I need to talk about my little #adventure yesterday. I really wanted to see the city to explore and see if I’d feel comfortable #downtown. I’m from #smallville #ohio, also known a Xenia, OH. I’m the smallest of small town girls. I’m the girl next door. Up until recently I was extremely shy. So when I say I wasn’t ready for my encounters yesterday…Lord! ….. I WAS NOT READY. I have never ever ever saw myself as even remotely attractive, cute, pretty or anything of the sort. Don’t get me wrong, i love me some me, but like I said, I’m just the girl next door type.. So when I started to get hit on and leered at to the point that I wanted to jump into the river it was all new. And a little uncomfortable. Being looked at the way I look at mac and cheese is, well, #gross. Especially being a #muslimah and someone who #covers. Im used to creeps sliding in my inbox, but that.. y’all 😣😣😣😣 #ICantEven.
Hey Sweeties! Happy Saturday!
This is actually an outfit from last week. I had to run a few errands so literally throw something on, lol. I really don’t have many clothes since I moved to Michigan so I have to be creative with what I have. Literally all the pieces I have on are extremely old. The skirt is actually too big because I bought it when I was much heavier(proof I just how very old it is). I’d go thrift shopping but I don’t even have the funds for that yet! But soon in sha allah.
Since I had the cardigan belted to keep it closed as I only had a very fitted camisole underneath, I put a vest on over it before I left my apartment for the sake of modesty.
Hello Sweeties! Happy Saturday
Well, after finally figuring out how to separate my blog posts so that my style posts don’t get mixed up with my everyday, we can finally get this started. 🙂
When I’m not working, it’s pretty much all dresses and skirts for me. Though I don’t consider myself girly, I’m extremely, unapologetically “feminine” (whatever that means). I honestly feel like there is nothing I can’t do in a dress. I’ve worked out in them, rode bikes in them, planted gardens in them. I’m unstoppable in dress! Now, I’m not anti-pants or anything like that and I do wear them on occassion(like to work). But I honestly, I barely own any. Seriously, aside from work pants, I have… two pair… no lie. Pants really don’t represent my style and well, I’m short and finding pants (not jeans, hate jeans) in my lenght is darn near impossible.
My outfit of.. Wednesday. The main piece was the black floral polkadotted dress.
For the first look, I the dress with a coral toned cardigan, the belt that came woth the dress, a bright yellow scarf/hijab, and open toed heels. If you’re feeling especially colorful.
For the second, more toned down look, I switched to a pair fow white slip on sneakers, threw on a soft black jacket and a black scarf/hijab for a girly, edgy vibe.
For the last look, I dropped the sneakers and replaced them with black, knee high boots. I added a long sleeve black t-shirt, lost the belt for added modesty and threw on that vibrant orange print scarf because I was feeling daring and wanted to mix patterns. I also threw on the black, elbow length gloves because the sleeves to the t-shirt didn’t quite reach my wrists and added some colorful bangles for fun.
I’ve been doing a lot of reflecting lately, I mean, a whole lot; thinking about who I am and how I got to be this way. I think of my childhood, my upbringing. My parents. I’m a pretty open person except when it comes to my parents, mostly because, despite everything, I don’t want to disrespect them. For years I’ve played with the idea of writing a memoir, but it wouldn’t be real, it wouldn’t be accurate and raw, unless I spoke my whole truth. And that included opening up about my parents. So I always decided against it. My mother would never forgive me if people knew of the skeletons in our family closet; that the picture wasn’t/isn’t quite as pretty as it seems.
Blogging here and there about certain things seems safe enough.
Today I’m going to talk about yet another thing I don’t like discuss. My difficulty with speaking. Let me must tell you, having people constantly saying, “huh?” “What?” “I don’t understand you.” is not fun. It’s pretty awful actually. When I was really young, I didnt really notice it, spent pretty much the entire first twelve years of my life only around my immediate family members. And as a result, I didn’t much have a sense of self, no real sense of autonomy. I wasn’t much aware of myself as an individual, which included the way I looked and the way I spoke. At least not when around my siblings, who were almost exclusively to whome I spoke. And around everyone else, I was shy, painfully shy.
I wish I’d gotten a speech therapist as a child. But I guess mother saying, “Quit mubbling!” Was all the therapy she thought I needed.
Oh, let me back up for a second for those who don’t actually know my life! I was homeschooled till I was 12. When I was 12, my family moved to Trinidad (another story for another day) and thats when everything changed. That’s when I started gaining self awareness, and that’s when I noticed I had a problem. At first I thought my shyness and social anxiety played a part. Making it impossibly difficult to get words out. But when I did get them out, it was oftentimes gibberish, or so slurred it was unintelligible. And when classmates and teachers would repeatedly not understand me, I told myself that it was my American accent that they couldn’t understand. But the thing is, I couldn’t understand what was coming out of my mouth either. I knew what I intended to say, but wouldn’t come out right. There is a term so lovingly referred to as marble mouth, as in, sounding as if you’re speaking with a mouth full of marbles. That’s me!
Whenever I try to slow down and speak more clearly, I stutter. When I record myself on snapchat or instagram, sometimes I have to record myself at least three times until I’m understandable. I know there are a lot of people out there who would say it’s not that bad or that i just talk too fast. But for me, it is that bad. It makes be feel stupid, make me feel like a moron. It’s ironic isn’t it, that I have so much to say but faulter in my speech. . .
Ok Sweeties! Today is Wednesday and I’m embarking on something new. Or at least, attempting to. First thing you should know about me is, I abhor fashion. I hate the idea that this or that is what people “should be wearing”. I hate trends, being “in style” etc. Now, I absolutely love clothes as a form of SELF expression. Expressing yourself, your personality, not what people suggest you express.
All that being said, the thing I need to express, to the entire world, every single day I step out of my home is: I am a proud Muslim woman. I’m a covered girl. My dress not only expresses my personality but my religious devotion. Now there are a ton of Hijabi fashionistas or Hijabistas and modest fashion and bloggers are all the rage these days. Muslimah is the new black. And as a firm anti trend follower, while respect what they do, It wasn’t for me and I was not about to be just another hijabi beauty blogger.
I’ve noticed a newly developed need. The thing about modest fashion, is that the term modest is open to interpretation and there are varying degrees what is considered modest. But the most popular bloggers and icons in the modest movement don’t dress like me. They don’t cover as much. This is in no way a judgement, it’s an observation. They are out there slaying the game and in many ways are helping the way this country (The US) views Muslim women.
I’m the laid back chick who never has her face beat, eyebrows are never on fleek, I do not now, nor will I ever rock a turban. I don’t expose my neck, any portion of my hair or arms, I avoid tight clothes and I hate pants, lol. But I haven’t seen any one out there that represents girls & women like me. Now I’m not someone who ever needed representation, I never needed to see myself on television, in magazines. But I realize, most people do. Most people crave seeing their likeness in the media for validation. Hence the need I previously mentioned. I have nieces. My baby girls. 8 months to 18 years old. And I’m starting this new “fashion/style” blog for them. For the covered girls.
Upon reflections of my upbringing,
It truly is no surprise
That the first man I ever “loved”
Would have been mentally abusive
In every sense of the term.
I don’t talk about it, not to anyone. I’ve only ever told really told one person about some of the horrors I endured for an entire year of my early twenties. My friends at the time didn’t know half, a fourth even, of the mind games, guilt trips and manipulation that man put me through. I couldn’t tell my sister, I was too ashamed. Truth is, I didn’t have anyone I trusted enough to talk about it to. I felt isolated and alone. And anyone who knows anything about abuse of any kind, the abused almost always feels that way; alone, with no way out. And unless you’ve actually been in that situation, you will never, and mean never, understand what it’s like. You’ll never understand the conditions that led to a victim being a victim, and staying a victim.
I had no confidence, no self esteem, no self worth. I had no idea what a functional relationship was supposed to look like, feel like. I had no clue how a man was supposed to treat a woman, or what it was to be truly respected or cared for.
In the beginning, he made me feel special, desired, and loved. I fell hard. Things moved at a lightening fast pace, and almost immediately we talking about our future and marriage. But it didn’t take long for things to start going south. He would ignore my messages, disappear for weeks at a time, delete me on social media then pop back up saying he missed me, and that he loved me and was “going though stuff”. And the few times I mustered up enough courage to stand up for myself, he’d twist things around and I’d end up being the one apologizing (he was exceptionally good at that). Apologizing for not being understanding enough. Apologizing for not being a good enough woman, saying I’d do better. I distinctly remember begging him not to leave me. It sounds crazy doesn’t it?
Intellectually, I knew the way he was treating me wasn’t right, but at that point in my life, I’d only ever known a man to make his woman miserable, so in a sense, it was almost normal. I would say things to myself like, “who am I to think I deserve a perfect man? I’m certainly not perfect, so I should take the bad with the good.” Or, “Once we’re married, it’ll all be ok.” I was determined to be dedicated, unwavering in my devotion to him because he had a hard life and I was going to stand by my man. Be a “ride or die”. It all sounds so foolish now, but I’m older, smarter and more importantly, I now possess the self worth that I simply didn’t have back then. But I can remember exactly what it felt like. Feeling like, if I ever lost him, no other man would possibly ever love me. It was my one chance at a happy ending, I couldn’t let my pride get in the way of that. It’s sad to think that as neglected, rejected and sometimes despised I felt by him, somewhere in my mind, I guess somehow still believed he loved me. Or maybe I didn’t believe he loved me. It’s interesting the way your brain finds a way to justify the unjustifiable so you can sleep at night.
I remember how exhausting it was pretending everything was ok, I couldn’t endure being called silly and ridiculous by friends for not ending things, I couldn’t have my sister being disappointed in me, I needed her support more than anything and if she knew of all the nights I cried myself to sleep because of how badly he treated me, she would never accept him. So the worse it got, the more distant I became to others. If he and I were on one of our many “off again” periods, I didn’t say a word, I knew we’d be back on again and all would be right.
I’m not shy about the fact that I have daddy issues, mommy issues, attachment issues, trust issues, abandonment issues and pair all that with my self image issues, I was literally the perfect storm, so to speak, for abuse.
I was a girl desperate for a man’s love while feeling utterly undeserving of it.
My mother still thinks just carelessly cast him aside like I’m some kind of heart breaker and that we were such a cute couple and that I should have married him. Truth be told, even after everything, after he revealed that he hooked with some chick because he was lonely, I would have. I would have still married him if he’d let me. Thankfully, through a certain circumstance that I won’t reveal, God saved me from it, and from him, because I was powerless to save myself.
Fast forward to last year(or maybe the year before). I open up my Kik app and that man had actually had the audacity to message me say something along the lines of him knowing he messed up bad (darn skippy) and that I probably wouldn’t give him another chance (preach) but he’d like to still at least be friends (boy bye!). See, he thought I was still in victim mode and would race back to him. Sorry boo, I’m a queen now.