I needed to clear out some of those slavey pics in my profile…so I replaced them with these:




New Looks. Inside and Out.

December 15, 2008

I love Maya Angelou.  I love that feeling of getting off your ass and get something done she gives me.  That lift in my heart.  That sense of self pride.  All from the turn of a few words.  And not terribly complex ones.  


I think pretty much daily I chew on and consider the depths of what I’ve gotten myself into.  I have been entrusted with an incredible responsibility, and an incredible, in those terms power.  I am protective of the man I work for, even if I don’t always agree with him.   I am protective of each and every person remotely involved in the project, and will without thinking, go to the mat for them.  And I am protective of those who were left behind in the tempest.  It’s incredibly relieving to be in a position to do so.


I enjoy taking time each day to figure out what I am wearing, how I will make it unique, interesting, and mine.  In a short time, I have developed a sort of trademark appearance, and am easily recognized by my shawls and scarves, my hoods and veils.  My long robes and soft little slippers.  When I had to logic out the wardrobe of my freedom, it no longer made sense to me to leave my hair uncovered.  I am accustomed to Hijab, and if modesty is my aim, covering my hair makes sense.


I enjoy not being questioned overly much, to being able to push people away.  To live through the grief I still wear, and will wear for some time.  To make new connections.  And to restore old ones on an incredibly profoud level that both terrifies and entrances me.


I do not enjoy being as lonely as I am.  It’s to easy to go from being in the center of someone’s world to being outside it.  There is a grief process, I acknowledge that.  And I have hit the Anger/acceptance phase.  I accept that I am not only no longer his slave, but simply not a slave at all.  I accept that I will never be that open, that unguarded with another person in this environment.  And it pisses me off.  That part of me died, literally bled out and died, and I will, I know, never be as cherished, as valued as I was because I will never be able to open up like that agin. And don’t give me “never say never.”  I’m not stupid.  People damage you.  They leave their marks on you, and no matter how hard you try, you can never recapture what it was like before you were so irrevocably scarred.


Though I took it upon myself, I do not enjoy cleaning up after him.  To see him getting to play while I have to work.  To be the one correcting his mistakes without even a semblence of him taking responsibility for it, and stepping in, like a man to correct what went wrong.


Which leads into that odd conversation.  Well, more a series of conversations.  A friend of his, that I didn’t know very well apparently heard that not only was I no longer is, but that I was free.  And out of the blue he IMed me to complain aboutthe fact that every slave he knew worth her salt was on her feet.  He baffled me.  As I said, I hardly knew him.  Why was I suddenly worth my salt?  I wasn’t worth enough to keep.  And there, in that conversation he prodded at the corpse. He touched it, felt that it was cold and backed away.  then came back.  It was still cold, then he came back.  He propositioned me, and I shot him down.  Honestly, and as elegantly as I could.  But he cut it off then.  So I snapped at him.  Hard.  


He came back.


He didn’t prod the corpse, didn’t proposition me.  Just shared a thought he had had, a thing he had to do, which he thought I would appreciate.  And I did.  And during the course of that conversation this came out:

Him: well, this is kind of like being beat at a test of knowledge by a mentally challenged person

it just doesn’t make sense

I mean, you are way out of His league

not even close

And you know what? He’s right.  It pisses us off when we’re in a relationship when one is so clearly superior to the other, and yet it’s the inferior one who does the discard.  There’s a huge part of me that rails ‘You stupid prick, you can’t have that power.”  But, honestly, it’s up to me to take it away.  So.  I am.  Still pisses me off though.

I need a new graphic

December 1, 2008

I’m not Nadia now.

This isn’t Nadia’s Sakinah.

So I need a new graphic.  I’ll work on one obviously but coming up with it is…a challenge.

How do I reflect this change of self?  

It’s not just a matter of becoming free.  It’s not just recovering or closing off.  It’s ten thousand things.

It’s cleaning up after him.  What he’s done to others, what he’s done to me.

It’s setting to rights what went so horribly wrong.

It’s setting my own value, making my choices.

It’s survival and thrival.  I do not just exist.  I can not just exist.  I either am or I am not.  Simply existing,  I can’t do.

It’s finding peace.

My Sakinah.