Erased it. Again. Writer’s block. But then again, I am not a writer. Want to be , dream of being one. To be honest, I haven’t done anything to become one. My plan was to start in 2016. Well, I’ve still got a little over 4 months to do that. Red quite a bit, let’s call it research. Traveled a lot, researching locations. ( actually I was just property hunting…)

People always say that I should write about my life. Compared to theirs my life sounds exciting. Especially the 15 years I spent abroad in the Middle East. I have first hand experience in being the wife of an Arab, lived among them, learnt to become one of them, obey their rules, followed their customs, learnt about their traditions. Wonderful memories.

The bouhour scented cool air of the Fanar shopping mall, the cardamon scented ground coffee and freshly roasted nuts at the Al Rifai, the salty mist of the sea on my face during my daily walk just after iftar during Ramadan.

The crunch of the sand between my teeth during sandstorms, the wonderfully scented candles in TheOne store, the sound of the call for prayer, lots of sticky little hands in school trying to form a circle during my PE lessons for 3 years olds.

The scent of a man as he passes you in his dishdasa , really strong and intoxicating. Equally strongly scented women in their dark abayas, with their seductive eyes…

Then there are the songs of Majida El Roumi or my all time favourite old kuwaiti film, Bas ya Bahar (Cruel Sea).

The good ones.

And there are the bad memories, which you try to erase  or at least bury to the deepest part of your heart, so deep that at times they are almost forgotten, till a melody, a scent evokes them.

I was young, I was alone, I was in love. So much in love. Willing to do anything just to please my husband. Living in a pink cloud. I didn’t think it was wrong. I didn’t know any better. Never had a proper real relationship before.  I believed him. Trusted him more than anyone in the whole wide world.

The loneliness, the hurt, the humiliation, the unexplained absences, the guilt you felt for accusing him of things you never wanted to believe that could be possible.

Because he loved you, he told you so, he proved it by buying you everything, by giving you everything…except himself. That he kept.

And then my wonderful son came to my life and changed everything. Became stronger, wiser.
Became a Mum.

Now, this is not my life story. Just didn’t know what is stopping me from writing. Or from doing what I want. I have so many questions to ask, so many things need to be explained.

He is here now. In order to move on with my life I need answers.

I honestly hope that he can give them to me.