How cruel is....

…when I finally get a job interview with a company that I have been dying to work for, spent all night preparing for it, wake up the next day incredibly excited, do myself all up, arrive on time feeling confident and positive....

only to walk in the door and see the girl that tormented me for three years straight when I was in primary school...who has now worked her little biddy up to be the executive PA to the owners.

I spent three years from Grade 5 to Grade 7 being this girl's punching bag and she relentlessly picked on me for EVERYTHING from the shape of my body to my intelligence to my family. Looking back I realise the bullying was borderline sexual harrassment. I went into puberty very early, I started developing breasts at nine and I got my first period a week before my eleventh birthday. I went to a small private school where there was some hormonal freak show happening: not only was I developing early but the rest of the girls in my grade were late developers. Seriously, by age twelve pretty much every single one of the 22 girls in my grade still had a flat chest and that was like, soooo cool. The way they treated me you would have sworn that I was the only girl in the history of planet earth to sprout a pair of boobs. Never mind that they were all heading the same way in the boob department they were all disgusted (that is the best way I can describe it) by my boobs.

Although the boys took part in some of the teasing it was mostly the girls and it was relentless. When I was eleven I got at most two or three hours of sleep at night because I would lie awake with my stomach full of knots knowing that day after day I would have to go back into the "boxing ring" where I was called endless amounts of names, have songs made up about me, have to deal with being held down while someone would attempt to open the front part of my uniform. I would throw up before swimming lessons because I knew that my swimming costume would show up everything I was trying to hide. And then there was the dilemma of actually changing into said swimming costume. The teachers would not allow me to change in the bathroom stalls, no I had to change in front of everybody else because, "If you don't hide it, they won't tease you about it". What idiots.. That just meant that they would take my tog bag and throw it out the window so I couldn't change back into my clothes, or they would take my bra and throw it to each other in some sadistic game of piggy-in- the- middle. I would get my skirt lifted up to see if I was wearing a sanitary pad and I would get hit and punched in the chest.

If this all wasn't bad enough I had a learning disability, all my life and even now that I am at university I have had to work my butt off just to get a mediocre C aggregate. My family was poor- my parents broke their backs to put us through that school so we didn't have the Mercs or the BMW's or live in big fancy houses. I had very few clothes all cheap and crappy stationary for school.

This girl... let's call "F", she was the school's superstar. She was the class boffin, she was one of the top gymnasts in our province and was in numerous sports teams. She was from a wealthy family who owned an apple farm outside of town. Her parents had nice cars, she had a wardrobe stacked full of the best clothes and she travelled the world with her family. Her mother was also on the board of directors at the school and knew everything about my unstable, dysfunctional family and our financial troubles ( at one point my sister and I had to be given a bursary because our parents could not pay the school fees).

So F was pretty much the ring leader in that whole sordid mess. She treated me like I was a disease. She found joy in describing my body in the most disgusting ways, she mocked me when I struggled to do the same Maths sums that she flew through. And she would inform my classmates of the embarrassing details of my family- her mother was a nice well- meaning lady but a real ditz, as I can only think she let F know those details accidently.

F and I went to different high schools and I would see her occasionally. When I left South Africa in 2004 one of the things I took comfort in is that I would never have to see F again. I last heard she went to university and then became a steward for a private yacht company. Of all the bloody companies in South Africa that she had to work for, she had to choose this one. When I walked into that office and saw her all the air left my lungs and my face became like fire. It's been 15 years, I am 28 now have been through so much, have achieved so much and am a completely different person. But the minute I saw F I felt like an eleven year old little girl again. She gave me a fleeting glance took a look at my C.V/ Resume like it was chewing gum and floated to the back of the office. I stumbled my way through the interview.

Seriously, this is not supposed to happen!. What I have heard happening to everyone else- they get bullied at school by the cheerleader or football captain. They go on and turn out to be beautiful and hot, earn a tone of money and then come across their nemesis 20 years later either a broke divorced mother of three or a used car salesman who had to drop out of university. But F is still coming out tops even to this day. While I am still struggling. Her bullying me was never dealt with directly. I mean come on...her mother was on the board of directors, she was the schools poster child. My mother believed that I needed to fight my own battles and that what was happening to me was a part of growing up ( she now regrets this ) but when she did finally get involved the class was given a talking to by the teacher and told that if anyone else picked on me they would be sent to the principal. F never had to answer for what she did.

And what’s worse is that she probably doesn't remember any of this now. It is not affecting her at all. And I can't hold something against her that happened when she was still a child and didn't know any better.

If I do somehow miraculously get this job I am going to have to once again face her every single day. If I don't get this job, well she'll just continue to think that I am a looser. And right now I really do feel like one.

5 years

5 years

This is an obituary for Stephanie Gwen. She was born in America but grew up in South Africa. She loved nature and dogs. She wanted to have a dog farm when she grew up to give a home to all the abandoned and unwanted dogs in the world. Her favorite food was chocolate. She believed in God and felt guilty because pleasing him seemed impossible. She loved the theatre more than anything else. Her favorite plays were Phantom of the Opera and Oliver! Andrew Lloyd Webber was her hero. Her greatest dream was to act in his musicals. Unfortunately although she held the heart and talent for acting she couldn’t sing or dance very well so being in a Lloyd Webber musical was out of the question. Stephanie grew up in a beautiful small town right underneath a magnificent mountain range. She dreamed of seeing the world, seeing all wonders that were in books and on TV. Stephanie was in awe of the splendor of the world she lived in, of the sky at dawn and at dusk, of the ocean and trees and the stars. She was so happy and grateful to be alive in such a world and would find pleasure in the smallest thing. She had a gift of inner peace that helped her to hope for a better future no matter what heartache and chaos surrounded her. When she was 21 years old one of her greatest desires came true when she moved to London. There she had to work very hard to survive but she had never been so happy in her life. She made many friends and had even more adventures. After and year and a half she left England to get to know America…the land she was born in.

5 years ago I was born….Stephi. It was 5 years ago this week that I had my break down in America. 5 years ago I was put onto antidepressants and have been on them ever since. At 02:50 am on the 14 March 2007 I woke up and found that the girl that I had been all my life had died and there was a new person in her place. Everything that I believed in was gone. There was no God. The world no longer held any splendor for me, I forgot all my dreams. The dreamy, loving girl, always full of hope was replaced with an angry, cynical cold hearted woman. It was like something had sucked the life out of me and left me hollow. Ever since then the world has became devoid of colour and totally joyless. Happiness became and impossible distant memory. The antidepressants saved my life but they have dulled my heart to the point that I am unfeeling of any kind of emotion.

But despite my cold, unfeeling heart I miss Stephi, the girl I once was. So every year during this week in March I celebrate her life. I light a candle next to the last picture that was taken of me before my breakdown. The difference between that picture and pictures taken of me after my breakdown is visible. This year I am living in temporary accommodation and all my stuff, including that photograph is in storage. So I have used a silver ring that I bought in England and some earrings that my friend gave as a memento of my former self.

As I always believe in looking for hidden blessings even in the most awful circumstances, I also use this time to remember the blessings that came out of that period of my life. I met one of the best friends I ever had, a girl who had known me for two months before I had my breakdown. She should have been really freaked out by what she was seeing and run for the hills. But she stayed and helped me get well. She saved my life, I don’t know what would have happened if I hadn’t had her there.

And of course the other blessing would be that I am alive, I made it through. I thought that week in 2007 would be my last. I was sure I would never see my family in South Africa again. I was losing myself, dancing along the edge of insanity and I wandered when the moment would come when I would cross the point of no return. But yet five years later here I am. I can’t say my life has gotten any better it has been so hard. I have had to mourn and get to know myself again. But at least I have dreams. Whether or not they come true is irrelevant. I want a better life.

So this is in memory of Stephanie Gwen and acknowledging Stephi and the road that I am still travelling.

For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all – 2 Corinthians 4:17

Tasteless

Of all the offices in South Africa I HAD to land up in one with a moron. Yep, if they found this post I would probably get fired because that moron unfortunately......is my boss. This week he played the most bizarre albeit rather disturbing and tasteless prank on me and quite frankly I am still trying to figure this out.

On Monday morning he came into the office with a story that on Sunday night he had had a guy arrested for peeing on his lawn. It was then discovered by the police that this man was in living in a car....with a baby. This first bit of information immediately raised red flags for me. I was then rather horrified when my boss told me that they put this guy and this baby in the back of a police van (in South Africa, police vans are trucks with the backs converted into cages for the criminals to sit in) and took them to the police station and placed both this man and the baby INTO AN ALL MALE CELL. Nice.

I was having trouble believing that this was even possible- where were child protective services?. Boss said apparently they had decided that the best place for this child was with this man so he could take care of her. IN A MALE CELL???. He showed me a picture of a man holding a rather distressed looking baby and that just made it worse for me. It's one thing if you just hear about something happening. Actually seeing it makes it more real. He told me not to worry but for two days I could think of nothing else. What were they feeding this child? Was she being bathed? Where was she sleeping? Where were they getting diapers?. It seemed so unreal. And it didn't help that my boss seemed to find the whole thing very funny- he actually said the kid was bound to land up in jail anyway so she might as well start early. I was disgusted.

Eventually on Wednesday this week, hearing that this kid was still in jail, I couldn't take it any longer. I was ashamed that I had not done something sooner. I picked up the phone and phoned my counsellor who worked for an organisation for abused children. She had all kinds of connections and even knew a judge. She was equally horrified and we started working on a plan to get this child out. This all happened in the office. When my boss heard that I was phoning for help, he stuck his head in the door and told me (in between bloody giggles) that he had been pulling my leg for the last two days.

At first I was in shock. Then I started laughing- not because I thought it was funny more because I just didn't know what else to do. My counsellor laughed with me. But once I got off the phone with her and sat down to think it hit me: For two days I had been going out of my mind with worry....it was all I thought about, my traitorous imagination threw up all sorts of images of what could be happening to this child in a male jail cell. My anxiety disorder began living up to it's name again. I felt sick, helpless, I couldn't concentrate. At the same time I felt both disgusted and foolish because no one else seemed to care. Finding out it was a hoax was infuriating!. Once he let the cat out the bag everyone else in the office was quick to make it clear that they had no knowledge that it was a joke. Our regional manager wasn't exactly pissed off about it but didn't seem to pleased about it either and made my boss apologise to me. I can't say that made it much better...he wasn't exactly sincere.

 I don't blame you for thinking I am going overboard, you may be right. But seriously what sane, supposedly stable person can joke about something like that? Because of my past and what I have gone through with Little B and her sisters, if I ever hear that there is a child in danger or in need it hurts and I will do something about it. I feel hurt that my boss exploited such a sensitive part of me. I was considering quitting- the lady whose maternity leave I am covering seems to want to come back early to escape her house. Not to mention I have made two big mistakes this week that has cost the company money. I then realised that that was a really childish thing to do and I would be shooting myself in the foot- I need the money. At the end of my life this company and it's employees will feature very little. So I am staying and keeping my distance from this idiot. Have you ever had a horrible prank played on you that did some emotional harm. Please let me know I am not alone!!.

Life in a noodle

These days I have bee less inclined to write. Other than the fact that work is hectic and I have university assignments coming out of my ears, I still have plenty to say but I just can't put it to paper.

In the past few weeks I have been facing my past more than I ever have in my entire life. Particulary that of my abuse as a child. And it has been ugly. I have been feeling dirty and gross. I wish I could just zip down my skin and leave my soiled body behind. I also feel selfish for what I am putting the people around me through. Hearing about someone's abusive past is so truamatic, especially when it's some one you love.



A few days before my birthday last month, in a moment of extreme rage, I told my sister about the time my dad had tried to strangle me. She was trying to defend him and I just saw red. Her reaction was of pure disgust. She refused to believe me. Until my Mom told her it was true. I didn't hear from her for a week. I wrote her an e-mail pouring my heart out about my past but sparing her the gory details. I spent the entire week racked with guilt that I had put such a heavy burden onto her. I had to admit though, I was a bit perplexed- she grew up in the same house as me, was she really that blind? Maybe she just blocked it out.

She never responded to my e-mail and I didn't see her until she suddenly showed up on my birthday. She was nice to me but I knew there was more to come. She seemed to be biding her time. Eventually yesterday I sent her a message to tell her that I was considering my counsellor's suggestion that I stay in a safe house so that I can be apart from my family and have space to work on my issues. The only part of her reply that I saw before she deleted me off Blackberry messenger was "I have given you enough time to sort out your issues". I have know idea what she was going to say, but since she has now cut contact with me I am assuming she is severing ties.

I can't say it really hurts. We have never been close. I feel more disappointed that she does not believe me or at the very least, thinks I am making a big deal out of "nothing". I also feel a weird sort of pity for her: she is so despetrate to hold onto an ideal of what life should be like she not really living life and she is miserable.

Well, when you come out with something as explosive as I have you can't expect to win friends and influence people. But I have a dream that one day I will be free of this and I will be happy.

But I have such a long road ahead of me...

7/7

On July 7th, 2005 I left my flat in Southfeilds, in the south of London and took the tube to my work in Kensignton. It was a typical day, with me wishing that it was weekend because as usual I had gone to bed so late the night before. I had been living in England for just over a year and was loving it. I used to work to walk quite often, mostly because I loved being out in central London so much. But it took me two hours to get to work that way and owing to the fact that I was exhausted that morning I took the train a little late.

I can't remember much about that morning but when I look back now I remember feeling rather unsettled sitting at my desk and not knowing why. It was so quite. Too quite. An hour and a half after I arrived the phone rang and it was one of the psychotherapists at the practice where I worked asking to speak to my boss. "Have you heard whats happened?" he asked. I had no idea. "There are bombs going off on the Underground" he said casually...so casually that I actually thought he was joking. He actually starting laughing and then told me to tell my boss that they were shutting down central London and he was not able to get in so he was going to start walking home. I sat at my desk shell shocked after that call not sure what to do, still not quite believing what I had heard.

The phone rang about three minutes later, just has I had noticed I had 6 text messages on my cellphone. It was my grandmother's cousin who lived in Wimbledon, frantic wanting to know if I was alright. She told me that three bombs had exploded on three different Underground trains, one of them was on the train line where I worked. Knowing my Mom would freak out as soon as she heard the news I asked her to phone my parents in South Africa and let them know I was alright. The rest of day was spent frantically trying to contact friends around the city, which was difficult as they had shut down the cellular network in central London. All public transport was suspended and later that day there was a sight most likely never to be seen again. Millions of people walking the streets to get home. By the time my boss let me go home the streets were empty and deathly silent- there were no cars or people. I knew the way home from walking to and fro to work but was I terrified walking that night. I eventually got home at 10pm to three relieved housemates.

Terrorism to me was something that seemed to only be exclusively on T.V. It never seemed to be real, something that always happened in a country worlds away. I had watched as an 18- year old in numb disbelief as those planes had hit the Twin Towers could not comprehend how a person could actually do that.  For the first time that day, the monster that had been trapped in a television set touched my life and became very, very real. The real weapon that terrorism uses is fear, panic and confusion that normally hits in it's aftermath making the world angrier and more dangerous.

Today is the 7th anniversary of the London bombings. Seven years ago today four very misguided young men stepped onto London's public transport, which services over a million people a day, and took their lives and those of 52 other people when they detonated explosives strapped to their bodies. 700 hundred more people were injured. In the days that followed a shadow was cast over the country. It was almost like a sort of universal trust had been broken. In time everyone recovered from their shock and anger. But things were never the same again.

I have often found it odd, especially since deciding to follow God again, how people can commit the most horrible atrocities against mankind all in the name of something that in my opinion that is all about love. I personally feel that God is all about life. He speaks life onto us. His command is love. Yet somehow people use God to kill and control other people. They project their own selfish desires onto God and make it all about Him when it's actually all about them.

From what I know about Islam it has to be one of the most peaceful and honorable religions out there. Some of the greatest people I have ever known have been Muslim. We once had a Islamic landlord who let my family stay rent- free in our house for months after my Dad had his heart attack and my mother became unemployed because his way of honoring his God was to shelter us. Because of a handful of extremists shame has been cast onto millions of other peaceful Muslims.

Like I said before, terrorism's greatest weapon is fear. Fear does terrible things to people and is even more dangerous when it affects people on a mass scale. One of the characters in Starwars said that fear eventually leads to hatred. An emotional cancer. This is so true, I think most of you will agree with me that 9/11 changed the world and we are now more afraid and more angry. It has taken away a piece of our freedom. Some of us will never be able to fly without the niggling feeling of, "Will I make it?". Some of us now insist upon living behind ridiculously high wall for protection. People are afraid to go outside because of "What if?. I know plenty of people that will not completely trust someone because they are

What can we do to change this? I have no idea except for the way that I reacted after the London bombings. The day after, I got back on the tube and went to work. I was one just six people in that carriage. Normally it's packed. We had to stop in the middle of a tunnel for five minutes which got me a little unnerved and I asked a guy sitting further away if I could sit with him, eventually all six of us were sitting together. I can't exactly say it was the most pleasant journey of my life. But I made it to work that morning, one of the very few people in London that did. The second time I got on the train it was easier and the third time...

So my answer would be learn from the experience, never forget but to move on. Yes those people have got us afraid but don't give in to it or you will be doing exactly want they want you to do. Don't be prejudiced and distrustful toward someone because they are part of a religion that happens to have a few extremists. Don't listen to the "What ifs". Don't hide behind walls. You don't have to change the world but you can make a difference to your small corner. That is the only way to win this war. That way your children will not inherit a world of hatred .

RIP 07/07/2005

 



From the dark side: The end...a stir fry

Today is Father's day, I always struggle with Father's day mostly because of the past I have with my Dad. I thought maybe I would just sleep through the whole day until I was literally guilted out of my bed, forced to come downstairs and put on a smile. Since about 14:30 this afternoon my sister's voice, blaring as she bosses us around has had the same effect on me as nails on a chalkboard.

The reason I have been writing this all this about my grandmother is because this week we finally put her in a home. Granted she really should already been in a home years ago but my Mom just couldn't let go. Up until just recently my Mom was the centre of my grandmother's universe and she couldn't stand to be away from her. My mother believed that once my grandmother stopped responding to her love that then it would be time to let go. I think that my Mom carries a lot of guilt because it was that idea that led to disaster with my grandmother breaking her hip and her final decline into complete insanity. This led to a year of hell for our family that caused a breakdown of our relationships, isolation, depression and a whole lot of anger for all of us. If my grandmother was herself she would be horrified at all that happened.

Now for what I see as a true tragedy: My grandmother was raised to believe that her most important place was within the family. She may never have had a career, but she worked twice as hard for her family. She came from a wealthy farming family but received nothing except a small settlement in her parents will...all because she was a girl and her husband was meant to take care of her.

My grandfather died penniless in a home (which was paid for by his brother) when I was 19. Standing over him in the final hours of his life, I felt nothing more than pity for him. I was more heartbroken by my Mom begging him to stay so she could spend more time with him. That was so awful. My beloved great- uncle died two months before I left for England. He had suffered a massive stroke the year before his death that left him a total invalid, unable to speak. Our family had raced across the country when that happened. I sat with him in the hospital throughout the night squeezing his hand and stroking his face trying to get my brain accept that my uncle, with his twinkling eyes, larger than life personality and booming voice was the same frail man that lay expressionless in that bed. It was a great day for him when he died. He loved God more than anything else on this earth and longed for the day when he could finally meet his maker.

My great- uncle had made a great success of the farm he inherited and it has now been passed onto his sons, one of which is my godfather. My grandmother's younger brother drank his farm and his money away. He died of cancer when I was 8. So my grandmother is the last one left. The last one from the glory days.

So in other words my poor grandmother is broke and even though she worked so hard. We could not afford to put her in a nice home or one that was even close buy. The home she is in now is very basic but comfortable for the price. But it is two hours away and my mother will only be able to see her once a month. My Mom has lived with my grandmother for most of her life except for her university years and the first 3 years she was married to my Dad.

It has been a mad dash to get my Grandmother ready. You will not believe how much stuff you need to buy to get someone ready for going into an old- age home. The night before she left I was in the kitchen chopping vegetables for a stir fry and I was listening to my Mother talk to my Grandmother about the home, how many friends she would make, how the nurses were going to spoil her and how good the food was. My Mom washed her hair, cut her nails and was rubbing cream on her hands. My grandmother kept thanking her. The stir fry was not quiet working out the way I wanted ( I added to many damn noodles!) and then it hit me. My grandmother has been alive the whole time I have been alive, she was there for everything and I mean everything. Years and years of everything was going to end with a stir fry?. This mostly likely was going to be her last meal with us. This was probably the last supper I would make for her.

We are took my Grandmother to that home for her die. Her road on this earth will end there. And while she may change homes or come for visits, you know what I mean. A page has been turned and we are now facing the final chapter. The landscape of our family will never be the same. And with the stir fry thought came the cold realisation. I will never hear my Grandmother call my name again, she will never make me another cup of tea, her stories have now gone.

I'm still angry as hell but I don't hate her anymore and I don't want to be angry either. But I guess the reason why I am afraid to let go of that anger is because behind all that rage there is a heart wrenching sadness and a tunnel of endless regret. I have racked my brain trying identify those times when we may have had a second chance for a good relationship. Maybe everyday was a second chance, maybe we were never meant to be. The irony is that if my grandmother had not had Alzheimer's we might have been very good friends.

On that last night, after everyone had gone to bed I went into her room to fetch Milo, who for some reason had taken to curling on my Grandmother's bed after she went to sleep. And there she lay tiny and fragile, a ghost of her former self. For some reason I thought about one Christmas when my Mom, sister and I were struggling to drag our potted Christmas tree into the house on a mat. My grandmother pushed us aside, took hold of the mat and dragged the whole thing in by herself quickly and with such apparent ease that all three of us were embarrassed by being shown up by a seventy- something woman. There are a lot of things I want to change about the past but none of that matters now. Saying "I love you" just felt to weird but I whispered to her how sorry I was. She didn't hear me of course. They say that the bitterest tears shed over a grave are for words left unsaid. I took Milo and left.

The next day she was gone, I stood in her room. Her bed was stripped and all her belongings were gone. Photographs of her now seem ancient, moments frozen in time. I am now part of her legacy. I hope and pray that I will learn from her mistakes and live my life well.

From the dark side: The damage that haterd can do...Part 7

Penultimate

In September last year, just a few days after my birthday, my Grandmother took a tumble down a step (that was only about 2 inches high) and broke her hip. We had been forced to moved to a new house as the farm my parents had lived on for the past seven years was sold. The move sent my grandmother in a continuous downward spiral and we thought things couldn't get any worse...until that fall. After that life became unbearable for all of us.

She had to have surgery and was in hospital for a month. Our entire family and extended family took turns in sitting with her in hospital to comfort her and remind her every few minutes where she was, what had happened and prevent her from trying to get up or pulling her catheter out. I sat staring at her not being
able to offer any words of support other than the stereotypical cheesy stuff when it was absolutely necessary. My Mom was unhappy with the care she was receiving at the hospital and brought her home early. That day was one of the worst days of my life. It was just me and Georgina and the amount of care my grandmother needed was overwhelming.

That fall shot any sanity my grandmother had left. When she came home from the hospital we had to put her in nappies/ diapers because she was incontinent. Her vocabulary were severely compromised but that didn't stop her talking in a continuous monotonous voice from the moment she woke up until she went to bed. The only talking she ever did was in the form of some very weird prayers or calling my mother. That was on a good day on a bad day she would shout and scream continuously. The talking alone drove us up the wall. Even though her leg healed very well, Alzheimer's had started to claim her motor skills and she was confined to a wheelchair, only being able to walk very short distances with a walker. She screamed every time we moved the wheelchair and taking her in the car was impossible because it was "To fast" and she was afraid we were going to crash.

My Grandmother never slept. She had no concept of time or of night or day. My Mom had to eventually start sleeping with her because she was so terrified of being alone and would try to get out of bed. She had several panic attacks a day but my Mom was hesitant about putting her on medication because she didn't want her to get addicted. Though, I understand where my poor Mom was coming from the whole thing was absolutely ridiculous. Eventually one night after I found her in bed choking and hyperventilating which resulted in us having to call an ambulance, my Mom relented and my Grandmother was put on a sleeping pill and sedatives, providing a little relief (and some more sleep) for all of us.

Whether it was because of the drugs or the disease she began having hallucinations. She had entered her own world never to return to the real one. If you told her something that she was seeing wasn't there it was like she either wouldn't hear you or comprehend you and just went on talking about the strange imaginary place she was in. The doctor put her on medicine they use treat people with schizophrenia, which I found odd but it didn't make any difference any way.

She hasn't been as aggressive as most Alzheimer's patients but she has tried to take a few socks and slaps at my Mom. The worst was when I found her trying to strangle Milo- he and jumped in her lap and frightened her, when I walked in I was so horrified I grabbed him away from her and slapped her hand hard. She then told my Dad I had tried to kill her.

Her final obsession was with my Dad. His name was always in her mind and in the last few months she has called for him continuously throughout the day. At first she was convinced he was her husband (something my Dad did not take very kindly). Then to her, everyone she saw was "my Dad" whether or not they were even male or female. The saddest part was when she finally forgot who my Mom was and stopped calling her by her name. I think because she always heard me call my Mother, "Mom", she started to do that too. My Mom would not accept this until the day when my Grandmother was crying and saying over and over again, "Where is my mother?, I want my mother!", my Mom gave in, knelt down next to her and said, "I am your Mother". My Grandmother then cried over and over again, "Oh thank you!, thank you!".

They say that with Alzheimer's patients, the happiest memories go last and this was true for my Grandmother. Her very last memories to go were those of her childhood and when she was at boarding school. My Mom tried to talk to her as much as she could about those days, hoping she would be spared a while long with those happy treasures in her hands. But ultimately, my Grandmother would wake up every morning having lost more of what little memory she had left. And so we watched as every last thread of her life slipped away and she became a stranger to us and us to her.

It is very difficult to convey in words how horrendous the last year has been. Our family, my parents in particular, have faced many trails in their lives but very few of them can compare to this. What we have watched happen is truly frightening. Torture is the best way to describe the emotional impact it has had on us and the toil it has taken on our lives.  Our entire lives revolved around my Grandmother and her care. We had very little freedom. We could never go out as a family and if one of us was out it could only be for a few hours because someone was on duty at home and needed to be relieved. It was worse for my mother- for the past year she has been house bound.

It has had a different impact on me. Of course I was to busy with my damn revenge to notice that someone who loved me my whole life and nurtured me (in her tedious, bossy way), was slipping away. But there were moments when the pain of what was happening would lash at me. Watching Little B running to her Great- Grandmother arms wide open only to get pushed away because she thought Little B was attacking her. And then seeing my Mom cry because she missed her mother so much- she was there but she wasn't at the same time. My Dad used to say that the person we had in our house was no longer my Grandmother and that she had left us some time ago. As harsh as that sounds he was right.

And where did all my hatred get me?. Well it got me nowhere. It was useless. It just made me more miserable and more of a liability to my Mom instead of an asset when she desperately needed help. I felt bitter because I had gotten nowhere. I'm still angry at my Grandmother but how is that benefiting me?. It's funny how human beings see holding on to anger as doing them some sort of justice when they have been scorned. In the end no one cares and it's like going around in a circle.

From the dark side: The damage that hatred can do....Part 6

I'm not sure when my Grandmother was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. Honestly it feels to me like she has always had it. And living with someone who is afflicted with this condition is heartbreaking as well as being pure hell.

Because of the recession in 2009 I could no longer afford to live and study on my own. I moved out of Cape Town and back in with my parents....and my grandmother. My Mom still had her own business then and would work long hours. My Dad would work from home in an outside office. The care of my grandmother was left up to a lady that my Mom originally hired to do cleaning. She was very good with my grandmother and would cook for her and take care of her during the day while taking care of the house. Soon though my grandmother started to become more and more of a full time job.

We had a cat back then who my grandmother became obsessed with ( a commonality in Alzheimer's patients). If the cat wasn't within her line of vision she would panic, she tried to follow this cat wherever she went (and if you own a cat you know that this is impossible). If the cat did anything like "meow" or role around or ANYTHING she took as a sign that the cat had to be hungry and would get furious at all of us, accusing us of starving the cat. At least once an hour there was a blow up with her about the cat. The worst was when the cat went off somewhere as cats do, my grandmother would leave the house and go and try to find her. My parents lived on an apple farm and this happened several times a day and either Georgina, myself or my Dad would have to go out and frantically look for her. Then she would start accusing any stranger she came across of stealing the cat. And then came the day when she claimed that our cat....was not our cat.

At night her obsession switched to the locking of doors. After she went to bed she never slept as she was up and down all night checking that all the doors were locked. Of course she would always forget that she had already checked and keep on checking all night. Soon she started waking us up at night "Wondering where everybody was". She needed help with dressing, bathing and eventually going to the toilet. She was terrified of being alone and always afraid of some impending doom. She would work herself up into into a crazy state that would always end in her crying hysterically. Her balance was effected and we constantly had to watch her to make sure she didn't harm herself.

And then of course, there was her mental state. It probably sounds petty when I say that her repeating the same thing over and over again or the 50 million questions she would ask...by breakfast, was irritating. But just imagine having to hear the same line over and over and over again knowing that telling them to shut the hell up would have no effect what so ever AND you actually couldn't even get angry because it would agitate their mental state even more?. Well... I'm sure that's how my Mom must have felt. I didn't let it stop me from screaming my lungs out besides, it me feel better. Even if she would be beside herself once I had calmed down.

Throughout all of this I was horrible to her. I hated her. I kept thinking, "After being a constant intrusion in our lives you had to go ahead and become a burden too". I didn't care that she was afraid and confused and suffering. I just cared about venting all the anger I had held inside of me for years.If I wasn't ignoring her, I was yelling at her. I called her a "A demented old cow" and " A senile old woman". I resented her always having to tag along when my Mom and I were out together. My Mom may have been able to control how I spoke to her when I was little but not now. This lead to many fights between my mother and I which of course made me even more angry.

But even through her dementia my Grandmother still managed to retain her good qualities. After any attack I had made on her the disease would have her promptly forget that anything had happened. But the unhappiness remained. She was unhappy and she didn't know why. Knowing my Grandmother she probably thought it was because of something she had done. She would seek me out and want to hug me and love me. This made me feel like the worst person ever born on God's green earth and I would try to get away. My grandmother may not have been able to rescue me from my abuse but she was always there to comfort me. When it was my turn to do the same I failed her I did nothing but make her suffering worse. The full implications of that haven't hit me yet but they will eventually. I will have to deal with what I did for the rest of my life.

STILL more to come....

From the dark side: My confession of being a pure bitch...Part 5

The changes were so small at first that probably she even didn't notice it. Trying to recall a name, a date, what she had done the previous day. Then she would forget where she put something, leave the bath water on until it was overflowing. Burn food on the stove or in the oven because she forgot it was there.

Then these changes became slowly visible to those closest to her. My grandmother did a lot of the house work. When she put dishes away no one could ever find them because they were not in their usual place. She would clean up and put stuff away and we wouldn't see them for months. Then she couldn't remember which month we were in and then which year.

Right after the fire it was decided that my disabled aunt should go to a home. My grandmother had looked after her for over 40 years. Since my grandmother had reached her 70's she started to have difficulty managing. Once my aunt was in the home my grandmother visited almost every afternoon. Soon she deteriorated to the point where she was actually forgetting to go and see my aunt. And when she got to the home, she was never able to find my aunt's room and would get lost. Despite this she still continued to go whenever she could.

My grandmother had a weird habit of always falling asleep during movies or during the sermon in church. But soon all she had to do is sit down for five minutes and she would fall asleep right then. One time she was holding a cup of hot tea, fell asleep and let go of the mug, pouring the scalding liquid into her lap. A fracture to her arm and a bout of hepatitis only seemed to worsen her memory.

We all just thought that it was all part of age. But then she was forgetting people's names and eventually couldn't remember the names of those living with her without some prompting. She couldn't find her clothes or her medication. She would make us multiple cups of tea forgetting that she had already made the tea. Then she forgot how to tell the time.There were huge fights because my Mom did not want my grandmother to do housework anymore but my grandmother refused to give up anything that she saw as her duties. Having to constantly look for things made us all angry.

When I moved to England at the age of 20 my parents had moved to a house on an apple farm. Although my grandmother's memory was pretty shot she was still able to do basic things for herself and it was fine to leave her alone in the house for a few hours. The Christmas before I left I realised that something serious was wrong with my grandmother and that it was not simple forgetfulness. I had taken my grandmother shopping for presents for my Mom and Dad. That was the Christmas it snowed on the mountains (despite it being SUMMER in South Africa) so I settled her next to the heater in her room with a cup tea and went to my room to wrap presents. It must have been 5 or 6 times in the space of 30 minutes that she burst into my room panicking that she had not bought a present for my Mom. Not only did this mean that she had forgotten the entire day's events but she was forgetting what I was telling her 3 minutes after I had spoken to her.

When I said goodbye to my grandmother at the airport, she held me tight crying almost silently pleading me not to go. When I returned 3 and a half years later, she greeted me as though I was a stranger. She had been told over and over again who I was and she was very kind and polite. But her association of me, her memories of me, her love for a grand daughter had disappeared. While I was overseas I had gotten updates here and there of her slow decline. I spoke to her quite a few times, normally my Mom would be prompting her the background. But I missed most of it and I came home to find her drastically changed.

So, you would think that in these circumstances I would have nothing but compassion for her. Well you are wrong...this is where the pure evil of me came out. I returned to South Africa in 2007 a completely different person. A terrifying, horrific mental breakdown 6 months before and ripped everything that I was and everything that I had known and believed in to shreds. The past which I had worked so long to suppress was now demanding to be acknowledged and dealt with. My grandmother had now conveniently forgotten everything but I still remembered it all with a sharp sting as though it had happened yesterday. Now because she was so weak and had forgotten everything that happened, she was an innocent little lamb. I couldn't confront her, I wasn't allowed. Those fights that we had had in the past were no longer acceptable (not that they were acceptable in the first place) and were actually dangerous for her mental state. So I just had to button it and...forgive.

I'm sure some people can relate when I say it is impossible to forgive someone when you are fulled with such black rage that you could be motivated to kill a person if it came down to it. I had no way to express this rage, no chance for an absolution. I just had to "hold it" and as my mother LOVES to say,  "Forget about the past". I couldn't hold it... someone had to pay for what was done to me and because my grandmother had no way of fighting back now didn't mean I couldn't get some revenge.

From the dark side: My confession of hatred...Part 4

My grandmother had an older brother- my great uncle, whom I loved and adored. This is what is so ironic to me. Those personality traits I hated in my grandmother- her vanity, racism, sexism, prejudice and controlling personality were even worse in my great Uncle. Except for the vanity. I can't understand it or explain it but he should have been even more of a irritant, but I was able to look past all of his flaws and saw him as a surrogate grandfather. He was a hugely charismatic man with a larger than life personality and loud booming voice. He would sweep my sister and I up into tight hugs and kiss the tops of our heads over and over. He listened to us intently, prayed over us and told us long stories. The best way I can describe him is that he knew what all your bad traits were but he focused only on what was good. He was one of the first people (along with my Mom) who looked past my cold steel exterior and saw a treasure.

My great uncle was unbelievably strong while my grandmother was weak and I think it was because of how they were raised. He was raised to be a man and lead a legacy. She was raised to serve and produce children without asking any questions. If she had been given half the chance I think my grandmother had the potential to do great things. But she was a woman.

In 1996 one single event set off a chain reaction of which the tragic consequences we are dealing with today. My Mom had taken my sister and I to school, my Dad was away and my grandmother was alone in our house fixing breakfast for herself and my disabled aunt. Smoke suddenly began billowing from down the passage, she ran to the room she shared with my aunt to find that a heater had short-circuited and caught alight. The surrounding area and the edge of my aunt's bed had begun to burn. Despite being someone that was prone to severe panicking what she did was truly remarkable.

She lifted my Aunt off the bed, put her in her wheelchair and raced her out into the lounge. Then she went back into the room threw several blankets over the burning heater picked the whole blazing mess up and dumped it outside. She again ran back into the room and threw her bedding over everything else that was burning. My Mom came home to find my grandmother with black hair, hands burnt raw and sobbing uncontrollably because the house had almost burnt down and it was her "fault".

We were truly blessed that day, what could have been a horrible accident was saved because of God's mercy and my grandmother's bravery and quick thinking. We went on with our lives much more thankful but what we didn't know was that a silent switch and been flipped by an invisible hand. Over the next ten years we witnessed a transformation that would shock us all to the core.

From the dark side: My confession of hatred...Part 3

From the outside my grandmother appeared to be a sweet innocent old lady. Everyone liked her. Despite the fact that she was a argumentative menace to everyone in my family they loved her very much. No one else feels this way towards her except for me. I can tell you if anyone in my family had to read what I am writing they would be shocked, angry and disgusted. I guess they should be. It feels like a law against nature to hate your own grandmother.

I have only presented the bad side of my grandmother....the truth is she actually had many wonderful qualities, most of which I have only realised recently. Unfortunately it would be that one of her good qualities that would sting me the most:

My grandmother made sure she always knew what was going on with everyone in the family. She would watch, listen...eavesdrop outside closed doors. Because she made sure that she knew about everything that went on she knew more about my abuse than anyone else. I still feel like it's a crime to say that I was emotionally and physically abused. She knew what my Dad did to me, she watched and listened. She would always be there in the background or around the corner. The worst is I knew she knew what was going on was terribly wrong. I could see it in her face.

Whether it was because she was once an abused woman herself, or because she believed that my Dad, was the head of the house and my father, she should not interfere or she was just in denial I don't know. But she was the one person who knew that I desperately needed help and she choose not to do anything. And here is where her "good quality" comes in. After being beaten she was always there holding me, washing the tears and sweat away from my face, tying up my hair and putting me to bed, all the while cursing my father. It was like being given time in a boxing ring and going into the corner for water and a pep talk before being sent back.

It was a blessing to have that comfort after all those horrific episodes. I really should be grateful because the majority of kids that are abused have no one. But it just made me hate her even more. She was just there to listen and see and then comfort. Never to help. And so for years it continued, each time it occurred it sliced away at my soul and took away more of the person I was meant to be.

From the dark side: My confession of hatred....Part two

N.B: Some contents may offend sensitive readers

By just typing that last post, digging deep into the crevices of my families history fulled me with anger and bitter resentment. The stupidity of some of those people.....(my family members) astounds me. I am just showing you the ugly side of things. In truth my family in those days were like the American South before the civil war. There were great adventures, grand parties, unbelievable stories of wealth and luxury and eccentric personalities. Growing up my sister and I often felt like we had come late to some big party. We came when all the fun had been had and everyone was suffering from one big hangover.

For the first 18 months of my life it was just my Mom and I . My Dad was always away on business. Other than a few visits by a church friend and my half- brother and half- sister my Mom and I were each other's only companions. Within two months, I had a new baby sister, had moved countries and was living in a massive old house with....both my parents, my sister, my aunt, my two cousins (my aunt hadn't really figured that sex gets you pregnant), my disabled aunt and both my divorced grandparents. My half- brother and half- sister were soon dropped into the mix. One big happy family.

I don't think you'd be surprised if I told you I became a rather disturbed baby. Plus there seemed to be something "funny" about the house we lived in. My Mom thought there were evil spirits living there. I don't know, but throughout our time living there I would wake up most nights screaming in terror. My Mom, exasperated, sleep- deprived and under pressure from my Dad would resort to spankings to get me to stop. I can still remember this. I also suffered from a series of freak accidents- falling down the stars, burning myself, the worst was when I chopped my pinkie off my left hand and had to have it sewn back on.

Because I went from being a little angel to a child possessed by the devil by Mom left the care of my younger sister to my grandmother while she focused on me. Because of this I think my sister became my grandmother's favorite. I didn't have much to do with my grandmother back then but I remember resenting her presence. My Mom would tell me one thing and she would disagree and tell me to do another thing. Life to her was all about acting "proper". She fought openly with my Dad and spoke horribly about him behind his back and in front of me.

My grandmother has lived with my parents for most of the time I have been alive. With the exception of two years where my Dad- in an attempt to get some peace and quiet- rented her a flat half an hour away. Whenever we had to move there was never a question of whether or not she would come with us. It was always assumed. Because she was always there my sister and I always had to share a room. Once the two of us got older and it became obvious that our sharing a room was actually dangerous, we would convert any space in the house we could find, a dinning room etc into a room for my grandmother.


Having grown up in South Africa, during apartheid and especially in a farming community, it was only natural that my grandmother was extremely racist and prejudiced. She would talk about people of a different ethnic race- particularly blacks- as though they were the plague and would refer to them in the most derogatory terms. Before Nelson Mandela was realised from prison in 1990 she had me shit- scared of the man and convinced me he was going to kill all the whites. My grandmother was prejudiced in that if a person looked or dressed a certain way for example they had certain personality traits. Nothing could sway her on this even if the person she was speculating on turned out to be the exact opposite. To add to this sparkling impression I have created, my grandmother was also horribly sexist. Woman were there to get married and pop kids, working was a man's job. Women had to do certain "things" to ensure they got married. It horrified her that I did not want to get married or have children. Her advice on actual marriage was even more absurd...,"You must get pregnant three to six months after your wedding....".

Everything I have mentioned above created the groundwork for a very toxic relationship. The older I got the more my grandmother intruded into my life and tried to force her ideals on me. She constantly contradicted my mother and father and believing herself in charge would tell my sister and I what to do. By the time I reached my teens I couldn't stand her. She fulled me with so much rage that it was hard to remain respectful. I would constantly get into trouble and be punished for the way I treated her. Which obviously fuelled my resentment more. We couldn't get through a day without having two or three fights. Sometime the rage would get so bad it almost got to me slapping her. The worst I ever did was violently push the car seat when she was sitting in front of me. I would yell things at her like "You're an old crone!" or "Old hag!". Particularly in my late teens I treated her very very badly. If I had been a decent person back then I would have noticed that her age was weakening her, while I was getting stronger. All I cared about was that I was finally winning all those fights!.

TBC....

From the dark side: My confession of hatred....Part 1

This post has been on my heart and nagging at my mind for quite a few months. And because of the events happening in my household in the coming week, I think that it is finally time to put this to rest. Since it is so long I am dividing it up into a few parts.

When I started this blog I made a promise to myself that no matter what I choose to write, it would be honest and NOT exaggerated as I admit I have the tendency to do. I admit that sometimes my wanting people to like me and sympathize with me stopped me from writing about certain things. That was until recently. I'm not sure why I am choosing to write about this situation...I might be able to tell you later upon reflection. Here is my warning: There is a very good side to me I won't go into that but I hope that some of you have been able to see that through my writing. BUT there is also a very terrible, evil side to me. I could make an excuse and say that I got this from my father, some of that is true. But mostly I picked this up all by myself.

Basically I can be the most cold- hearted, conniving, selfish bitch alive. It's true. I have hurt people beyond repair, plotted how to destroy and bring someone down. I make Sami Brady look sweet. Here's why, I will tell you the story of my grandmother.

My grandmother was born into a well-to-do farming family in South Africa in 1927. This family owned most of the farming land outside of Kimberly. She had a happy, carefree childhood as far as I know, she was very close with her brothers and adored her father- I have heard so much about how wonderful this man was from everyone who knew him. She went to boarding school as soon as she was old enough, as was necessary for children of farming families. My grandmother graduated high school and then went home to live with her parents where she basically waited around to be married- this was also the custom for young South African women in those days as most trades were closed to them.

My grandmother was a very beautiful young woman and she didn't have to wait long before many suitors came to call, most of them were from very wealthy families and had very lucrative careers. She could have had any man she wanted but for some reason she choose a frizzy- haired, google- eyed man who was well known for being a slacker living off his wealthy parents. His one achievement in life, is that he had learnt how to fly. He would have made an excellent pilot but being indisposed to working, choose to fool around in his one engine aeroplane instead. Legend has it he won my grandmother's heart when he landed his plane in her backyard and came to ask her to a country dance.

My great-grandparents were against the match from the start, they tried to reason, they begged and pleaded but nothing would sway my grandmother from accepting my grandfather's hand in marriage. As my great- grandparents loved my grandmother very much and did not want to loose her, they organised her a massive, lavish wedding. 500 guests were there. We still have her dress to this day, although only my sister can fit into it. She must have looked breathtaking. It must have been a sad day for my great-grandparents. Their years had provided them with wisdom to know that their precious only daughter was doomed.

Within three months my grandmother was pregnant with my aunt, who was born just before their first wedding anniversary. My mother (in my opinion the best thing that ever happened to both of them) was born two years later. Two year after that my grandmother was pregnant again and struggling with terrible morning sickness. She went to the doctor and he prescribed some pills. Trusting that doctor turned out to be the biggest mistake of her life. My aunt was born with a portion of her brain missing. She was blind, horribly retarded and had numerous deformities. I can't imagine the guilt my grandmother must have carried for the rest of her life. They were told to put my aunt into an institution and forget about her. But my grandparents refused, brought her home where she was loved and adored. They suffered a lot of stigmatising because of this.

My grandfather  who would avoid working by any means possible  demanded his inheritance from his mother and took the family to America where they lived off of the inheritance as well as buying cars, a big house, a speed boat and of course an aeroplane. Things were very good for a while. My Mom dropped out of university to spend a year travelling through Europe. Even though this had to be the dumbest decision she ever made, I'm glad that she had this time to herself and freedom. She needed it because of the life that awaited her (that's a whole other story).

Then my aunt got pregnant by a married man (Another "I love you, I'll leave my wife" story, which of course he didn't) and things began to go pair- shaped. The money ran out and they were destitute. My grandfather who had been emotionally and occasionally physically abusive toward my grandmother since the beginning of their marriage turned into a violent drunk. I have only just recently realised how this abuse affected my mother. She got beaten too. Most of the time it was while trying to defend my grandmother. If I had known this while  he was still alive I would have slapped the living daylights out of him. You will not believe how much I HATE this man.

My Mom went straight from Europe to America where she worked to help support the family. She became a surrogate mother to her niece, my cousin (little B's mother, who I love very, very much even though I want to kill her sometimes). My Mom eventually met and married my Dad (biggest mistake of her life in my opinion). Through the influence of my Mom and my grandmother's brother she was persuaded to return to South Africa with my disabled aunt and divorce my grandfather ( best thing my grandmother ever did...worst thing that happened to my grandfather).

I was born in 1983 in Texas. In 1985 just two months before my sister was born, my Mom returned to South Africa with my Dad. All my Mom wanted was for her family to be together again and to take car of them. She persuaded my Dad to leave a pretty good life in America and come to South Africa to start new. What they weren't banking on was all the extra luggage...in the form of my half- brother and later my half- sister. She had dreams of us all eventually living in a massive house together, which was beyond nuts. It was the biggest relief for my grandmother when my mother returned to South Africa. My grandmother had worked hard for her family but she had always been taken care of. She had never lived on her own, never went to college, never had a job. All she knew was how to be a wife and a mother. When she divorced my grandfather she was at a loss. It was assumed by her and my mother that she would move in with the family and she thought she'd resume her role as wife and mother. There was just one problem. My Dad was not her husband and my sister, half- sister, half- brother and I were not her children. More over my mother was no longer a child.

That aspect was the root of many serious problems we had with my grandmother. Instead of realising that she was no longer the one in charge but the support system she grasped desperately to the only part she knew how to play, causing resentment, fighting and the eventual breakdown of relationships. I never saw her as a grandmother, or how I guessed a grandmother should be- just by observing my friend's grandmothers. I saw her as an unwelcome stranger who constantly battled my Mom for control of me. Adding to this the world in which my grandmother had grown up and flourished in had changed. And she did not know how to change with it. She had grown up in apartheid South Africa. During that period, life for white people was a dream. My grandmother became, bitter and resentful toward people and this isolated her even more.

More to come.....

When the pressure cooker explodes



Breakfast at Tiffany's

 Firstly I would really like everyone to take a look at my last post and maybe pass on the message. I would like to see that lovely kitty get a home. If there was a way I could have her shipped to South Africa, I would take her but I know that is impossible.

My half- sister (from my Dad's previous marriage) is in the country and has decided to grace my parents with her presence for two days starting on Easter Sunday. I'm not going to give the gory details other than to say that both my younger sister and I decided several years ago that it would be best if we had no relationship with her. I'm pretty sure she feels the same. We would have left it at that if my mother was not on a eternal quest to bring us together again citing the "forgive and forget" slogan with some pretty disastrous consequences. This woman has treated my mother atrociously in the past and I have to admit finding my Mom's easy forgiveness of her and forgetting all that happened rather disturbing. It's like my Mom is intimidated by her and feels responsible for the rift between her and my Dad which couldn't be farther from the truth.

Anyway enough about that, this week as been stressful enough mostly because of finances, my up coming exams and my grandmother (again a whole other post). And ( Sorry guys! ) it's been that time of the month. I'm on the pill and for the past few months I have been using the pill to stop my monthly "pal" from dropping by. For about eight days around and during my period my antidepressants stop working my anxiety levels shoot through the roof and I become a shouting, screaming, kick- boxing wench and during the rare periods of calm I experience an overwhelming- unable-to-breath sadness. So I have really been using the pill to stop the awful pms-ing.

Well this month I couldn't do that because I didn't have money to get my pill on time. Yesterday I had a counselling session in which we talked a lot about the past, the abuse and how ****ed up my family is, so I was feeling a little emotionally sore. I then had to spend two hours in a hospital waiting room for my grandmother to see the doctor. And of course my grandmother was yelling and talking utter rubbish as she usually does, irritating everyone there. Eventually we were asked to take her outside. During this time I read the story I posted above about the kitty, Precious and it really upset me. So the stage was set for a rather big explosion. And the one who set it off?. My mother.

I have made it clear that I don't want to see my half- sister and have made plans to go and stay with my younger sister when she is here. After seeing the doctor we bundled my grandmother in the car during which my mom told me my half sister would be coming on Sunday. I replied that I would be going to my younger sister. My Mom said then that she had a "simple request". That was the match that lit the dynamite and knowing what she was asking I exploded.

I just started screaming my lungs out!. We were parked in a disabled parking quite close to the hospital entrance and people actually stopped and stared. A group of nurses walking towards us gave the car a wide berth. I was so furious that I kept on shouting all the way to my Aunt's house.

My Mom knows how bad the relationship is between my half- sister and I. What's worse is that I have told her everything that happened but she always forgets and keeps on asking me over and over again. I have given my reasons for not wanting to see  her but she doesn't respect my decision and keeps on nagging and demanding that we become freaking best friends because we are "sisters". Her coming to stay has really been stressing me out this time and my Mom has been more demanding than usual. This all coupled with everything else that was going on yesterday pushed me over the edge.

Today I'm a little worried because that explosion yesterday definitely caused me to take a mental step backwards. I can't describe it, I feel like a switch has flipped and something is different. I was meant to volunteer at the welfare today but this morning I couldn't get out of bed- I had a nightmare about my half- sister  last night. We were all at some big party and I spent the entire time trying to avoid her until eventually she confronted me and was crying and throwing a tantrum. I remember she had awful teeth. Ugh!. I woke up this morning feeling really disturbed and paranoid. I decided I didn't have it in me today to face those awful welfare ladies once again and stayed home. I failed today.

So I have spent most of today in a anxious state of paranoia and feeling angry and hurt at my mother for putting me there. I told my Mom how I was feeling this morning and her response was to pray for me. She's now acting like everything is hunky- dory. She knows that something is terribly wrong unfortunately before she takes action she goes into a state of denial first.

This might make you laugh. The final slap in the face?. My half sister will having a roast lamb dinner with my Mom and Dad. My grandmother's side of the family owns a sheep farm up in the Northern Cape. Every once and a while the send us lamb, very popular in South Africa and Europe and my favorite. They used to send lamb down a lot but after my beloved great uncle died they now only send it down about twice a year. It's way to expensive to buy in the store. We have had this leg of lamb in the freezer and I have literally been waiting with bated breath until we can have a roast lamb dinner. Well guess who is now getting the damn dinner?. Guess who will be sitting in a flat with her sister eating sandwiches?. Uh- huh.

The ramblings of a dull, bitchy mind

My hair is getting way to long…ginger curls that are suffocating in the heat and feel heavy. I go through periods of wanting to shave my head to be free of it.


I’ve been told by other red heads that I am lucky I don’t possess the epidemic of freckles that go with being a carrot top….they should see me after a day in the sun.

I had to get up early this morning to care for my elderly grandmother so my parents could go to church. Feed her, put her on the toilet and generally make sure she doesn’t freak out to much. Unfortunately she wet her skirt because I left her to long on the potty and she moved.

Why is it that I can still taste my medication two hours after I have taken them?

The meds have put into a four- year haze

I asked my Mom to bring me a bag of something nice when she got home. She brought me celery and eggplant. Both of which I like, but not exactly what I had in mind. My Mom’s fear of my landing up overweight like my Dad has been ruling my life since I was seven, when it became clear that I had inherited his genes.

I have been battling an eating disorder/ food addiction since I was seven.

I am tired of being raked over the coals by both atheists and Christians. To Christians I committed the ultimate sin: I lost faith and I denied God’s existence. To atheists I did the unthinkable I took my faith, as small as a mustard seed and decided I wanted to know God again. Both feel betrayed.

Sometimes I wonder if I will ever feel normal again.

I just want to be normal again.

Define normal?

Some days it takes me two hours just to get to the point where I can get out of bed. Other days it will take me the same amount of time just to make my bed: I straighten one side stare at it for half an hour then straighten the other side.

I dread every time my sister comes home. She is always a reminder of what I have missed in life and what I am missing. We are not close and never have been.

Does anyone know how to put my banner in the middle? It's driving me crazy...

The realisation that I could loose my cousin is starting to terrify me. He hasn't got his results back yet but fear and imagination are a cruel thing. He's cool with everything. Why don't I know him better?. Regrets.

For university, it took me a whole day to get through half a study unit…which is normally only supposed to take four hours. I guess I can call it a success.

Children of darkness

                                                                                                                                               

Txema Rodriguez

Fiona Coyne was an actress, communications consultant and best known as being the host of Weakest Link South Africa. I remember when a local T.V station sent out a nationwide casting call to find the host for the Weakest Link they wanted someone who was "as tough as nails". In an interview with Fiona after she was cast she very confidently stated "I am honestly not intimidated by people". Man, I envied her!. And she lived up to her reputation on the Weakest Link for her biting comments used to cut over- confident contestants down to size. She was smart with a post grad in Clinical Psychology. But she also had a great heart- being actively involved with charities focusing on nature and education. She sponsored a disadvantaged student through university. She indulged in the finer things in life: theater, opera, travel. Everyone described her as fabulous and feisty.

On the 19 August 2010, her housekeeper arrived at her house to find two letters on the kitchen table, one being addressed to her. In the letter she said she was very sorry and told her housekeeper to call the police immediately, she even wrote down the number. When the police arrived they found Fiona's body in her bed. She had committed suicide. The entire country was shocked and in utter disbelief. In everyones mind, including those closest to her she was the last person that would have taken her own life. Not just because she "seemed" to have it all but her very personality didn't seem to fit the profile of someone on the edge. Fiona had planned her suicide to the very last detail. In a letter to her mother she said she had weighed up the positive and negative aspects of her life and made her decision based on this. This story is especially tragic because just two months later, Fiona's older brother Bruce, heartbroken over his sister's death also took his own life. Sibling love can run deep.

This time last year, there was an amazing story of a man who parked his Audi R8 sportscar at the Table Mountain Cable way station and handed his keys to 8 car guards, saying, "It's yours". The story reached the evening news and everyone was curious about the anonymous donor. Generosity rubbed off on the lucky car guards and instead of selling the car immediately they cut a slit into the bonnet where people could donate money to charity. Eventually they did sell the car, four of the car guards were able to return home to The Congo with enough money to support their families for a life time. Two of the car guards used their money to start a creche for disadvantaged children and donated money to Haiti after the earthquake.

But where this story unfortunately ends is with the donor- his name was Rob Taylor and last week he made headlines again when he took the cable car up Table Mountain and jumped to his death from one of the look out points. Sadly this has shed some light onto his donation and the real reason why he gave the Audi away. Some people believe that he even meant to commit suicide they day he gave his Audi to the car guards. He was a wealthy property developer. People who knew him said he always gave to those less fortunate.

Now closer to home. When we moved into our current house a we hired some people to help us. One of them was a lady who had a daughter- in- law. This daughter- in - law was a diabetic. I am not to sure of the circumstances but her husband really wanted children and so she consulted her doctor. But her doctor gave her devastating news that she could not have children. She went home and apparently took every pill that she could find in the house even vitamins. She was only 25 years old. This has rocked the small farming community where I live. Her husband was so distraught over her death he had to be hospitalized.

Her death has also struck an emotional cord with me and not just because it was suicide. I cannot have children and this has made me re-evaluate how I handled this news ( I shrugged it off ) and what this could really mean for me. One, I have felt very guilty for being able to handle this news so well and two I have realised that the real consequences of this are still coming (will save that for another post). This girl had no previous history of depression or mental illness I can only imagine the emotional horror she must gone through in those final hours.

A few months ago I walked down to the cottage by the lake on the farm scoured the the front lawn for a sharp stick, sat down on the grass and began cutting my wrist with the sharp end of the stick. It really hurt and I wasn't really making any progress because the stick wasn't sharp enough. In the end I gave up because it was sore and I was just making a mess. I went home feeling like a caged bird. That night my Mom took me out for dinner and told me my godfather would be paying for a psychologist.

There is no real message behind this post, just self- absorbed pondering: How were all these people able to go through with it?. Why haven't I been able to?. I have been suicidal since I was 11. I remember standing on the balcony of my room really, really wanting to jump. But I didn't. Why didn't I?. I have been at the edge more times than I can count and I have turned back. How?. I don't think the answer is because I really want to live, deep down inside. Maybe I'm afraid of death- I don't know. During those times I  really wanted to be dead, so how can I be afraid of death?. My sister has always declared that people who commit suicide are the most selfish people on the planet. That has always stuck in my mind. The church I grew up in believed you went to hell- something I think is bullshit but I'm ashamed to say I still wonder about.

Maybe I'm a coward- I won't kill myself by slitting my wrists- it hurts. I hate the smell of petrol so gassing myself in the car is out. I won't jump off something high because being on something high without a barrier tends to paralyze me, and I hate that "falling" feeling. Drowning I know, I just know I will come up for air before I loose consciousness and a dead body in water is...yuck. I don't own a gun and the idea of my Mom being confronted with bits of brain is just cruel. That leaves overdosing but even when I have made the decision to swallow all the pills I have...I. just. don't. do. it.

It seems to be that I am the most picky cowardly suicidal punk that ever walked the planet. I'm too scared to go through with it. So I have been living my life in a rut- not being able to stop being suicidal but unable to actually go throw with it. I know it sounds weird but the people I have written about seem incredibly brave to me.

I'm not sure how to end this...I will still be here tomorrow and the next day and the next.....

My two days in hospital

I wasn't in hospital per se- I basically went home to sleep- Thank God. But I have had to spend the past two days here:

Tygerberg hospital, the 2nd largest hospital in the world...otherwise known as a big- ass state hospital with passages over a mile long. And we walked up and down these passages from Neurology to Psychiatry and back again "conveniently" located on two opposite ends of the hospital. To give you an idea of the length of said passages:

Note how the lights kinda disappear into oblivion

Stopping for a break halfway through

I've said it before on this blog....whatever sadist designed this hospital- knowing that sick patients would have to walk the length of these passages- should be shot. My mom tells me that when this hospital was being built, in the 1970's there was great excitement as it was to be a "high tech" facility with "breakthrough technology"....as you can see that is no longer the case.

As I have also said before, I am truly grateful for the medical care that I am getting- it isn't fancy or comfortable but it has saved my life. I would be blind if it wasn't for neurology and the employment policy at this hospital has ensured that my Dad doesn't have to fork out half his pension each month for my meds (seriously) I get them for free. Not only that, when I think of the lack of medical care some of my fellow South Africans have and  how hundreds of thousands of people on the African continent die each year because they have no medical care. I am so thankful.

But because I am thankful it doesn't mean I have to just love everything about this hospital and it doesn't mean that certain things don't make me very, very angry.

I saw something yesterday that was the absolute last straw and made me absolutely livid... take a look:

See, I made it extra large. Not very spectacular right? . Looks like some construction going on.

Well here is the story. It was going to be a long wait for the neurologist so the ward secretary suggested that my Mom and I go have some coffee (aka coffee- flavoured water). On our way to the cafeteria we passed the "new" psychiatric ward. Whenever I pass the psychiatric ward I can't help but stop, there is always a whirlwind of emotion that goes through my head. Thoughts like, "Will I ever land up here?" "What has stopped me from becoming like the people in this ward?" "What will push me over the edge" race through my head.

Almost immediately after we stopped my Mom and I were caught up by the most disgusting smell and it seemed to be coming from the ward. I went up to the door and peered through the crack, the passage was deserted, the atmosphere radiating out of that door was eery. When I turned to walk back I saw that the side doors leading into a courtyard were open and there were a whole lot of flies buzzing in and out of the door. The source of the dreadful smell was that pile of rubbish in the picture above.... RIGHT NEXT TO THE PSYCHIATRY WARD!!!!. I walked a little closer...I'm telling you people the smell was putrid. The pile of rubbish was actually a lot bigger than depicted in the picture it consisted of wood, rubble, plastic, paper and then food in various stages of decay and other green, black and grey slimy things that I really didn't care to get any closer to. Basically it was a pile of sewage. You cannot see the flies in the picture but believe me they were having a field day

I was in so much pain in these pictures, both physically and emotionally, seeing this awful mess- a total lack of respect for human beings who are unable to help themselves- blew away the paper thin barrier holding back a total meltdown. That they have placed these people in underground, in the bowels of the hospital where no one has to see or hear them, away from sunlight, is bad enough. Dumping a pile of stinking rubbish outside their window that could possibly cause further distress and disease takes the bullshit cake. My mother reacted as any loving mother would by getting me out of there as soon as possible. I plan to write some newspapers about this and obviously complain to the hospital.

I guess really should give an update on my BIH, depression and GAD. The first day I saw a psychiatrist (aka doctor studying to be a psychiatrist). I knew right from the start that this was going to be a useless appointment. I told her that things did get better for a while, but after the break with my psychologist they are now worse than ever, I didn't get a chance to tell her I had been suicidal again because she cut me off and told me that "We don't really want to put you on more medication (I already knew that), I think you should go see a psychologist". That's what I have been doing you stupid woman... did you even listen?!. The outcome of the appointment was that they will try and get me to see a psychiatrist at a hospital closer to me and I go back in March, no doubt to see a different doctor studying to be a psychiatrist.

On to Neurology... a lot of time was spent trying to track down my neurologist (aka a doctor studying to be a neurologist)- they close for the Christmas holidays. Eventually my Mom had him paged and spoke to him on the phone where she demanded that he come in to see me. I was told to come in the next day. We were there bright and early the next morning and  waited for four hours to find that my neurologist and palmed me off on his buddy- surprise, surprise the dude that performed or should I say messed up my lumbar- puncture (spinal tap) three weeks ago. How- ahem- happy I was to see him.

This is where it starts to get funny- he refused to see me with my mother, telling her he would chat to her afterwards ( she had wanted to throttle him after my lumbar- puncture). Judging by the look on her face I immediately began to feel sorry....for him. When he asked what had been going on with me I stifled the urge yell, "You f**king mutilated my spine, you dumbass" and calmly told him that I had been extremely ill since the LP and I still had enormously painful headaches accompanied by dizziness, nausea and extreme fatigue. Meanwhile outside...where my Mom was listening through a hole in the door, in came strolling my neurologist. Poor guy... my Mom pounced like a cat on a bird. I could hear her threw the door and immediately fell sorry for whoever was on the other side of her wrath.

Dude checked my eyes- found my optic nerves weren't swollen, although they did appear scared. He asked me a few questions but I already knew what he was thinking: He didn't have a clue what was wrong and that most likely my depression was to blame. We spoke about surgery and it turns out that although my spinal pressure was high, they will not be doing surgery at this stage. I then told him nonchalantly, "So I guess  it's all in my mind then" He didn't really know what to say but eventually said "It's real to you- that's what matters" I told him good luck with my Mom. He told me I was a sweet girl.

We went back out into the passage where Mr. Neurologist had amazingly been able to calm my mother down. We stood talking for a while with him and Dude doctor. The compassionate side of them eventually emerged when Dude doctor said, " I would say now that your BIH is under control but your depression is definitely out of control". It was probably the only thing Dude doctor was able to hit the nail on the head about. Immediately I began tearing up and it was that that put them into action. They called in the psychiatry rotater and for a while there was some finger pointing going on. Neurology were telling Psychiatry that my problem was clearly psychological. Psychiatry were telling Neurology that it was clearly neurological. Somewhere between all of this I began to think about Homer Simpsom...for some reason. Eventually the heads of both departments got involved, seeing them trying to meet each other half way to find a solution was interesting. Eventually it was decided by everyone to put me on Amitriptyline an anti- depressant used a lot by neurology for management of migraines. I have been on it before. Needless to say my Mom was not happy- another pill. I have to go back for another eye test in January and will hopefully have my checkup the same day.

In between all this we found this little guy:

 The pictures don't really do justice to how very tiny this little sweetheart was. His name is Joshua and he was born prematurely. He is a month old and only weighs 2.2kg (4lbs 8oz). He has to wear dolls clothes because he is so tiny. When this picture was taken he was about to have surgery for cataracts on both eyes. His mother was beaming with pride and loved showing him off. We told her that he will be a piano player one day because his miniature hands have such long fingers and he held onto my finger with the most amazing strength.

You see it's this that I am grateful for. Tygerberg with it's stinking rubbish heaps, disintegrating walls, rude staff, toilet paperless bathrooms, looong waits and befuddled student doctors, kept this little boy alive and will give him the ability to see. There will always be things to be thankful for, even in a pile of ashes.

,