A Letter to the One Who Left an Imprint

    After much postponement and reflection on what could be said about the progress I achieved through the psychotherapy I attended with you for two and a half years, I came to realize that everything it added to me could be summed up in the experience of the writing workshop. I always used to think of relationships and opportunities as grand things that required enormous effort, but I discovered that they often happen as a result of small actions on my part. Before therapy, I believed that no small action was worth unless I was certain it would make a big difference in my life. But after some time in therapy, I began to value such small things, including attending film screenings and cultural events. And at one of those events, Mrs. Enass, a psychotherapist, sat beside me. I overheard her speaking about her desire to organize a therapeutic writing workshop. Had I not grown accustomed to speaking with a stammer during sessions, I would never have dared to politely interrupt the conversation and join in, unconcerned that the other person might notice my stammer, enduring their awkward facial expressions whenever I stumbled over my words. It is worth mentioning that, in the past, I would never have asked permission before entering a conversation. But after some time in therapy, I instinctively realized that such courtesies should not be neglected, even if those few words were among the heaviest on my tongue. Likewise, whenever I got to know someone, I used to feel too ashamed to reconnect with them afterward, assuming they would not want anything to do with me. But I will never forget what you once told me about this: “You’re losing so many relationships that way.” My chest still tightens whenever I remember that sentence.

    We agreed on everything, and Mrs. Enass created a WhatsApp group for the participants. Out of courtesy, I wanted to welcome everyone and explain what we would be doing in the workshop, but no one seemed interested in what I said. As always, I began reviewing my words and evaluating the way I spoke. Fear poured heavily onto my chest. Things grew worse when Dr. Enass added another writer to the group. It was no longer merely doubt about the way she treated me, anxiety over whether she respected me or not, or questions about whether people respected me and whether I would even be able to manage this workshop with my stammer. Instead, all the experiences of the past took shape once again in the cruelest and largest form possible. There was someone better than me, about to take away something I wanted. He was older, had published literary works, spoke fluently, and had been a longtime friend of Mrs. Enass. Surely she would assign him to lead the workshop once she realized I could barely speak, or perhaps before I even had the chance to try. She had certainly noticed my problem already and regretted agreeing to work with me, especially after my weak welcome message and people’s lack of interest in me.

    I never told you any of this at the time. I only spoke about my fear of confrontation and my stammering. And, by the way, this had become the routine of therapy ever since I started with you: I would always decide not to tell you certain things, and either you would figure them out on your own, or circumstances would eventually push me into talking about them somehow, just as I am doing now. When will I ever succeed in hiding anything from you? 

    Our magical trick in facing everything was always discussion. I would recall those moments of revelation during our sessions, when we followed thoughts to their roots and meanings, or summoned evidence and counter-evidence. You would ask me what I thought of the conclusion, and I would fall silent, thinking, surprised. I realized that reliving this experience in the same way was not a threat of repeating it, but perhaps God’s will that I defeat it this time. And so I turned things in my favor. I realized that people’s lack of warmth reflected badly on them, not on me. Likewise, it was unfair of Enass to add another writer to the group without consulting me first. As for his competence and mine, I was astonished by the contempt with which I treated myself. True, I had no published literary works or produced screenplays, but my experience and knowledge in writing were not insignificant. More importantly, my experience with psychotherapy itself made me worthy of such a role. And this was not a competition. It was not about who spoke better or wrote better. I had been chosen first, and that meant I alone should lead the workshop. But what if he tried to manipulate things, taking advantage of my inability to speak? Then defend what you want, Mido. You deserve to win what you want.

    It was the first time the word “deserving” emerged from within me with such conviction and strength. And for the first time, instead of sitting there silently astonished by the conclusion, I jumped with joy at what I had reached. Thank you. ❤️

    I also reminded myself that deserving something requires taking action, something I had never understood before therapy and self-awareness. I used to believe desires were fulfilled in only two ways: either they came to me effortlessly because I deserved them, or I pursued them obsessively until I lost them. Strangely enough, I managed to avoid masturbation for a long time while preparing for the workshop. Normally, the anxiety of trying not to relapse would itself be enough to make me fail. But perhaps my newfound sense of deserving gave me genuine resilience this time. I immersed myself in meditation more deeply than ever before and relentlessly challenged my thoughts, drawing strength from what you had once told me: that nervousness and stammering in such a situation are perfectly normal for any human being. That became the entry point. Why did I treat stammering as though it were some exceptional condition deserving fear and anticipation? Is someone ashamed of writing with their left hand? Ashamed of having brown eyes? Then why should I be ashamed of a trait I carry, especially one I was not born with? I went through an intensely painful life experience that left this mark on me. Is a soldier ashamed of losing a limb in battle? I focused on making myself the priority, caring first and foremost about my own feelings rather than everyone else’s. I allowed myself all the time I needed to think before speaking, or while speaking, until I found the right words and the right way to say them. That is simply my way of thinking, and there is nothing wrong with it. I also understood that I had to guide the workshop in the direction I had prepared for. If I allowed everyone to say whatever they wanted, or allowed anyone else to interfere with the leadership, we would never make progress.

    And things unfolded smoothly. I stumbled a little at first, but I pushed through. After all, it is not easy to stand in the middle of a circle of people staring at you, expecting explanation, understanding, and leadership from you. But after a while, I merged into the moment completely. I even left my chair and stood among them freely, moving here and there, listening to this person, questioning that one, shifting the discussion from one point to another, setting boundaries, and politely stopping the pretentious guest whenever he tried to interfere. The session ended after nearly four hours. I returned home utterly exhausted, so exhausted that I fell asleep in my outdoor clothes. I woke up before dawn to find several voice messages from Mrs. Enass warmly thanking me for my efforts, praising my remarkable presence, and telling me how much the participants admired me. It is also worth mentioning that the nature of the participants themselves helped me greatly. Most people who decide to go to a therapist tend to possess a high degree of sensitivity and openness toward others. They give you space to speak, something so simple, yet so rare. This realization later helped me stop blaming myself entirely whenever communication with someone became difficult. Before that, I always placed all the responsibility on myself, when in reality the other person also carries a large part of the responsibility for how comfortable I feel speaking with them.

    What made me postpone writing these pages for so long was my fear of reaching this final part. My success in the workshop existed only during the first session, just as happens with many things in my life. The beginning shines brilliantly, but the moment I notice how well things are going, I become terrified of stumbling later on, and then I stumble indeed. Had I written these pages before our last conversation, I would never have found an ending for them. The snakes inside my head were raging then, and only once they quieted did things become clear. I had always been upset by my inability to persist in anything. But in recent days, I discovered that I have never persisted in anything in my life as much as I have persisted in writing about myself. I have been writing the same story for five years. And I am still willing to rewrite it again and again until I finally reach the conclusion I seek. Yet this realization pains me, because I finished my studies and five years passed and I am still in the same house, rewriting the same story. No one knows me. I have not become independent, nor achieved complete success.

    And there I finally discovered the core of the problem. When I experienced rejection in childhood and my stammer first appeared, I withdrew into myself and drowned in daydreams for many years. Even now, part of me still waits and imagines that some grand event will suddenly happen and put an end to all my suffering. The unbearable pain made me unwilling to ever feel pain again. And perhaps it is finally time to let go of that idea, without feeling guilty toward the wounded child inside me. I always refused to fully engage with life because I felt doing so would betray that hurt child. He had been rejected by life, and I wanted to remain resentful toward life forever in his honor. Perhaps that is why I always fear immersion. I once told you about the “block” that rises in my mind whenever I notice myself becoming immersed in something, no matter how small, even during meditation exercises. I have always feared filling my life with too many activities or relationships. I always wanted an enormous amount of empty time. I fear immersion because I fear rejection happening again. What happened in the past happened because I entered life carelessly, without caution. But now I finally understand that safety is not found in withdrawal. The problem was never immersion itself. The problem was my choices, trying to immerse myself with people and in things that were never truly mine. Of course they disappointed me. Of course I could not continue in them. Just as I could never continue in anything except writing. Because writing is mine. It is me. And I do not want some specific reward from it that changes my life, only for me to abandon it afterward and disappear. Its importance does not mean I should become dependent on it either. Nor do I want to become excessively enthusiastic, because nothing is easier than words. I hope my happiness with these realizations will not distract me from action. I hope I can care about writing, and about the rest of life, in a balanced way. I hope I can finally immerse myself.

Finished.