How To Write On Without Permission

First written on August 13, 2012 after taking my son, Hamzah back to my homeland, London, England.

During a recent trip to London, many of my friends and family asked how Hamzah and I were coping with the loss of his father, Bilal. They also asked why I had stopped posting chapters on my blog/memoir, “Me, Myself & I.” I couldn't claim that I'd rid myself of narcissism, because they would’ve seen straight through my seasonably appropriate ensemble, which was complimented by the pop of color in my shoes and on my nails! They were also friends with me on facebook, and had probably seen my daily posts and pictures of me, my son, and my cat!

The truth is, I stopped writing because I've been feeling conflicted about the chapters that talk about my marriage and divorce to Bilal. The questions I’d ask my shrink - if I could afford one - would be: 

- Have I lost the right to share the hardship and pain that I had felt and expressed in previous years?
- When someone close to you, (who you had a complicated relationship with) passes away, must you forget and/or erase the hurtful memories?
- Will deleting the chapters in my blog absolve me from my apparent guilt?"

I still don’t know the answers posed to my imaginary shrink, but I do know that there's another reason why I'm unable to write a new chapter. Since Bilal’s passing, I have now experienced something in my life that I cannot turn into a humorous tale of triumph. For the first time ever, something isn’t funny. It never will be.

I don’t want to dishonor the memory of Bilal. He had many good qualities that I took for granted, and don’t believe anyone should be remembered badly after they die. After all, I am raising our son, and Hamzah shouldn't know about all of the problems we experienced when we were married or divorced.

I'm feeling a tremendous amount of guilt for not having realized Bilal’s own pain and suffering during his life, and after re-reading chapters in my blog pertaining to our marriage/divorce, I’m quite disgusted at my self-absorbed musings. But then again, it was my blog - Meaning, my interpretation of events. It was my story. And it is called, “Me, Myself & I” so at least I was following my own plot! However, I realize now, that I should've spent a bit more time on "myself" before jumping to conclusions and thinking I had it all figured out in my late 20's!

To my surprise, Bilal searched for it on the internet, and let me know that he wasn't amused by my candid stories or by my interpretation of events. I suggested that he write his own account of our marriage, and that we could compare notes. A few weeks later, he texted me that he wasn't up for the challenge, even though I told him we could go on the Today show as the first divorced couple to have co-written a book. He laughed, not realizing that I was serious!

When I first started writing about my divorce, I felt I had to play the same role that I'd played in court. I built a case for myself, (with the help of an attorney) to prove why I was the victim, and why Bilal was the guilty party. I continued to do this years later, to remind myself and others why I had chosen to leave and in hopes of justifying my actions. When you are the first woman in your family to get divorced, you find yourself constantly defending yourself against every distant relative who has the nerve to ask, "Why did you leave, behti?"

It wasn’t until I found out that Bilal was sick, 3 years after our divorce, that I finally saw him as the victim and myself as the jerk. If anything, that realization proved that I still loved him, because I sincerely cared for him and wanted him to get better. However, it also didn’t take long for me to lose my patience with him again, and go back to defending the position I had taken in court; Plaintiff.
With everything else I have experienced, (and if you’ve read the pre-2010 chapters of my blog, you may remember some of the details of my life, which may be TMI for you, but a necessary cathartic purge for me!) I always managed to transform pain or hardship into a lesson learned, or an “Aha moment!”

Whether it was being forced into an arranged marriage at the age of 16, or finding a lump and having to get tested for cancer when I was 24, and thinking, ‘don’t you have to have breasts to get breast cancer?’ Or having your first child and feeling clueless as a parent, then becoming an even more clueless single parent, or discovering that one of my ovaries just up and left when I was in my early 30’s!

I can find humor in all of those scenarios. Maybe not at the precise moment that the doctor is performing the excruciatingly painful examination, but after I'm dressed and she hands me my diagnosis: "Missing right ovary."

Some of the questions for the nurse included:
- Should we do a Google search instead? I can always find what I’m looking for when I Google it!
- What do you mean, ‘It’s not there!’ Can an ovary just up and leave like that, without giving me 3 weeks’ notice?  How unprofessional!
- Or, (last one) Did it get ticked off, because I only used it once to have a child?


I actually wasn't trying to be funny there, I thought organs could self-destruct if you stopped using them. Wouldn’t that explain why some men are so heartless? (She shoots, she scores!)
You get my point though, right? Humor (and a cup of chai/tea, if you read Chapter 3) can make everything more bearable. (Unless you're not a fan of tea or corny humor!)

Turning a life-threatening, false alarm diagnoses into a humorous tale is easy for me, but there's no way to create humor out of the loss of the man who was once my husband and the father of our only child. Gone. Forever.

December 18, 2010 and the weeks, months and years that followed have been a challenge, to say the least. Bilal’s death will always be a memory full of pain, deep sadness, regret, disappointment, horror, shock, outrage and disbelief.

Once, when I was struggling to write and feeling depressed, a friend of mine once posed the question, ‘Things aren’t always funny, are they?’ He was right.

But I’ve always used humor as my measuring stick for progress. If I could laugh about it, I was over it.

I know that it gets easier, and that you have to find a way to live through the pain, the deep sorrow, the anger, the regrets, etc. For the most part, I’d say I’m slowly learning how to do that. After being a stay at home mother since Hamzah was born, I started working my first office job only 2 months after Bilal's death. My previous two-year position as a part-time news correspondent for The York Daily Record wasn’t considered “a real job” since covering stories for a small county isn’t as demanding as covering NBC's Nightly News.

The point is, I am moving forward. I moved out of my parents’ home. (Where I'd moved back in after my divorce.) Hamzah and I are now living alone for the first time in my life. I volunteer for various nonprofits, I was elected to the Board of Directors for a local arts organization. I also fulfilled a long-time desire by adopting a cat from the SPCA.

By the grace of God, Hamzah was granted a scholarship (financial aid) to a private school, and is thriving. Alhumdulillah.

Instead of blogging about my life, I went back to facebooking about it! I like to share Hamzah’s latest funny comments, and post more pictures than anyone cares to see of my new favorite child, Rocco - my cat! I’ll gladly tell you when I’ve had a leak in my bathroom and even show you the gaping hole in the ceiling. It’s not breaking news, but it's what's happening in the world of Me, Myself & I, and it might explain why I feel so unfulfilled!
I always felt better after completing a chapter in my journal or blog. Once it was down on paper (or in a word document) I felt a sense of accomplishment. I thought I could close each chapter of my life as I shared it with others.

Now, I feel I have to reevaluate my life pre-December 18, 2010 and even question my authority to share it.

I’m stuck, because I don’t know if I have the right to talk about Bilal anymore. I often write to him in a separate journal. I tell him what Hamzah's up to, I share my sorrow and guilt with him. I thank him for appearing in my dreams. It all helps a little bit. However, I'm not sure if I should pursue my desire to publish a book with all the details of my life, because he was a part of it. It's on hold until I am granted permission to discuss those memories, thoughts and discoveries that pertain to Bilal. But whose permission should I be seeking?

If I didn’t take the time to understand Bilal when he was alive, will I ever understand how he died? And most importantly, is it too late?