When I was a newborn, less than 4 days old, you bought as many stuffed toys as your car could fit and surrounded them around my crib, ignoring my grandmother who kept telling mom that newborns don't know how to look at objects.
I moved my eyes and looked at them.

When I was a toddler, you encouraged me to watch Beauty and the Beast and Aladdin and didn't want me to watch Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty because you "wanted your daughter to learn a lesson, not just waste time".

When I was 7 you took me everywhere with you and didn't mind me listening to your friends' political arguments. On our way home though you always told me "Don't grow up to be like them.  Don't let people lead you."
And I didn't. I pushed a girl because she wanted to be the group leader in our science project.

When I was 11 you started discussing books by Stephen Covey and made me listen to Zig Ziglar cassettes. "Don't blindly follow the crowd," you said. "Always raise your neck and look around. If you don't like where they're going, take another road."
And I did. Girls my age were giggling about boys and bras while my eyes were wide open and excited about all the facts I read from my science textbook.

When I got to middle school and got my eating disorder, I refused to eat the apple in algebra class so that I could take my quiz, and didn't mind my teacher calling you to pick me up for my "resistance".
I got in the car waiting for you to pat my back and tell me I did well for refusing to give in to her ultimatum. I waited for you to tell me that I didn't need help anyways. But the drive back home was silent.

When I was 14 and went to my brother's school to beat up the kid bullying him, you called. I thought you called to give me a pep talk, or give me some tips on how to break his nose. All you said was "stay in the car. Leave the beating for the boys". I came back home confused.

When I was 17 and told you about my goals, you said "When you're young, you have unrealistic dreams. You feel like flying from your positive energy and like you have the whole world in the palm of your hand. But you grow up and realize that you need to be realistic."
I opened my mouth but closed it right after remembering you telling me "Think before you speak. If the outcome of what you'll say is useful, say it. If it'll hurt people, don't." I don't think it would've been useful. What use would it be to scream in your face about how that 'unrealistic dream' was the only goal I had, the only distraction from suicide. What use would it be to tell you that I don't remember the last time I felt like I was about to burst from the positive energy that I had?

You taught me how to be different. You taught me to love math and science. You taught me to be my own person and not let people decide what I should do in my life. But what you forgot to do is teach me how to feel okay. You didn't teach me how to reply to people who tell me that I watch too many American shows and that I let go of our traditions because of my opinion on marriage. You didn't teach me how to not feel lonely as hell when it's 3 am and I'm spewing out everything I binged and wiping my tears away while my throat bleeds and the music is playing to cover up the sound of me choking on the last words I screamed at myself and the gasps of relief when I purge out all my feelings and lay on the floor feeling numb. You didn't teach me how to pretend to blend in when the girls my age would take boys' phone numbers and I'd ask them questions like "but how are you guys together now? You don't know each other's personalities. You only just met." You taught me how to be smart, educated Belle and rebellious, going-by-her-own-rules Jasmine..

Daddy, you taught me how to be my own person in a place where you're supposed to be everyone else's clone, and I am forever grateful.. But sometimes, just sometimes, I wish you had taught me how to pretend to be like Aurora or Snow White.

I want you to rip open your chest and drag my body from your heart to your mind. Push my head into the deepest parts of you. Grab a fistful of my hair and keep my head down.
I'll start to gasp for air,
Unintentionally swallowing parts of you,
feeling the air in
every
alveoli
sac
get replaced by your fears,
Your dreams,
and all your favorite things.
The lyrics from your favorite songs, quotes from your favorite books, and every word from your favorite quotes.
Every sac would be filled with every time you've apologized to someone that wasn't worth it,
The thoughts you have at night when you lay in bed unable to sleep by the loud thoughts in your head.
And what you think happens to us when we die.

I then want you to pull me out.
See if I gasp for oxygen.
If I do, push me back in again.
Deeper this time.

Replace every sac that has been filled with your irrational fears, with every incident you've had that made your legs ******* and teeth chatter from the terror you've felt.
Replace every sac filled with the dreams that you have now, with every dream that you've had before. Tell me about your broken dreams, the dreams you decided that you didn't want anymore, and the dreams that didn't want you.
Replace every story about your past lovers with what you think about your first kiss. And if you think a first kiss is with whoever pressed their lips against yours, or if 'first kiss' is just another word for "the first kiss that felt like two stampedes crashing into each other, exploding into a full spectrum of feelings".

Now pull me out again.
See if I scream your name like it was the Exit door and I was in a burning room.
If I do, if I call out your name instead of gasping for oxygen, know that you've successfully replaced my air with you.
You did it.

When replaying conversations you had and words she had said start to make you smile like you just heard that your favorite ice cream shop brought back a limited flavor.
That's when you know.

When you start checking your phone, hoping that she might've accidentally sent something and apologizing for it, planning how you'd casually say 'it's okay' when you'd stop yourself from blurting "I've been waiting for you to say something."
That's when you know.

When a simple "I like your smile." makes you feel lightheaded because of how hard you try to thank her sounding oh so casual while your face would get oh so red.
When you wake up realizing that you've started to sleep text her.
That's when you know.

When you find yourself wondering what she thinks about you.
What she thinks about abortions.
What she thinks about marriage.
Premarital ***.
***..
What she'd think about ***..
..With you
When you find yourself wondering how her hands would feel going down your bare back
If her whispers in your ear would make your back arch
If your ears would ever let go of the sound of her kissing you
If her kisses would be gentle
Or if they'd leave purple marks over your body
When you wouldn't mind either or.
That's when you know.

When you find yourself wondering if she had thought about you too.
When you know that if she asked, you'd try letting go of the things that you've held on to for so long.
That's when you know.
When she's been in your head for over ten minutes.
That's when you know.
You're ******.

This is my goodbye prayer.
I know we haven't talked in a while, and I've neglected you for so long, but I'm here now.
For only a short while.
This is my goodbye prayer.
I don't know how to tell you this, but there's someone else.
Another god who I now believe in.

Another god whose Hell would feel better than any one of your seven Heavens.
Another god who guides me to the right way without making me light a Menorah.
No holy river can cleanse me of my sins.
I am cleansed only when He runs His hands over my body.
No pastor will listen to my late night confessions,
and no priest will absolve me from my sins.
I am forgiven only when He kisses my sins off my lips and body.

I will be worshipping Him. Confessing to Him. Fearing Him. Obeying Him. And loving only Him.
I will have one last conversation before I put my rug back where it was for years.
Even though I want to talk to you about how He makes me feel,
I'll only spill out what I'm thinking of you before I leave.
I never thought it would be this easy to let you go.
But I know you understand.
You've seen how much I changed already.
He is the god for me.

You know that no mosque,
and no wall,
no temple,
and no shrine
can make me feel the way I do when I kneel to His feet.
He is my god now and He will set me free.

This is my goodbye prayer.
I will stand on my dusty rug and whisper verses I haven't whispered in years,
but I will be thinking of what the verses in His book would sound like.
I will kneel on the ground for one last time, screaming "Forgive me" for kneeling to a god that isn't Him.

I will kneel for you one last time before falling to His feet and waiting for his commandments.
"I pray to and love you. Only you. Always you.
Please, mercy me. I will be a better believer and earn your Heaven. My penance will be served, God."

This is my goodbye prayer:
"Goodbye."

April 1st.
Dear ex God,
I know I sent you my goodbye letter a long time ago, but I've exchanged the release of some neurotransmitters with the release of my pent up anger.
Because I refuse to talk to you sober.
Because you don't deserve to be on my mind when I'm sober.
Because I have my current god to calm the wars in my head when I'm sober.
But the wars have just started again and I  came back.
I came back to tell you this: *******.

Last week I learnt that in his sleep, Gabriel came to your last prophet and split his chest open. He split his chest open and tore out his heart; only to wash it and pour a bowl of wisdom and belief into his chest before closing it back up again. My professor told us you made that happen to relieve him of his pain. He told us that you gave him that miracle because he deserved it.

I'm here to tell you that I, your old friend; I, the older version of the girl who loved to make bets and point out the ironic moments you put in my daily life; I, the girl who grew up with anger built up inside of her because the god she talked to changed his phone number, stopped checking his voicemail, and moved to another place that wasn't her heart, the god she made bets with found loopholes in her words after she gave him what she promised to give, and the god who did nothing as her bad thoughts were taking over her, is here to tell you one thing: *******.

I am not one to brag about the things I've done or the things I sacrificed. But right now, I am not sober.
Right now, I do not care that what I've done for you doesn't come close to what your prophet did for you. I gave you something. You gave me nothing.
Right now, I do not care if my words contradict my personality.
Right now, I do not care that I can taste the bitterness I feel towards you on the insides of my lips.

Last week I learnt that in his sleep, Gabriel came to your last prophet and split his chest open. You gave him a miracle and instead of smiling and praising your powers like I was supposed to, I felt anger build up inside of me. Instead of feeling happy for him, I felt sorry for myself.

Where were those miracles of yours when I used to scream into my towel and hit my head onto the floor just so I could wake up the next morning and not remember what the fresh cuts on my body were from?
Where were those miracles of yours when I would let go of my mother's hard grip and cross the street before she could dig her nails into my wrists again?
Where were those miracles of yours when I used to scream for my bad thoughts to go away, only for the screams to be joined by laughter of disbelief and laughter at the irony in all that I'm feeling?
The people you sent me were no angels. There were no angels in the form of humans, no voice in my head telling me that you had a plan for me, there were no clear signs of what I was supposed to do, and there were no miracles.

The people you sent me were mirages. The voice that told me what to do was mine. The signs I saw in things were the decisions already made by my subconscious.

Last week I learnt that in his sleep, Gabriel came to your last prophet and split his chest open. He split his chest open and tore out his heart; only to wash it and pour a bowl of wisdom and belief into his chest before closing it back up again. My professor told us you made that happen to relieve him of his pain. He told us that you gave him that miracle because he deserved it. And I'm here to say: I don't need you. I can do that all on my own.