I know how to tweeze and thread.
I'm an employee by day, but I do these things at night.
The troll I'm married to sits at home all day and doesn't make a penny to spend on the kids, and he gives me a beating every other day or so.

The heroine of my story, is a 34-year-old female.
Unmarried, beautiful, highly educated with a PhD, well-mannered, and open-minded.
Her major sin, which she will keep paying for throughout her life, is that she is over 30 and unmarried.

“You eat with your left hand?
That’s haram.
How could your parents let you do that?”

I’m happy I made Hassan furious in court.
He looked furious, ready to explode.
I was scared in court.
When the judge asked me why I wanted a divorce,
I said that I felt we were incompatible.
Hassan looks older than he is.
The trial was postponed,
But I’m happy that I made him furious today.
I was scared,
But I tried to ignore my fear.

I’m a guy.
I was ten years old at the time.
We were living in a family house,
Which meant I was oftentimes left alone with other family members.
They’d tell me they were just going to play with my toys,
But we never actually played with them.

My appearance is what’s stopping me from getting on stage.
I’ve even considered cosmetic surgery.
I’m learning script writing so that I could play my own self on stage.
I’ll write a play that talks about people like me.
I’ll find someone like me to play the leading role.

I gave birth to my first child.
I used to hear about postpartum depression.
I thought it happened due to the changing body.
But when I experienced it myself, I found out that there are more reasons behind it.
It felt as if I was battling a monster.
mental health, depression, postpartum depression, motherhood, social pressure, social stigma

My sister visited me at home two weeks ago.
She told me I was harming her and her son.
And that if anything bad happened to our mother, it’d be my fault.
She told me my whole life was wrong and unnatural.

“Hajj, where do you want to go?
I’ll take you.”
“Help me cross the street,
To my house.”
“What’s your name?”
I told him my name.
“What’s your father’s name?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Are you not Muslim?”

I was released by the 4th night.
I went home, carrying the clothes and stuff I had with me in jail.
I knocked on my family’s door.
I needed to go to the bathroom. I wanted to shower and all that.
prison, social stigma, marriage