Marzieh B blog

Life, Meaning, and Purpose

What do you think—does life have meaning?
Or do you simply want it to?

Because if life has no purpose… do you matter?

Let me tell you a story.

When I was diagnosed with a serious illness and scheduled for surgery, I was in Poland. Communicating with the doctors was difficult, and they made it painfully clear that the chances of success were slim.

They took me to the operating room. It had a high ceiling, cold walls tiled like a slaughterhouse. I lay there—naked—while they prepared their tools, inspecting them like instruments of torture. Just as the anesthesiologist was about to begin, someone burst in and said:
“Stop.”

There was an emergency. Another patient had a rupture requiring immediate surgery.

So they wheeled me out and left me in another room—bare, cold, empty, with that same eerie high ceiling. I lay there for two hours. And I cannot explain the feeling.

I began to wonder: What if these are my final moments? What if I never wake up?

My mind wandered. I saw my body disintegrating. I thought, I’m made of cells—what if each cell holds a sliver of my consciousness? But the cells die too.

Then I thought of atoms, and the particles that make me. What if they carry my essence? When I die, I’ll scatter across the universe—drifting, becoming part of the cosmic system.

I imagined all my particles floating in infinite darkness, at the edge of the universe.
It was silent.
Utterly dark.
But somehow… it was okay.
There was peace. No more pain. No longing. No fear.
No expectations.

And that, I realized, is the truth about death.

Unlike religion’s promise of an afterlife—heaven and hell—I began to understand something different.

As a child, I used to explore my father’s library. I remember one book based on the Quran. It had vivid illustrations of hell and heaven. Hell was terrifying—even more so for a young girl. But heaven? It was a dark forest, a still, black lake—things I feared even more.
Those images haunted me.

I wondered: What if both heaven and hell are dangerous places? What if I don’t want to go to either?

For over a decade, I carried that fear of the afterlife.
In the way Islam depicted it, it always felt like it wasn’t meant for me—it was for men.

When I finally let go of the religion, I felt something liberating.
Now, I could die… and have no expectations.
No judgment.
No reward.
No punishment.
Just… nothingness.

I survived the surgery—and all the complications that followed.
But something had changed.

I realized: when life has no transcendent purpose, it becomes simpler.
Occam’s Razor, after all, favors the simpler explanation.

Life is a process.
Eventually, it ends.
Nothing is immortal—not even the universe.

And maybe… that’s okay.

Because even if there is no divine reason—each life still matters.
We give it meaning.
We choose to make it matter.

From Ashes

Excitement or fear—
my higher mind observes.
It knows the edge.

Trying to build something
from the ashes of an old life
sounds poetic.
But when you rise,
you rise with every memory
etched into your bones.

Is that what we want?
Because it’s familiar?
So we keep the pain.
Because maybe—
deep down—
we think we deserve it.

The poet once wrote:
“Fire told the empty man,
humans are only good
when they carry pain.”

Society loves that narrative.
That suffering means virtue.
But I don’t buy it.

I am not built from common sense.
I am neurodivergent—
a contradiction to evolution.

I don’t belong on the tree.
I am the branch
bending outward,
looking for something new.

I believe I’ve lived many lives—

born like a phenix in every life,
not rising from the ashes,
but walking through them.
Learning.
Not carrying.
And still—
slowly, painfully—
learning.

Inside the Cage

In meditation,
I enter a vast room
at the center of my mind.

One wall is filled with
screens flickering with light.
Two giant gates on opposite sides.
Behind me,
a pool flowing into another pool,
and above it—
a chair.

She sits there.
My higher self.
Cloaked like a shadow,
still and knowing.

And me?
I sit in that room,
surrounded by darkness,
waiting for a flicker of light.

Sometimes it comes.
But the darkness…
it never fully leaves.
Sometimes it swallows me whole.

No one hears my screams.
No one sees the war
beneath my skin.

I think of ending it.
Not for drama—
but for stillness.
For silence.

I don’t belong.
Not to a place.
Not to a tribe.
Not to a world
built for masks.

But maybe—
just maybe—
I belong to one person.
And maybe he
belongs to no one too.

Where the Light Touches Nothing!

I feel like a prisoner—trapped within my own body, which has become a cage. My mind, once free, now paces behind invisible bars.

In meditation, I often find myself in a vast room at the center of my consciousness. One wall is lined with countless screen-like windows, each flickering with distant light. Two large gates stand on the opposing walls, silent and unmoving. Behind me, a small pool flows into a larger one below, and above them sits a lone chair. She sits there—my higher self—cloaked in shadows, her presence reminiscent of ancient, knowing and silent.

I wait in that room, surrounded by darkness, hoping for a flicker of light. Sometimes, during meditation, the light breaks through—briefly, beautifully—but the darkness always lingers. Sometimes, it swallows everything.

I often feel like an outcast. When I reveal my true self, people turn away. I wonder if I am nothing more than a mask—a hollow figure in a world built on illusions.

Even when hope appears, it feels fragile, fleeting. I wait, I endure… only for it to collapse into emptiness once again. A whisper of something real, followed by silence.

“Navigating Vulnerability”

I’ve been reflecting on something lately. I struggle with vulnerability, and asking for help feels especially difficult for me. Recently, I decided to push myself and see what happens if I ask for help more often.

I reached out to a friend for assistance with a task. He agreed to help on a specific day, but as the day approached, I went back and forth in my mind. On the day of, I told him, “I’m okay now, I don’t need your help anymore.” It felt like a small victory, but also a pattern — struggling to ask for help, then retreating when it gets close.

Next, I decided to try asking for help with smaller things from random people. Some were kind, while others offered assistance half-heartedly. I wasn’t feeling good one day and I thought if I get rid of some of my stuff which where reminder of some bad memories I will feel better. I even thought about moving or selling some of my things but didn’t know the best way to go about it. So, I posted in a Neurodivergent (ND) WhatsApp group, asking for advice or help. Two days passed, and no one responded.

Frustrated, I thought maybe offering something in return would help. I posted pictures of some wine bottles I had and mentioned I needed help moving a TV off my bedroom wall. Still, no one offered to help. So, feeling frustrated, I joked that maybe I’d use physics to move it myself. Instead of offers of help, I got laughed at and bombarded with smiley faces. I felt sad and cried, and then in my frustration, said I’d just use a hammer and break the TV into pieces to throw it away.

Suddenly, someone offered to help. A guy messaged me privately, asking about the TV’s size. At first, I thought he was inquiring to figure out how to transport it. I measured it, even though I didn’t want to deal with the TV at all. But then he excitedly said, “55 inches, wow!” And it hit me—he wasn’t offering help out of kindness. He just wanted a free TV. I realized I had fallen into the same trap again.

I snapped out of my emotional spiral and became more logical. This experience made me realize how often help comes with strings attached. It’s rarely offered selflessly.

When I was diagnosed with autism, my therapist recommended I connect with other neurodivergent people. He said joining an ND community would be helpful, but my experience so far has been eye-opening. It turns out that in this ND community, at least, asking for help seems to come with hidden motives or simply gets ignored. My first lesson was that I shouldn’t rely on the community for support in the way I expected.

When people tell me, “You need therapy,” it feels like they’re saying, “We don’t care about your problems; go fix them somewhere else.” It’s a dismissal, not genuine concern.

I recently read a study on neurodivergent communication, which showed that ND people generally understand each other better than when communicating with neurotypical people. But from my experience with the ND community on WhatsApp and at a couple of events, it doesn’t seem to hold true. Here, ND individuals seem to see themselves more as isolated individuals rather than a true community. When they’re happy, they engage. But when overwhelmed, they withdraw and rely on therapy.

What I’ve learned is that even within the ND community, I still need to mask my emotions. If I show that I’m struggling, the response is often dismissive, like, “Go find a therapist.” It’s a harsh realization that the support I was hoping for doesn’t exist in the way I imagined.

Enduring the Unseen: My Journey and Health Struggles

As clarity begins to take hold in my mind, I feel compelled to share my story with you.

Eight years ago, I was diagnosed with uterine fibroids (myomas). Despite consulting numerous doctors, I received no definitive diagnosis and was often told that my pain was normal and would disappear after childbirth. This dismissive attitude, which often felt misogynistic even from female gynecologists, left me skeptical and distrustful.

Eventually, I found a competent doctor who identified small, fibroid-like shapes in my uterine wall. Under their care, I underwent regular six-month check-ups to monitor the fibroids’ size, with the plan to remove them via laparoscopic surgery if necessary.

I managed moderately well, despite significant pain during each period, until February 2017, when my gynecologist suggested scheduling surgery within six months. By June, the pain intensified. While in Amsterdam for an internship, I consulted a private gynecologist who suggested an experimental pill to shrink the fibroids and avoid surgery that could impair natural childbirth. Despite my disinterest in having children, the doctor’s assumption that natural childbirth was my priority was frustrating. Crucially, the doctor failed to mention the experimental nature of the pill and its potential adverse effects.

Returning home for a check-up in September, I faced a nightmare. I had been misdiagnosed and received an incorrect prognosis. The correct diagnosis was advanced endometriosis cancer, which nearly cost me my life and led to a total hysterectomy. Although the operation was successful, complications arose, including an internal blood clot and post-operative pneumonia. It was an incredibly difficult experience, but I survived.

Years passed, and I moved to Berlin, where I developed gut issues. Over the past two years, and especially since last summer, I experienced fatigue, dizziness, and tinnitus. My general practitioner referred me to an otolaryngologist who dismissed my symptoms as those of an anxious elderly woman and suggested rest and therapy.

Following this advice and consulting other doctors yielded no results. I then sought a comprehensive check-up with an endocrinologist, enduring a three-month wait while my symptoms, including severe gastrointestinal issues and insomnia, worsened. The tests revealed I had Hashimoto’s thyroiditis, a vitamin B12 deficiency, and low diamine oxidase levels, indicating histamine intolerance. Despite this diagnosis, my GP was unaware of such conditions.

I tried a low-histamine diet and Daosin pills, which initially improved my symptoms, lifting the mental fog and giving me clarity. However, the symptoms returned despite the diet. A gastroenterologist suggested visiting histamine intolerance clinics in Berlin, where further tests revealed I was also lactose intolerant—information that did not help as I was already on a lactose-free diet.

Frustrated by the lack of effective medical support, I decided to take matters into my own hands. Despite the challenges posed by my symptoms, I researched extensively and discovered a possible link between histamine intolerance and the MTHFR gene mutation.

The MTHFR gene, inherited from each parent, provides instructions for making a protein that helps the body use folate (a B vitamin) to break down homocysteine. High homocysteine levels, due to faulty MTHFR proteins, may correlate with high histamine levels, leading to histamine intolerance.

I scheduled a test for the MTHFR gene mutation with my GP and started taking methyl folate supplements in the interim, thinking it couldn’t hurt. I was wrong. During a gynecological check-up, it was discovered I had a large endometriosis cyst—a recurrence of what I had seven years ago. My gynecologist urged me to have it removed as soon as possible. Being alone, I needed time to gather information and plan for post-operative care.

Despite my history, my gynecologist had advised against frequent check-ups, leading to the shocking discovery of a significant endometriosis cyst in my left ovary after two years. This led me to further investigate the relationship between the MTHFR gene mutation and endometriosis.

My symptoms—vitamin B12 deficiency, low diamine oxidase, Hashimoto’s thyroiditis, headaches, dizziness, tinnitus, and insomnia—could be linked to inflammation and oxidative stress. Excess estrogen, a driver of endometriosis, can impede detoxification, stimulate mast cells to release histamine, and downregulate the DAO enzyme, creating a vicious cycle of increased estrogen and histamine.

It remains unclear whether endometriosis or high histamine levels were the initial cause. Further tests are needed to determine if histamine intolerance persists after addressing endometriosis. It is possible that endometriosis caused histamine intolerance or that the MTHFR mutation played a role.

Two weeks after the diagnosis, I began experiencing pain reminiscent of years ago. My gynecologist urged me to get operated on as soon as possible, fearing the cyst could grow larger and spread. I went to the hospital she recommended for an urgent appointment. At the Charité University endometriosis clinic in Berlin, I was turned away twice and told to send an email to make an appointment. Despite explaining my emergency, they were unresponsive, eventually informing me of an eight-month waiting time. Frustrated and desperate, I returned to my doctor, who sent me to another hospital, Vivantes in Neukölln. There, I finally secured an appointment within a week.

The last week before the surgery was agonizing and emotional, especially being alone. I tried various painkillers, but none worked. When I asked for painkillers specifically for women, pharmacists looked at me as if I were crazy. Eventually, I was given naproxen, which offered minimal relief.

Reading about endometriosis cysts, I realized that even without menstruation, my ovaries’ hormone cycles caused internal bleeding from the endometriosis cells. This realization was distressing.

I contacted my friends, informing them of my situation. My best friend came from Cracow to stay with me since our attempts to get my sister a visa to Germany were unsuccessful.

On the day of the operation, I felt a mix of fear and relief, knowing I would soon be free from pain, dead or alive. Post-operation, the pain was unbearable, and I spent five hours in the recovery room as no painkillers eased my suffering. Eventually, I was moved to the ward with the pain still present.

Despite the pain, a glimpse of a bright star through the window brought me a moment of joy and hope. I reminded myself to hang on for one more day, believing the pain would lessen.

The next day, the surgeon informed me that the operation was more complicated than expected due to adhesions from my previous surgery. They had to cut through a lot to reach the ovaries and remove the cyst, which also involved stitching my bladder. The procedure took over three hours instead of the usual one to two.

Reflecting on the experience, I was surprised by the limitations of current imaging techniques and the lack of effective pain medication. I realized that despite technological advancements, there are still significant gaps in women’s healthcare.

In the end, I survived. This experience has taught me resilience and the importance of advocating for oneself in the face of inadequate medical care. I hope my story can bring awareness to these issues and inspire others to seek the care they deserve.

I am freaking out …

I wish I could cry. I wish I could complain. I wish I could be afraid. I wish I could just collapse. It’s so difficult to show my emotions. I don’t have anyone to rely on. He left me when I needed him the most. Looking back, I think if he had stayed, he would have made it even worse, just like he did last year when my father died, or five months ago when I confided in him that I am on the spectrum. I can’t trust anyone. I can’t share my pain with anyone.

Life is too short for some people. Life is harder for some people. It’s even harder when you have no one to share the good times and the hard times. People just come and go, and you have to learn the hard way that even if there are people around you, no one truly cares about you.

Now, I am facing something even more daunting. I have been diagnosed with cancer, and in a few days, I will undergo surgery. The thought haunts me: what if this is it? What if this is the end? The fear is overwhelming, but I can’t allow myself to feel it. I can’t show it because my family will be scared, and I cannot be the one to put them through such hardship. I must bear my fear within myself and swallow the pain.

The weight of isolation is crushing. There are days when the silence becomes unbearable, and the absence of genuine connection feels like a void swallowing me whole. The longing for someone who understands, who cares, is a constant ache that never seems to fade.

now, as I prepare for this surgery, the fear of what might come next is something I must face alone.

Trust feels like an impossible concept. How can I trust when every attempt to open up has been met with betrayal or apathy? The walls I’ve built around my heart grow taller and thicker with each disappointment, each moment of pain.

Life’s brevity is a cruel reminder of the fleeting nature of everything, especially relationships. The harsh reality is that people often care only when it’s convenient for them. They drift in and out of your life, leaving you to pick up the pieces each time they leave.

But amidst the solitude and the sorrow, I am forced to find strength within myself. The resilience to keep going, even when it feels like the world is against me. The courage to face each day, despite the loneliness that lingers. And perhaps, one day, the hope that I will find someone who genuinely cares, who won’t leave when times get tough.

For now, I continue to navigate this journey alone, holding onto the fragments of strength and hope that remain. Because even in the darkest moments, there is a part of me that believes in the possibility of better days. And maybe, just maybe, that small spark of hope will be enough to carry me through.

As I face this surgery and the uncertain future, I will hold my fear close, hidden from those I love. I will swallow the pain and bear it alone, because that’s what I must do. For them. For myself. For the hope that one day, I will look back on this time and see how strong I truly was.

The Dark Emissary

The room was dim, the air heavy with the weight of unseen emotions. A figure stepped out of the shadows, their presence both familiar and unsettling.

“Do you know why I am here? Do you know what I need you to do?”

The words echoed in the silence; each syllable laced with a haunting familiarity. The other person, trembling, looked up, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear and resignation.

“You are here to get revenge because I killed you.”

The figure shook their head slowly, a gentle, almost sorrowful smile touching their lips. “No, I am here to remind you of something you’ve forgotten.”

The other person blinked in confusion, struggling to grasp the meaning behind the words. “Seven years ago,” the figure continued, “I came into your life after you lost your loved ones. You were depressed and didn’t have any desire to be happy.”

Their eyes softened, a hint of sadness mingling with understanding. “I came into your life to remind you that life can even get worse, and you need to try harder to just pass by. Life is not a given; it’s earned. You need to want it bad.”

The person whispered, “And now why are you here again? Why do I have to suffer again?”

The figure responded, “Don’t you know who I am? I am not just any disease, so you take some pills to get better and forget about it. I am here because you need me again.”

The person replied with wide eyes, “I don’t need you; I don’t want to suffer and go through the pain. I never needed you before.”

The figure looked deep into the person’s eyes and said, “You need me bad because you have forgotten to be. You have forgotten the lights and desires.”

The realization dawned slowly, the words striking a chord deep within. “After one year of your father’s death, I am paying you another visit, to remind you what was forgotten. Happiness is not given. You don’t wake up happy every day.”

A small, hopeful smile formed on the figure’s lips. “You get to choose to be happy.”

“But how can I be happy with your presence? You are a disease, you are cancer! I need you to be gone.”

The figure’s presence felt suffocating, like a dark cloud hanging over every moment of potential joy. The person felt a surge of anger and desperation, their heart pounding with a mix of fear and defiance.

“I don’t want to feel this fear again,” they whispered, voice cracking. “I don’t want to relive the pain and uncertainty. How can I find happiness with you looming over me?”

The figure’s expression remained calm, almost compassionate. “I will go if you want me to go, but you have to fight for it. You have to fight harder than ever before.”

The room seemed to breathe with a newfound clarity, the burden of the past beginning to lift. The person felt a flicker of hope, mingling with the raw determination surging within them. “I understand now,” they whispered, their voice growing stronger. “I thought I was cursed to suffer, that happiness was a fleeting dream.”

The figure nodded, stepping closer, their presence a comforting balm. “Happiness is a choice, a daily decision to find joy even in the smallest of things. It’s in the effort you put into healing, in the love you give and receive.”

Tears streamed down the person’s face, a cathartic release of years of pain and guilt. They took a deep, shuddering breath, feeling a renewed sense of purpose. “I’m ready to choose happiness,” they said, their voice gaining strength. “I’m ready to forgive myself and move forward.”

The figure’s smile widened, their form beginning to fade. “Then my work here is done. Remember, forgiveness starts with yourself. Embrace the life you have and make it a journey worth living.”

As the figure disappeared, the room seemed brighter, the weight of the past lifting. The person took a deep breath, a renewed sense of purpose filling their heart. It was time to let go of the past, to embrace the present, and to create a future filled with hope and happiness.

The Neurodivergent Struggle: Living with Emotional Turmoil

It got to me again, there is a monster within who wants to get out.

so in rage, so in pain, so alone…

it gets happy too fast and so excited, it gets upset so fast and so sad, there is no control whatsoever.

Chaos is my Name.

These words may resonate deeply with many who live with neurodivergent conditions, where emotional regulation is a constant and often overwhelming battle. The internal “monster” is not an enemy but a manifestation of the intense and fluctuating emotions that characterize conditions like ADHD, autism. Understanding this experience can help shed light on the daily realities faced by neurodivergent individuals.

The Emotional Rollercoaster

For many neurodivergent people, emotions are not just felt—they are experienced with a magnitude that can be both exhilarating and exhausting. Happiness can transform into euphoria at lightning speed, but this high can plummet into deep sadness or explosive anger just as quickly. This rapid emotional cycling is not a sign of weakness or instability but a hallmark of how their brains process and respond to the world.

“It gets happy too fast and so excited, it gets upset so fast and so sad.”

These swift changes can create a sense of being out of control, where one moment everything is perfect, and the next, it feels like the world is crashing down. The inability to predict or manage these shifts can lead to a profound sense of isolation and frustration.

The Monster Within

This monster is not inherently evil but is a force that demands attention, often in disruptive ways. It can manifest as rage that feels uncontrollable, as pain that is deep and unrelenting, and as loneliness that is all-consuming.

“So in rage, so in pain, so alone…”

These intense feelings can lead to destructive behaviors, both towards oneself and others. Outbursts of anger can strain relationships, while the deep pain can lead to self-harm or suicidal thoughts. The loneliness can feel like an endless void, making it hard to connect with others or seek help.

The Fight for Control

One of the most challenging aspects of living with such intense emotions is the lack of control. Many neurodivergent individuals strive for stability, yet their brains seem wired to sabotage these efforts.

“There is no control whatsoever.”

This lack of control can be terrifying. It can lead to a constant state of vigilance, always waiting for the next emotional wave to hit. It can also result in a deep sense of guilt and shame, as if the person is somehow failing at being “normal.”

Embracing the Monster

The journey towards emotional regulation and self-acceptance is ongoing. It involves recognizing that the “monster within” is a part of who you are but does not define you. It means finding ways to channel that emotional intensity into positive outlets, whether through creative expression, physical activity, or advocacy.

Neurodivergent individuals have unique strengths and perspectives that enrich our world. By understanding and supporting their emotional experiences, we can create a more inclusive and compassionate society.

The emotional turmoil experienced by neurodivergent individuals is profound and often misunderstood. Describing it as a monster within highlights the struggle for control and the intensity of these emotions. With empathy, support, and appropriate interventions, it is possible to manage these feelings and lead a fulfilling life. Remember, the monster is not an enemy but a part of the vibrant, complex tapestry of neurodivergent identity.

status quote “It is ME”

Surrounded by noise, every single moment of being awake. It is in my head, sometimes impossible to ignore. Maybe one day it will go away—the day I can finally fall asleep and forget about everything and everyone. I could go wherever I desire, whenever I see fit. Sitting near the water, listening to the stream flow across the ground and carve its path, indifferent to anything or anyone, it just goes and goes, never stopping. That is the sound of life in its purest flow. Every single rhythm is a moment of life passing, making way for the next.

I feel something I cannot quite understand. These days, everything is chaotic. I am exhausted from trying to decipher why my gut feelings are not clear to me. I do things, make decisions, and act upon them without knowing what my gut is telling me. Sometimes, it feels like my body is separated from my mind.

Then, I suddenly realize: it is me who is going to help me—my mind and my gut together.

There are times when a few droplets of water splash on top of the stream and try to escape the flow. I feel like those droplets nowadays, trying to break free from this sanctuary of normalcy…