The Depression Began After the Girls Had

8/14/2019 The Depression Began After the Girls Had

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Leila

The depression began after the girls had afalling out. I mean they went at each otherfor months, with the willfulness, andconviction only teen-age girls possess. Fornight after night they would talk to oneanother into the wee hours of night,gossiping, imploring, and exciting oneanother to no end. A condition which gotevery parent annoyed. And then they, one

by one put an end to it. This was after all aPersian Gulf Emirate. Where a girl is nolonger just a girl at 16, but a possible bride,and if gossip dominates her life then whatelse, well they just werent allowed to runwild on their cell phones. The parents hadto exercise some control, perhaps they feltguilty too, for the luxury of things like

camera phones,-1-


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ipods, ipads, etc. Though the western-educated parents totally snubbed and killedthe idea of the girls having boys, men ontheir mind, the condition went on furtive,and out of their control. So, everything hadan edge of secrecy, which excited the girlsto no end.

And of course, the girls went on attractingthe same light any young women soughtand found. Though the friends wouldntadmit to the part of seeking it, they baskedin the luminous aura that surrounded them-all Arab girls are full of tales when young,tales of brides having had enduredhardships and existing despite. Like most

mysterious flowers in some brazen garden,they looked out this way to the world, likedark waters, trapped in its deeper feelings,in its juries and channels. So, it wasntquite a surprise when Leila got depression.She had to run some way, and the only safeway was solitude, like some undeservedfate- and this grabbed a hold of her, andparked her in a space called to heramazement: dysphoria. She researched iton the web, the sleeplessness, the absenceof that feeling that just had moved out of-2-


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her body, like a child. She felt the way hermother must have felt after giving her birth.The solemnity of parting. The absence ofaccumulated fetal joy. She felt like anabsent mother. Her friends had longabandoned her and moved on. She couldnt

quite tolerate their constant talk of boysanyways, she was secretly more ambitiousthan just boys her age. Although she didntthink herself above them, to her boys werethese half-human, half-fish things. Beingsshe couldnt quite figure out. So she ranthis way, that way and finally sought thesolitude of every secret being, and the daily

hatefulness that came with it, the exclusion.She knew in this way, she thrived bydrowning, in the most foreign seas- and inthe hugeness of this vasty depth- she metwith the thoughts of death. This scared hermore than anything else. The death openingdoors and paths, death slithering overwalls. She felt as though she must choosethis distant rest. Over the thoughts ofdemolished purity. Over her thoughts ofmore than just boys. Her friends werecontent with their shadowy existence while-3-


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she labored for something more intenseand vital. The womanhood she sought wasnot her friends type of womanhood. Shewanted to be at risk of losing everything,everything. While to her friends boys were

ornaments, like new toys almost, what shewanted was someone with whom she couldrise above the silence, someone withwhose light she could love, love, until thenight collapse. But thats only a dream, isntit? And so the depression wrapped itselfaround her like a tired new skin, she felt ata certain loss, no sleep, no appetite, and

her parents began to notice it.Both parents were dentists. And theshadow of their little girl, desperately risingto some mysterious womanhood, scaredthem both. They had had so little time withher as a child. And now suddenly thedetached brazen of this adulthoodapproaching! They felt it. They knew it, Andthey saw her solitude as a symptom, like atoothache, or an infection almost. Theywondered aloud: where all her friends hadgone.-4-


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And Leila was beautiful, in this other-worldly way, she had green eyes, whichlooked hazy, inordinate like itd beencovered in something dear like kisses allher life, and long dazzling hair, that fellaround her like waterfall. Her eyes madelarge pools of light, made everything about

her look green, green as a village square.Green flesh, green boughs.Men, when she was out of home, at

Sharjahs Al Asra market, or any of theSous, the traditional markets, stared at herin this appraising quizzical way, no onecould tell she was only 16. It often made heruncomfortable.

Removed from her pack of fiends shelooked both vulnerable and out of reach.And depression made her look wistful,desirable in that unconnected fashionableway. Looking as though she couldnt careless, and that was a sought after feature.After all, thats how the models looked likeon large laconic black and white posters.Detached. Thin. Unapproachable.She began to write extensively in her diary.The pages of which stayed removed,unopened to others. Her mother wasSpanish, her father Syrian, they had been-5-


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married for 18 years. And they didnt quiteknow much about depression. The weretrained for more concrete signs of trouble:A toothache. The fire. Accidents.But Leila thought of death deliciously, of

an end to her unwonted space. She wasboth beautiful and intelligent beyond her

years. Her early blooming rather promisedas though it would stay bloomed, andsomehow unopened . But there was too-something hurried about her. Somethinghurried and alien, almost as though burningwith a crinkled spark, and over the territory,in between explosion and sunset, betweenlight and dark, and that this haste, spark

would finish her somehow.She was hard to get close to for her peers.

Even the men in the markets, the boysaround her all-girl school, kept their eyeson her, but averted soon, weary of theonward waves in her unassuring eyes. Shewas desirable, but out of reach. Men felt afear around her, a felt fear fallen, likeflocking birds, something unpredictable.Their eyes roamed around her, but evadedher, when their gaze was retuned with acertain impression that said:-9-


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what do you want of me? Do you think youdeserve me? And the answer for the manwas always :no. They really couldnt hold apromise open for her. Not quite yet.Shajrah, was a modern city of 800,000 souls

overlooking the Persian gulf. It was a cityfamous for its many museums and,universities. Its malls, and traditional Sous,and its crystal plaza, its modernarchitecture, the vast Al Jazireh park. Themany ambitions of its keepers. Everythingwas designed tall and out of reach, itlooked as though it too wanted a quick end

to the nomadic seclusion that had seen itthrough ages and ages before, but nowsuddenly the oil had given its tribes a widerberth. Like suddenly being thrown onto astage, and youve been neither a performer,nor an audience. There Was somethingawkward about all the construction cranes.And the madcap height and shape ofeverything built. But everything created,was new and amazing too, and she likedhanging around everything at once, the oldand new. Everything took her out of herself.

After school each day, shed usually take-10-


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the bus downtown and walk for an hour atleast, to put her best face on before goinghome. She wore the universal schoolgirls

clothes of the upward mobile city, thestainless blouse and drooping socks andkilts, without having to wear a scarf tocover her hair. Though the Emirate was anIslamic state, they pretty much left it to thefamilies to decide if the hair of the womenshould be covered or not. She hatedcovering her hair, most of her ex-friends

were the same way. They all attended thisall-English school called Wesgreen. It wason the west side and close to their upper-class neighborhoods. She had had theadvantage of having had learned bothArabic, and Spanish, early on- so Englishwas really both a dance and a breeze, andher diary was all in English. It really didntmatter one language over the other. Butshe clearly liked the ease she had withEnglish, it was such a pliant language, nofeminine or masculine verbs to subjugateoneself to, just that disinterest in gendermade the language more available to her.She wrote very well in it,

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almost artistic. Her teachers had beenproud of her. Her essays were superior. Butsince the depression had hit, her voice had

honked and stammered.There was too much in her that was notwords, too many confusions and untidythings. She barely smiled or laughed andwhen shed laugh at her younger brothersantics-shed startle herself by the sound ofher laughter-the enormous sound of itexploding so close, like a flock of birds

running off a field.She no longer even liked the way shelooked. It was as if mirrors everywhere hadturned on her, her large green eyesunnoticeable, the colors of her olive skinwhich she shared with her Cuban -bornmother-had become something alien, likean alien skin had been superimposed on it.Something dull and not quite so fresh asbefore. She almost always day- dreamed,her head was filled with them, the sort thatcombines various songs from the radio and-12-


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blends them with some fresh faced actorsface, and made it run wild in her, in sometidy story that would always leave herstranger than before, less complete, moreworn. She announced to her parents that

she were to become a writer. They took nonotice, she were to become a doctor andthat was that. The writer bit woulddisappear by itself. They were certain.Drs. Vazir was a practical woman, but when

she looked at her daughter, she saw thekind of beauty that ran off with itself. Shesaw no need for more ornaments, and

writing to her was a form of ornament. Butshe had noticed the partial decline of herdaughters good looks and decorum. Whatmother wouldnt notice it? The girl clearlycould live off her wits and good looks, butshe wasnt. What, with being fluent in 3languages, and all her other gifts, herstraight As, things that really mattered.They clearly had produced a super girl. Sheunderstood that much. And Leila had had agood disposition, for whatever that wasworth and all the sturdy housekeeping andcooking skills Drs.Vazir could part with.-13-


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own condition, and perhaps writing project:A sort of novel set in some obscure,

unmentioned city, but rife with depression,suicidal ideations, drugs, and everythingelse. But first she had to do more researchon what prevented her from acceptance,even joy.She had been taught that upon learning theroots of anything, she could rise above itall. A comforting thought that now drove

her onward. Learned from the optimisticEnglish teachers at her school, taught-taught by her concrete and orderedparents.The warm air made her nose itch. Herbooks kept sliding off her knees. Mashedbits of paper protruded from all of them,and these absently frayed and crumpled asshe looked out the window. The bus joltedand wheezed and stank a bit. She liked thebus. She liked going downtown, liked someof the forbidden neighborhoods that swamalongside the windows. The modern spires,the used car lots, the emigration road, theview of the Persian gulf. All this suggested

some fiercer , more important world. Fordifferent reasons she liked the tidy smallshops further down the line, their lights


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blooming warmly in the blue air. She would

have liked to live everywhere at once. Ithardly felt fair that you had to be yourselffor the entirety of your life. As it was shealmost missed her stop.Once she was several blocks away fromthe university, she began to feel a quietdread. To walk to a crowded place like theirlibrary, where she was unknown!

Depression had made her even moreuncertain, and less of a blooming adult.Once she was at the library seated, shestarted to read her journal. It was just to seeherself as she was then, to understand whyshe had come so far:21st november, 2010...

"Normality" is not an appropriate word todescribe me. "Normal" is what i aspire tobe... i am having theses unbeatable,relentless thoughts which are driving me tothe verge of insanity. Thoughts of bloodand death haunt me everyday...pain,weakness, broken sleep... I can't do this

anymore, waterfalls that don't stop. Life isunbearable. I want this to end no matterwhat it takes!! but... I'm scared, i will be


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judged... no one will even consider takingme seriously. i just know it... in fact i almostfeel guilty.... wondering if exposing thisstate of mine will burden the people around

me... my hallucinations WILL Burdeneveryone around me!! i dont want to be thecause of worry & pain... i have great troublesleeping & i feel that... THIS ISN'T ME!!!THIS IS NOT ME!!! i am hurt.. * the mosttorturing part of all this is... I DON'T EVENKNOW WHY!!!

I DON'T EVEN KNOW HOW!!

Anger takes a hold of me, sadnesspossesses me.. but never, never does agenuine happy thought cross this patheticbrain of mine.. LIFE IS UN BEARABLE...solitude is strange.. i like it..i don't... i put on fake faces for teachers,friends & everyone around me.. i need totell someone.. but no one needs to worryabout me... so.. i I've decided to just keepmy mouth shut...

She closed the diary shut. As if the passerbys could read it out loud. She went to look

for books on depression. There wereaplenty. She grabbed half-a-dozen, and satdown to read.


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Within minutes she was lost in their

content. Her symptoms stood out like abruise, and turned yellow. They becametangible as her parents world, somethingshe was more adapt at. They were nolonger just dire question marks, now theyhad names and definitions, Hersleeplessness stood out, her lack of energynow had a name: lethargic. The absence of

joy had a new name, and the time frame:yes she had been depressed for more thansix months. That was called: majordepression.This was all too startling for her. Somethingmenacing and evil had gotten a hold of her,she was sure.A student came and sat across her, all thetables seemed filled. She knew withoutlooking up that he was male. Somethingabout his scents and movements, the sharpquick movements of a male. She wouldntlook up from her deep involvement in thebooks. She didnt even belong here in thislibrary. But she felt his stare, like some kind

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of dare, and cautiously looked up and hewas a bearded young man, and their eyes

fell on each other, they both had greeneyes, and this startled both of them. And forone second there was a mysteriousexchange of something in between them.Something stirred within her, somethingunknown, and not recognizable. Like hehad carried a black basket, and it had fallenon her chest, and it literary hurt her

shoulders, she could feel his breaths-theyseemed to come with the paces ofsomething measured and controlled. Shewouldnt know. But she continued to keepher head down, though she no longerunderstood what she read. His shadowgrew larger every moment, breathing, eveninhaling her scents with his-19-


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quick sharp senses.She never had found herself pretty, thedepression had made it worst, and she had

been able to tell he was handsome- and hissecret attention, like the sound of hisbreaths frightened her. He was amazed byhow controlled she was, she had beenstartled at first but had gotten over itquickly. He was amazed at how diffidentlyshe tried to ignore his existence though hesat directly across her. He thought she

could be one of those disciplined, sturdystudents, the ones who can feigndisinterest at will. Those who puzzled himmost. She seemed almost like a derelictfugitive vessel far away from him. Thisalien coldness had become familiar to him.He was a foreigner here. But how was itthat hed never seen her on campus, hesurely would have noticed the shape of herdrooping head, the way it weighed herdown, the mane of hair, her heavy pumping-20-


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chest, and the way she averted all stares.He found it all too alien and cruel. Hewanted to sit elsewhere but he couldnt,something about her being , still and

unmoving, prevented him. If only he couldbreak through some way. But faithful as apronounced sentence she stayed pale,removed, her lips moving as though sheread each line in the book to herself. Herchest heaving back and forth, he knew hisbreaths reached her. What was she readinganyways? He took a look, there was no use

pretending, shed stolen his attention like abandit. So, she was a psychology studentfrom what he could see. He raised his voice

just slightly not to frighten her, butdetermined to break through the falseness,the faade of things: are you in psychologydepartment, because Im taking a coursethere and never seen you?A cold smile submerged.-21-


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No, Im not a student here. Im just doingresearch-I guess. She said shakily, unsureof herself. Ands she couldnt possibly keepher eyes averted. Their eyes met again, withhesitation.Im Ali.He extended his hand for her to shake. His

Arabic wasnt quite that good yet.Academic but not quite conversational. So,he relied on gestures and pureimpressions. She understood and said:You arent from here?No, Im an exchange student-Im from Iran-from across the Persian gulf.You know we dont call it Persian gulf

here- we are taught to call it The Arabicgulf, or just the Gulf.It wouldnt matter-its been called thePersian gulf forever. He was slightly hurt-why would she bring that up?She sensed his disapproval-he was aPersian-she felt guilty.I didnt mean meI still call it the Persiangulf. She meant it.He was raised to feeling bashful, grateful. Areluctant smile twisted his lips, and slopedhis eyes in an awkward way. He knew shedacted in pure kindness. She was Arab. Hednever known an Arab woman. He waspuzzled by them. By women as a whole.

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The way the story had always played in hishead: The woman of his dreams would bevery special. How special, he wasntcertain. Shed be swift in accepting him.Without prejudice. Without pre-conditions.Without the usual hesitations, and tensions.

He secretly detested any form of ritual. It allreminded him of the mating dances of cats,and bees and what not. They were base,crude.He felt he knew enough about love. Thathed learned it in books. And that wassomehow enough. It was vast. That sort ofknowledge was. The literatures effects on

him- had been remarkable. It made himgreet almost everything with the same easewith which, one turns the pages of a book.It made it believable that experiences werereachable- accessible as a book, a novel.Love was no mystery to him this way.And hed sensed the sadness in her. Withthe keenness of an outsider, an alien. Theway her brows tightened themselves in oneline above her eyes. The impressions ofconcentration which seemed so difficult forher. It was nearly impossible not to feel akinship with her.-23-


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It all made him bolder than hed ever been.So where do you go to school?I am at Wesgreen-its n all girl school!She secretly meant this as an apology, forher clothes, and her awkwardness. Though

she wasnt quite aware of it: shed hate it ifhis attention disappeared-went away like afleeting glimpse. She felt a need for thisinquisitiveness in him, itd becomesomething tangible to her, more so than allthe books in front of her. What if thisstrange man, a foreigner could save herfrom herself? Distract her enough, to bring

her out of herself. What if? It was al amatter of survival now, wasnt it?You really look too old to be in highschool. He meant that as an observation.Something contemplated, slightlyapologetic for his interest in her: Was sheonly in high-school?Oh, thank you! She burst out. That meantthe whole world to her. As though she hadbecome transparent. Something dainty,innate had escaped her, like a fist opened. Itboth delighted and confused her.How old are you then? He asked quickly.I am 16.But Ill be in college in a year-Ive kind of

been running. She felt diffident about it.-24-


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But she didnt mind showing off a bit. Itmeant they werent too far apart in intellect.She hoped. He seemed so much older than

just boys her age.In her day-dreams, when alone in her room,while riding the bus- he could become a

complete story in her head, complete withbreaths, scents and existence. Somethingshe could feed her thoughts with. Thelibrary, the silence of all objects aroundthem. Why so many books made so littlesound? This curtain of oh, such mysteriousfeelings. I just turned 21. He paused.

She wished he was older.He wished he could hold her.Theres a coffee shop by the sciencebuilding-not too far-do you want to have teaor coffee with me?yes. Thats all she could say. She wouldrepeat it over and over again. If she thoughthe hadnt heard him. Over and over like abird.On the way to student coffee shop-theembedded silence still enclosed them like abubble-and made the traffic, and the noiseof people around them, alien, impermeable.They couldnt hold hands, but thepossibility excited them both.

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They wander off the path-onto the grassyfields. The sun dances on every blade, youcan almost smell the roots of everything.Do you want to sit here?Hes stopped under a tree. The fragmentsof shadow fall on her, as if from a hand.Its irresistible here! She agrees almost asif hed asked her that.

She sits down on the grass.Its really fortunate that someones thoughtof landscaping here-isnt it? He looks outtowards the Gulf. Everything reminds himof water.You study architecture!? She says withfirmness.How did you know?

I soon have to take the bus back home-myparents! She says without any meaning.Ill walk you to the bus stop. He pauses.It will be fun. Explaining for both of themShe agrees, wordless.Her profile, on the edges of everything,summons all his forces. The male, and thefemale in him.And everything talks to the currents of theearth. The cosmic thing.They remain there, immobile, silent.Then its time to go.Youll be back again?Yes, tomorrow!Library, same time?

No here, under this same tree.-26-


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The Depression Began After the Girls Had