Mirage

i'm found
Discovered in the midst of burning flames
where i died
After failing all i'd tried

There were layers-
films of countless facades, to camouflage
my true self
Coatings of protective filth

Each mask removed
Shrinking into the shadows, fearing exposure;
my soul breaks
at the tender patience it takes

'You're not alone',
Urgently whispered, hoarse with tears.
To be uncertain,
following lifetimes of being a burden

A liquid reflection
of myself, drowning in the iris's of his eyes
puzzled in ponderous
internal conflict, versus ignorant bliss

my hopeful heart,
soaring at the mere possibility, presented
that I may find
what I never believed should be mine

Casting doubt aside,
the leap is taken in feverish haste,
for mirages fade
at dusk's first threat of shade

A flower, wilted-
yet still able to be loved, to life
in a careful rush,
to flourish under only but the Founder's touch.

The Rise of (celebrating) Individualism

I am not who my parents thought I would be.

I don’t make this statement because I know what they expected of me and failed to evolve accordingly; nor do I say so because I’m what our everyday society would consider a ‘lost cause’. Personally, I think that I’m not too bad of a person actually, you know, considering the ‘circumstances’.

I make this statement because I truly believe that nobody will ever be able to be a carbon-copy of what another person’s expectations of them are; perhaps one could meet some, but I highly doubt all boxes will be marked as approved. I mean, multiple individual brains think multiple individual things, and therefore result in multiple individual ideals, right?

Key word: Individual.

 So I imagine my parents having a look at me for the first time. I resemble an overgrown rat-baby, yet I’m the prettiest little thing they’ve ever seen in their entire lives. They give me a name they think will look smart on report cards and resumes, dream with glazy eyes of me being what they ’get right’, and begin babbling about all they’re going to do so that I become a success story. The moment passes and two hours later when I’ve wet myself, my mother wonders if she’ll be able to change my nappy with her fingers crossed.   

I’m sure that I did well – maybe even exceedingly – for the first few years, as they told me what to say when, to whom and why; as I did as I they wished.

Going into my teens, I started to have my own thoughts and opinions, and so said what I thought, when I thought it, and to whom I thought it needed to be said, because my thoughts and opinion mattered, to me, damn it! They could no longer (or would not have been able to, had they been there) control most of my actions or reactions, through or by advising me. I became my own person.

 We go out into the world from a very young age.

You belong to your parents/grandparents/fosters/adoptive parents/family (whichever applies) for a very short time during which they can try to influence your direction of growth.

Thereafter, you are registered to a crèche, school or institution, which then takes over the majority of your time and, in turn, then begins influencing your life.

You take with you that which you connect with on a daily basis as you come into contact with different people, elements, experiences and exposure, maturing uniquely as you morph into what makes you ‘you’.

 As you pass through life, you meet various people who each play a specific role in your life: educator, friend, colleague, lover, cousin, doctor, boss, or even neighbour. You also play your own role in each of their respective lives.

And so we converse - share and receive information – with one another, becoming part of some form of ‘community’ while simultaneously absorbing pieces that we draw within, as contribution to our personal growth as individuals.

 

I have found in the majority of my relationships with people, that once a certain level of closeness has been sealed, sudden expectations begin to surface. Limits, boundaries and rules emerge, in an effort to 'smooth out the rough edges' of the other that were not completely 'agreeable' or 'ideal', so that the whole equation can become 'easier'.

In all honesty, most of the time, the expectations are more along the lines of personality adjustments, which in my opinion, is really rather unfortunate.

I mean, the reality is that we are different people- we have different interests, different dislikes, and different opinions, backgrounds and personalities.

I strongly feel that people who try to enforce their ideas of what the next person should be like so that they can in some way feel more at ease, are slightly narcissistic, selfish, and quite insecure. I see no reason why two people should maintain a relationship of any sort if one of the parties expects the other to change a personality trait or who they are as a person in general. I believe that while the one may change in order to hold tight to the relationship, the end result will be a relationship poisoned with hate, remorse and bitterness. I also believe that the person with the expectations will begin losing respect for the one who does all the changing, for not standing up for who they are which in turn, basically makes that person a walk-over.

 

I know that my parents would have liked me to have the same religious or spiritual beliefs as they did. I know that they would have loved for me to stay away from certain things that I indulged in. I know that they would never have imagined me to be the person I am today, when they first held me in their arms.

Like I said before, I am not a bad person. I have been through a lot, and I have developed many learned behaviours that I am currently working on.

On the other hand, I doubt my parents thought that I would have to go through everything that I went through. I actually think that they would be proud of my drive and strength. And that's what my point boils down to.

People often have an idea of someone. This idea, in itself, is often one littered with misconception of minimal depth. The idea contains no common knowledge or understanding in terms of 'background'. The intricate details of that person are not known, and so how can that same person really be understood?

We are who we converse most with, what we do and read, what and who we associate ourselves with, who and what we love; we are what we have 'experienced'. We are unique, and unlike any other, individually. If we are expected to be a certain way or like someone else, our growth is stunted.

We should, as a people, learn to appreciate one another for individualism and uniqueness, celebrating our personal diversities, instead of feeding this disrespect of assuming that one’s personal ‘way’ is the ‘right way’. We have walked different paths, and can therefore not possibly be the same, or even very similar.  

I am of the opinion that if we praise one another’s uniqueness, there would be less insecurity and jealousy, resulting in fewer expectations of others’.

 

A human being was not made to be an ‘idea’. Human beings were made to thrive, excel, grow, love and shine.

Let us adopt a sense of gratitude for life, and for one another. Let us respect one another’s story. Let’s practise acceptance, and love for each other.

Let’s be who we were always supposed to be.

 

 

Getting Through Your Bad Day

I woke up this morning, feeling completely out of sorts. I kept my eyes closed, remaining in the same position that I had woken up in, just allowing the overwhelming emotion to consume me.  

This has happened quite a few times in my life, and I wondered if others, besides me, experience it, too.

It’s this hollowness that just wraps around you, and it’s like your mind takes you on a journey you’d really rather not have gone on, because you don’t want to be forced to look at your weak, bad, sad and terrible life moments. Throughout, you’re searching, reaching and trying to clutch at something good – anything – but only the negatives are coming up.

It ends up becoming something that is impossible to shake, and so the only real option, is to push through it, while hoping that tomorrow is better, until the day ends.

So, how does one ‘push’ through exactly?

 

My day is almost over, and I am still not feeling 100%, but I did get through it to this point without any damage to myself or another person or thing.

 

ACCEPT:

Before I got out of bed, while lying with my eyes still closed in the foetal position, I made a mental note that I am not feeling myself, and I accepted it.

It may sound silly, but to accept what one is feeling, is almost like getting through half the battle already.

You won’t go through the day, looking for reasons behind your ‘down’ feeling in the people you come into contact with, or anything else for that matter, if you accept that this is what you are feeling, and that it’s okay to feel this way every now and then.

Talk to yourself if you must, telling yourself that you are not a bad person, and also that just because you’re reflecting on some unhappy memories in your life, doesn’t mean that there are only negatives; that it’s just one of those days, and most importantly, remember to be gentle with yourself.

 

SMILE:

Most of us have heard the song ‘Smile’ by Nat King Cole (or maybe not- it is a rather ancient song, but assuming since it’s a classic), where he croons that one should smile through the pain, sorrow, sadness, fear, and all the other emotions that can make us feel so absolutely horrible.

The thing is that there really is no reason to walk around frowning just because we’re feeling under the weather. It is unfair to the people around us, because most of the time, they have no direct influence on how we are feeling. It is also unfair to expect them to just accept a bad mood or a hanging face from us on such days, and then the very next day, expect them to fall into step when we’re feeling alright again. If the most you can manage is the slightest curl of your lip, then fine but do at least explain how you’re feeling to those you’re around you then- it’s the respectable thing to do.

Either way, we should try to smile through whatever we may be feeling inside, because there is a great chance that we might end up feeling better, even if only slightly.

I found that chuckling at a joke, smiling at the little girl who was in front of me in the queue and making a point to keep the frown off my face, took the edge and rawness off the negative feeling inside me.

Of course realistically, my day didn’t magically become brighter, but it didn’t feel as gloomy, so just try smiling… even if it’s at your reflection in the mirror.

 

SNOOZE:

Sometimes, taking a 1-2 hour nap can make the hugest difference in how one feels. It’s almost as if you wake up and see things in a whole new light.

I’m not sure why, but maybe your body is not completely rested when you awake in the morning, or perhaps your sleep was filled with dreams that disturbed your mental wellbeing, which could have resulted in your emotional state, but at times, taking a nap leaves one feeling more restored.

If you are not able to take a nap, then take a time out of around fifteen minutes at least, to just relax. Do not be busy with anything. Just sit back, take deep breaths, and ‘be’.

 

DO YOUR HOBBY:

Do something that you love doing, even if it’s only for a few minutes. The things that we love doing are usually the same things that we are good at, which, when done, leave us feeling good, both about what we’ve done/achieved, as well as about ourselves.

Keeping yourself busy - especially when it is with something that you enjoy doing - will also distract your mind from the factors within your life that you could well do without thinking about.

 

STAY CALM:

The unfortunate reality is that people and circumstances will happen during our trying times that will test our patience as well as our temper.

The only advice that I have is to try counting to whichever number you feel is best, close your eyes while picturing your favourite things, take a few deep breaths, or do whatever it is that you do to remain calm.

It is important not to lose your cool, because the truth is that it can only further harm you. Do not get lost in problems that you need not even give energy to.

Bite through whatever might irk you, remembering that this bad day will not last forever, so it would be really futile to make a lasting issue out of a bad day.

 

I am now closer to my day ending, and I have done all of the above, and I can truthfully say that I feel much better.

I would be lying if I said that I don’t feel any of the negative emotions I was feeling when I awoke this morning, but I honestly do feel less of it now.

I hope that this will helps you too J

Poetry: For Ever

For sins, not mine
am I willing to pay
With my life;
Give away- myself
For the peace
My soul starves for.

Punishment, of silence
am I willing to take
with practised humility;
rather than- suffer
for ever
of being ignored.

In desperation, alone
I resort to endless scribbling
Yearning for the full stop;
To indicate- healing
for my hearts'
sickness must be cured.

Salvation is given
after a mental eternity
when my dedication is proved;
allegiance- to Him
in exchange for
comfort being restored.

Questioning, my sanity
the illogical want of love
that's an intensely painful pleasure;
possessing- better than
having none, I'd rather
Clutch to this soul that's gnawed.

Poetry: One

I see myself as a balloon
Floating higher and higher
Into the sky
Until I am nothing,
But a dot;
So small that to see me-
I have to squint
Until the space between my eyes
Ache
And I give up;
Telling the world
That I popped,
exploded-
Into a million pieces,
Sprinkling down like confetti,
Or fairy dust
Onto the ones
Who blessed me,
Even if just
With a
Smile.

I am told that I am more than
Just a piece of rubber,
filled with helium,
But I don't agree;
You see, the only difference
Is that my exterior is not
Rubber- it's skin;
But inside, I am
Laughter-
Helium;
I once was chosen,
Held while limp,
Filled with purpose,
Released, swept up
Until I became lost,
Until I had to explain where I was-
What I am.

A balloon brings joy
To children,
not to adults,
like me;
It gets grabbed into sweaty, excited
hands,
but then gets released
in the corner
of the bedroom,
bobbing against the ceiling,
seeking release, for it knows-
this is where it will be left
until the laughter
slowly seeps out, unsure of how
before it drops to the floor
where it shrivels away
into nothing.
Almost like me.

"You are not a balloon"-
I am told.
Of course, I am human,
even though,
most times,
I am not treated as
one.

Because I Was Never Mine (Book One, Chapter Three)

Chapt 3

Then and Now

She wasn’t always a druggie. No, Phoebe wasn’t always a wasted druggie – she used to be ok, not great, but ok – before she became nothing but a sad, skeletal frame.

 

Her daddy- Phoebe’s daddy – used to go away to work.

She didn’t know exactly what he did, but she always overheard people speaking, saying her daddy worked on the oil rigs in an African country. She wondered what an oil rig was; it sounded strange- an oil rig, but whatever it was, Phoebe knew that it kept her daddy away for two months at a time.

As a little girl, she didn’t like that he was away so often and for so long. She wondered many times if all of the problems in their family – her father’s drinking problem, her mother’s depression, her brother’s sickness, her protectiveness, her baby sister’s neediness, the arguing and the objects flying in anger – was the result of the oil rig.

As she became older, she had a love/hate relationship with the idea of the oil rig. She hadn’t bothered to enquire more about it, no longer interested in knowing.

When her father was gone to the oil rig, the home was not as chaotic, or as dark, although the sinister element in their home life never completely went away. But when her father was there, at home, the dark cloud that only ever just hung would suddenly begin to pour, not stopping until he left once again.

 

Life has a way of knocking the life within you right out sometimes. It’s as if there’s a personal choice about whether or not you allow it to completely take you down, or if you will arise from the ashes to which life burnt you, and resume your former self. The choice is nothing, if not personal. It’s a matter of inner strength. The problem is that life doesn’t stop; it only continues. And at times, getting up doesn’t even feel like an option. At times, getting up seems like it’s nothing but a dream.

Sometimes when one cannot deal with the reality, or the dreaming becomes impossible, more options become available. More options, like escape.

 

They were dark nights- darker than just being without the light of the sun. They were dark nights in that she started knowing that after sunset, a meal would follow, which would be like an introduction to the evening chores – giving her baby sister, Hannah, a bath; doing the dishes, if her mother’s mood was sombre; seeing that everything was ready for the next day – and then it would be time to go to bed. At first, going to bed was the one and only activity that brought her peace; where she could close her eyes and drift away to a land of grey ‘nothing’ and spend hours there, before awaking to start another day of energy-draining interactions and chores. At first, her bed brought her comfort, but then things changed.

It started when she was fourteen years old, about seven months after she first started menstruating.

She had started becoming shapelier, her hips swelling slightly, giving her a softer, more womanly appearance; her breasts becoming tender bumps. She had first admired the transformation, monitoring it all with pleasure. She had run her palms over herself softly, slowly, each morning and evening when she bathed and moisturized herself in front of the mirror in the bathroom.

But the beauty she had thought she’d started loving, she immediately came to loathe on the first night when Riley crawled into her bed. His touch was hard and desperate, leaving her growing swells feeling bruised and infected. He seemed to love and hate the way her body was changing- he loved looking at it, she could see it in his eyes; but he would touch her like he hated what she had becoming, hurting her more and more each time he would crawl underneath her comforters with her.

She hated nights. She hated Riley, her older brother.

 

Phoebe Ludick, second-born child of Ryan and Phyllis Ludick, but first-born daughter.

It wasn’t a secret that Ryan Ludick fell in love with his first little girl the minute he saw her red cherubic cheeks and blue-green eyes.

“Wow,” he was said to have murmured, over and over again, from the minute she first screamed, and for months to follow.

She was his angel; the apple of his eye.

Phyllis Ludick was said to have been one of those mothers who, while undeniably having love, also possessed a certain degree of envy towards her daughter.

It was safe to say that she adored her little boy, Riley; he had been the cement that had made Ryan and her relationship something more permanent, although it was only when Phoebe was born, that Ryan had proposed.

With Ryan being away from home the majority of the time, Phoebe spent most of her growing years with her mother who seemed to despise more than love her; a mother who did practically nothing to stop her older brother from bullying her.

In the beginning, Phoebe would tattle on her brother when Ryan returned from being away, but had eventually stopped, when she realized that Phyllis would always get the last word in. Phyllis always maintained that Phoebe had fallen into the habit of telling tales that were only for the purpose of getting attention, and that she in no way felt remorse about what trouble her tales could cause for anybody else, let alone her own brother.

Ryan fell deeper and deeper into his alcoholism; so much so, that he didn’t even have the heart to care about himself, and even less for the apple of his eye.

That was why she didn’t even bother telling anybody about Riley’s visits to her bed in the dark of the night.

Her mother said: Children should be seen and not heard.

And so, what was the point of talking, if nobody was willing to listen?

 

Phoebe was ten-years old when Hannah was born.

Ryan and Phyllis called her The Little Late Lamb.

At this point in their marriage, it seemed like Ryan was either bored or just simply not interested in family life anymore, or maybe the novelty of becoming a father had worn off; Phyllis didn’t seem to have any particular interest in a little baby either. But when there were people around, they would coo about The Little Late Lamb, how different to Riley and Phoebe she was.

“Look at her jet black hair, how thick it is- I wonder where she gets it from.”

“Oh, she’s the quietest little baby, The Little Late Lamb.”

“Phoebe is like The Little Late Lamb’s mother, she is! I hardly get a chance to even hold her, its true!”

It wasn’t even that Phoebe wanted to assume the role of ‘mother’. Of course she was very fond of her little sister, and what ten-years old doesn’t want to play ‘mommy’ or ‘doll’ with an actual baby, but the truth was that Phoebe felt sorry for Hannah. Poor Hannah was just left alone in her crib while Phyllis gossiped on the phone about how drunk Ryan was, or how glad she was that he had just left for another two months, or how anxious she was that he was returning soon, or how she couldn’t possibly leave Ryan, considering that he had done everything he could to cripple her and ensure that she stayed with him, no matter what- she had no work experience and was now so old.

Poor Hannah was left alone with a dirty nappy for hours while Phyllis would lie in Riley’s room with the door closed and locked, the only sound escaping being those of pages in her latest novel turning, or her sniffling and sobbing into pillows Riley would have a tantrum over when he returned from rugby practise or from his friends.

He’d whine, “Gross, my pillows are wet, and slimy. Gross!”

Poor Hannah would grab at the bottle with such force, it would often hit her on the forehead, and she would wail, which would cause Phyllis to complain about the ‘child’s awful racket’ and scream for Phoebe to please keep Hannah quiet, before she made them both quiet forever.

Phoebe simply had to take care of Hannah, because if she didn’t, who would?

 

When Riley started coming to her at night, she had to protect Hannah even more.

Phyllis was capable of nothing anymore; her depression had become the only thing she could concentrate on.

Ryan only thought of work, and his next bottle of brandy.

Riley was sick mentally.

The whole family had gone down the drain.

There was only her – Phoebe – to keep some of form of normalcy alive in the household; keep the smell of food in the air, so that those who popped in could smell ‘home’ instead of ‘house’; make sure that Hannah ate, so that she picked up weight for her next clinic appointment, to avoid the risk of the Sisters becoming concerned to the point of sending Child Welfare around to their home – Lord knew about the way rumours went flying around in their neighbourhood; keep things clean and tidy enough, so that the conditions were decent enough to live in; even make sure that her paedophiliac-brother’s basic human needs were seen to.

Life had become pointless and unbearable. It was simply one day giving way to another. And she tried to find some common ground.

“Mom, may I talk to you about something important?” Phoebe had tried to engage with her mother.

“No! No, you spoilt brat! You may not speak to me? And what on earth could be so important, huh? I’ll tell you what… nothing! Nothing, because you’re not important, that’s why…”

She had tried to speak to her mother a few times, trying different angles, but nothing worked. Her mother was not interested in a single word that came from her mouth.

It was frustrating at first, because there were household issues that Phoebe believed her mother was responsible for, that she wished her mother would assume control over; but her mother wouldn’t budge.

Then it became sad, because it was like the only thing Hannah knew of her mother was a puffy, red, just-cried face, with deep frown wrinkles between her eyes, or her back – the way her mother would drag herself away from wherever she had to come into contact with her baby, her baby whose arms were always outstretched, looking for love from a woman whose arms only ever hugged herself as she seemed to be keeping herself together before the sobs caused her to fall apart – and nothing more, which she eventually seemed to become used to.

The sadness became numbness, as the endless chores, duties, responsibilities and expectations turned into a never-ending cycle that only concluded when the night swallowed her into restless oblivion, accompanied by the disgusting, unwelcome ache between her thighs.

Once, Phoebe had waited, with anxious hope, for her father’s arrival. She planned on telling him everything, from her mother’s downward drop, to her brother’s sick obsession with her. She had counted down the days to his arrival the way she had always counted down the days to her birthdays, or to Christmas. She planned to steal him away from Riley, away from Phyllis; away from the bottle he was licking his lips for – before he could take even a sip, before she lost him to intoxication – so that she could beg him to save her, his little girl, the Apple of his Eye, from the evils that had overcome their home. She believed that he would know what needed to be done and that he would see that it got done, so that his little girl could be safe and happy once again. She believed, she believed, she believed; as if her life depended on it, because in some way, it really did.

And so it felt as if someone had taken her up in a helicopter – as high as it could possibly go – and dropped her, the height of it so extreme, that death met with her not even halfway through, yet still not preventing the ugly crash that follows such a tragic fall.

He said, “Now Phoebe, why would you say such things about your mother? I mean, she’s your mother. And my god! Riley is your brother! What are you trying to do? Ruin him?”

“No, I…”

“I want to hear no more. I can hardly believe you! Do you know how difficult it is for me, working away the way I do, and now you want to tell me things, as if you want me to feel guilty?”

She’d stood before her father in utter shock, her lips slightly parted, making a tiny dark circle, filled with confused emptiness- at a complete loss for words.

She felt hollow and worthless except for caring for Hannah.

If it wasn’t for Hannah…

 

Phoebe could have believed in miracles again, when one early morning, she heard her mother’s heartbroken cry break the sleeping silence, and rushing to find out what had happened, she found her mother kneeling before the coffee table in the lounge, weeping hysterically (to that point where the body shakes violently), with a piece of A4 paper, folded in half, clutched to her heaving chest.

Her first thought was that her father had been in an accident, or worse, had died, but she knew that it couldn’t be, because she usually suffered from terrible dreams and crippling stomach aches when something bad had happened, or if unpleasant news was on its’ way- none of which had occurred.

“Mom?”

It was like the sound of her voice had sent her mother into a state of shock for a few brief moments- the way she froze in her position, not moving an inch, with the paper still firmly held against her chest – and she contemplated tiptoeing back to her bedroom.

She could hear Hannah moving around from her bedroom down the passage; the sound seemed to break Phyllis out of the frozen trance she had gone into.

“You!” Phyllis suddenly sprung up from the floor, her index finger pointed accusatorily at Phoebe, fiery anger flickering across her face, “All of this is your fault- If you had just shut up instead of always acting like a complete baby!”

Phoebe took a few steps back. She wasn’t afraid of her mother’s physical capabilities, knowing that they were minimal, if not complete non-existent, following years of depression that had eaten away at her.

Putting a few feet between Phyllis and herself felt like a safer option, even if it was just to prevent the disaster defending herself could become, if the confrontation went so far.

Her mother’s eyes were wild – the emotion therein – looking directly into hers, with deep, boiling, dislike.

“You!” her mother’s voice was low, dangerous, “You being the spoilt little brat that you are… You always wanted your own way- could never handle being without the spotlight!”

Phyllis was walking slowly, steadily towards Phoebe, causing her to back up into the far end of the passage wall, until there was nowhere left to back up into.

“You made him look for a job overseas, you selfish little bitch; you and your little lies have robbed me of my Riley!”

Phoebe caught the strong body odours that came off Phyllis as she spoke, proof that her mother had long since stopped caring for her personal hygiene.

She couldn’t think of when the last time was that she had been so close to her mother, but judging by how tall she was, as she towered above the woman in whose lap she used to fall asleep in, it was obvious that it had been a very long time.

Somewhere to the left side of Phyllis, Phoebe could see her sister’s frame, emerging cautiously from her bedroom door. Hannah was a pre-teen then, and had become accustomed to her older sister protecting her, seeing to her best interests, and so her eyes were shaped into large balls as she witnessed the wild animal that had become of the woman she had come to call mother, but with whom she shared no such connection.

“Mother, I don’t know what you mean but I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Phoebe said, calmly, but sternly, assuming the more parental role, considering Phyllis’ incompetence in performing the duty, “What are you crying about? Who sought work overseas?”

“As if you don’t know, you little bitch!” Phyllis lunged at Phoebe, hands reaching out to grab hold of her throat, but missing slightly, as Phoebe darted sideways, screaming, “You insist on playing this innocent victim, but we all know what you told your father about Riley – the most disgusting thing in the world!”

Boiling point had been reached, and Phoebe charged full force towards her mother and upon reaching her, she clutched her mother’s shoulders in her fists, shoving her against the wall that was behind her, holding her in place so that she couldn’t move.

“Now you listen to me, Mother!” Phoebe’s words came out from between her thinly pursed lips, in what sounded like a harsh whisper, “Who exactly are you to come at me with accusations, when you have been anything but present or involved in the running of this family, for at least the last decade?”

The words tumbled out of her mouth as she had imagined that they would, in the countless scenarios that had played through her mind, over and over again, in the preceding years leading up to the moment she had always known would come.

Her mother looked pathetic, small and helpless against the passage wall, her eyes bloodshot from the crying, cheeks clammy, with mucous running down her nose, which she quickly sniffed up, almost with perfect timing, before their trail reached her moist upper lip. Beneath the red of her eyes, Phoebe could see that her mother was frightened, now that she was pinned and unable to move.

“Say something, you witch!” Phoebe screamed; her nose was pressed up so close to her mother’s, they almost touched; she strengthened her grip on her mother’s shoulders, feeling the bones in her fists. She wondered how often her mother ate.

The silence that filled the house was loud, filling every second with anxiety, broken only by the reckless sniff of her mother, pulling the mucous back up into her nostrils, making Phoebe scowl with added disgust.

“SAY SOMETHING!”

“I have nothing to say,” Phyllis whimpered, somehow folding into herself, as if she was squeezing herself into the cracks in the wall.

“You had so much to say a few minutes ago, you bitter hag!” Phoebe hissed, “Calling me bitch, and a liar, saying I made up stories about your precious little Riley!

“But let me tell you about your precious little Riley, even if it is just to make you listen to it from my mouth, into your face, just to watch to squirm, even though I wonder if you’ll even believe me.”

Phyllis, as Phoebe thought she would, immediately started to struggle against her hold, trying to pull free, writhing desperately to get away.

“Look at you!” Phoebe hissed, her lips inches away from her mother’s left ear, “It’s like I’m an exorcist, and you’re possessed; yet I’m the sick bitch.

“You’re the sick one in this family, Mother! You’re the only one living in complete denial of what is going on around you, as if you’re just completely oblivious… and I mean, I might have believed your whole act, if I didn’t know any better, but unfortunately I do.”

“This whole family is sick!” Phyllis spat out, her voice catching mid-sentence, as if the words were breaking her heart to say. Phoebe stared at her mother, surprised, seeing the welling up of tears in each of Phyllis’ eyes, and the area between them beginning to twitch, threatening a full breakdown.

Something inside Phoebe melted, despite herself, and she grabbed hold of her mother, wrapping her arms tightly, passionately around the woman who now seemed to be withering away, if the feel of bones were anything to go by.

The jerky sobs that escaped Phyllis along with the anguished moan of her crying were enough to melt Phoebe completely. She knew that while there was plenty that her mother could have done differently, it was pointless to bring it up, and that talking about Riley’s sins against her would get none of them anywhere; the fact that he was gone was good enough for her.

Somewhere in their moment, they had slid themselves to the ground, still embracing one another, and Hannah’s arms were added, holding them together.

It was as if all the energy was sucked up from the entire house as well as its’ inhabitants as the three of them – Phyllis, the mother, and her two daughters, Phoebe and Hannah – were huddled together, a more-than-likely first for them, but what would also be their last.

Poetry: The Gems

The Pair of Girls;
each one born
- within.
They were always loved,
by me
- intensely.

This Pair of Girls;
so opposite to one
- another.
Alike are we all three,
and more, at
- our core.

My Pair of Girls;
loathing the cumbersome
- bickering.
We all wish, eyes closed,
and shape our
- escape.

The Dear Girls;
consuming my thoughts as I
- depart.
I conceal my emotional death, deep within the iris of
my eyes, and underneath
- silent cries.

That Pair of Girls;
seem to have forgotten now
- the turbulence.
For now I am the
villain, despite being
- unwilling.

My Precious Pair of Girls;
Apart from what gave them
- life.
Pushing against the evil, if but for a few
hours, away from
- the powers.

Dear Precious Pair of Girls;
Internal strength, for this shall
- pass.
Hopes that life allows you to see my
heart; how things really
- are.

Because I Was Never Mine (Book One, Chapter Two)

Apologies for the delay- I have been squeezing in time to write. I have been terribly busy. But below is Chapter Two:

Home is Where The Heart Is

I woke up in the early hours of the morning on my eighteenth birthday.

It was storming outside. The rain drumming against my bedroom window was comforting, and I pushed myself deeper into the pillows and duvet so that I was nestled enough to feel safe.

I couldn’t doze off again, because to me, this was the day I would find out if I was really loved. To me, this was the day I would find out if my foster parents ‘loving kindness’ was because they truly loved me, or at least cared for me, or if it was all an act for the visits from the social worker.

Besides my disappearing every Friday night, which they seemed quite fine with, I was no trouble. I did as I was told, I assisted wherever I could, I rarely asked for anything unless I desperately needed it, and I did my best at school so that I got reasonable enough grades.

There was always quietness in that home. Dave and Sheryl were both successful accountants, and they knew many people, both individually and together, so they would go out on business dinners with clients fairly often, but even when they were at home, they hardly spoke to one another, and they hardly spoke to me. I never felt awkward about the lack of conversation, because in all honesty, I preferred the calm and quiet; I preferred being in my own little bubble, and them in theirs.

Sheryl couldn’t have kids. About two months after I moved in with them – I was fifteen years old – Sheryl took me out shopping. We were at the Waterfront, strolling from one shop into the next, always walking out with at least one item (which was terribly boring and frustrating for me because I despise shopping or being in busy places), and ‘enjoying some quality girl time’ together.

We eventually sat down at an outdoors restaurant that served ridiculously pricey foods and beverages, but that overlooked the foreshore with ships and boats that pulled in and out of the harbour.

We didn’t speak much at first. I thought perhaps Sheryl felt a bit uncomfortable because she kept herself rather busy on her cell phone, typing away at god-knows-who, but after the drinks were served, she quickly put her phone away, looked up at me, flashing her teeth.

“So, how are you feeling?”

“I’m fine thanks, and you?” I replied, unsure of what to say. We hadn’t really had time alone before then, so I was unsure of what she was expecting of me.

She was comfortable, I could tell. She sat back, her sunglasses hiding her eyes as she soaked up the sun, her lips curled slightly into a relaxed sort of contentment.

I felt nothing. I was just sitting there. I always just exist, rarely becoming involved in whatever is going on around me. I wasn’t a ball of nerves, and I wasn’t content. If I felt anything, it would have had to be inquisitive, not knowing what our random outing was all about. I knew that I couldn’t have done anything to upset her or Dave, so she couldn’t have brought me out to discuss boundaries, or all the other strange things foster parents talk about to their foster kids, because like I said, I merely existed.

When the food was finally served, we started eating, and that’s when she started talking. I never got annoyed but I was slightly confused as to why she would choose to have a conversation in between mouthfuls of food.

“You know, I always wanted to have kids,” she started off after chewing and swallowing a forkful of smoked salmon, “Like, I always wanted around four or five. I always wanted a houseful of noises and laughter and even bickering.”

I put some pasta into my mouth, trying to meet her eyes through the lenses of her sunglasses, not knowing if she wanted me to nod, or smile, or ask her anything. I always wonder what people are expecting of me, which is frustrating, because it’s like I have an inability to react naturally, and a planned reaction based on expectation would only make me some sort of human robot anyway. I could’ve kicked myself as we gazed at one another, and for a moment, I contemplated saying something, just to seem a bit more social or interested perhaps, but it passed when I saw that she was on the verge of continuing.

“Dave and I were married for about four years when I finally went to a gynaecologist to find out why I wasn’t conceiving,” she was looking off somewhere to her left, staring at something, which made me remember something I had once read explaining that when someone talks and looks left, it means it’s a recollection, but if they look right, they are creating a story, or in other words, they are not telling the truth; she was telling the truth.

“I was a bit angry for a long time when I found out that I had, in fact, damaged myself,” she put her cutlery down, and looked at me, “I had gone for some dodge abortion when I was younger, which Dave knew about, but I had no idea that it had damaged my insides.”

I wished that I could take one of her hands in mine, feeling compassion for her, but I didn’t. I didn’t know how to go about being affectionate in gestures involving bodily contact.

“And so, we could never have kids,” she continued, picking up her cutlery, and cutting herself another mouthful of salmon, “but here you are, and I would love to be a mother to you, and have you be like a daughter to me?”

She looked across at me expectantly, her eyebrows raised above the frames of her sunglasses, and her lips spread across her face, exposing her perfect teeth, waiting for me to say something sweet to confirm that her life was becoming what she had always hoped it to be. I sat there, smiling lamely back at her, wondering why she hadn’t chosen a younger child, and why she’d chosen to foster rather than adopt.

Something that I couldn’t do then, and will always be unable to do, is feel, or even pretend to feel, something that I am just not feeling.

I guess I let her down, and my reaction wasn’t what she had hoped it to be, because the excitement frequency level went immediately down, and even more so when she saw that I was going to make no effort to persuade her that it wasn’t that I wasn’t happy about her proposal, but more that I really just couldn’t feel how she did.

She pressed for a bit, “Would you like that?”

I smiled, ever so slightly, nodding at her.

“No?” she leaned forward, sounding concerned.

“No, it’s not that, it’s just,” I was kind of stuttering, making things worse – I could tell by the way she slowly started leaning back away from me – the more I spoke, “well, I have a mother, you know? She might not be a model mother, but I’m not a model daughter, and maybe I don’t deserve this, but I can try to get into this? I don’t know…”

She was nodding slowly, and I saw the way she pushed her half-eaten food away from her as if the thought of continuing with it made her want to be sick, and the way she sipped at her drink as if she needed it to survive an ordeal. I could see that I had disappointed what had been a huge deal to her, and I wished that I could feel bad about it, for her, but all I could feel was sorry, for me.

The life she was offering me was what I wished I could have had when I was only a few years old, but it was coming too late; I had waited too long, and the novelty of it had worn off completely.

It was best that I just lived, without trying to be, or do, too much, because if I just did the bare minimum, then nobody would be disappointed. I knew that I had done the right thing, because how could I be a daughter to someone starting in my mid-teens? How could I be all she dreamed a daughter would be if I hadn’t been brought up to be even slightly what she might have pictured? How would it hurt everybody if I tried my best, to be what she needed me to be, going against myself – hurting myself, doing so – and have that turn out to be insufficient? How could anyone live with such pressure- not only me, but her too? Because wouldn’t she also be trying to be a mother to a child such as myself, not knowing what to do or say or be? For a brief moment, I wanted to burst into tears at how frustrating the whole idea of it all was. How could anyone set such high standards for anyone, and even more so, for another?

It was like a silent agreement as we finished off our meal, that we would just go along with things, taking one day at a time. Neither of us put in too much effort, only doing what had to be done, and nothing more, but sometimes less.

Sometimes I could tell that she had a tiny bit of resentment at having taken me in; that I wasn’t any trouble, but I wasn’t much joy, either.

That’s another reason why I went back to that house every Friday night. It never mattered what I was, I wasn’t a druggie, and that alone made me a better bet than the inhabitants of that house, or so they would have me know- the druggies.

As the rain continued to pour, and one hour crept to the next, I contemplated on everything that my life had become, or had always been.

I was already eighteen years old; I could decide if I wanted to just pack my bags that very second, and leave, but I didn’t. If there was one thing I always knew, it was that I didn’t want to ever end up living in that filthy house, and I knew that if I decided to leave then, that was the only place I would go to. I also chose to stay because I wanted to find out how my foster parents really felt about me.

I finally heard Sheryl’s alarm go off. It was 5am- an hour earlier than her usual time to start the day. Immediately I knew that it was a reminder, that it was my birthday.

I could hear movement in the room down the passage. I pictured how she leaned across the bed to give Dave a kiss, how she turned on her bedside lamp, how she shoved her feet into her evening slippers, going to her en suite bathroom to empty her bladder, then brush her teeth and clean herself up a bit. I heard her bedroom door open, before her attempt to tiptoe passed my bedroom without me hearing her. I pictured her taking out the pans, the ingredients, plates, cutlery and mugs as I heard the sounds of them being moved around.

I knew that she was preparing me a surprise breakfast; the gesture was nice, but I couldn’t help but wonder if this was the last meal for me, the meal we would eat while they told me that I would have to find my own way. I guess I’m pessimistic; perhaps even paranoid, with serious abandonment issues. I read others better than I can read myself, or maybe I’m afraid of what I might find within if I dared try exploring myself more deeply.

The noises in the kitchen – banging of cooking and eating utensils, frying, pouring – suddenly became quiet, replaced by very faint sounds of objects being placed on a surface, and then I heard Sheryl’s footsteps, cautious, as they became more and more prominent with each step she took closer to my bedroom door.

I shut my eyes quickly, wanting to be found ‘asleep’, unsure of whether or not it was because I wanted her ‘surprise’ breakfast to be a surprise (for the sake of her feelings), if she intended for it to be one, or because I felt like it would have been rude if she saw that I had not been sleeping, yet failed to get out of bed to come and help her in the kitchen when I had heard that she was busy. The latter was a typical train of thought for me, considering my constant feelings of guilt regarding everything, even when they didn’t in the least bit relate to me.

She didn’t knock on my bedroom door, but opened it very slowly, tiptoeing towards the desk that stood in the corner of my room. I was peeking at her, watching her place a tray down and then pull a lighter from the pocket of her fleecy, turquoise nightgown, to light a candle that I could see was sticking out from some eatable on the tray.

I thought about how amazing she was, whether or not she wanted to have me stay or go, just for the effort she had put into making me feel special on my birthday. It didn’t matter whether or not she remembered out of her own, or if she had put it as a reminder on her phone- the point was that she had made sure not to forget, and had put an effort, not money, into making sure that I felt like I mattered on my birthday.

I wished that my mother could have made that effort, even if it was to just actually be a mother for once in her life. Hell, any effort would have been fine by me, not a breakfast per se, but perhaps just being sober for one of my visits.

But it didn’t matter. The fact was that my mother loved me, without a question in my mind.

I enjoyed my time with my foster parents. I enjoyed my birthday. I thought that it was good, and kind, and noble of them to insist I stay until I finished my final year of high school and then to finance an apartment for three months, during which I would have to seek a job. However, they wanted me gone as soon as they could feel content with having done their duty, with the added boasting rights of having me finish my schooling first and setting me up for life thereafter.

They didn’t love me. They didn’t want me.

But whatever! I knew where I was wanted.

Because I Was Never Mine (Book One, Chapter One)

"I Know You Are But What Am I?"- Book One, Chapter One

I have decided to start a kind of series, but in writing. It will basically be a book, but I will publish daily, or whenever I can, which can be read on my blog as I go along, which will almost be like watching a television series, except it will be read. I have called the series "Because I Was Never Mine". It is based on a girl with a very disturbing background, following her past, her relationships and her life, and how her experiences makes her who she is in her day-to-day life.
I do hope that you enjoy, and please feel free to leave comments.

- Yentl. T. De Luna

I feel as if I was born watching; observing.

My entire life is made up of this. I watch, and I feel.

It’s kind of peculiar, in my opinion, the way I am labelled ‘cold’ and ‘detached’, ‘emotionless’, considering the way I do everything based solely on emotion. I act in passion. I act out of care. I act out of feeling.

In the very beginning – when I was a little girl – I used to hear the people around me, talk about me. They said that I was born mature, an ‘old soul’; they said my eyes told stories of the life I had been exposed to, even before birth, which resulted in my inability to feel.

They never knew how their words hurt me. They never knew anything about me, because I never told.

                                                               ***************** 

Every Friday evening, I go to the merchant (drug dealer), in the middle of the scummiest part of Woodstock, Cape Town.

He expects me. He knows my single, loud knock. He never opens the door himself; instead, he sends his ‘runner’, Kadir. Kadir thinks we’re friends, which is quite fine with me – whatever makes him feel a bit better about the life that he has chosen to live, whatever makes him feel some sort of warmth, it’s ok – just so long I know that I don’t have friends. I don’t trust a soul, and friendship means trust.

Every week they will offer me a hit of crystal meth, and I always say no; just like I always say no to the heroin they offer, or the marijuana they’ve laced. I say no because I was born high, and my life feels like one long, confusing see-saw of being just that, with consistent downers.

I don’t need drugs.

The house is small, and I hate how much it looks like what it is – a drug den – painted a vomit-green that is darker in some areas and lighter in others, one of the front windows broken and covered with a black refuse bag, dirty and dangerous.

Even worse is the smell- damp, fungal, nauseating and sickly, added to the unmistakable odours of the burning of a combination of drugs.

I hate the house. I hate it, but I have to go.

She always looks happy to see me, even when her face is contorted in the pain that is the result of years of drug use.

“Talia!” she’ll exclaim, each time, and she’ll smile as best she can, exposing a mouth that seems to lose tooth after tooth; and I will smile back at her.

She never lets me leave until I have spent at least two hours with her. She misses me, she says. And even though it makes no sense in some ways, it does in others, so I understand. In fact, I feel the same. I miss her, and I want to spend time with her. It’s just the house. I just don’t like the house.

When I leave, I have the stink of drugs and sickness on me, and while it makes me sick, it’s also comforting. I sometimes wonder if I go back more for her, or more for the comfort that that stink gives me.

I was young, but it’s familiar all the same.

                                                        *************************** 

I am now twenty-two years old, but when I was younger – teenage years – I used to tell my parents (foster), that I was going to see a movie, or to visit a ‘friend’, to go to that house.

My foster parents didn’t seem to care much about me wanting to go anywhere; they never asked any questions, and on some level, it made me feel worthless. On some level I wanted them to care, to enquire about where I was going, who my ‘friend’ was- anything to indicate that they cared about my life. Up until I was eighteen years old, I wondered if they would want me beyond that age, or if they were just fulfilling their duties as foster parents by providing for me. In all honesty, it hurt when I realized the latter was true. But I never showed them. I don’t show my pain; it’s weak.

After Kadir opened the door back then, she would come running to me with open arms, her eyes sparkling, and high as a kite.

She’d call me her baby, rock me back and forth after making a scene about how my foster parents weren’t caring for me properly, and tell me that I was brave, that she was proud of all the effort I made to see her; squash my face between her hands and tell me that nobody loves me like she does, asking me to tell her I know, over and over again, that nobody could love me the way she does. I’d tell her what she wanted to hear, tears in my eyes, unsure of whether or not it was true. Unsure, because if she did, why couldn’t she get her act together and be to me what she should have been all along.

I got over it eventually, getting to a point where I could tell her what she wanted to hear – make her feel better – without my eyes welling up like a toddler’s would, because I was no longer a child, and so I had to put away childish things, like the Sunday school teacher once read to our class from the Bible.

Sometimes she would disgust me with her neediness. Sometimes I was a mouthful of saliva away from spitting in her face. Sometimes I hated her so much for being so selfish, always putting her needs before mine, but those moments never lasted for very long, because I was born selfless. I was born with this ‘knowing’ that I had to be there for myself or I would die even more than I was already dying inside.

I started smoking cigarettes when I was fourteen-years old, and on one visit, I went to stand in the backyard (a small square that was only grey with sand and breaking concrete) to have a smoke. Kadir joined me, and we stood there, taking long drags almost simultaneously, like we were having a Who-can-blow-out-the-most-smoke contest, eventually getting lightheaded from it.

“She talks about you all the time, you know?” he said to me as we sat down in the middle of the ugliness.

“Yes, I know.”

“And she really loves you,” he continued; I could hear that he felt awkward.

“Whatever Kadir, like this is way too much of an emotional trip for me to handle right now, especially since it’s coming from you. Can we please just smoke and then go back inside?”

I think he sighed, presumably with relief.

I didn’t say goodbye to her after going back inside. I just left.

                                                                    *******************

I love deeply, yet ironically, every last one of my relationships seems to have a certain ‘empty’ element.

I’m not sure what’s more weird- me loving deeply despite not being loved back in the same way, or the way I am willing to accept that less-than-perfect relationship just for the sake of getting even a single scrap of compassion from another. The very dynamic of my relationships, in it, is something that is very difficult to comprehend, even slightly.

I often wonder if I am the problem behind the emptiness in my relationships; if I am the component that blocks out any kind of emotional intensity- perhaps because it frightens me, due to the unfamiliarity.

Other times I tell myself that I am not worthy of love, and while I may love another to a point of psychopathy, it will never be reciprocated, because of my unworthiness.

And while the latter brings the most pain, it also brings me a level of comfort. It feels more sensible because it would explain everything from the very moment of birth, to the very last second of pondering; there is nothing that I can do about it, because it is who I am- not good enough.

The problem is that I want to be good enough. I strive to be good enough. I’ll do practically anything to be good enough.

                                                                **********************

I play games with people. It’s a rather hurtful game, which I play unconsciously; I don’t even know that I am doing it, until the game is finished.

My shyness would, upon meeting me, seem sweet and endearing. I am naturally shy; I am tough, but I am shy.

Yes, upon meeting me, the person shaking my hand might find me to be charming, peculiar in a delightful way, maybe even fragile; the common denominator is that every person that I have come into contact with, has wanted to get to know me better, become close to me, care for me and have me care for them, they always want to befriend me. But then they get to know me a little better, and the dynamics somehow change. The thing is, though, that the dynamics will only change if I either allow it to, or if I become sloppy and careless in our exchanges.

There is a reason behind everything that I do. Every one of my three sets of foster parents has labelled me ‘manipulative’. Of course, I would have to disagree. I disagree because while there might be a reason behind my actions, they are very rarely calculated or well-thought out. As I have said, I act upon feeling and emotion, and very often, on impulse.

I hate the game I play, but I have to play it. I loathe the game because I always lose control of it, and the game ends up playing me.

I don’t know who loses the game - me or the person I am playing with – because the other person always seems extremely hurt and distraught, but then again, nobody knows the depth of my pain; and so the loser can never truly be established.

                                                              *****************************

I was nine-years old when I was placed into foster care.

They were family - my mother’s sister, her husband, and their two sons (one of whom was my age, and the other, three years younger) – by blood, but absolutely nothing in terms of emotional connection.

I could tell that my aunt would rather have a cannibal in her home than have me there, and that’s when I decided that she would never be a friend to me, which in my mind, was her loss entirely.

She was always busy with cooking, baking (to impress her turd of a husband), lazing about on the red L-shaped velvet couch in the lounge reading love story after love story, eating all sorts of sugary deserts she bought with her husband’s credit card, or trying to jog off the calories she had ingested, so her dislike for me hardly got enough time to be expressed.

When I first moved in, I was filled with optimistic ideas I now cringe recalling. I thought that I would get along fabulously with my cousin, since we were the same age. I dreamed that she would welcome me into her home and more so, into her life, as the daughter she had always dreamed of having. I imagined helping her in the kitchen with phony smiles pasted onto our corny faces, playing Happy Families, me singing along when she played the piano, her brushing my hair each evening before going to bed. Alas, it was not to be. It was not to be, from the very first night of my arrival into their home that sat atop of a hill, nestled into a beautiful, leafy and wealthy neighbourhood.

Her son, Kevin, was her favourite, and she believed everything he said. She believed him, even when he lied, and she never gave me a chance to speak.

“I’m going to tell my mother that your dirty feet made marks on this wall,” Kevin hissed at me in the dim passage where we were climbing the walls using our hands and feet one late Sunday afternoon.

“But I didn’t,” I whined. I didn’t want to get into trouble, especially if I had done nothing wrong.

“She didn’t do it, Kevin,” Julian, his younger brother mumbled, “you did.”

“Who asked you?” Kevin’s face contorted into an ugly sneer as he made his way towards Julian, his arms outstretched.

I had him against the wall in seconds, my fingers tight around his neck, squeezing, and squeezing, going tighter and tighter as his face turned more and more red. Julian didn’t say a thing, didn’t move.

The door that led to the kitchen was closed, and I could hear the sound of her opening and closing drawers and pots. Suddenly everything went quiet and I heard her footsteps come closer, and closer.
I released.
By the time the door opened, we were all pretending to climb up the walls of the passage, pretending as if nothing happened.
But what happened that day was that my cousins knew that I wasn’t a weak punching bag.
And I knew that I would do anything to be left alone. I knew that I would do anything for someone else who is in danger. I would do anything, even kill.
                               
                                                            ***************************