By what feels like God’s grace itself, wedding season has FINALLY ended. It has been raining Biblically in a pathetic fallacy of relief. I reflect now on wedding season’s social tyranny. At some point in the maelstrom, during the afternoon I went to see my particular mentor, my former Professor. On current predicaments, she said: “Don’t you want to talk about this? [on the blog] Surely there are more people that could relate, more women like you.”
What she alluded to, is of course relate-able to any singleton in a marriage-focused society or religious group: How difficult it is to get married. Time and again I tried to look as relaxed and elegant as possible, while my virtues were extolled without restraint.
At the risk of seeming rude at functions, I have got up and walked out, as I have always hated being discussed. I have a deep respect for the institution and foundation of marriage – and a searing hatred of how it is conducted, usually against Islamic teachings. Escaping to younger company, I was surprised to be confronted afresh:
“Polaaaa! Your turn next! You look so good man, what have you been doing? I’m still waiting for YOUR wedding man, your wedding is gonna be awesome.”
“You know, that’s all everyone’s been saying to me tonight.”
Pride and Prejudice just keeps getting evermore relevant… Poor Mr Bingley, I thought, in the way Austen writes that he as a single person is suddenly considered to be the ‘property’ of whoever wishes it, even if just by the treason of imagining.
“Everything in its own time, insha’Allah.” Put in her friend, consolingly.
I dislike how much a marriage begins as everyone ELSE’s before it can be considered the endeavour of mature people who love God and respect each other, that respect also extending to being naked and blissfully alone.
Maybe I should be flattered that I am a ‘Nice Girl’ whom many upon knowing me (with and without knowledge of bipolar) think of me as deserving of ‘a prince among men’? I just need intuitiveness, patience and kindness.
I see false princes everywhere, (subject to the same advertising I suffer from) but none of them seem right. I don’t want a prince because I am not seeking someone who wants a princess: unless she fights by pen and principle. Unless she is my hero, Scheherazade.
I’m also battling my sisters’ resentment that my illness has taken a toll on everyone for years now, and I struggle not to feel like a burden. I am a vibrant, loving person, with special circumstances. Whatever else my feelings are: desperation is not desirable, and IRON-CLAD diplomacy is the only way to survive.
It will take time, and there will probably be blood, but in the cause of my own happiness, my passion will out. Until then, I hope patience prevails – but I am glad that the annual ‘show’ is over.
~ Pola ~