Growing up, I had fairly liberal parents. They let me do as I wish, but within “reason”. I could wear what I wanted to as long as it was modest, and they never forced me to follow any Islamic rituals such as praying 5 times a day, fasting once a year, etc. But it hadn’t dawned on me that although I had outward freedom, I was trapped on the inside.

Like other Muslims, I was forced to go to a Madrasa, an Islamic school, when I was young. Each Saturday was the same. My mom would drag me to the Mosque while I fought tooth and nail. I would tell her how much I hated it, but I never told her why I did.

The Mualimah, a female teacher was a nefarious and malicious old woman. She terrorized my life. She did unspeakable things to me. She’d sneer curse words at me whenever I pronounced a word wrong. What did she expect? I was a child. I didn’t know Arabic, and I didn't even think she did either. But, still I was obedient, and submissive as ever. I never once used that experience to contemplate about my religion and all of its fundamental principles. But why would I? After all, Islam meant submitting yourself to god. So, why rebel?

My mom eventually found out what was going on and dropped me from the class, but the damage was already done. I hated reading the Quran or doing anything remotely religious because of her. For the next five years, it proved to be a good excuse to get me out of religious events, until she finally came up with a come-back that it was her religious “duty” to put me in one. He still yelled, but was a lot nicer that the first one. But, I dropped it once school started up.

A few years later, and it was the summer that I was entering high-school. I had decided to donate my hair to a charity that made wigs for cancer patients. Was I confident enough to go bare-headed on the first day? Heck, no! So, I donned the hijab. Most of my family and friends were ok with it, and whichever ones weren’t came around eventually. When school started, I was nervous, but it melted away once I noticed how many other "hijabis" there were. It was great. But, it didn’t last for long. It wasn’t short after that I had my first “terrorist” remark made towards me. It was quick and quiet, but it hurt. I played it of as a stupid, ignorant comment, but I couldn’t get over it. Having a mom with whom they frequented, I was no stranger to them. So, why couldn’t I get it out of my mind? Eventually, it passed and I moved on.

A year later, it was summer again. I had just woke up, and I was feeling groggy and confused like every other morning. Only it wasn’t. That haze never faded. I played it off for a few weeks, until I couldn’t take it anymore. There was no denying it, there was something wrong with me. When my friends were scheduling meet-ups, I was scheduling doctor appointments. The answer was always the same: “Everything’s completely normal”. So, I turned to the person I had been running from all these years: God. I begged, and prayed, and occasionally cried for him to help me. But he never answered. So, I thought that maybe I was doing something wrong, and I perfected my fasts and prayed more often. But, he still never answered me.

It was a slow process, but inevitably, I cracked. I just couldn’t continue on worshipping someone that didn’t seem to care about my wellbeing. I wish I could’ve seen it sooner. I need to rely on myself, and not some debatable deity in the sky.