Dinner arrives. We are fed. Then it’s bath time. Then we all gather in front of the TV to watch whatever the grown-ups are watching as long as it is suitable. My mind is working. The whole time. I am a robot, ready for regular programming to resume. My wiring will fuse soon and I will lie in bed and stare at the ceiling consumed by discomfort and distress. I will do all of this in silence because I do not want to embarrass myself. I am the oldest and so I am supposed to be the bravest.
Age 9
There is an argument going on. I can hear the muffled reverberations of conflict sweep through the floor of our tiny house. It keeps me awake, and it makes my body coil. I am frozen with fear. But I share a bedroom with my brother and sister. If I can hear it, they can hear it too. I feel responsible for them. If my nerves need calming, theirs do too. I lift my head from under the duvet. My brother is fast asleep. Sleep is so easy for a three-year-old. I like that his world is made of dreams. My sister is awake. I distract her with duvet forts. I know, in my heart, that I want to distract myself as well.
Age 11
I can’t seem to shake this feeling of hate I have for myself. I wander through the house feeling lost. I leave my graffiti everywhere. I scratch ‘I hate myself’ on old bits of polystyrene that I know will soon be discarded, and I carve the same stamp on the insides of cupboards where I know no one will find them. If it is found, I will be reprimanded for ruining the furniture. Sometimes, I am brave enough to etch my message on a doorframe or wall. I do it subtly, but it is there. In my heart I hope someone will see it and save me. I hope I will be saved from feeling imperfect and someone will teach me to love myself more. But I know it won’t happen. I have started to think of death. I start to think of suicide. I think of it often now. I want to leave my body, but I don’t want to go anywhere. I have no idea how to do that, how to escape myself. I have resorted to living with self-hatred instead.
Age 14
High school sucks. Everyone belongs somewhere. I don’t. Friends are few, and I pretend to be part of a group even though I don’t quite fit in. Everyone seems to have a group. Everyone has a clique to rally with and go to the mall with. There’s the sports group and the arty group and the academic group, and everyone is cool.
I have started smoking. There is a group of students who don’t really belong to anyone, and they sit under the tree at the tennis courts and sneakily puff away. The Blazer Brigade. They don’t even belong to each other, but they’re loyal. Someone always has a cigarette and someone always has a lighter. Nothing else matters. I wish I could sit there all the time instead of going to class.
The problems in class continue. I can’t concentrate, I hardly find anything interesting and everyone knows I am a loser. I wish I did not have to do this. I suck at it and my report cards suck too. I am always scared to take them home, where I remain a failure and a deserving target of disciplining and frustration. My siblings swim in the A-stream while I drown in an eternal pool of disappointment and discontent.
Age 17
I am in matric. I am so happy this high-school thing is all finally over, although now I wish it would continue, on a loop. Nothing is scarier to me than the reveal of my marks. Their immeasurable potential for further disappointment. Those little percentages in black and white. Failure confirmed by the government.
I pretended to study really hard, but I hid more interesting books between the pages of my textbooks. I have swapped electives more times than I can count. Technical drawing, computer science, art, business economics. I can’t believe I finished my last year with business economics. What was I thinking? I knew all the things, but I didn’t know all the things, if you know what I mean? The teachers talk at us. I don’t know how to listen to that. Things settle in my brain long enough for a pass mark though, without having to recite notes like a parrot. Something I am hopeless at anyway. What’s the point of trying?
I am waiting for my university exemption with a tummy tied in knots. If these knots unravel, I will have nothing left to hold on to. They are my curse and cure, all at once. I am in Cape Town on holiday and we are staying with family. I am supposed to SMS my exam number to a mobile hotline at midnight to receive my results.
I need a cigarette, but there is nowhere to smoke. I am imprisoned by the house and my thoughts. I forget about smoking. Getting my marks and getting caught smoking on the same day would be way too much for me to bear. The thought of being caught out in front of an extended family makes me cringe with pre-emptive embarrassment. I wait for the response from the hotline while acting confident and hanging out with cousins. It comes through. An exemption. There is a family lunch the next day. A celebration with apprehension. I feel a weird mixture of achievement and self-deprecation. Next stop: university.
Age 18
The head of the law department at the University of Pretoria has basically kicked me out. On an emotional level, I feel as though my family has kicked me out too, especially my dad, whom I have disappointed academically.
I wrote the exams that interested me. English and psychology. The law papers had my student number and name scrawled across the top. Nothing else. No questions answered, nothing. I do not want to be a lawyer, but my academic options were spelled out for me by my high-achieving family: dentist (too stupid), doctor (too stupid) or lawyer (inevitably too stupid). And here I am.
I spend my days at home now, under strict supervision. I am not allowed to be left alone. Even my younger brother and sister are regarded as chaperones. I feel more lost and insignificant than ever before. I was caught smoking not long ago. The consequences were rough. I had no mode of defence. Backchats are not allowed.
I have no money on me, ever. It has all been taken away. I have no access to my bank account even though the money in there has been saved from odd jobs like packing groceries at the supermarket. I can’t physically go to the bank and get it because I am not allowed out the house on my own. I can only accompany others while they run their own errands.
I spend my days working with my dad at his practice. I do his accounts and load his data and the ‘before and after’ pictures of his patients on to the computer. When the admin is done, I help him out as his dental assistant. I watch him band braces on teenagers and wait to pass him probes. I lose myself in depression and hopelessness, and this makes me deaf to his requests sometimes. I get angry with myself for being so bad at this simple, easy job.
I have no way to communicate with anyone. No cellphone. No friends. No social life. I read. A lot.
I steal the odd painkiller from the medicine cupboard to self-soothe. It’s never enough to keep me asleep forever, but I always carry the hope of that when I go to bed. But then the next day comes and the house is tense. Hardly anyone communicates with me. Their frustration with me has reached saturation point. Understandably. I feel like the plague, something that must be avoided, and then the torturous routine of my day begins again.
Age 21
I never thought I would be a teacher, but I love it. I started out by teaching second-language English to expat students at the American International School in Pretoria. I was also a full-time aide to Tyler – a kindergarten student with autism who had the tendency to be quite aggressive. Tyler launched into my thigh one day and broke my skin with a bite. Luckily, those days are over. I am now the full-time music teacher.
The kids think I am a high-school senior on account of my height and age; I am the youngest teacher at the school. They are funny and sweet. My life is fuller with them around. And they help my state of mind more than the antidepressants the doctors keep guessing at. Lexamil one week. Depramil the next. I should probably see a specialist. GPs don’t seem to be great at this stuff.
Anyway, I can’t believe I am actually regarded as a professional in the real world. First I get kicked out of uni. Then I spend six months in a dark hell at home. Then I return to the same university to study music and major in psychology.
Before I returned for that new semester, though, I was given a d
rug test. My dad drove me to the local clinic. I pissed in a cup and the test came up positive for opiates. I had taken a painkiller that day, but opiates can be anything from codeine to heroin. A strip-search was ordered. My veins were checked. Nothing. I was allowed to go to university.
And a couple of years later, there I was. Certificate in hand and graduate’s cap on head. Just before graduation, I got a call from the American school to come in for an interview.
The teaching job pays well and I need the money. It buys me a ticket out of my current life. The job also comes with great medical aid. Which means I can probably see a proper doctor. My dad was so happy when he heard I got a respectable position and I was so happy he felt that way. He actually bought me a car as a gift. A Citi Golf. I love that car. It’s much better than the old cheapie I used to drive that needed broomsticks to hold all the windows up.
Age 22
The high I experienced and the admiration I received from my family for being a teacher did not last long. One night, I was watching an Arsenal–Liverpool match on TV in my bedroom, drifting in and out of sleep. During one of the ‘drift in’ bits, I heard my dad walk in and huff in disapproval at the TV being on. I spent the rest of the night with a demon on my chest, counting the hours until morning, when I would face the repercussions.
The repercussions lasted a long time. I was reprimanded for being irresponsible. I was asked to either pay rent so that I could stop freeloading and start being more responsible about things like wasting electricity, or leave. Then I was ignored for a long time so I could think about my options.
The tension and misery hung over the house like an ominous cloud once again and my incompetence, along with my dad’s dissatisfaction with me, left everyone unhappy. I am sure they were angry as well. I chose to leave.
I earn enough money to move in with Michelle, a colleague and friend. When she heard what happened at home, she offered me a room in her apartment at a totally affordable price, so I took it.
We get along nicely and it’s a lot of fun. I feel a bit better every day and, mostly, I feel like I no longer have to explain my imperfections or compensate for them. My mistakes are just part of who I am. We carpool to work and I have a better social life. For the most part I am happier. The disillusionment sets in every time I visit home. It’s a thirty-minute drive to my parents’ house, but it feels like three hours there and three hours back. I arrive excited but anxious, because I never know what state I am going to be in when I leave.
Age 25
Michelle got home and found me on the floor of my bedroom, crying tears of self-hatred and anger. I had visited my parents earlier to watch the French Open. It’s a bit of a tradition. It was the men’s final. I was joking around with my siblings and at one stage I let out a huge laugh. I was told off about my laughing so I just got up and left. It was a bit more than that, but I won’t go into details. I have no idea who won the match that day. I didn’t care. I was too sore from being separated from my family one more time and having absolutely no understanding of it all. I mostly struggled with a deep and threatening disappointment in myself. Was I oversensitive? I was mad and confused for letting this affect me so much, but I felt stuck in a pool of sadness nonetheless.
I go to work in a haze every day now, like a zombie but with emotions. I am lifeless but burning inside. It’s exhausting and I want it to stop. To switch it off. I want to not care.
I’ve decided it’s time to see a proper psychologist. I found one in Hatfield. I have no idea what a psychologist is supposed to achieve, and how I’m supposed to know if this guy is good at his job or not, but he is close by and he is cheap. I feel better at the thought of feeling better. I hope the treatment works and that I will continue to feel good for a long time after.
Age 25
I have asked Justin to marry me. We have been seeing each other on and off for a while. The last time we broke up, we stayed out of touch for six months and then I sent him a text to propose. He said yes.
We get along well. He is nineteen years older than me and that’s mostly the reason why we kept breaking up. The age difference kind of freaked me out a bit. Now, I realise that this may be my only chance to fit in and feel safe. I think I can be happy. It will probably make my parents proud too. A win-win situation.
Age 26
Yesterday I spoke to Justin at what used to be our house. He threw his ring at me. He is nauseous with shock that I want a divorce. He asked me to collect my stuff tomorrow while he is at work. I get it. I asked him to keep the ring, but he doesn’t want it, so I took it with me. I don’t know what I am supposed to do with it.
Almost a month at Crescent Clinic, which is basically a loony bin, gave me a lot of time to think. I landed up there while Justin was on one of his work trips. My sister had found me passed out on the floor of our lounge with an overdose of depression. The world was dead to me. She put me to bed and sat next to me, and when I woke up I confessed that I needed help.
I spent the first three days at the clinic hiding in bed. I hate groups, I am afraid of people, and talking to strangers makes me panic even though I disguise it well. But I had no resources left to disguise anything, so I slept.
On the third day, the managing therapist dragged me out of bed because I had to see my psychiatrist and psychologist once a day and I had already missed three days. I was also forced to do group sessions.
The therapy helped and the psychiatrist told me I was bipolar, which was why none of the antidepressants had ever worked. You can’t treat bipolar with that kind of medication, he said. I needed a mood stabiliser, so he gave me about three different ones, as well as antianxiety meds and sleeping pills.
I feel like I have cataracts in my eyes because they are constantly glazed over from the drugs. But at least I don’t feel anything else.
The day I was released, Justin fetched me and dropped me at my parents’. He had to do something after, he said. I had not seen him in the longest time. I felt a bit abandoned when he just left me like that. I was deeply saddened by it. I kept thinking about my conversations during therapy and how I had discovered that getting a divorce was the right thing to do because there was nothing worse than feeling displaced and imprisoned. But how could I get divorced and risk disappointing my family – especially my dad – again? I was still thinking about all that when my dad found me in my old bedroom that same day, trying to distract myself with a book. ‘Dawjees don’t carry baggage,’ he said to me. And that was all the permission I needed to ask for a divorce.
Age 27
I have come to Stellenbosch University to study my honours in journalism. I have always wanted to be a writer, and I feel like I should get some distance from this life, from Pretoria, the city that feels like it broke me, and go do that.
My acceptance letter came through at a time when there was once again a lot of tension in the house. After the divorce I moved back home, but I have been living on my own for too long and I forgot what these miserable moments were like.
After working at the school for five years, I cashed out my retirement annuity. It was a good amount. Enough for a few months’ rent at a garden cottage, fees for the year, textbooks and a minimal living subsidy.
By the time I left, my relationship with my dad was on the mend a bit and he came with us to the airport. I was emotional. I felt homeless and uprooted again. In that moment I found strength in thinking that maybe the only thing that would bring me closer to my father was being really far away.
I needed a new start. Just like I needed a new car. I wrote off the Citi Golf my dad bought me by trying to drive off a highway bridge because I was depressed and didn’t want to live any more. My cashed-out RA was enough for a new ride too.
I flushed all my meds a while before that ‘driving off a bridge’ incident because I was tired of explaining myself to my family and being castigated about my mental health ‘problems’ and my unnecessary medication. I wanted to be strong without the chemicals. But … I am pretty sur
e I would have done the car thing anyway. I am hoping Stellenbosch will breathe life back into me.
Age 29
My relationship with my dad has improved tenfold, but now I am moving back to Gauteng. I can’t believe I am moving back to Gauteng. At least it’s Joburg and not Pretoria. Pretoria is a curse to me.
When I graduated at Stellenbosch I won a writing competition with the YOU magazine family. That included DRUM and Huisgenoot. The prize was R50 000 and a job at their Cape Town office for a year. I was happy in the Western Cape and desperate to stay, so the job opportunity at the magazine was a saving grace. I didn’t have any money left. Being a student eats through a retirement fund pretty quickly.
Three other students ‘won’ with me. That wasn’t supposed to be the case, but they did. They got jobs as well. I got the money, which paid my rent for the next year, but I also received more racism at that place than I could stomach. No racism is worth R50 000.
That’s why I am leaving for my dream job as social media editor at the Mail & Guardian.
Age 30
I have taken time off work. My boss has been wonderful and supportive. My world is washed in black and white. I cannot see in colour and I lie in a ball on the couch, unable to control my crying. My sister allows me to chain-smoke, feeds me tea and makes sure that I eat at least a bowl of soup every now and then.
Age 31
I am seeing someone and it is terrifying. I am so confused in this relationship. She is white and I am always tussling with myself about my place in the relationship. There isn’t a day that goes by that does not make me feel like I am being used as a political badge of honour. This could happen, right?
This person is on a black-consciousness journey even though she is white, and I don’t think I am cut out to be her educator. It is difficult and it gets more difficult every day because I constantly have to operate within the boundaries of her fragility.
Sorry, Not Sorry Page 8
