbing her lifeless eyes: "Yes."
"Did you realize and acknowledge this before your ex or after?"
The defunct bulb in Samira's mind started to glow at Dr. Ayub's question. Heat rushed to Samira's cheeks, skin hot to the touch.
"It was after," Samira replied breathlessly. "It felt so hard to make him happy and so wrong for me to want more from him. I was scared of . . . of disappointing him. I always felt like I wasn't doing enough."
Eyebrows slouched, Dr. Ayub nodded while taking another note. She held a glower.
"Has your father ever told you that his abuse was love? That he yelled at you or pushed you hard because he loved you?"
All the heat in her complexion hastened away, goosebumps now emerging on Samira's skin. Her ears felt cold as a breeze whispered in her ear.
I love you. You love me, right?
Since when did love become a bribe?
"He did—he always did. And I would listen."
"What about your ex? Did he use his love—or even your love—against you?"
The oxygen vanished from Samira's lungs. Her mind was no longer in Dr. Ayub's office, but her old apartment in Liverpool. She looked in the mirror and saw baggy clothes, short, disheveled hair, and dark circles. Samira's battles were written all over her, but the most prominent one was her struggle to be the perfect girlfriend.
The voice that echoed in her head belonged to Harry—he was bellowing at Samira, screaming at her to do more for him. But she stared at his fierce green eyes, giving back nothing but utter silence. Her heart told her to remain patient, have sabr, but her brain didn't—it told her something she could not decipher.
Hurt writhed in Samira's chest like an overwhelming smoke. It spread everywhere, creating a chaotic whirlwind of emotions. Whoever Samira was then, and who she was now, was in absolute pain.
Nose tingling, her eyes filled with tears. The wave of heartache got higher and higher, crashing like a horrendous tsunami.
It all felt inevitable—she wailed aloud, screaming after being silenced for ages. Each cry was ragged as it escaped her lips; she held her hand against her chest as it rose and fell at a rapid pace.
"I'm having a heart attack," Samira panicked. " I can't breathe."
It felt as though no one was in the room with Samira. Her hands grabbed at anything that was near, but everything was so numb to the touch.
Hey. Breathe. Look at me.
Samira was on the floor, propped by her knees and palms. Breathe, breathe, breathe, the voice commanded delicately—but Samira couldn't—she panted profoundly, seeing nothing but darkness in her vision. Her teeth chattered, and her body trembled violently.
Samira, look at me. Breath. One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five. Try and count with me.
Soft hands held Samira's face, caressing her skin.
Again, one . . . two . . . three . . .
Finally, Samira's eyes opened. She followed the voice, breathing in and out gingerly.
She could see the room's neutral colors and hear a tranquil sound wandering the air. Dr. Ayub kneeled in front of Samira, kneading her shoulder in one hand and tilting her chin up with the other.
No more cries were absconded. Everything came back; Samira felt the wetness of her cheeks, the threads of her clothes, and the rigorous drubbing of her heart.
Her throat opened, giving in—Samira felt the air fill her chest, and she gasped aloud.
A tight grip lifted Samira back on her feet. Dr. Ayub grasped Samira gently, sitting her on the couch. Each breath she took was audible in her ears.
"Can you count to three for me, Samira?"
Samira nictitated, swallowing: "One, t-two . . . three."
Dr. Ayub adjusted her black-rimmed glasses, then lifted her pointer.
"Can you follow my finger and count at the same time?"
Dr. Ayub moved her finger to the left of Samira's vision, then her right. Samira's quivering irises followed, and she counted the numbers.
"Are you okay?" Dr. Ayub asked, rubbing Samira's arm. "I'm so sorry."
Squeezing her eyes shut, Samira shook her head at herself. There were no pieces for her to put together yet; the last few minutes couldn't be recalled.
"You had a panic attack, Samira. We were talking about how your father emotionally abused you as a child," Dr. Ayub replied. "And you thought to yourself for a second, then you started crying, and then you were on your knees hyperventilating."
It then all came back to her in a heartbeat. Samira sniffled, fiddling with the hem of her sweater.
"Are you okay to keep talking?" Dr. Ayub asked. "We can take a moment, maybe even end the session."
"No, no," Samira interjected, wiping her face. "I want to keep talking."
Dr. Ayub sighed, taking the bottle of water from the table.
"Will you drink this?"
Samira stared at the bottle for a moment, feeling the aridness of her tongue. She held it to her lips, downing half of its contents.
Dr. Ayub returned to her chair. "Can you do something for me, Samira?"
She nodded: "Yes?"
"Will you tell your father that you go to therapy after this session?"
Eyes fluttering, Samira shook her head at Dr. Ayub.
"No, no. I can't."
"You have to," Dr. Ayub countered, sharpness cutting through her tender voice. "You'll really grow once you do. You and I both know that's true."
Samira felt her stomach plummet: "And what if nothing happens?"
"It doesn't matter." Dr. Ayub took her glasses off. "Telling him how you feel and what you're doing is what's rewarding. Not how he feels or if he changes for you."
"Why?"
"Because then you'll know if he really cares about you or not. You did that with your ex once, and you learned he didn't care, but he eventually did when it was too late."
Dr. Ayub's words struck her; there wasn't a part of Samira that objected.
"You're right." Samira rubbed her wrists. "I'll . . . I'll tell him."
"Okay. What were you thinking about before you had the panic attack? Can you remember?"
"Yeah. I was . . . thinking about times where I fought with my ex, but it was mostly him yelling and me staying silent. I realized how I always took his shit because . . . because I always took it from my father."
"And what was different? Did this ever occur in any other relationship?"
With everyone Samira met and encountered, she always kept a list of red flags to look for. And she'd leave, immediately, once a sign was detected.
He's not worth it.
So why didn't Samira hear it when she was with Harry?
"I know the power I have to leave. I always did," Samira answered, shrugging. Her bones stopped trembling. "My first relationships didn't even hurt me that much. But what made it hard to leave my last boyfriend was that it was that I loved him. It's stupid how much I did. No matter what he did, I didn't see it as something wrong."
"You didn't see it as anything wrong because your father taught you that it was love."
Samira held her palm over her face, another surge of tears rushing to her eyes. A broken part inside her shrieked and wailed, its voice feeble and young, a voice she resonated with in unexplainable ways.
"I deserve so much better than this."
"I know you do, Samira. I think it's time you face your dad and stand up for yourself, just like you did with your ex."
Dr. Ayub's eyes softened, and she pursed her pink lips into a tender simper. Samira felt her breaths hinder, remembering words similar to what someone told her in Liverpool. She wished to fully understand what it even meant.
"But I tried. How am I going to do that if I'm always scared?"
"I know you did, Samira. But try harder, better than you did the last time. You'll always be scared unless you do this. Trust me," Dr. Ayub replied gently, fixing the red hijab around her head. "That's your challenge for this week."
After a nurse took note of Samira's weight, Dr. Ayub made Samira take the banana and crackers home with her, along with a log to help her track her food intake.
Samira sat alone in her car at the parking lot, leaning her head back against the seat. In front of her was a dusky sunset. An ache tiptoed on her skin, and the silence left her alone with evil thoughts.
You're a mess. You're a fuck up.
You're going to disappoint Wapa again. He's going to hate you.
You're never going to be good enough for anyone. No one is going to love you.
You're worthless. You're nothing.
Her hands sauntered to the handle of the door. Samira stepped out thoughtlessly, leaving her keys in the ignition.
Samira leaned her forehead against the window, crying as if that was all she knew how to do. The reflection was an ugly scene—her golden skin, sparkling eyes, and dimpled smile was nowhere to be found—just an unsightly, depressed bitch.
Samira so desperately yearned for the bubbly, beautiful version of herself she worked so hard to become all on her own. She built herself brick by brick, despite the many cuts and bruises that came along with it.
But with one wrecking ball of a person, Samira toppled to the ground.
She lifted her head, eyes peering over her car. Across from her was cars zooming right and left across the street. The breeze brushed against her skin, tempting her like a sin.
Take a walk. It'll be short.
Muscles slackened, Samira walked away from her car. Her hands fell to her sides. She could feel her heart hammer at a calm pace as her legs took her wherever they pleased.
A devilish smirk forced itself on Samira's lips as the tears fell from her eyes. The street came closer and closer, her frizzy locks dancing in the wind.
A few more steps.
Her feet left the black pavement of the parking lot, stepping onto the sidewalk. Every last breath of hers bounced off the walls of her mind, and the only other thing heard was the road that lured her to come close.
A little more. It'll be over.
Her sneakers were now sunken into the grass. Samira's dull eyes were half shut, staring right at the center of the street.
I know you're tired. Samira told herself. It's going to be over soon.
Each car passed in the blink of an eye; all the noise around her disappeared. Like a colorless, dead leaf, Samira no longer carried herself. She granted permission to the environment, allowing it to do whatever it wanted with her.
But suddenly, her knee buckled. All the raucous noise filled her ears again, and her vision inundated with black dots.
Gravity grabbed Samira off her feet, yanking her right into the ground. Her arm hit the floor first, and the side of her head collided with the cement. Pain spread throughout her skin like a wildfire; the moment she wanted to scream out in agony, her mouth glued shut.
In an instant, the world around Samira plummeted into darkness.