I might have to return to my home country soon, forever. For most of my life, I have not been able to paint a full picture of my life there. The layers upon layers of misery that I feel, the hopelessness and the darkness that consumes me day in, day out, when I am there.

I grew up in England. Around the age of 10, my family moved back to our home country. It was a whole new world. I was only a child, and nobody told me about culture shock. I can remember so many specific events in my life: my overblown reactions to certain things, my sudden, steep drop in academic performance, the ease with which I move on from even the closest friendships, they all can be described by that event from my childhood.

My country doesn't love me. I speak Arabic, but I don't speak the language. I don't understand the people and the people do not understand me. In my country, I'm a freak. It doesn't matter what group of people we're sitting with. The only people who like me there are the ones who accept me despite me being weird. It took me a very long time to realize that, actually, I am not weird at all. I am kind of basic, sort of ordinary. My friend told me, "I don't know why you always call yourself weird. You're not." I cried and cried with relief.

I'm crying now. I don't know how to express myself. I don't know how to show you how much I hate it there.

It feels like "freak" is stamped on my forehead. People always find me odd, sometimes even in small interactions. I can't escape it.

So I stay in my bedroom.

Well, that makes it sound like I have a choice... I don't.

How can I describe what happens when you spend a full year in one room? I don't mean that I occasionally went out for lunch with a friend. I didn't go out for walks around the block because I'm not allowed to do that (even covered head to toe, a woman walking alone is presumed to be making herself available to men). I didn't have a car or friends.

I mean, one full year inside of my bedroom. Once a week, my mother took me to my grandmother's house, where I would mostly be ignored except to be cornered by my uncle and grandmother (literally cornered, away from my parents' paper-thin protection) about getting married. I sit and eat and wait. Then we go back home and I return to my miserable bedroom life.

And the hijab... the god damn hijab... I can't step outside my house door without being covered from head to toe... hide your hair, your wrists... if your outfit is covering everything, but it looks to nice, then it's slutty, go back and change. Why don't you wear your abaya?

I want to die. It's all coming back. Knowing that I may have to go back, that this will be over, it's bringing back all the feelings. All the details... the smell of my bedroom in the morning. The small mug my father drinks tea from every morning. The morning turning into afternoon, the secret naps I took because my mother doesn't like me taking naps. And then, once a week... my grandfather's hand creeping up my thigh.

Actually... if I have to go back, I'll be OK. I'll be absolutely miserable, but I'll be OK. At least I won't have to lie anymore. Well, I'll still have to lie, a lot, but this bullshit that I'm telling them now will be over. If I have to go back, then that's it, I'm going to do what I want to do. I don't know what that is yet, but I have some ideas. I won't hold back anymore, as I used to because I was looking for an out so everything else had to be put on hold. If I'm stuck there, then I'll be damned if I don't at least try to make a living in my own way and nobody else's.

I'll find friends. It'll be hard, but I'm an adult now. It won't be impossible. My confidence will pierce through the ugly, demeaning hijab, and I'm stronger than I used to be, and I will find friends.

I had a panic attack a few days ago. Realizing what this means: it's back to the constant marriage proposals, including calls from people I don't even know asking me if I want to meet their son. It's back to the social isolation, living in a house where nobody can know my truth. Avoiding conflict with my mother, DAILY, and her turning the my whole family against me when I don't do what she wants me to do. As though I don't feel alone enough, she completely crushes my soul... why, because I refuse to straighten my hair once a week for the rest of my life...

I feel like my heart is being ripped to shreds, and my brain turning into mush. Exactly how I felt when I was there. Every second of the day, I felt this way. I couldn't enjoy life, be my loud, cheerful self, I couldn't express myself in any way, because how I want to do it is haram, so I shut down. I'd go from robot mode to non-stop crying and having panic attacks. The nightmares never stopped, even after I left.

I'm terrified. I want to lay my head on a pillow and never wake up.