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thank you

To my dear friends who live in my computer,

Wow.  You know you rock, right?  Yes you, the person reading this.  You!  Do you have any idea how lovely you are?

I disappear for a year.  Come back and whinge like the Dickons.  Roll around like some raging emo kid.  And you don’t ignore me.  You don’t roll your eyes and shake your head.

No.  You make me feel loved.  I have been completely astounded by the depth of kindness and compassion you’ve offered me.  And I wanted you to know that I am deeply, deeply touched.  And not just in the way of the cuckoo.

Hope, compassion, love, strength, support, kindness, empathy…and always, a little silliness.  I hope you too have people who share these with you in abundance.

So, from the squishy bit in my left ventricle, thank you.  Thank you, thank you, thank you.

La (almost back to being) Dolce Vita

Exposed

I flay myself open.  The scalpel draws a red line down my chest.  Sharp metal like a zip.  The skin tugged back.  Look there, the red flesh of me.  Sinew and meat.  Glistening, shiny me.  I lie opened.  On display.  Skin pinned back like the wings of a moth, like the grand curtain of a stage.  The line of each perfect muscle.  The shape of bone.  The connections of cartilage.  And you stare.  And stare.  Mouth turned down in concentration.  Brow furrowed.  Your gaze intense.  You watch the dance of veins and ponder the pulse of a hidden, bruised heart.  You cup your chin in your hand. You sigh, and you say, “This is not what I expected”.

Obtuse

How curious this.  This breaking of rules.  This exploration of darkness.  This permission to be bad.  I know it’s the other side of a coin.  I know it’s not safe.  I know I shouldn’t.  I know there will be regrets.  I know.  I know.  I know.  But…

A boy said to me, once a long time ago, “I want to suck the marrow out of life”.  I keep coming back to that.  To the choice one has.  To exist.  Or to live.  The crazy challenge being to brave the hurt without hiding.  To brave experience without building a callus of uncaring.  To be fierce without causing harm.

Sometimes I wonder how I’ve reached 36 and can still be so naïve.  And sometimes I grin with glee that there is still so much to do.  That old adage, that the only thing you’ll really regret are the things you didn’t do.

It’s been a good / bad week.  And I’m not entirely sure what to do with what it’s brought me?

A collection of random

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random, the sads

I seem to be the only person actively hoping that the Myans were right.  A nice apocalypse would go down really well about now.  In fact, couldn’t we just bring the schedule a little closer?  Say, like, next Tuesday?

Facing ‘life as we know it’ or ‘the alternative’ (love a euphemism), why aren’t I embracing change?  If I’m planning the destruction of my piteous being anyway, why not just sell the house and travel for thousands of South African Rands worth and then top myself.  Even better, why don’t I borrow vast sums of dosh, live like there is (literally) no tomorrow and then send a picture of my chosen bottle of life-ending pills to my bank manager?  Huh?  Huh?

Why do people think that inviting me to parties will lift me out of the sads?  Self: I feel like gnawing my wrists open and praying for Yahweh to stamp on my face.  I know what I need!  A room filled with strangers who want to get right off their narcissistic faces and ask me godawful meaningless questions like “how are you?” and “are you having FUN?”  Do you really want to know?  No!  So fuck off.

There are lots of sad people out there.  Lots.  Was this always so?  Have I just been a total arsehole for not noticing?  And we all have names for deep black hole that we slide inexorably into: the black dog, The Nothing, the sads, the sea, the big blue, the wilderness, the darkness, the gray.  Things get named.  This interests me enormously.  It implies a presence, a kind of physicality to what plagues us.  We don’t name other emotional groups like this (do we? Not with a definite article, surely?)  Which is comforting.  Because it means it’s not ‘all in head’.  If it’s named, it is.  And so it isn’t just me.  I haven’t made this up to get attention or to provide an excuse to lay about in bed all day.  And so the naming makes me sigh a huge sigh of relief.  This isn’t a figment.  Make sense?

People don’t seem to react much to my profound statement “I have depression” (largely because of the melodramatic, mock-gothic tone I use – I’m still taking the piss a bit, in an effort to make it manageable.)  However all of that changes when I idly suggest I might be pondering, in a most happily Plathian way, the most effective methods of making it stop.  That seems to scare the crap out of people.  I think I might have to reign back on that level of sharing.

Oh, and by the way, in case you’re wondering.  No.  This is not a cry for help.  I wish it was.  But it’s not.  It’s just a rant.  A vent.  A whinge.  When I start posting pictures of sad bunnies, you can start to worry.

The wind has been howling in Cape Town.  For days.  The violence of it makes me feel better.  I like being shoved around on my forced marches (I’ve  been taking forced marches, because apparently exercise helps).  I like coming back looking like I’ve been in a blender.  It makes my outsides look like something is going on, even if my insides are like a beige carpet.  So I go outside.  And take it.

The upside

One of the strange upsides to the Big D has been an increase in empathy.  I used to suffer from random bouts of jealousy and shadenfreude.  I say “suffer” because I’ve always wanted to be one of those people who could rejoice in the simple happiness of others.  But the old comparison game is too tempting.

Now I just find I’m just genuinely glad if other people are happy / in love / have a fascinating new job / are pregnant / getting married / having buckets of great sex / having an adventure etc.  Because those things are fab.  You’d think, with the recent wallowing in meh, that I’d be even more pitiful in my internal bleatings about the great unfairness of it all.  Instead, my sad heart blooms with love and something I can only describe as a kind of soft, gentle pleasure that others can enjoy what I seem to be unable to.

How odd.  I hope, in all of this, that this side-affect stays when the sun comes back.

Note to self.

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lost, sads, things not to do

Don’t do the following when you’re deep in the sads.  They won’t make you feel better.  They’ll make you feel worse.

1. Eat your body weight in carbs.
2. Watch all 6 series of 24.  In a row.
3. Fuck the neighbour.
4. Listen to the bitch in your head.
5. Stalk your ex-lovers on the internet

All of these things will make you feel less than. Not more.

So, please, if you’re feeling miserable, rather…

1. Swim in the sea
2. Walk on the prom
3. Frootle about in your garden
4. Read a book
5. Croon kind things to yourself.

Because you’re lovely.  And you know, when you’re strong, that you’re the strongest girl you know.  You’ve just lost yourself on this lonely, bleak road.  And when you find where you’re going, you’ll find your way back.

So take a deep breath, ok?  You’re going to be fine.

The Big D…

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antidepressants, depression, life, on the couch, sads

I’ve been a little quiet.  But the truth is that this post has been hard to write.  I’ve been sad.  I’ve been sad for a frighteningly long time. In an absent, gray way.  A deepening gray that is increasingly difficult to hide.  Inexorable.  Suffocating. 

Siren

I feel the grey turning.  I bleed.  As the moon waxes and wanes I roll in a sea of green.  Luminescence.  The warp and weft of fish.  And underneath.  Underneath. A watery moon.  And the sush of tides upon the sand.  The tender arms of the sea.  And I dream about when we used to fuck.  The push and roll of love in the dark.  The tender sighs.  The tangled sheets.  And the sea sings.  Sings through the deep leagues.  And I feel my legs turn to silky scales.  Feel my hair come unbound.  Feel the salt on my tongue. The stars on my skin.  Feel my arms reach, reach.  To pull you under. Until you breath me.  And you drown.

Oh, the places you’ll go!

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Dr. Seuss, the blues, the dark places, The Places You'll Go!, the sads

Roxy and I were talking about the dark places.  And how unexpected and debilitating they can be.  And she sent me this.  And I cried and cried.  Which was a good thing.  Not least becaus once again Dr. Seuss makes more sense than the professionals. 

So thanks Roxy.   

Oh, the Places You’ll Go!
By Dr. Seuss

Congratulations! Today is your day. You’re off to Great Places! You’re off and away!

You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself any direction you choose. You’re on your own. And you know what you know. And YOU are the guy who’ll decide where to go.

You’ll look up and down streets. Look „em over with care. About some you will say, “I don’t choose to go there.” With your head full of brains and your shoes full of feet, you’re too smart to go down any not-so-good street.

And you may not find any you’ll want to go down. In that case, of course, you’ll head straight out of town.

It’s opener there in the wide open air.

Out there things can happen and frequently do, to people as brainy and footsy as you. And when things start to happen, don’t worry. Don’t stew. Just go right along. You’ll start happening too.

OH! THE PLACES YOU’LL GO!

You’ll be on your way up! You’ll be seeing great sights! You’ll join the high fliers who soar to high heights.

You won’t lag behind, because you’ll have the speed. You’ll pass the whole gang and you’ll soon take the lead. Wherever you fly, you’ll be the best of the best. Wherever you go, you will top all the rest.

Except when you don’t. Because sometimes you won’t.

I’m sorry to say so but, sadly it’s true that Bang-ups and Hang-ups can happen to you. You can get all hung up in a prickle-ly perch. And your gang will fly on. You’ll be left in a Lurch.

You’ll come down from the Lurch with an unpleasant bump. And the chances are, then, that you’ll be in a Slump.

And when you’re in a Slump, you’re not in for much fun. Un-slumping yourself is not easily done.

You will come to a place where the streets are not marked. Some windows are lighted. But mostly they’re darked. A place you could sprain both your elbow and chin! Do you dare to stay out? Do you dare to go in? How much can you lose? How much can you win?

And IF you go in, should you turn left or right…or right-and-three-quarters? Or, maybe, not quite? Or go around back and sneak in from behind? Simple it’s not, I’m afraid you will find, for a mind-maker-upper to make up his mind.

You can get so confused that you’ll start in to race, down long wiggled roads at break-necking pace, and grind on for miles across weirdish wild space, headed, I fear, toward a most useless place.

The Waiting Place…

…for people just waiting. Waiting for a train to go, or a bus to come, or a plane to go, or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow, or waiting around for a Yes or No, or waiting for their hair to grow. Everyone is just waiting. Waiting for the fish to bite, or waiting for wind to fly a kite, or waiting around for Friday night, or waiting, perhaps, for their Uncle Jake, or a pot to boil, or a Better Break, or a string of pearls, or a pair of pants, or a wig with curls, or Another Chance. Everyone is just waiting.

NO! That’s not for you!

Somehow you’ll escape all that waiting and staying. You’ll find the bright places where Boom Bands are playing.

With banner flip-flapping, once more you’ll ride high! Ready for anything under the sky. Ready because you’re that kind of a guy!

Oh, the places you’ll go! There is fun to be done! There are points to be scored. There are games to be won. And the magical things you can do with that ball will make you the winning-est winner of all. Fame! You’ll be famous as famous can be, with the whole world watching you win on TV.

Except when they don’t. Because, sometimes, they won’t.

I’m afraid that some times you’ll play lonely games too. Games you can’t win „cause you’ll play against you.

All Alone!

Whether you like it or not, alone will be something you’ll be quite a lot. And when you’re alone, there’s a very good chance you’ll meet things that scare you right out of your pants. There are some, down the road between hither and yon, that can scare you so much you won’t want to go on.

But on you will go, though the weather be foul. On you will go, though your enemies prowl. On you will go, though the Hakken-Kraks howl. Onward up many a frightening creek, though your arms may get sore and your sneakers may leak.

On and on you will hike. And I know you’ll hike far and face up to your problems whatever they are.

You’ll get mixed up, of course, as you already know. You’ll get mixed up with many strange birds as you go. So be sure when you step. Step with care and great tact, and remember that Life’s a Great Big Balancing Act. Just never forget to be dexterous and delft. And never mix up your right foot with your left.

And will you succeed? Yes! You will, indeed! (98 and ¾ guaranteed.)

KID, YOU’LL MOVE MOUNTAINS!

Home sweet home

How much life can be lived between four walls and five years?  Builders and late night natters with neighbours.  Champagne welcomes.  The L Word with the L gals.  Melrose Place, including psychopath.  Nathe (my Nathe).  The garden furniture incident.  The midnight tirades.  SMSing the coppers.  One braai (yup, just the one).  Lots of small dogs. Guns and roses.  Literally.  A large amount of wine.  Getting to know the Dominnee.  Dinner parties and bookclub.  Shared secrets.  Joy.  The night the rain came.  The baby bird.  The sushi (oh, god, the sushi). Three…and a half….lovers.  One thoroughly fucked up heart.  A thousand DVDs.  Cooking soup on cold winters nights.  Lanterns in summer.  The palm Sunday ritual.  Love in the afternoon leaf light.  Photo shoots and boob schmooshes. The friend who came for three weeks and stayed a year. Lots and lots of tea.  And smoothies.  Hundreds of blog posts.  Hundreds of books.  Hippies and muggers.  Lock up and go.  A World Cup.  A resident black dog.  A refuge.  A sanctuary. 

My home.

On Sunday I handed over the keys of my first home to its new owners.

I’ll miss you, Camden Square.  So long, and thanks for all the fish.