Ramadan secrets

Before I begin, let me preface this post with this:

These are my thoughts and my feelings. I will not accept anyone delegitimizing or silencing them. I will not accept anyone telling me that I'm wrong, or I'm doing something wrong, or I just need to pray more/try harder/etc.

This blog is an honest look at the life of a convert in a Muslim-minority country. I post very blunt things here, in the knowledge that if I'm thinking and/or feeling them, then someone else is, too - and that someone, those someones, need to know that they're not alone.

You are not alone. Even when it feels that way. And if you feel the way that I do in this post, you are normal. There's no shame in what I'm about to post. There is shame in trying to shame people about it.

That said, I don't like Ramadan.

An open letter to my hormone and menstrual cycles.

* Disclaimer: I am going to discuss, in vague detail, the act of my uterus trying to kill me on a monthly basis. If you are male, this will probably make you feel icky inside. Therefore, if you are male, and you read this, you acknowledge that you have absolutely no right to whine that I made you feel icky inside, because you read this disclaimer, and you read the post anyway.

Dear hormone and menstrual cycles;

I realise that, me being of the female persuasion, you are a natural fact of life. I understand quite perfectly that you have your uses, that you wish my body to harbour a baby as quickly and as often as possible, so that I might contribute to the human race continuing. I know this. I get it. And hey, that's dandy, because I don't want the human race to die out any time soon.

But that being said, I hate you. I hate that you make me burst into tears for no reason. I hate that I bleed like a stuck pig every month. I hate this immense welling of despair that I feel, that I can't control, just because my body is going crazy because ZOMGWHYISN'TITIMPREGNATEDTHISMONTH?!?!?!?!?!

This, despite the fact that is has NEVER been impregnated and, God willing, never will be.

Hormone cycle, I hate that you make me hate myself. I hate that you make me feel like no one will ever love me because I'm too "me" to be loved. I hate the surges of insecurity that you give me. I hate that you make me want to crawl pitifully toward people and timidly ask, "Will you like me?" You take an already-present yet well-controlled shyness and multiply it like a schizophrenic hobo on crack cocaine while riding a rollercoaster.

Which, coincidentally, is what you do to ALL of my emotions.

I really wish you'd stop. I wish that you'd stop making my body cramp up to the point that I'm doubled over in pain.

So what I'm really trying to say, body and various shrieking-and-crying-rage-inducing cycles, is piss off.

A Family Crises.

Steve

Before I converted, I briefly dated a very intelligent, thoughtful, open-minded man who happened to be a convert to Judaism.  I forget his Jewish name, but his birth-name was Steve.  We broke up for reasons unrelated to either of our religious beliefs (I was pagan or agnostic at the time; can't remember which).

Throughout our relationship, Steve was very adamant about there being a huge difference between Israeli Jews and Zionism, and the rest of the world's Jewry.  He tried to go over and volunteer in the IDF every year,  but he was still very firm in that Zionism did not equal Judaism, and once told me that Jews aren't even supposed to set foot on the Holy Land until the Messiah comes, and that even if Moses himself (peace be upon him) were chasing him, all Steve would do would be to go into Israel and Moses wouldn't be able to follow him.  Steve was upset about the Israeli-Palestinian BS, but he still respected and understood that not every Jew and every Muslim hated each other.  He knew that it was a mainly political mess that was using religion to further its cause.  Steve was also the one who told me that the word "Messiah" is talking about a political leader, not the spiritual leader that most Christians hold it to mean.