Isolation you darn devil.
Actively trying to pickaxe my gumption.
Ferociously hammering my fierce softness.
You are conscious of the thin layer of ice that began to form over my drowning lake.
Whack as you will, my ice continues to thicken and my being remains safe within the warmth of my protected waters.
When tomorrow comes, my cancerous soul shall arise from my innate home, water, and bask in my delight at having survived the forced solitude of isolation.
The surreal moment as I sat in a psychiatric seminar room as a patient watching The Black Dog Depression.
Involuntary and visceral was the apparent discomfort instantly reflected upon my stiffened body and glistening, teary eyes. In a futile attempt to mask my reaction, I poorly feigned boredom by indignantly pursing my lips and glancing at the side wall.
Repeatedly running through my mind was the vivid image of the previous instance I had seen this clip. It was being prescribed to me as a tool to use as a clinician. I had sat in a seminar room alongside seven other trainee therapists. I never for a nanosecond imagined that it would be I, the patient, upon whom the tool would be indicated for as part of a comprehensive treatment plan.
I cling to my title as a clinician believing that this, alongside my intellect, is what makes me special and worthy.
Grant me the insight to embrace my swapped role. May I allow myself the love to let go of my degrees, intellect and clinician status as the totality of my worth and respectability.
I am infinitely worthier than mere achieved outputs and societal prestige. If it is my true beauty I seek, I shall peep through the key hole and into the wonder of my magical, charming inner world.
Sanity is evasive say I, a seat swapper. It took a short period of self-neglect to face the merciless task of foolishly collecting spilt soup from the floor with my bare hands.
For all my spirals of soft, I say ‘no’.
Cognisant that guilt for asserting my needs was woven within the carefully created tapestry of my brown womanhood. Passed down for centuries, this painfully abhorrent gift is lovingly handed from mother to daughter.
For my foremothers, now wiser ancestors, who were taught it was a selfish act, I say ‘no’.
For all the times I sacrificed the carefully cradled energy that I required, I say ‘no’.
For the yes role that taught me to be an empty mother, daughter, wife in order to be awarded the label of a good woman, wife and mother, I say ‘no’.
For those who seek out a good, nice and sweet girl, I say ‘no’.
For all the many times my being locked me into a learnt state of agreeing, I say no.
My deserved happiness says ‘no’ to being fearful of your morose undertones that follow your inability to respect my boundaries.
Assertiveness you are mine, I clench you after years of being taught that I am here to please the being of the other.
Yes, I am fiercely soft and my healing, pulposus soul repeatedly says ‘no’.
The magic is in me. The magic is in me. The magic is in me.
Say it once and a thousand times more in a variety of places, times and spaces. For it is in me, the magic is in me. It is in my bones, my thundering heart, the joy as I hum and the impromptu twirl as I take my morning walk in the garden.
The more I say it, the magic is in me, the louder it seems to play its rhythmic way around my soft body.
The magic is in me. The magic is in me. The magic is in me, it is in me.
When did I learn that it would be better to be asleep than to breathe?
When did I learn that my health, heart and my life were disposable?
When did I learn that people would eventually get over the pain of losing me?
When did I learn that it may be easier for everyone but especially for myself if I ceased to exist?
When did I learn that I do not love myself enough to fulfil all my dreams?
When did I learn that someday I would not sit on my porch rocking chair telling Tšhegofatšo stories from behind her giggles?
When did I learn that I am prepared to not see another sunrise?
I want to unlearn it all, I have tried so many times to learn, unlearn and relearn the things I need to about my self.
It is sad that some days the spiral lures me and the dark cloud is upon me… Ow (deepest of sighs) how I long to learn how to kick the darkness and be better for myself.
I don’t want to breathe any longer. I am not brave enough to stop breathing. I wish the air would run out, my cowardice would appreciate the lack of choice.
The blows to my lungs feel endless. I have learnt to be suspicious of fresh air, it never lasts long. There is no guarantee on how much you shall inhale before it is depleted. Once gone, you will choke and fight for air. A sensation that has become far to familiar.
Choking; alone and choking.
The forementioned state is what I explore, unpack and most importantly love. What heinous attachments has my soft, beautiful and fragile being had to endure for this to be my instant response to conflict, trauma and unexpected turns in life. These are the feelings I must validate for it is invalidation that has frequently led me to spaces of darkness. I love for it is from overwhelming fear, misunderstanding and trauma that I choke. I love for it is the only cure to heal, to hope and to grow. It is my best answer to intergenerational trauma beginning to untangle and heal. I love for without my soft loving I would remain incapable of trust, kindness and loyalty.
Carpets have seized to exist beneath my poorly circulating toes far too often and without my soft, feisty love for soul I would remain a sabotaging, injurious mess.
Blowing gentle breaths on my skin, allowing myself to have my feelings, channelling my emotions for health – this is love.
Savouring the best love for my soul is what I deserve, it is what I am entitled to.
I am tired. Tired of guerrilla warfare. There will not be one more thing that shall unexpectedly annex my newfound equilibrium. This time I am determined to fight. Sadness has been with me far too long. I am inflamed, I am warm and not one more choice made by another, regardless of their relation, shall tangle me and force me to a halt.
I am present. I am aware that I need to be alone. I need to do alone. I am fighting, I am angry and I am determined not to be derailed.
I pick me, I choose me, I love me.
It is cold, I see from the shivers of others.
I do not feel it for I have warmth in my bones.
It is unfamiliar.
A forgotten comfort.
You feel good warmth, I deserve you.
Dear Heart,
Today is blue and perhaps tomorrow shall be too. But amidst the gloom, I feel buds.
Buds that remember my fire and feist. Buds that know my phoenix is a day or two away. Buds that rise from the ashes through the hues of blue and bellowing, black clouds.
Buds that are all the work of a pure, growing, perfectly fragile bloom of brown skin.
Buds budding are a day or two away.
I am an eagle in the sky. I am a blue whale in the ocean. I have seen the peaks of the Himalayas, the valleys of the Nile. These eyes have seen the fjords of Norway, the icy lakes of the Tundra. I have marvelled at the strange lights of the Aurora Borealis. Who am I? I have walked the hills of Ukhahlamba, fished the rivers of the Umzimkhuluwane. Gazed on the valley of a thousand hills. I have lived in the beautiful countryside of Harding, Ikwesi, Ihluku, Bongwane and Umdwyesa. I am a spiritual being. A ray of light, a photon of energy, beam of the sun, a speck of star dust, a glimmer of hope. Who am I? I am the grandson of hohlo mahlahla, of Claire Theresa King, of Mbhombo of Brindle, Ida Theresa Mtamane of Mnambitha. I am not here by chance. I am here for a specific reason. I am a voice in the distance. The voice of reason. I am the warrior, the descendant of Cethweyo ka Mpande. Halala.
Musing Bumbles 