He feels like home to me.

I don't know why or how... islamic scholars say that when a man loves a woman, he loves his extension and yearns for the part of him that was extracted at the very beginning of his existence. When a woman loves a man, she loves her origin, or her home, the one that she was created from at the very beginning of her existence.

They liken this to the adam and eve story, where god reached into adam's chest, and from his rib created the more beautiful, more delicate, life-giving form of a female and named her eve.

But i'd never thought of it that way when i said he feels like home to me. What i did think of was the complete security and stability of our relationship, the way he makes me feel safe, his ability to appreciate me and everything about me.

But i lost that sense of trust and stability. We'd been fighting for the past month...  and it never seemed to get better. A couple weeks ago, we argued until we both fell asleep. We'd meet up, pretend nothing was happening, and proceed to coldly continue our discussions. He had no idea that he was pulling away - and that was most likely because i've remained the same.

We discussed these things while he emptily declared his love, over and over, as if the more he says it, the more likely i am to believe it. I believed that he loves, but just doesnt care as much. I believed i was being taken for granted. I can barely remember what happened in these past few weeks, because i've become so like a blob that time passes me, instead of making way.

Eventually, though, after all that arguing, we reached some kind of agreement in terms of attention. I saw that he made an effort to return to past times - we'd most days buy a bottle of sweet wine and get tipsy, sit around and talk the night away. But i made this pretty surprising, pretty cringing, pretty unsettling discovery. I have to sleep now, cause i can barely open my eyes, but i'll continue soon.

First day of June now. Another 18 days n i'll be on a shitty longhaul flight to my mom's side of the family in singapore.

It is said that if you chant "rabbit rabbit" as your first two words of a new month, it'll be a good month. I'm not really counting on it though - may was shitty enough already and i'm still drowning in the blood, sweat, and tears that it induced.

I saw wessam on friday the 29th. I was planning to just sit in a cafe with him and talk, the way we used to. And we were talking - about the artistic student cousin of his, that has an american passport and has been in egypt now for almost a year, studying the art and architecture, living in his own flat, going to the downtown pub where you can get a stella beer for only 9 le (around 1 sterling pound, r $1.50 US dollars) and drink as much as you want with a bunch of foreigners that wont harass you. And then we talked randomly about the beginning of a g-spot orgasm that i'd always resisted, because it felt more like a weak bladder, and had only realilzed it was the beginning of the kind of orgasm that only the lucky women with extremely good lovers get to have when i researched the problem online.

It was back to normal, i thought. But we'd only been there for an hour when he insisted that we go to the studio - supposedly to spend time alone when it's empty (sometimes we're lucky enough to unwind the sexual frustration that usually gets to me if nothing's happened for over a week) and see if i can let the uneasy feeling ride until it becomes something better. I was surprised that he wanted to leave so quickly, even tried to convince him to stay for a while - but sherif was yet again the excuse to go early.

And when he'd convinced me that we would spend the time alone for some loving, i decided not to be a party pooper and went with him to the studio. But sherif was there, and i sat around staring into space while they played music. We tried to steal some time alone when sherif disappeared, but we wasted so much time worrying about getting caught that when we actually did it, we had to stop halfway through because we heard somebody coming - it was the opera singer dina, sherif's sister. I often do duets with her. She handed us an electric guitar and left, and we tried doing it again, but neither of us had the chance to finish because she came back, opened the door, and we had to hold it shut while pulling our jeans back up, while making up random excuses as to why the door was jammed.

It didnt help my mood much - stopping at the peak meant that everything would hurt for the next few hours. Wessam and i hadn't talked much, and we spent a long time trying to organize the equipment so we could start practicing.

During a cigarette break, as we were sitting outside in the patio, i curled up from the central pain.

"How's your stomach?" wessam asked. He hadn't even sat next to me - he was next to sherif.

"It's ok, still weird but whatever..."

"She thinks her parents poisoned her," wessam told sherif, smirking sarcastically.

"Nooo... no way," he said, coming around to find a chair.

"My mom is insane - who knows what could happen?"

I didnt want to have this conversation - Dina seemed to make more sense than sherif or wessam. She told me that my mom is most likely depressed and unhappy here, maybe having some big problems with my dad - and i agreed. I know she's having psychological issues, but it still doesnt make taking it out on me the right thing to do.

Sherif reminded me that having a miscarriage is a big deal - here in egypt people would kill their daughters for doing the same thing and call it an honor thing. I became frustrated as they brought up excuse after excuse for my mom to be the way she was. I made some mistakes - i know that. But then why was she like this since i was ten? They talked to me like i was an idiot, and wessam pissed me off even more. I know that having a child is hard, being responsible for another person is hard - i see that everything i wear and everything i have, the food i eat and the bed i sleep in, is all provided for me by my dad. I understand that completely, and thats the one reason i have never said that they dont give me anything. They thought i was too much of an idiot to understand it, thought i was a spoiled brat that just didnt like my parents cause they put rules into my life. And wessam barely helped at all.

He spoke as if he knew my issues better than i did  and knew my parents better, too. He constantly cut in, saying my parents only problem is school cause i dont care about it and i dont do well and they're fed up and stressed out, telling him all they want is for me to be independent and successful in life, that if i came home drunk every night n still got straight A's he wouldnt mind. He even went as far as saying my problem is a small one that im just blowing up out of nowhere and it'll disappear as soon as i do well in school.

"The life is hard, you know," he said to me, in front of everyone. By then i wanted to break something because i was so damn frustrated.

I was the one who made him realize that life is hard and he cant spend it high and drunk and playing guitar unless he does something with it - i'm the one that put him through final exams when he was having doubts about being responsible. I'm the one that's finally decided what i want to do with my life, finally become motivated by an aspiration, willing to do anything i can to be a psychiatrist. I'm the one that's driven here, even if i'm the one thats out of school. And here he is sitting back as if he's a fucking genius who knows everything, telling a spoiled, ambitionless, lazy little brat that life is hard and my problems at home are nothing.

"Her parents dont even care about the miscarriage," he told sherif, "all they care is that she got kicked out of school."

Then why in hell has this been going on since i was ten? My problem wasnt that i wanted them off my back - my problem is that i've grown up more with founders or charity than i have with actual parents, and i got no emotional support from them at all - if i ever expected them to sympathize, or understand in the past seven years, i was disappointed - every single time.

I was a child prodigy when i was younger - when i was in fifth grade and my sister was drilling a math homework question with my dad, i heard what it was and automatically nailed it. My vocabulary was better than any other kid i knew, my grades were fantastic - they only fell after i was sexually attacked at thirteen. But for the three years before that, my mother had begun closing off any maternal ties, except when we went shopping. And when i fell into depression after the attack, put on a few extra pounds, she distanced herself from me even more. It wasn't just about school. If i did well in school they wouldnt be as hard on me as they are now, but they still wouldn't be parents. They wouldn't take me under their wing and make me feel safe - why else would i feel so elated and happy when wessam's mom had acted convincingly and basically made it seem as though she was taking me under her wing?

I was so angry at their lack of understanding, at the condescending way they talked to me about an issue that has irrepairably carved itself into my mind over the seven years it's existed- i'm self conscious, i depend on my beauty, my vanity is obnoxiously strong, i expect to be in the background all the time, i'm emotionally weak and i'm miserable at home - and i never feel secure.

"Have ambitions, have a career, life is hard, you need an education and they care about it like any parent would, blah blah blah" they all kept telling me. I have been fully aware of it - and i've gone through more in the first seventeen years of my life than all three of them put together. I didn't even want to talk about it - but wessam seemed happy to make me sound like a drama queen who was making mountains out of molehills. Is being raped and having your parents laugh about how long it's taking me to get over it a molehill? Is it a small problem? I was so mad i reduced my speech to silence and walked out of the conversation, subtly, because i'd rather sit around doing nothing than take this shit on an already bad day.

It started to become enjoyable when i had a chance to work with them on a new, oriental song, but wessam's phone kept ringing and he kept having to leave in the middle of it so he could answer. It was his parents of course, nagging him over where he was.

I found out that his parents - his mom especially - had been rampaging on about me for the past couple days, so i had nothing but bitter feelings towards them and became really uptight when i wondered if they were gonna pull another surprise visit on us. Being around them was easier the first time when i went to the house and met his mom, and the second time when both his parents came and i met his dad for the first time, but after knowing that they went home and started complaining and shit talking me for the entirety of the week, it changed my idea of them completely.

By nine, wessam recieved a phone call from them and discovered that they were parked outside the studio and wanted to come over. I became even more nervous. My voice became less smooth and i felt the muscles in the back of my neck tightening up. I'm not sure why i reacted so physically to the whole thing when i knew they'd be nice to my face, but i was self conscious and irritated and nervous all at the same time. Wessam tried to convince them to leave while i stayed inside and sang with the band, but nothing happened. Instead, he had to ask sherif if it was ok to meet his parents and have them come into the studio.

He joked around about having to put on nicer shoes than the ones he was wearing. Before he left, i asked him for a cigarette to calm my nerves and sat down with sherif's parents and dina in the garden patio while he and wessam went out to meet the parents. I was becoming dizzy - i hadnt slept much the night before and i'd been let down twice in the middle of sex, so i guess the anxiety had set off the light-headed feeling that i already should have had. I talked with the parents for a while, and suddenly wessam was in my ear, saying "you can't smoke in front of my dad, ok?" and he stepped downstairs into the studio. I vaguely saw his father approaching and my eyes widened.

"shit, shit shit," i said, and dina watched amusedly as i stubbed the tip of my still only slightly burned cigarette on the edge of the metal table. Sparks of burning ash flew everywhere but i was done by the time his dad was next to me. Whether he noticed or not, i dont know. But i stood nervously, shook his hand, and returned his fake, polite smile with a fake smile of my own.

"My wife is still in the car," he said to sherif, "and i cant leave her. Is it all right if she comes?"

I bit my lip. Now the real monster in law was coming. "I'm going inside," i told dina, "they have huge problems with the way i look and they complain constantly about it. ughh." she smirked knowingly and nodded. She's in her 40s now, around 45 - but she looks much younger and much more youthful than wessam's mom, and she's light hearted and easy going.

We started singing as the bassist, a kid that sells me cigarettes at the supermarket as a part time job, attempted to play on a six string guitar. He's great at what he does, but the 6 string was probably pretty new to him. My head had begun singing and my heart rate was up and i was short of breath, so i didnt sound as good as usual when we sang, dina with her high-pitched opera and me with my somber lyrics.

The night took a negative turn when wessam came down and told me that they were going to drive him home and drop me off.

"What?" i said, heart rate rising even more, "are you serious? I don't wanna be in the car with your parents," i complained. It was basically a party out there on the patio, sherif and his parents with wessam's parents in the mix.

"It's only for a couple minutes, what's the problem?"

"There's a reason i came down here, you know. To know what they've been saying about me behind my back, as recently as yesterday - ugh. I dont wanna be under their radar. Are you kidding me? Lets walk."

"What do his parents say about you that's so bad?" Dina asked.

"They get off non stop on sitting around and saying shit about me - they think i'm difficult to look at, my nose is all wrong, my face is all wrong, my teeth aren't white enough, my ass is too big, everything's wrong...." i sighed hard.

"Is everything wrong to your parents?" Dina asked wessam.

"With me, hell yes," i said, fidgeting and getting even dizzier.

"yeah," he agreed. "They're always saying stuff about her."

"I'm not going in the car with your parents," i insisted. "No way."

He sighed hard. "Ok, then lets go and see if they'll let me walk you back."

I smiled weakly, took dina's hand and said goodbye, repeated the action with the bassist. His mom gave me a smile that i knew was icy and forced, and kissed both my cheeks. "Happy birthday," she said. I was as polite as i possibly could be, making it appear as though nothing was wrong. But my insides were churning. Standing around being nice to the pumpkin shaped woman that sits around talking obnoxiously about how ugly and big assed i am, telling her son he has no good reason to be with me at all, i'm a bitch, there's no way a decent person could be in a relationship with him, i'm obviously full of drugs and bullshit. God knows how many of her sisters she spread the same idea to. A 45 year old woman with nothing better to do. The same 45 year old woman that complained so much about all of her nephew's choices of women that he gave up on getting married. I'd heard all the stuff she had to say about me constantly ever since i met her, and it had gotten a lot worse after i met his dad.

There's something called decency, and something called manners. At least now i know where wessam got his scrutinizing, critical attitude. I guess they were all raised without learning about either one of those things.

Oh, and his 15 year old brother, who still sleeps in his mom's bed and talks exactly the same way about me as she does, was also there. Ugh.

I was under the impression that we were leaving, so i followed wessam through the front gates and onto the street. As soon as we were alone he started the attack.

"What you did is not fucking cool. What the hell are you thinking, talking about them like that?"

"Like what? All i said is that i dont wanna be with them in the car, and why i didnt wanna be with them in the car."

"You made them sound like fucking monsters in front of Dina and Khaled. What the hell?"

"What the hell is the problem? I didnt make them sound like anything - all i said is what's true."

"It's not right," he growled.

"Sure its not right, but its nothing compared to what they've been doing to me. It's like they slapped me in the face and all i did was glare back at them."

"I dont see what the fucking problem is! It's just two minutes with them in the car!" he said.

"Well i dont want to be around them, and if i had the choice i'd rather walk home. And since i have the choice i'd rather walk home!"

We started screaming at each other in the middle of the street. I didnt understand why he had to be so rough over it - i made it clear that what i'd said about them was the truth, and there were no insults or bad words in between - i was mad because they sit around saying shit about me behind my back, and very degrading, insulting, critical things. At their age they should have more decency and more manners than that. I never insulted them or said anything bad about them - whatever i'd done was a far cry from what they'd done to me.

"So you don't wanna be in the car? Then go home!" he said angrily. We were already on the street and i was so mad with his stupid reactions and so mad with the way he'd gotten into the talk about my parents and so dissatisfied with sitting and talking with me in a cafe like we used to that my heart was pounding. I have a weak, fast paced heart and very high blood pressure, thanks to the hyperthyroidism, and it made me dizzy and weak.

"Okay," i said simply. "Bye."

And i turned and walked away.

"Ok, where the hell are you going?" he yelled.

"Home," i said back.

He stormed towards me. "You're gonna go home alone?" he asked, grasping my upper arm.

"Yeah, apparently. So bye."

I turned and tried to leave, but he sighed hard, grabbed my wrist, and started pulling me towards the end of the road. "Fine, lets go."

5 seconds later, he stopped. "Wait, we cant just leave like that. We have to at least say bye to sherif and my parents."

"Fuck them, i dont want any more fake smiles and fake goodbyes just so that they can go home and start another debate about how friggin hard it is to look at me. Why not spare them the challenge of smiling at such a hideously mangled face and leave?"

He pulled me back towards the studio.

"Im fucking pissed off," he said.

"You're pissed off? I'm the one here who should be pissed," i hissed.

"Why should you? Because my parents are giving an honest opinion on you?"

"Honest? Fuck me. And it's not only about them."

"Well what the hell did i do wrong?" he growled as we walked the corridoor to the front gates of Sherif's patio.

"The talk about my parents - you got into it as if i was fucking stupid, you talked to me like i was a spoiled brat and talked about my situation as if you know it better than i do - and even went as far as telling me the life is hard and i suck at school when you know my ambitions go way past getting high and playing music. Not only that but you came to the fucking conclusion that it was a very small problem and i'm a drama queen."

"I didnt do that! i just talked that way because you get into conversations way too deeply with people you dont know very well and they shouldnt have to know the extent of our problems?"

We walked through the gate, towards the people. "Fuck! First of all - our problems? I'm the one dealing with our mistake every day of my life and i'm the one living with it! Second of all, who brought up my parents in the first place?"

He flicked his hand at me, as if to say 'shut up, we've got company now' but i didnt take it.

"Who brought it up?" i asked again, really really mad by then.

He didnt say anything. I was dizzy and my heart rate was jacked up and it made my dizziness and rage even worse. Voices were flying back and forth as wessam and his family talked with sherif and his parents, and i was barely aware of it. I didnt look at anybody in the eyes. I glared at wessam's back, rolled my eyes, turned to go down the steps to the basement studio so quickly that i slipped on the second step and wound up sitting on the third one.

I heard a lot of gasps - everyone turned to look.

"You okay?" Sherif asked, "that didnt look like much fun." He was standing right next to the top step, leaning against the wall, smiling down at me.

I grinned at him, laughed a little, and quickly got to my feet. "Yeah, im fine, i'm just really dizzy right now."

"Oh really? You didnt drink anything did you?" he asked over the voices and the stares.

"No, no, no, i'm just not feeling well," i said, and i disappeared into the studio.

It was clear that i was really mad when i sat down next to Dina and glowered into my lap. Publicly yelled at once again - when does it end?

I dont remember much of what happened - i was so worked up it was as if half of my mind shut down. But i did talk to dina. She asked me where i live and when she found that it was really close by, she offered to take me home once the practising was done. I smiled - at least somebody understood.

"Well, i guess i could, but it seems as though wessam's gonna walk me home. Thank god."

He walked into the room, though, and i glared up at him.

"Come on," he said. "They're gonna drop you off. They're all waiting."

"Why can't i just walk?" I asked.

"Be reasonable and go in the car," he said.

"I dont need a drop off - i can handle myself."

"Then i'll walk you home. Just come," he said.

I rolled my eyes and sighed. "Okay."

As we left walked through the gates though, it became pretty obvious that i was still gonna have to ride in the car with them. Wessam's dad, at one point, told me it's ok, they can drop me off and i wont need to walk. Inside my brows were raised to my hairline with suspicion, but outside i smiled politely and thanked him.

It was friggin uncomfortable. I was squashed between wessam and the car door and as they talked on in arabic, wessam whispered an apology, told me its not that bad, gave me some surprising information. He'd told his dad i want to walk home instead of riding in the car with them because they're saying shit about me all the time - that's why he came up and told me it's ok, i can ride home with them.  "They have to know these things," wessam said.

I turned disdainfully away and when it was time to get out of the car, i was so eager to breathe that i kind of hit my head on the way out. First i land on my ass on the stairs, then i hit my head. God. They probably had a ball talking about it later that night. They turned around in their seats and waved goodbye. I let out a simple "bye" and closed the door.

Needless to say, home was a relief. It wasn't a relief for long, though, because wessam got online and began another argument. I'd ranted to my old, cocky, random and incredibly funny friend goose while he listened and cracked jokes about the patheticness of it in between. When adam came in, asking nicely for the laptop, i told him i couldnt cause i was having a problem, and he asked about it.

"Okay, first of all, whenever i call you ugly its just a joke and everybody knows that they can't call you ugly and be honest about it, and second of all, how old are his parents again?"

"45 and 54," i told him.

He looked at me, eyes wide and one eyebrow arched with surprise, and when the moment passed he sighed. "I miss britain," he told me, and i smirked at how he understood my plight. I missed britain too. If i was with a british guy his parents would most likely be as decent with me as the family friends are with their son's girlfriends.

He kept me company as i argued with wessam and joked around with goose. He'd make me type strange messages to goose, just to have some fun with him. Goose told me "when he's arguing with you, why don't you just ignore him? Or, if he says you're immature or you dont know how to handle things, just say NO, YOU dont know how to handle things. Or just a simple NO U. Seriously. Try it out. I wanna see what happens."

For the first time i was letting wessam in on how fed up i was of constantly hearing insulting criticism about myself - not only from his parents but from him. It got pretty ugly and three hours later he came to the conclusion that he doesnt know me anymore. I got tired - i could barely sleep that night.

The next day he couldn't come, so we discussed our position online. He'd had another fight with his mom, and he told me something that i wish was true, but dont really believe.

"i'll tell you something surprising," he said. "When i was arguing with my mom earlier she said 'You think your girl is ugly?! You're so stupid to be with someone beautiful like her! This relationship is forbidden and that's why i ever said anything against her, so that you'll feel like you're doing something wrong!"

She then accused him of having a fight with me that night at the studio - i guess glaring at his back, rolling my eyes, and storming down the steps so quickly i tripped was enough of a reason to believe we were fighting.

Somehow though, i dont believe any of what he told me. Except maybe the part about the fight. Why would she say so much bullshit about me, only to tell him that she's saying it all to make him mad? It corresponded too much with the excuses he always gave me for them - that they just wanted to make him mad cause there's nothing else they could do about a 'forbidden' relationship.

Not only that, but while we argued about it in his car yesterday, he didnt bring it up again. He had a new range of reasons to believe she has no problem with me at all.

Yesterday, he came over at 1 to hang out before going to the studio with his band. We were supposed to be together until their appointment at 5:30, but 45 minutes into our day together, the co-guitarist called him and asked if he's ready to go right now, cause he finished work early and is free to start now.

It would be so easy to just tell him "no, i'm not ready, but i'll be ready at the time of our appointment." But the studio always has to come first, right?

I acted as if i didnt really care, and tried very hard not to. It's a defence mechanism of mine - if they start to care less, i'll try to pull back and do the same. If you don't expect much, you won't be disappointed. And that's what i tried to do. I would normally expect him to stick to the time because we were still trying to recover from a fight, but knowing i'd be disappointed, i decided not to expect anything. And he didn't give me anything - we drove around trying to call the drummer so that he could tell him that since the two guitarists are totally 'free' and can start, he should, too.

He was aware that i wasnt happy about it, and all he said was sorry, over and over again. When the co guitarist called again, he told him "i can meet you straight away at the studio, its totally fine with me," i iced over a little bit more.

He stopped on the side of the road and turned to me so we could have a 'real conversation.'

"Shouldn't you be going?"

"Its fine if i'm a little bit late," he said.

I cant remember when or how the subject of his judgemental parents and his own judgemental tendencies came up, but they did, and we argued over it for a while. He never brought up his mom's alleged confession, instead telling me that even if i was the queen of beauty, she'd do the same thing. He accused me of misunderstanding him and never being satisfied. "To me it doesnt matter, i see you as pretty enough," he said.

I sighed hard. I'd stopped believing him from the first time he made a habit of pointing out and blatantly expanding the small flaws on the face i was born with, and my disbelief only intensified when he began reporting all of his charming mother's insults with a big smile on his face.

After the heavy talk, he dropped me off at home, apologizing several times for leaving early. "Stop apologizing," i told him. "the studio's waiting. So go."

I mean... i guess girlfriend time counts as free time to him. He told the guitarist he was totally free and could start right away. As far as i'm concerned, i'm almost non existent. And it's not the first time this kind of thing happened. I'm seeing it a lot these days.

On top of that, he didnt finish until seven thirty, and he left at nine. We would have had five and a half hours together if he'd told the guitarist he wasnt as free as he made it seem. Instead we only had two, and within that time, we were barely speaking cause he was so damn busy calling them.

I've seen this all a lot lately, but the epic display was a while ago, in the middle of chaos.  Back in september, when i was dealing with the difficulties of home life and emotional stress after the miscarriage and was punched in the stomach by my dad while my womb was healing badly, i refused to go to sharm with them and said i'd stay at home.

Wessam had the choice to stay wtih me in the house for four days, completely alone, with 600le on me, while i really needed him. And he also had the choice to go to dahab on a trip with friends and get drunk and high the whole time.

He used his cousin as an excuse. While i was doubled over in agony from the waves of pain my womb suffered after the hard punch, wessam was sitting in the kitchen and telling his cousin "yeah man, i'm coming. No, she's fine. I'm coming."

"I can't piss him off," he told me. "He was really mad this morning when i told him i couldnt come because of you. So i have to go."

He told me he's stressed out, needs a break, needs a change in scenery. It was probably one of the most selfish things he's ever said to me - i'd just gotten beaten up because of the baby that stayed dead in my womb for seven days - a baby that he had created. I was the one dealing with all the pain. I was the one who took all the shit. He had nothing to worry about. And instead of staying with me for four days, alone in the house, he went to dahab to get drunk and high and watch women on the beach for all hours of every day.

It still hits a nerve with me, every time i hear him talk about the trip and how amazing it is and how good the weed is.

You could call it the straw that broke the camel's back. I've been pulling out the ultrasounds of my dead baby a lot, and i've been crying over them. I guess it's just terminal disappointment and wounds that are several years old and never seem to have healed, but i returned to the razor yesterday, while wessam was jamming.

I made three paper-thin slits across my pulse point. The bleeding was hardly satisfactory for a masochistic thirst like mine, but i allowed the line of blood to circle my wrist like a bracelet, and left it there while i slept. Adam came in asking for the laptop.

"What's wrong with your hand?" he asked me. All he saw was the back of it, but he could see the line of dried up red.

"Nothing," i said.

"Is it nailpolish?"

"Yes, it is. And you can have the laptop, just dont spill anything on the table."

He's not stupid though. He's seen the scars before. He's fully aware of them, doesnt say anything about them to my parents, and jokes around, calling me an emo kid. I guess in my own strange way, i am.

Wessam never noticed them when i saw him, thank god. The conversation didnt go well and i was annoyed that he insisted on leaving at nine, and i became as honest with him as i could about the way i'd been feeling. When i went home, i didnt bother to go online and continue talking with him, since he couldn't bother to tell the guitarist that he's busy and cant play right now. Instead i made another four slits to accompany the ones that were already there, and moved to the other wrist, hoping the bleeding would be heavier.

It'll never be as satisfying as it was on the morning i was going to meet wessam's mom. The blood had pooled at the creases of my hand, gone in all directions, wrapped around my middle finger and dropped off of the tip, onto the floor. I regret it now though, because i'll be meeting him soon and the wounds are far more obvious now. Last time, he'd pulled back my wrist covers within five minutes of meeting. Make up is my only hope.

Anyways, i gotta go. Time to get ready. Time for another disappointing day.

On the eve of my birthday, my dad came into my room while i was sleeping to attack me over my brother's cell phone. My parents are so damn materialistic - they said taking it meant i had no respect for my brother, im deceptive, i lie and i steal, i'm the 'wolf in sheep's clothing.'

Hah. As for my brother - he's 11, the same age i was when i started maturing, developing, getting odd attention from people up to seven years older than me, and the same age i started drinking. But adam's in his own little world - he spends most of his time insulting, bullying, hitting, hair-pulling, and overall attacking me. Happens right in front of my damn parent's faces and they never do anything about it, they never tell him to apologize, never tell him its wrong - but they get into action when i retaliate. He knows they're on his side no matter what, and so, he does what he likes with me. As long as he doesnt take my cell, use the credit when he's in the middle of an emotional crisis that has him between slitting his wrists and going on a drinking binge and needs to talk to the one person who calms him, he's never asked to apologize, never has his birthday wrecked.

In the morning, i avoided everybody. I showered, went downstairs, and i wasn't surprised to find that there were no birthday cards or wrapped presents for me, no cake, nobody telling me "happy seventeenth birthday, lets go out to dinner tonight."

When i took the laptop up to my room though, my dad resentfully handed me a card and a small plastic bag, telling me "it's small but expensive, ok?" as i walked off. It turned out to be a card and a coin-sized ipod shuffle. At least it was something.

I'd made plans with wessam to go out to a cocktail bar or a pub and get all dressed up - do something special and different. The day before, he'd given me my birthday present - a pair of classic converse shoes that, to my surprise, he'd saved up for. It made me uncomfortable because i was filled with so much gratitude and surprise - he never had any money with him, and it was always me buying him things and paying for everything. I almost teared up when he knelt before me on the chair and put them on for me. Skander used to give me things and i used to give him things right back, but it was always very easy for him to do these things. He'd never had to save up.

As for all the other friends,  what i got from them on my birthday was a loud, drunken birthday party in my room and some appreciation - never any gifts. I'd spent such a long time feeling like the center of nothing that a pair of converse was enough to make me jump on him and cover him in kisses. He told me to take them with me and wear them on the big day.

The day wasnt all that big though. I always get 50 sterling pounds from my relatives on my birthday - 30 from my uncle and 20 from my granny. I should be getting something from my bestselling author of an auntie ( my dad's sister Linda Davies wrote some great financial thrillers, and wound up marrying a millionaire) since i used to take care of her kids and slaved away last spring, carving, sanding, and polishing a dark wood, butterfly-shaped mirror for her 3 year old daughter. But it's fine - i'm almost never in contact with her anyways.

My parents never gave me the birthday cards from my uncle and granny, claiming that they must have forgotten, but it'd be the first birthday in nine years that he's ever forgotten. In the end my plans were shot to hell and i had to argue with my mom to get my usual allowance, so i at least wouldnt have to spend my day in the streets.

And when i met up with wessam, my plan was to spend time in a cafe, or go to the studio, share a bottle of sweet wine with sherif, and then go off to a cafe for the rest of the night.

Instead, we went to the studio and never left. I'd asked him several times if we could go, and each time he refused, saying i should save my money instead. We wound up jamming the entire time, and wessam wound up leaving at nine, even though i'd expected him to take at least one day to leave a little later than usual. The only people i heard 'happy birthday' from were sherif and wessam. My stupid brother adam didnt even realize it was my birthday - but for the past 8 or 9 year's i'd always saved up money, gone out and bought him something to surprise him on his day.

The one comfort i had was in going home, heavily disappointed, and discovering when i went online that 20 people from all over the world had remembered, some of them old friends that i hadn't contacted in over a year.

Wessam had continued to inform me of his parents blatant dissaproval over the way i look today. In the end, i got fed up of hearing him say it with a big smile on his face, as if he was enjoying the fact that somebody thought i was hideously ugly and very difficult to look at. It's never nice to hear negative, very insulting things about yourself, and it had been going on since i met his mother and spent the day at his house with them. So on the 28th i  cracked, told him i didnt give a shit, told him his parents need to grow the fuck up and find something better to do than sit around shit talking me,  told him that the situation with his cousin's failed attempts at marrying the women he loved was the most ridiculous thing i'd ever heard from people who thought so highly of themselves, and told him that it's more than pathetic.

He used to tell me "It's just their opinion," or "you're the woman i'm almost officially engaged to, they wanna make sure you're good enough," or "that's what they think - everyone has a right to think what they want to."

But after i'd broken the silence and had a frank, very frustrating rant about how pointless and arrogant and pathetic it is to judge someone in a way that's this racist and this high-horsed and this goddamn stupid, he had nothing left to say. He couldn't deny it anymore.

He didnt come over today either, even though we were supposed to have a good day out to make up for yesterday's fail. But i guess it doesnt matter enough. -_- he told me that if he came early we could go to this good burger restaurant - the same one i wanted to go to last night while we wound up just playing music, as always. Seemed as though he didnt mind spending the last of my allowance on good food.

But then another excuse came up for not coming - he doesnt have the car and he doesnt have money. I had enough money for him to come over with public transport, but it didn't matter - then he went on to say "you'd spend ten for me to come and ten for me to go back and you'd wind up with 40 - you should save your money or you'll be broke for the rest of the week."

Sure, he's telling me to save my money now - after suggesting we go to burger joint earlier and spend all the cash on eating. Not only that, but he never needed the car to come and see me - not until it was repaired and returned to him a couple weeks ago, that is.

These things dont add up - it just seems like he doesnt care. Terminal disappointment. Perhaps i'm just asking for too much - i cant expect him to spend as much time with me as we always have, and as i've grown to expect - he has his own life. And when we are together, i cant expect him to spend the whole time sitting with me all night at our favorite cafe and talking instead of going to the studio, even though we've spent the past year doing it, completely satisfied and very happy. He has his own life, and if he's not satisfied with talking anymore, why should i force him?

Nowdays, its all about the studio. He'll use it as an excuse to leave the cafe early - "sherif called me and asked to jam, so we have to go," or "i told him i'd play music today, so we have to go," or, simply, "i wana go somewhere we can hug and kiss without people bothering us." As if we ever do hug and kiss when we're there. He usually blabs in arabic to the people around and starts loudly playing the drums, completely disregarding the fact that if he plays that loud, my singing won't be heard.

Even his friend mido, the one that ran away when the police found his secret stick of hash in wessam's car, cared enough to stop everybody and turn down the volume so i could be heard, every time it seemed i was singing into space.

Seems as though the studio always has to come first nowdays. It's always like that - even on my birthday we spent the whole fucking day there. I remember when i first started the work on my teeth, and had four deep fillings in my mouth at the same time. Wessam had gone to the studio to hang out while i was having it done, and came to meet me when i was finished. It was pretty obvious that i didnt feel well and had a headache, and i told him i wasnt in the mood for loud noise - but he continued insisting on going to the studio just so we could sit and talk. I knew we wouldn't be sitting and talking. I knew we'd be jamming, and the noise would irritate me so much i'd spend the night sitting outside in the garden, smoking cigarettes by myself while he played downstairs.

"I told sherif i'd come and take you with me and start playing music again - he'll be pissed," was his excuse. And we can't disappoint sherif, can we?

In the end i told him i'd go home - just go to the studio and do your thing. Then, he told me i dont understand him and dont know him, the point of being here is being together. He brought it up so many times that in the end i said "please just go and do your thing, we're wasting time sitting here arguing about it."

Then, he told me it was already too late. We spent half an hour basically sitting in silence in the square next to my old school.

 I have a tendency to pull back from people and give them space almost automatically when i start to feel like they dont care as much as they used to. That's what i've been doing for basically the whole month now and i dont expect it to change anytime soon. It'll be easier once i start school again, meet new people, make friends - then if he insists on going to the studio, i wont have to stick around.

I love him with everything i have and everything i am - so it gets pretty depressing, considering that right now, without parents that care and with all of my closest friends scattered around the globe, only accessible through the internet, wessam is almost all that i have. I'm disgusted by the sound of my own pathetic desperation, and that's why i've decided to hold back, keep the feelings inside, expect almost nothing so that i dont have to be disappointed all the time. Maybe that's why i almost teared up over a pair of converse sneakers. It was ten times more than what i'd expected - it was overwhelming, almost.

Ugh. I hate myself. I'm here on my blog complaining about something that's so small and so trivial it shouldn't even matter.

It's been a pretty rough time the past couple weeks.

Mostly, because wessam got busted again.

Around a couple years ago, he was high as a kite in the middle of the street - a life he lived every night he didn't have college the next morning - and, with wavy hair down to his shoulders and a heavy metal shirt, cut jeans and big black boots, he rolled a joint in the middle of the street. Of course he got caught doing it, and it was completely his fault, but he got away with it after a night in jail and a trial that he was spared from.

And i guess once isn't enough - but this time it was his friend's fault. The day i wrote the previous entry, we drank sweet wine at the studio and jammed, while i sang, and as usual, wasn't heard. But being drunk had lifted my bad mood, and i was pretty neutral by the time i got home.

The next morning, not surprised that he hadn't called me as he usually would every night, i signed on to msn and found offline messages from him at 3am, telling me that the police did a check on his car while mido was buying cigarettes. Wessam, believing there was nothing in the car, sat back and let them do it. As soon as they got to mido's bag though, they found a piece of hash that he'd never told us was there. Mido ran off while wessam dealt with the blame for a piece that wasn't his.

All night the police harassed him. They threatened him with 25 years in jail. They took his phone, looked through the videos and pictures, hissing and whispering about the pictures they saw of us together, then reading the love note text messages we used to send each other, before my phone entered a perpetual state of no credit. They took the piece of hash they'd found, smoked it while they talked with him - one of them sat next to him and asked all about the sex life he has with 'the hottie on his phone' while he was really high on tramadol. Police? Police my ass!

I've given up smoking cannabis altogether. While i'm high it makes me paranoid, makes me twitch constantly, sometimes makes me forget to breathe unless i concentrate, makes me think too much and shrink away - but when i'm drunk i have all the balls in the world and i'm comfortable even standing on my head (if i ever had the balance to).

But wessam never felt the need to quit, and mido - he's a lost case, going back and forth from being drunk and stoned to high on pills. He'll quit the self destructive happy pills and tell everybody, and later on start them again, with another 'legible' reason why. He's a nice guy, but he could never accomplish what wessam did when he quit tramadol.  Maybe he just never had a good enough reason. Wessam only stopped a year ago because he realized he was with a barely 16 year old chick from a completely different world, that had just started cigarettes and barely ever drank, and experiencing the fake feelings of love that it creates, and snatches away as soon as sobriety comes along.

He's changed a lot now, though. When i first met him he was all about alcohol and weed and nights out and music and having fun - now it's as though he wants to be a responsible, reliable guy. He thinks for the future, not for now. Most of it may just be dreams talking - he often creates goals and forgets about them even more quickly than i forget mine (running every day to lose the weight he's put on since he quit pills, or never eating after 7pm, or studying very hard, or praying daily as he should) but there's a difference.

That's why it's disappointing that he took the blame while his immature and irresponsible older friend ran off. I was relieved that all he got was punishment from his parents, but upset that we were out of contact for a long time. There was no sure way of knowing what was going on, and i spent most of my time miserably sitting at home, wondering what was going on. The cell phone and computer had been taken away, and when he started using his brother's, his mom locked up all the cell phones in the house. Four days later though, he could freely go online.

He was more upset about missing out on the studio recording than anything else, while i spent a lot of time crying because i believed i wouldn't see him for a month. On the saturday after it happened, i went to the studio, nervous and sort of emotionally fragile, to explain to his band that he couldn't be there, and wouldn't be there for a while. The three of them are covered in tatoos, donning heavy boots and heavy metal t-shirts. Only one of them was cute-faced and funny. But they turned the whole thing into a joke, to my relief and to sherif's. He invited me upstairs into his house, where i talked with him and his wife about it all over beer and cigarettes and tea.

On monday though, a few distant, extremely affectionate friends came over. It was more just Rania and her sister and the two girl's boyfriends, but we had a nice time, sharing a wine bottle in my room. I was relieved to have some company and wessam seemed pretty upset by it. He always told me he missed me, but he was more upset about missing out on his music, and made that extremely clear to me.

Within a week of the arrest though, he'd found a way to get out of the house. His dad had told him that he'd go with him to meet me, get to know me a bit and give us some time alone, but in the end, he let wessam go by himself. The first thing we did was go to the tattoo studio to meet his band, and while he talked with them, being the bigshot, saying "no, i had to go out, i couldn't keep away from my music for longer than a week," when he'd told me something completely different. I sat around pretending to have interest in the albums of tattoos that the drummer had given in his studio for around 45 minutes while he went on with the guys. I knew he missed his studio so i never nagged him to get going - i did what i've grown used to doing and shut up completely.

 I never saw the same kind of relationship dynamics between the male and female teens in the uk - the girls were rather dominant, actually. But i'm with an egyptian - so what can i say? He has to be dominant. Even though i'm the one that pays for gas in his friend's car, he has to be the one to hand over the money and make it appear as though he got it. Even though i pay the bills at a cafe, he has to be the one to take the money from my wallet and hand it personally to the waiter. Even at his cousin's birthday party, when i had a bottle of rum for him, wessam told me to leave it in the car. Half an hour later, he left me with a bunch of people i didnt know and came back with the bottle, handing it to his cousin as if he was the one who'd taken it and he was the badass giving him an extremely expensive bottle of whiskey for his birthday. Over the noise and the loud music, it was hard to express to his cousin that the gift was, in fact, from me.

Later on the first day out, we went back to the studio. He assured me that he'd be spending the time talking with me, but when a migraine caught me by surprise, he wound up worldessly going down the stairs to the insulated room and playing guitar with a bunch of strangers.

The band's toned, attractive vocalist came out though, stood there smiling at me, and i broke the silence by asking for a light for my cigarette. He was pretty friendly, sticking the burning tip of his cigarette against the intact tip of mine, watching closely as i puffed until i had some of his fire. He was easy to talk to, and he didnt beat around the bush. He sat down with me, talking about music, asking about my voice and how well i could sing, and eventually we talked about religion - he made it clear that he was interested, made it clear that he found me extremely beautiful (egyptians would find anybody showing off their arms to be a piece of eye candy), and i made it clear that the guitarist blowing everyone away downstairs was my boyfriend.

It was nice to have somebody blatantly pointing out his interest in me for once - it held more meaning than the daily harassment i get on the streets, at least - and somehow it turned into a confidence boost, after the months i spent under wessam's scrutinizing eye ("you have a huge problem, this nostril is smaller than that one, this eye is smaller than that one, this eyebrow is higher than that one, this side of your jaw isn't as sharp as that one, your lips stick out sideways (wtf? i look in the mirror and dont see my lips sticking out anywhere they're not supposed to), your eyes are sleepy, you have yellow teeth, ladidadida")and half-assed compliments, and the even more scrutinizing eye of his pumpkin shaped mother.

Right after he finished his guitar playing, he decided it was time to go. I accepted apathetically and shrugged off any bad feelings i had, mostly because i didnt want to feel disappointed anymore.

We got an unpleasant, random visit from his parents the other day. They demanded to know the exact location of the studio, and followed in their car while we drove towards it. I spent most of the time sitting in the car while he went to his parents and argued. I wasn't in the mood to have a visit from them because one of the things that drives me crazy is the scrutinizing, judgemental, self  righteous being that never matures enough to understand the saying 'don't judge a book by its cover.'

But to my face, they were both nice. Wessam came to the car, told me they wanted to say hi, and dragged me over to them while i tried to act natural and sweet. Wessam's parents are both short and both round, surprising because they have a son that's so tall now. His dad is fluent in english and he made jokes and laughed with us - suddenly i felt a little easier. The majority of the time they were joking and laughing with wessam in arabic, and i was standing awkardly next to his mom.

"Did wessam tell you what happened?" She asked me.

I confirmed it, and tried to explain that it was all mido's fault and wessam's only mistake was in trusting a drug addict. She discussed it with me in the best way she could with my non-existent arabic and her limited english, and i tried hopefully to believe that she wasn't so bad and wessam was just exaggerating when she constantly pointed out all the things that she found wrong with me.

It turns out, though, that when he got home that night, his parents debated. His mother said that the only thing about me that wasn't irritating to look at was my hair, and complained yet again about the asian eyes and the ugly face and my abnormally big hips. It turns out that one of wessam's cousins has given up trying to get married because every time he brought a woman to his family, they complained that the woman of his choice was hideously ugly and refused to let him marry her. Real monster in laws they will be. Wessam's dad, on the other hand, was pinching his mom and arguing back. "All i said about your cousin's women were that nobody would chase her and give her trouble trying to win her over. Don't worry, though. When it comes to your girlfriend, she's probably fighting them off daily. Only problem is, her teeth aren't white - she's probably a good cigarette smoker."

And his mom retaliated, of course, attacking with her point that there was a lot more wrong with me than unwhitened teeth.

What i've come to realize is that i have never been judged so harshly like that in my life - except with one other girl in my sixth grade class - a child rival. Every grown parent i've ever met has been above that kind of thing - they'd have much bigger, more important things to do and say than sit around shit talking their son's sixteen year old girlfriend, when they themselves look like pumpkins. Part of maturity is knowing that looks are beside the point - love is blind. Not only that, but the inner being defines the value of the person you're looking at - not their beauty. My parents know that i'm more attractive than wessam is, and they've never even once complained about the way he looks - or the way any of my exes looked. It's part of being courteous and part of being dignified.

A lot of the family friends back in the UK have some very attractive sons, who choose young women that are much more brains and personality than beauty. And the parents never once complained about their looks - because looks simply aren't important when it comes to having a good woman or a good man. They were raised in a place where it's an important part of reaching maturity, to know that it's obnoxiously and pathetically rude to judge somebody so harshly by their body or face.

So i guess his mother and the rest of their family never reached that maturity. It's hard to picture such old, round, aging parents of three young men, sitting around with their equally old and equally maternal sisters, shit talking a seventeen year old for vain or racist reasons. Its almost amusing - but it pisses me off. Why do i care? Cause i'll be dealing with them for the rest of my life. Or at least, until they shrivel up and die. At least wessam's cousin will be free - hearing that he couldnt get married cause his relatives didn't find the women attractive enough, calling them hideously ugly, is probably one of the stupidest things i've heard from a family that thinks so highly of themselves and believes i'm the loose-moraled one.

It pisses me off, yeah.. but i don't know why i care so much about the way i look, and why it's such a hard hit to hear insults like that, or deep criticism from the one i love. I guess it's cause i dont have much brains (getting kicked out of school is enough to prove that) or personality. People always have and will continue to base my value mostly on my beauty, and since it's been like that for around seven years now, i feel like its all i have. Most of my boyfriends in trinidad were only with me because of my beauty - my mother's only connection with me was through our beauty, as well as my father's - and wessam and i barely knew each other when we got together - my beauty was the only thing that made me worth getting to know. In the end, it paved my way to acceptance, because my personality and my brains were rarely enough.

Anyways. My birthday's tomorrow, and my maid, while looking through my condom/nude sketches/poetry/diary/lubricant drawer (i dont know why the hell she'd be in there - you can't go through people's drawers) found my brother's missing cell phone. I needed it a lot in the past few weeks and i paid back all the credit i used - but i dont think that'll be enough for parents like mine.

I just hope they give me a break for tomorrow.

It's almost 4 pm. Wessam, as usual, has promised to be here early, so we can spend some real time together and just talk, like we always do, and for some reason, like we've forgotten how to do in the past couple weeks. He signed off of MSN at 12:30, saying he'd drive his brother to the conference, send me a text when he leaves the other side of cairo to get to me, and be here as soon as possible - most likely by 2.

And now, at 4, there's no wessam, and still no text. I've gotten used to this kind of thing - i stopped calling him as often and instead, would curl up and sleep, deciding that he'd get here when he wants to get here, or come back online when he wants to get back online, or call me when he wants to call me, and not when he says he will.

It's probably just PMS, or the pain from these damned stitches, but it bothers me more than it used to. He's had a lot less time for me than he used to during his vacations. And these days, he'd rush to leave a cafe so we could get to the studio, play music the whole time regardless of whether or not i'm able to sing at the time, and use the phone calls of the studio owner, asking us to come and jam, as an excuse for doing it. My voice is half as important as their music playing, even though, as the stuido owner's sister has said, the voice is perhaps the most beautiful instrument there is, and equally as important as everything else. The owner, sherif, is the one who stops his playing to adjust the volume, so at least i can be heard. Otherwise, i'm sort of in the background.

And that's when i miss the other side of the world. Here, having a uterus is an automatic demotion, in any situation that includes locals. Sometimes i wonder if i'll be able to handle this for the rest of my life. He's more sensitive and more attentive than any man i've ever known, old or young, friend or relative or aquaintance. But there's little things that sometimes get to me, and sometimes i wonder if those little things are just an overreaction that i'm to blame for, or something to genuinely worry about.

The other day, we had a 4 hour fight that lasted through eating, drinking, studying and kissing, only because he wouldn't shut up. The best-fitting pair of jeans i have fit like a second skin - they're not too tight and yet there's no extra space. It's as if the tailor used my exact shape as a mannequin for the stitching and cutting and shaping of the jeans. I like them, and most that have seen me wearing them like them too. But he has a big problem with them, because they make the difference between a small waist and gigantic hips very candid and revealed, instead of hiding it like most of my clothes do.

As soon as i approached, the look on his face told me we'd have a rough day. He immediately launched himself into a myraid of reasons to be mad that i chose this exact pair to wear, accusing me of wanting to attract attention even though i already have a man by my side. Can't get more egyptian than that.

It continued all day, and i argued back. "If you were wearing these jeans and you werent with me you'd get raped by now!" he continued, even though whenever i looked around, i saw the same kind of staring that i'd recieve wearing a long-sleeved shirt and normal, oddly cut jeans that fit my hips and don't exactly sit right at the waist. It was a hideous overreaction. He pointed out everything that was wrong with it and complained about the high heels and told me that i'm just gonna bring him more trouble, while i angrily pointed out that nobody was acting any differently than they always do when they see me on the street.

"You don't have a normal body! People don't see that kind of thing here! It makes their tongues hang! The sluttiest thing you can do is show off how different you are! Everyones gonna look at you and think you deserve to get raped!"

To me, i didn't give a fuck who was looking - we have eyes for a reason and in a place like this, they will stare no matter how loose the jeans are, as long as they can see me from the neck up.

The first time i wore tight jeans around him, he complained all night about how he liked tight jeans, but only on skinny girls. I rolled my eyes at his miseducation - where i'm from, along with the rest of the modern world, as long as the jeans don't squeeze anything, they're considered a perfect fit - not too tight. And i never wear a single piece of clothing until it has adequate space for every body part it covers.

I just got a call from him - speak of the devil. He had some excuse about the car and having to buy drugs for the old guy, john. He hasn't even left his part of cairo yet. Is it possible to be disappointed without being unpleasantly surprised? I expected it, even predicted it, but i still hoped for slightly better than that. I'm 100% sure that he won't be here until 5:30 at the earliest, and he'll want to go straight to the damn studio, and i'll spend the night bored and blank and grey while he plays guitar with sherif.

Either way, we argued all day about the stupid friggin jeans. I almost up and left to get changed cuase i wanted so badly for him to shut the hell up - but he wouldn't let me.

"And you're wearing high heels too, so they make a lot of noise, and they give people an excuse to look, and when they look, they're not gonna look back until you're way out of view! Your friggin jeans are just wayyyy too tight!"

Whenever he wasn't arguing with me, i had barely spoken. I wasnt in the mood to make small happy cheerful talk while he was so obnoxious.

We left to go and get burgers. I put on the jacket so he'd have nothing left to say - and then, surprise surprise, he found something else to say.

"The heels dont go well with those jeans at ALL!" he said obnoxiously.

I almost had a skander flashback. It made me shiver. Having someone constantly chastising you in public is never any fun, and i thought only skander would be one for that - even his reason was more legit than wessam's. Damnit.

When we sat down to eat the food that i paid for (as usual) he apologized. I rolled my eyes, came up with a few small words in reply, and basically ate in silence. When we walked along the road to find a cab, he gave me another one of his compliments - "you look so damn beautiful today."

"Shut the fuck up," i said, smirking wryly and rolling my eyes.

"I'm serious, i'm not just saying it to fix something i did wrong. I love the jeans and the heels and the top and the way you always use a little bit of make up and leave your hair big and wild - its just not good here. If we were anywhere else in the world i'd let you walk around like that, minus the t-shirt if you wanted to, and be proud of it."

But it wasn't about the place - it was about him. As an egyptian, he had problems with people staring at me, trying to get to know me, asking for my number, even though i told them to screw off every time. If he'd grown up in the UK, or the caribbean, he'd be like any of the guys i'm used to and regard me with pride - he wouldn't want to cover it up and prevent it from happening. We always had issues with a married woman's dress code - my dad was always proud of my mom and usually prevented her from covering up too often. She was happier that way anyway - she liked to show off her beauty in trinidad. He's a perfect exampe of a normal western man - proud. It's senseless to ask somebody to 'preserve' their beauty for their husbands with a veil or giant clothing. What are you preserving? Beauty doesn't rot when it's in full view of everybody, and it doesnt last longer when it's covered from all eyes but those of their husbands. It's a tool those damned men use to put their women under more control, out of jealously and possessiveness. Granted most of the women are ok with it because they've grown up with it, i'm thinking of all those who aren't ok with it.

He asked me why i have to look pretty.

"Because it's my right to look sexy and feel as though i look good - if  i look good, i feel good. That's something in any woman."

"Yeah, you say it's your right, but not when you're married or you have a man! If you love someone why would yo need to look sexy or look pretty? You already got him? You wanna attract attention? Huh? Huh?"

He brought his mother's quotations into it too. His friggin mother. She's got exactly the kind of attitude i'm against. A woman who believes it's our job to keep our men in line and if they fuck up, it's because of us (she blamed her brother-in-laws death on his wife. He was an alcoholic and she wasn't. According to wessam's mom, it was her fault because she went to parties with him and drank with him when they first got married, and didn't succeed in stopping him for his own good - instead he drank himself to death) and if we love someone we're disrespecting him by going out with our elbows showing. Fuck me. She'll have something negative to say about anything and anyone, whether it's a good or bad situation. Nobody is good enough in her eyes - only she is 'perfect.'

When wessam and i aren't arguing about how i dress, he's doing something else altogether that really bothers me. I'd be telling him about being followed home by a guy in a car AGAIN and being sick of it, and he'd immediately start looking at my face and pointing out every single thing that's wrong with it.

"You have a huge problem," he always said, "this nostril is smaller than this one."

Or, "This eyebrow is higher up than this one."

Or, "this side of your jaw isn't as sharp as the other one."

Or, "Your bottom lip sticks out sideways."

Or, "You have little hairs here on your upper lip - most girls take them out."

Or, "You have hair between your eyebrows, most girls take them out, why are you walking around with them there?"

Fuck. He had to look right at my face, two inches away, to see those tiny, insignificant hairs that i dont bother removing because i don't give a shit, and most people dont give a shit. He really exaggerates all the tiny asymmetrical details on my face and turns them into big issues. He's the first guy i've known that's ever made me feel like something's wrong with me, something's not normal, i'm a freak of nature.

Then, i observed his face, as well as all the faces in my family, and found that absolutely no face is perfectly symmetrical - there's tiny differences from the left side to the right.

Even so, i had to look extremely closely to notice it. I never look that closely at people because it doesn't matter to me - but somehow, he's so damn critical that it's of greatest importance to him.

I ask him why he has to point out all these tiny flaws and why they're so important sometimes, when i really dont want to hear them and he makes me hear them anyway.

"Because i care." That's his answer, every time, and he says it as if it makes him much more courteous and caring and merciful than everybody else - not just once, but repeatedly. BULL..... SHIT.

Oh, wait, the other day he added an end to that statement: "Because i care to know the face of the woman i'm gonna wake up to every morning - who knows if one small thing is gonna turn into one big thing someday?"

God. He's put on around 25 pounds that went straight to his waistline ever since i met him. And it never mattered to me, because i friggin love him anyway. These little details, i never noticed in him, because i never 'cared' enough to look for them. Wessam is wessam. I've been looking at his face practically every day for a year now, and if there's something wrong with it, i'd have to look pretty damn close, with intentions of finding a flaw, to see anything wrong.

He seems to enjoy drilling my confidence down to nothing, while simultaneously spilling out random bullshit about how beautiful i look today. I always wondered why i never believed him when he said it - and now, looking at the way he's always regarded me, i see why.

My mom laughs about it with  me on extremely rare occasions - she'd tell me about a woman that comes up to her saying "oh, one eyebrow is different from the other," or "oh, you have age spots on your cheeks."

"People like that are seeing perfection, and dissecting it until it becomes imperfection, usually for their own comfort. When people look at us, do you think they'd see the small differences between one eyebrow and the other, or the faint age spots, or the small blemishes? Of course not - they see the smile, and the eyes, and the color of our skin, and the lips, and how we speak and how we walk. The positives spring out, and that's all they see until they look for flaws and draw in closely enough to see them."

Usually, his doting and his sweet talking and his shower of attention is enough for me to take it all and forget about it, because it's darkened by the measure of the good side. At times like these, though, when his attention wanes and i have to make an effort to lessen the attention that i always give him, and impulsively want to give him, just so i dont feel like a doormat, these little things tend to spark up. When it first started, i took it as a joke and i was amused. Now, i can see that he seriously wants to chip away at my confidence.

Sigh...  I'm in pain, and i'm in a foul mood, and i've just discovered that to take out my tooth, the surgeon reduced my jaw bone to a razor-thin point, and it's been slicing through the gum that he's stitched up for the past few days. Now, it's sticking out, and it's scratching away at my tongue. Already i can taste the blood, god damnit.

There he goes, calling me again. I just found out he brought his friend with him, too. We're definitely going straight to the studio - i'm not buying food for everybody and going broke in one night like i always do. There'll be no talking. I'm definitely gona be bored.

Sometimes i wish i could sleep forever. This is one of those times.