Happy Fathers Day.

I’m having a bit of a wobbly, excuse me.

Growing up I felt like my dad wasn’t around much, probably because he wasn’t.  He was a contractor and went where the money was.  Which meant that my brother Brandon was the man of the house at the age of 9 or something.  He was the only meat eater really, so whenever he got sick of the scrambled eggs on toast we practically lived on, he would braai a piece of boerie on a candle.  Because he was too small to know how to start an actual braai, and between my mother and I we were pretty useless with anything related to something a man should do.

So Brandon learnt how to do it all.  He shocked himself a few times learning to rewire plugs, made sure all the light bulbs were in reach by letting them hang down on a wire from the ceiling and I remember he even created his own DV board once, with a piece of chipwood, a few light bulbs and a light switch.  It was rad.  But it was also sad.

Of course, in those days my family didn’t have much money.  And although there was always love, there were far too many tears too.  Of course, a lifestyle like this couldn’t lead to a very successful marriage, so when my parents announced their imminent divorce, I can’t say I was really surprised.  After a few months of not seeing my dad, when I did I cried too much to even enjoy it.  His home was cold, he had no furniture, he was permanently depressed and basically it just sucked.  Until he met the woman of his dreams who brought love and light into his life, I really avoided seeing my father as much as I could.

Two or three years later, after not seeing my dad for most of that time, my mother had remarried and Kev had stepped in for much of my fathers role.  It was tough at first, he had a whole new way of discipling us kids and that was something I was not used to.  The first time he told my brothers to pick a stick* I nearly died of shock.  But we got into the whole “new dad” thing eventually.  Or at least, Brandon and I did, Darryn hated Kev from the start and it only got worse as he got older, and the saddest thing is that it was completely mutual.

When Kiera came along Kev and I really bonded for the first time ever.  It went from hellos and goodbyes to proper conversations and advice and laughter and mutual respect.  Kev became my go-to guy for most things, choices, ideas, dreams, plans and thoughts.  I’d run it by him and because he was the most stable man in my life at the time, I hung on every word he said.  His advice was well thought out and usually always made sense.

When Kiera died, it was Kev who carried me to the car and took me home.  The first time I came home drunk, it was Kev who carried me up the stairs and calmed my shrieking mother down.  The first time I had a boyfriend, it was Kev who banned me from closing my bedroom door.  The first time I got grounded, it was Kev who helped me sneak back inside the house when he caught me climbing through the bedroom window at two in the morning.

It was a long and bumpy ride, but after a few years, Kev was as much a father to me as my father was.  Just for different reasons.  My dad and I have always had a weird friendly kind of relationship, and have never really been close despite that I know he loves me to death, and I him, but he’s never been much of a father in my life, more like an older cousin or uncle I get along really well with.  I’ve never asked his permission for anything, and in tough times unfortunately I’ve never needed to ask his advice.  Even though I know that if I had, he would do his best to be there for me, I just never felt comfortable doing it.  In that way, I’m glad that my youngest sister Ash came along, because although Dad was always tight with my brothers, he kind of missed out with me and my growing up, but got to do it properly with Ash.  It’s sad, but its true.

Kev got me, Dad got Ash.  Two dads with two daughters that didn’t come from their own loins.

But now it’s all changed.  For some reason, in Kev divorcing my mom, he chose to divorce us kids too.  I haven’t spoken to him since our holiday in December, and that was strained enough.  When I went down in March for Wok’s birthday I could barely look him in the eye.  For Kev’s birthday in April, I couldn’t even bring myself to call him.  A generic sms was sent out with a generic thank you response. There have been times when all I wanted to do was pick up the phone and say hi, but the thought of what is going on with my mom prevents me, and I know that he’s not the same man he was when I was 19.  He doesn’t know me.  I don’t know him.  We’ve lost touch and I didn’t even know how much this bothered me until this morning.

I woke up and in the excitement of Jon running around looking for something to wrap up his dad’s gift with I realized that it would be inappropriate to sms Kev a fathers day sms.  And although I phoned my dad to wish him and secretly hoped he would cheer me up and fill the gap, he didn’t.  I felt a sense of sadness that overwhelmed me so much that when Jon looked at me questioningly, I burst into big fat overwhelming tears.  It hit me like a ton of bricks.  I’ve lost the one  fatherly father I’ve ever really known.

And that’s just fucking terrible.

* This was his #1 choice of punishment.  The kids had to pick a stick for their hiding.  The choice was more torturous than the act.  Too thin and you’d get double the smacks, too thick and it would hurt too much, a lot of pressure for a twelve year old.

** I didn’t want to publish this.  I’m terrified my dad reads this and feels like he’s failed me.  This isn’t what this post is about.  It’s about a girl who still feels like a child sometimes and the fact that her 2nd father is leaving her too has just hit home.

The five rand rapist man

I’m an old sap, I know, but I’m reading something that has had me in tears all day.  Go here.  I can’t understand how this can happen. The girl is six years old. Six-years-old-goddamnit.  Why was she left alone in the first place to roam the neighbourhood?

I am haunted by visions of her being trampled into the ground, the excruciating pain of her hymen being torn open and shred to bits. Of her not being able to breathe for some huge male is atop her, thrusting his entire body weight into her again and again and again. She must be so confused, why is he doing this – what has she done wrong? She tries to scream, but he muffles her small little mouth with his big hands and pushes her head to one side so that her neck is twisted enough for her face to be in the dirt.  She lays there too weak to fight him off, too terrified to try. The tears are flowing down her cheeks and leaving a clean stain all the way down her face.

Afterwards, the man stops moving inside her, gets up off the little girl, pulls up his pants and spits on a five rand coin and then throws it at her just before walking away. She’s left in the bushes with leaves in her hair and sand all over her tear-stained face. She tries to put her clothing back together but everything is just so sore and painful and her tummy hurts too much.  She’s only just learnt how to dress herself and she’s too confused at the moment to remember how. 

She’s all alone in the bushes, where are her friends? They saw the man chasing her, why didn’t they call anyone? Where are the grown ups?  How will she get home?

Pulling herself up, she stumbles a few steps before getting her balance right.  Concentrating one foot in front of the other, she starts making her way home. Back past the way she came, where he caught her in the first place.  Why is no one helping her, the can see something is wrong. Can’t they see how she’s walking?

As she takes one step after the other, blood is pouring out of her six year old private place. She’s so small and vulnerable and now she has blood running down her legs from somewhere inside her that she isn’t even aware of. How will her mother react? Will her mother even care? Is what the man did wrong? She just doesn’t know, she’s too young to comprehend why this has happened.

Six years down the line she’s outside the local shebeen leaning up against the tree pressing out her hips with her legs slightly parted showing off as much skin as possible.  Her breasts haven’t come into full blossom yet, but she knows it’s the way to most African men’s heart.  For R5 she will allow the drunk patrons to do what that other man did to her all those years ago, except now she’s older it isn’t very painful anymore.  She is only 11 years old but no one cares that what she is doing is wrong, its the norm. 

The R5 she gets is how she pays to feed herself that night.  Sometimes when her mother is away working, the R5 is all her family relies on, all her siblings will eat with.

It’s a blessing in disguise really, what happened to her when she was six. It prepared her for a life not unordinary in this country. It taught her that humans aren’t compassionate enough, not vigilant enough, aren’t investigative enough.  It taught her a career of selling her body, over and over again. She knows nothing else, she never will. Sex is a form of receiving money to her, nothing more. Why else would anybody want to do this, anyway, is there another reason she’s missing out on?

It taught her that HIV-infected men will find the youngest virgin around and rip into her hymen without a second thought in order to “cure” their self inflicted disease.  It taught her to be brave and withstand moral dilemmas and turn the other cheek towards right and wrong.

This is how she survives Africa. This is how she pays for her AVR medication that the government sometimes grants them.  The R5 rapist man taught her this.

momentum lost

I totally had an emo post for today, but I lost momentum along the way.

I miss my friends.  Flea, Britt, Shar, Tiff & Kimbo, I miss you.

So, get ready for my birthday bitches – its going to be LARGE.

In other news, I have none.  Hump day today, right?  Yay – bring on Friday!

I would just like to say:

FUCK! Fuckfuckingfuckityfuck!!!!

You know how I always say I’m held together by strings, and strings are tough when they need to be? I feel a thread or three coming loose.

That is all.

*dons big blankie and crawls into foetal position*

A quick list of pros to remind me of the good things:

• I have THE best flatmate in the world.  In a package deal, who comes complete with coloured bath water.  I love them.
• That phone call.
• That appointment with the other phone call.
• My biggest worry right now is only that i might lose something i find convenient having.
• I have food, roof, bed, love, laughter daily.
• I don’t need a glittery road sign to ask people for money.
• Contact  to friends and family overseas is a daily occurance, not many can say that
• everyone i love is healthy
• I am healthy
• I am sleep deprived, but this is a good thing
• the cup i drink my tea out of has a comic on it
• i have all ten toes, and all ten fingers
• i am not blind
• I have the ability to write, which makes me happy
• I am blessed, in little ways that make it count for the big things in life

Health, wealth and a lobster like tan – here’s an update on me!

So. It’s been a while. I know by now you all think I’m being all mysterious and quiet on purpose but actually, you’d be wrong.

There’s been so much going on, this real life stuff is pretty hectic, hey? Let me list for you what I’m talking about here:

1. The Berg was amazing and exactly what I needed – a place in the middle of nowhere with nothing but the black swans and ducks to listen to me screaming inside my head. I did some writing that amazed even me. This blook* is coming on very nicely, let me tell you. I’ve done a few chapters that made me cry, laugh and cringe all at the same time. The girls were fabulous, and drove me nuts. I went hiking, watched a raptor falcon show and drove the four and a half hours home chatting to Andrew’s friend Jax on the phone, all the while sporting a very sexy lobster-like sunburn. Noice.
2. I’ve acquired insomnia. It’s fucking annoying, yo. Thank god for DSTV though and Girls of the Playhouse Mansion. Kendra rocks my world with her stupidity. Her boobs are nice too. With this insomnia comes migraines that cannot be gotten rid of if I had to stand on my head and blow blue bubbles out of my bum. Just yesterday I vomited from them thrice. All over my shiny bathroom floor. Delightful, no? Solution? Go to doctor many times which costs more money than I care to spend, but proves worthwhile as he has a sexy Greek ass to perv at, and even held my hand while comforting me after he says it might be possible I have a brain tumor. Yup, that’s right. Says it could be from the day Andrew died and I went horse riding and fell off and got concussion and amnesia for those frightful ten minutes.  Lovely. Not only am I in love with a dead guy, but he causes me to get a maybe tumour. What an asshole. But hey, I’m strong like Russia, and a bull, and maybe even like the leaning tower of Piza, so lets not get too stressed just yet, okay? Fanks. I’m going for a cat scan tomorrow so for those of you who pray, do your holding hand, kneeling in front of the idol, squeezing your beads while saying 10 hail mary’s thang, and for the rest of us – lets cross all appendages please.
3. Had dinner with my momma which was entertaining to say the least. She bored entertained the waiter (named “Tender Care” {TC for short}) for twenty minutes by telling how many ankle biters she’s pushed out of her vajayjay in the last 23 years. Then starts crying as I’m pointed to and tells poor Tender Care that I nearly doid when I was born with a hole in my heart, and now might have “a worm in my (her) head that could cause me to fall over stone dead”. Shot, Mom. Love you lots too. Then, to really put the cherry ontop of the cake, David the Car guard gets all her change plus a R50 note just because she’s known him since “ABSA days fifteen years ago, Sheena-Laura, he started out selling koeksisters, you know.” (My, how far he’s come, thinks I). Good news is that my dinner was a class act, and they even got the steak perfect, which is a feat for such a fussy eater like me.
4. I’m leaving for Australia. Yup, the rumours are true. I am a soon to be expat for an indefinite period of time. I’m not too keen to come back to the country only to start all over again with nothing, so until something amazing comes my way – I’ll be a cork hat yielding immigration nightmare all the way over in the land of Oz. My time line looks to be departing in the beginning of March which suits me right down to the earthy ground as I plan to do sweet bugger all until then, except for maybe sucking the last bit of summer into my lily white legs. As Kimbo said, it seems like my lower half doesn’t belong to the rest of my body after last weeks impromptu tan. Woes me.
5. I was asked out by a guy I’ve had my eye on for years. I said no. What is wrong with me?  Seriously, my Asexual joke was only said in jest, honest, but now it seems like I have no desire to be loved, or love anyone else. I don’t have enough room in my tiny conceited heart, I think.
6. This is turning into a rant post, so I’ll stop here. It also smells like a rat died and went to heaven in this office. I’m going to do some catching up on all of you as soon as possible. I’m dying to hear the latest, so you better make it good!

In the words of fabulous Ms. Kabintsimbi,

Over and Out.

* Blog/book combo that I’m doing. If you don’t know what I’m on about you must live under a rock – must suck to be you.

I have syphallis in my peter pointer

I think.  Its this disgusting little chunk out of the pointing digit and it looks gross!  Is it possible to get a sexual disease in ones finger?  Without having actual sex beforehand?

I think I should get laid.  No point in dying from sexual diseases in digit without the fun parts that should get me there in the first place.

A thinker post

Ever wondered why you make an effort with someone when you aren’t sure if they’re worth it or not? I don’t often wonder, but I am now.

I make an effort with every single person I meet, be it online, in person, at the shop or out and about with my mates.  I give each person common courtesy and am polite unless the person deserves less.

When I met Andrew, we had read each others blogs for a while before, and had a fair idea of who each person was.  I was cute and cuddly and sweet (har har) and he was an asshole.  He admitted to lying all the time, showed no respect for woman and generally just came across as horrible.  Yet.  When he spoke to me, he was different.  He would hate to admit that, but he was gentle and kind and caring.  When he finally came clean and told me he’d fallen in love with me, I was shocked.  This went against everything his blog stood for.  He was a player in a flashy car, when I met him, he was dating three girls at once.  He loved no one.  Yet here he was professing his love to me.

One of the first questions he ever asked me was ‘why bother with a liar’ to which I replied ‘who says I’m bothering?’ but the truth was, I did bother.  I took hours out of my days at work, home, sitting at friends houses, to talk to him and probe deep into his soul, and he let me.  I got to know the real Andrew, and it both scared and excited us.  Andrew was worth it.  I’ll never regret meeting him or falling in love under such strange circumstances.

Its not always so rosy though, is it?  I mean, aside from Andrew ending up dead, things were perfect for us, but that doesn’t always happen when you make an effort with someone.  Sometimes, you can really put yourself out there and get nothing back.  Or you can get a little bit back, but then just when you think you’re getting somewhere with someone on an intellectual level, they turn around and bite you on the ass.

Sometimes trying to get someone to open up and befriend you back is like drawing blood from a stone.

Sometimes, people just aren’t worth the effort you put into getting to know them.

Bittersweet

Apologies for all the bleakness lately. I’m not feeling very skippy of late, so it’s either this or nothing that gets posted. And frankly, this is my blog so I can cry if I want to, cry if I want to, cry if I want to. You would cry to, if this happened to you – dum dum dum dee dum!

So I wrote this on Saturday afternoon. Its very dark. The problem with my personality is that I have a dry & macabre sense of humour, but when the humour is on vacation, you’re left with just dry & macabre. Bummer.

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For years everytime I get down my mother avoids leaving me alone. I’ve always treated this with utmost frustration as I have never felt the understanding of feeling suicidal and was irritated by her worry. Nothing could be that bad, its the cowardly way out, life is worth living for… but I am not feeling all of that shit right now.

Driving 160km on the highway this afternoon, I visualised my car gliding off the bridge and crashing into a great big ball of flames onto the ground, with me in it. Coming up to a stop street, I see an 18 wheeler driving up to the right, what would it feel like to drive for the middle of it? Would my head be sliced off, or could it just be smashed into the steering wheel and explode like a vegetable does when its too hot? I wonder how long it would take for me to slip into nothingness after taking pills, what kind of pills would it take? Do I even want to die like that, though? Is it drastic enough, wouldn’t I prefer to be buckled and broken? Everything I see is a potential way out.

Coming up to my house turn off, I realize that opening the gate to let myself into the yard is not what I can handle right now, so I head down to the beach. Its already six pm and getting dark, but I can see the waves so I stay. I have music blaring, my windows are up and my doors are locked. I wouldn’t mind dying like this, in a void of my own, in my cave mode, where I can be me and no one can hear my sobs as I try to listen to my heart for the first time in years.

Its screaming out to me. How could I have forgotten how to be so raw? Its so apparant and constant, this sadness, how have I managed to let it hide and keep it away for so long? I’m tired. I’m sore. I’m sad. I am not me, I’m not really anyone right now. I’m doubting everyone I can see on the beach thats laughing. What is so fucking good about their lives? A girl is running and laughing and her hair is blowing in the wind. In her early teens, I can see what I once was. I was happy once. How do I get back there, can I get back there, do I want to get back there?

Save me from this darkness. Please, just save me from this darkness. And then, I realise my dogs need to be fed.

At home, I serve their food, and I place their bowls on the floor in the kitchen, along with myself. My eyes are open, but I don’t see anything for the tears are in the way. I put my head on my knees and cry. Big, ugly, loud tears that I have not allowed to come for far too long. My blind dog, who usually notices nothing, perks up his ears as he hears my cries, and turns away from his food to climb onto my lap and licks my wet face. He stares into my eyes, just stares. Its almost as if he can see my soul, and into my pain.

With one final lick, he gently climbs off me and goes back to his food. Calmly I get up, go to the bathroom, and throw up whats in my empty stomache. I wash my face. I clean the kitchen. I get ready to cook dinner.

Is this what life is about? Is this really all there is to live for? Somehow, I don’t think so.
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I’m feeling much better today, by the way. I think the worst is over, albeit this depro session has been the worst. I’m glad I have people that love and support me. I feel so sad for the people out there that don’t.