The ASSumption of life

With each day of wake, we assume to be happy, simple, easy, lax, fun, thrilling.

We wake up with the assumption that we will have it firgured out.

We wake up with the assumption that it’s just going to happen.

We wake up with the assumption that we will belong.

We wake up with the assumption that we will be understood.

We wake up with the assumption that we should know what the next step is.

The assumption that you know how to brush your teeth this morning.

The assumption that I know exactly what the next step is.

The assumption that our IQ tells us everything we know about ourselves.

The assumption that we belong to ourselves.

The assumption that we have to have billions to be happy.

The assumption that self-love equates happiness.

With each day of wake, we assume to be happy, simple, easy, lax, fun, thrilling.

The assumption that because breathing is so natural; life is natural too.

This is the assumption of life.

That we know.

 

A million pieces all over

I am struggling. I have been. I am. I am. I am.

When things are so simple for the next person.

I am struggling. I have been. I am. I am. I am.

Every day is a constant struggle. Challenge.

I think the other part is that I carry peoples emotions too much.

I’m exhausted. I get happy.

But then I get exhausted again.

Honestly need a turn of events. A turn of things.

My spirit is tired.

It’s heavy.

Sometimes I get heavy.

I wish I could let myself cry.

 

It’s Funny

The other day I wrote to my best friend that I’m no longer anxious.

It’s Funny – because today, a couple days later I am heavy in anxiety.

The other day I thought I was/ could be attracted to a guy once again.

It’s Funny – because I went through his Instagram posts all the way from the early days and felt my stomach churn.

I still don’t trust men. It’s Funny  – because I had thought I found healing.

The other day I was pretty sure about my day, waking up.

It’s Funny – today I feel lost yet again. A feeling that is all too familiar. I’m always lost. I’m always wandering. I don’t know how much more of it I can do though. I’m exhausted.

I’m feeling exhausted. I feel like I’m constantly pouring into other people but seldom into myself.

This thing, it’s funny. Who is pouring into me?! Who is pouring into me?! Who is pouring into me?!

No really – I am. I am honestly and unexplainably exhausted.

It’s funny – The other day I spoke about the dark days of depression from the other side and today I find myself right in the middle of it.

I find it funny. I find funny exhausting. It’s funny – that I am exhausted.

It’s Funny – that life sees it fit for me to exist through these emotions sometimes.

It’s so funny sometimes, I laugh so much it makes my insides hurt.

Isn’t it so funny though.

I know – It’s Funny.

Masculinity threatened

It’s rather baffling that I was somewhat convinced of you. Now less than 48 hours have passed since our disagreement and you are now reduced to a memory of almost doesn’t count. Thank you also though for reminding me that you and men in general have no grasp of reality. Really no sense of what is happening in the world right now.

Are you for sure suggesting to me that NONE OF YOU HAVE ANY IDEA of how much woman has evolved. It’s no wonder that we seem to come across as combative. You guys are continuously backing us into a corner – WITHOUT TIRE! There are parts of myself that are aching to escape myself just so that we can be together. Just so that we can exist in that space where you are mine and I am yours. Truthfully though, how honest and pure would this space be? How honest and put could this space be?

When did masculinity become so fragile, every woman must wonder?

So fragile that esteem can only be found in the belittling of a female

So fragile that disrespect comes so easy to your tongues

So fragile that the bruises of your ego find themselves on the body of a woman

Masculinity so fragile. When did this become?

I speak of it as being threatened because that is the only concept that could help me concede what is happening in the world right now

Let me bring it back home…

I speak of it as being threatened because that is the only idea that could help me concede what is happening in my mothers home right now.

Father, when did your masculinity become so fragile?

When did your daughters and wife become a threat to your being?

Love and Flowers

Our love hurts. I’ve held my breath long enough in hopes to hear apologies for the many times you made me feel undeserving of good love and honesty. For dismissing my feelings and my heartache.

I was suffocated.

Today though, I’ve learnt to breathe. I chose to forgive you. Even for you thinking that you’ve never done me wrong. I inhale deep enough to cup all of those feelings you use to plant in my stomach and press them out with persistence making sure that none of them stays behind or slips off as I exhale.

It’s a daily exercise.

Each day my heart and mind get stronger. I visit the remnants of our love less and less the more I fall deeper into the great woman I am. Each day I move closer to home.

I’m going to get what I deserve and more.

I’m worth good Loving and Flowers.

My First Love – Healing

Thank You.

With you, I discovered what I need in love. Albeit painful, it was also great. So thank you.

I will forever hold your laugh close to my heart.

I was obsessed with your skin. hands. hair. smile with the gap in between your two front teeth. YOU.

Thank You and Farewell. True love awaits us…

Anxiety in the age of Black Girl Magic

A while ago, I was having a light conversation with a friend on a drive to somewhere in Joburg about my anxiety and how I was doing that particular day. It occurred to me at that point that the lightness in which I was speaking about it had come from an accumulation of years of information (Google, sessions with psychiatrists, and conversations with another friend who became a sister through our shared experience of this thing; Anxiety).

Mother was aware of my battle with it following attacks that mimicked themselves in clothes of fits and muscle spasms. Father played a huge contribution to its existence in my life. He knows nothing of this battle that even today I have forgiven him but he doesn’t know for what transgressions.

Mother suffers from anxiety, she doesn’t know it. Because what is anxiety to a black woman. All a black woman knows is to be “STRONG”. I know this – because she once loaned my iPad, a laptop in the house and ran hours around the clock in a casino(s) to keep her household breathing, literally. With so much happening, I can’t imagine you have nights of solid sleep filled with dreams of hope and excitement. Payday would be an exception for this because at least you can steal a moment of relief to appreciate your efforts until your debt and other efforts to survive come and swallow the moment whole.

And maybe I should start a forum. A platform for black women to speak and live their anxiety and other mental illnesses alike, in a ‘safe space’ (admit this is open to a lot of interpretations but what I make reference to, really, is a space that allows for vulnerability). Without judgement. Without reservations. Without fear of it being a ‘white man’s disease’. (Must read: Americanah – Chimamanda Adiche Ngozi). Without men.

Our Mothers suffer from anxiety, they just don’t call it that. They refer to it as no sleep. Tension headaches. Silent calculations in the mind. Always trying. Always fucking trying to do enough just to breath.

Our black mothers suffer anxiety. The black woman suffers anxiety and other mental illnesses. Hashtags such as BlackGirlMagic are great and serve our generation well but we need platforms for our mothers to come together and engage on their sufferings, at the hands of their fathers, husbands, mothers, sons, daughters, white (wo)men, economics, the system and just Mother-fucking (quite literally) life!

We need to create a space where our mothers can just undress. Everything!

 

Love & Stretch Marks

I’ve had stretch marks for as long as I can remember having a body that belongs to myself and no one else. I have memories of being told I have an amazing body and underneath a ‘Thank You’ there lay a hushed up ‘but you don’t know the depth of its stretch marks’. I don’t remember ever loving that part of me. Wait let me say this again – slower. I. don’t. remember. ever. loving. THAT PART OF ME.

One morning I woke up, stood bare in the face of a mirror, stared at myself and whispered ‘teach me something I don’t already know’ then began to smile at the parts that were so easily lovable, easily recognisable. Proceeded to move swiftly around the curves of my breast, sliding down my waistline all the way down to the crevices that would later go on to shape my womanhood right at the beginning of my thighs. A wonder. I continued to smile and journey all the way down to my legs, coming back up slowly behind my knees, feeling the back of my thighs to be met by the cute smile of my butt cheek.

I then turned around and a sudden feel of angst overcame me. An encounter with my stretch marks. Shit! Damnit! Shit! Demmet!  What do I do now?

I took a deep breath and with panic, I looked again in the face of the mirror.

First looked with impatience.

Then with equations in my mind trying to figure out the best formula. The best formula to remove that PART OF ME. Why? Why would I want to erase a part of me?

I stared for a while. Listened. Took in. Ran my hands over them, trying to feel between the lines – oh what magic it was. My skin. My beautiful body. How beautiful it is that so selflessly you go through such measures to make me comfortable in my own skin.

At that moment I realised how loyal my skin has been to my growth and just how selfish I had been with sharing the glory of this growth.

These stretch marks are a celebration.  Every day without cease these stretch marks celebrate me. Celebrate my growth.  Even then smallest of growths that I am often blind to.

Since then I’ve had many conversations and shared laughs with my stretch marks about love, life and men who thought they knew about me over good shea butter salve.

To grow into your skin is such a beautiful thing. Such an intimate thing. Such a silent encounter.

To grow into your skin is to fall in love…

#MenAreTrash Factsheet

#MenAreTrash

I must admit, I had been following the hashtag as an onlooker since it first hit the ground. I was that person at a marathon run who would literally follow the entire race on the side, cheering the other runners on but never really getting too involved. The ‘I’m here with you just on the no commitment side here, because well, in there it can get messy’.

It’s only just recently, and sadly after the story of #KaraboMokoena that it occurred to me that just about ALL THE MEN I have encountered in my entire existence ARE ALL TRASH!!

At 17 already, I had insecurities of not being good enough because some man/ boy decided that he had met someone ‘better fit’ for him. Fair enough right? We don’t have to stay where it does not make sense, but then he came back and said he was wrong. He then broke up with her, came back to me, I broke it off soon after because there were questions that I just could not answer about us being together. He is now back together with this other woman.

Anyway.

This is my thought – MenAreTrash because Entitlement.

I’ll just end with this:

“you tell me. i am not like most girls and learn to kiss me with your eyes closed

something about the phrase –

something about how i have to be unlike the women i call sisters in order to be wanted

makes me want to spit your tongue out like i am supposed to be proud you picked me

as if i should be relieved you think i am better than them.”

• rupi kaur

 

Whooooshhh

Confusion of myself confuses and frustrates you you say.

Well, I’m sorry my exploring myself frustrates you. I am obviously not becoming the very idea you’re so desperately being patient for.

Know that it’s very possible that I may not end up as the idea in your head.

Cut it loose, or be comfortable in my being confused.

I am exploring myself.

If you can’t appreciate it – there’s a suitcase in the corner there…