Just a black pen and paper

Back in 2014...

I don’t even want to recall that horrible state, but it was a part of me. I suffered from depression and mental trauma. I know it sounds strange to say that about a 6-year-old, but it is what it is. My family has always loved me dearly; of course, I’m the youngest. I’m Papa’s favorite child, his best friend. Mama? She’s always given me the kind of love that doesn’t even match the idea of a "middle child"; it’s love at its peak. As for my siblings, they’ve always been a little jealous of me… but never unkind. I’d still get treats and special attention, like any youngest child would.

Since my earliest memories, I can’t recall any bad energy that might’ve caused this trauma.

Not from school.

Not from home.

Not from family.

Not from anyone.

And that, that’s the part of my life I think I’ll never have an answer to.

What did my mental trauma look like?

At night, I’d go to bed like any other child. But sleep wouldn’t come to me… not like it does for normal children. At any point during the night, I’d start seeing BURDEN, HEAVINESS, DIFFICULTY.

Yes, those exact words.

BURDEN?

HEAVINESS?

DIFFICULTY?

They’re abstract nouns, right? We can’t see them.

But I did.

I saw them come to life.

With faces I can’t describe. I never could, not even to the psychologists. In those moments,

I wouldn’t die… but I wouldn’t live either.

I would desperately want to escape the burden, the heaviness, the difficulty, but I couldn’t.

And the scariest part?

I didn’t see all this with my eyes closed.

No.

The moment those nouns came to life, my eyes would open wide. For the first few minutes, all I could see was myself, trapped in that terrifying state, my mind numb. Then I would start screaming.

Always with the same words:

"Mama, Papa! Help… Please, come! Mama, Papa!"

They’d rush to me, wrap me in their arms, trying to wake me.

But how do you wake someone whose eyes are already wide open?

Ever seen a distorted TV screen?

That was my vision. I knew my parents were there, holding me. I saw them. But they appeared as black and white lines, distorted. And behind that screen… was the dark world I was stuck in. This state would last for about 20 minutes.

When I finally came out of it, my body would collapse, no strength, just tears. I’d cry nonstop.

My parents took me to many doctors, but nothing could erase the trauma. Until one doctor from Jeddah made it possible…

But that’s a story for another day.

It didn’t just happen in 2014. I suffered like this until 2017. After that, Alhamdulillah, I’ve never experienced it again.

And I pray I never do.

Now,

Now, 10–11 years later… I’ve found a hobby that, somehow, healed a trauma I thought was long gone. A hobby that brought peace where darkness once lived.

It’s simple.

At least for me.

Maybe my definition of simple and difficult is different. All I need is a black pen and paper. That’s it. I find peace in drawing lines, in repeating structures. And the most special thing? I don’t even focus while doing it. My mind floats into a place of beauty, love, and peace. Maybe it’s my way of releasing all the darkness onto paper. Or maybe it’s something else entirely. But whatever it is, it’s powerful. It’s mine. This hobby has spoken to me. It’s made me feel heard. It’s made me happy, whole, and seen. And I believe… It’s connected to the trauma I once lived through.

And that makes it all the more meaningful.

After all these years, I’ve finally found something that makes me feel satisfied and at peace.