It's 12:14 AM in Karachi, pitch black outside, and I'm wide awake with this raging fire in my chest—intense anger, heart burning like hell, a storm of helplessness crashing over me. But somehow, faith in Allah is still holding on, even if it's getting weaker by the day. God, help me cling to it.

February 23, 2026

It's 12:14 AM in Karachi, pitch black outside, and I'm wide awake with this raging fire in my chest—intense anger, heart burning like hell, a storm of helplessness crashing over me. But somehow, faith in Allah is still holding on, even if it's getting weaker by the day. God, help me cling to it.

Let me lay out today's mess in detail, because if I don't write this shit down, it'll eat me alive. The whole day felt like one big explosion of frustration, not from some external crap like India's embarrassing Super 8 loss that's all-over social media—people screaming, making memes, celebrating like idiots. No, that was just background noise. My real war was inside this house, this emotional battlefield that's driving me insane bit by bit.

Flashback to yesterday evening, that moment at 5:27 PM still stabbing me in the chest like a knife. I came home with samosas and rolls, power was outfucking loadshedding as usual. House empty, nobody around, just me and my cat. I started prepping for iftar, nothing fancy because my pockets are empty as fuck. Lights flickered back on at 5:30, timestamp etched in my brain. Sitting there alone, heart heavy like a rock on my chest, loneliness crushing me. Then, a sound—like someone entering the room. My heart skipped, I was so desperate and on edge that I yelled out, "I'm doing my thing, you do yours, please!" But nobody there. Just the noise, then dead silence. Maybe some unseen presence, jinn or whatever.

In that split second, it hit me: these beings are like us—they need space, room to breathe. I'm all for coexistence with new or unknown shit; no competition, just live and let live. From those horror podcasts I binge, I've learned humans and the unseen world can share space without war. Especially when I was down, alone, with only my cat as company. He was my silent partner in that isolation.

The cat came over, sat with me. When I gestured with my hand, he left. No control, just presence. Outside the door, a mother dog had given birth to 8 pups. They're out there, depending on scraps I throw, but in return, they watch out for me in their way. These animals stick by me for a few bits of meat. When I was utterly alone, they became my support. These small things touch me deep, like a gentle hand on a wounded heart.

Humans? They've got words, but zero humanity. More like animals in the worst sense—savage. These creatures care more than my own family. Hell, my folks even hate the cat.

I did iftar alone. Planned food till 7:30, tea by 7:45, so I could prep for Isha, Tarawih, and Witr by 8:10. But no cash, so just samosas. Went to jamaat on an empty stomach.

Now, personal reflections and the gritty details: Yesterday, Madiha came to me saying they wanted to go to Metro, and drop her off at Abu's (Yaqub Sahib's) place. But looking at today, I realize I need to nail down financial planning completely. Yesterday, they humiliated me so bad my heart burned up. Today, she's talking about visiting Yaqub Sahib because of his surgery. I'm not saying visiting is wrong. But first, show me some damn respect. Respect means listening to me, acknowledging my responsibilities, treating my views as valid.

Like the Mastercard logo—two circles, two separate worlds, but they overlap in the middle. That's family unity: respect both worlds, meet in the center. But here? One world is trying to force the other into its shape. They won't accept my world; they're hell-bent on remolding it to match theirs. This isn't unity; it's one-sided pressure, pure domination.

I'm saying, when something's fully my responsibility, let me handle it my way. If it's wrong, explain with logic. But this gaslighting environment, this "it's all in your head" bullshit—it's torturing me. They're making me feel like I'm crazy, like my words mean nothing, like I'm immature. Madiha and my parents are tag-teaming to prove I'm a child. They dismiss every point I make as childish, instead of listening to my reasoning, they hit back with "You don't understand yet," "Your brain's messed up."

My anger boils from this: nobody's listening to me. When I ask, "Why am I angry?"—crickets. They don't hear the real question. Instead of mediating, they jump to proving me wrong. Baba straight-up says, "This is all in your head, like you did to Mustafa." Meaning, they think I turned Mustafa immature too, and now me. They dodge my question and slap me with the immature label to deflect. That's gaslighting—twisting my reality, making me doubt my own sanity.

My rage is because my voice is silenced. When I demand, "Tell me why I'm angry!"—no answer. They skip mediating and go straight to villainizing me.

What if I go nuclear—cut off completely, take my family and bail? The thought crosses my mind, but it's no walk in the park. Challenges stack up:

- Financially, waiting on salary, job's not permanent, loans pending, rent in Karachi (20k-50k monthly) plus expenses—impossible to shoulder right now.

- Emotionally, cultural guilt will devour me: "Abandoned your parents" taunts, society's judgmental eyes, fear of total isolation.

- If kids are involved, their adjustment, school, daily life upheaval.

- Full family boycott, zero support, mental risk of diving into depression.

But it could free me from the gaslighting, save my dignity.

I'm praying to Allah: Ya Allah! Grant me halal, stable income that meets my needs, where my dignity, family's peace, and independence are protected.

Lessons from this crap: Joint family to nuclear is a must. Once I snag a new job, I'll prioritize my own family. These people are just defaming me.

When anger spills out, they accuse me of being power-hungry. But I'm starving for love and affection, not control. If I wanted power, I'd have put Madiha's account under my name, kept her dependent. But I let her be free—that's my nature.

I'm writing all this so if someone reads it five years from now, they'll get it: the pressure I was under, how they ignored my words and branded me immature, how they refused to accept my world and tried to reshape it.

Allah will deliver justice.

Khuda Hafiz.