the awkward social anxiety paradox

I’ve been thinking about blogging about this for a while, not because I want sympathy or empathy or whatever kind of apthy, but just because I need to get these kinds of things out of my system. Even if it means simply talking to a wall, I am still talking to somebody, yelling to the abyss, the sky, the whatever, I just need to get it out.

Try explaining to somebody the sheer panic and fear that emerges as soon as the word ‘going out socially’ get thrown up and you’re guaranteed that they’ll look at you very funny. Like you just told them the earth is actually flat or the sky isn’t blue.

“I really struggle to be social,” you’ll say.

“But you’re so social on the internet,” they’ll reply.

You’ll roll your eyes, shake your head and say it’s not the same. They’ll say yes it is and you’ll give up because some people will jsut never get it.

And then off you go. Your stomach is filling with dread (or is it bile?), you feel like you might vomit at any time and your hands are constantly, frantically, searching for something to squeeze, clutch or just something to do so your hands don’t hang awkwardly by your side like an empty banana peel.

And then, everything blurs. Everything goes slow. Mouths move and they look fine. But you worry that you might look awkward. You might look non-human if you smile or nod in a strange way. You feel non-human. This socially interacting stuff is easy for normal people, right? Why not for me? Why does every movement I make feel like a challenge. Moving my lips, lifting my arm to shake hands. Body is like a sinker. Tongue feels stupid. What am I supposed to do with my ears? They’re just….there….on the side of my head…doing nothing.

I’ll just leave early. I’ll just leave.

ps- this is a scheduled post, something I’d rather send into the dark of the night to maybe be found by somebody who can relate instead of being exposedino the clogged timelines of peak time.

sunday night blues

Sunday Night Blues. We all get them. Whether it’s that annoying Carte Blanche music or the awful Sunday night movie that brings it on, it strikes at some point. Sometimes it lasts a few minutes, maybe an hour, sometimes it feels like an eternity as seconds become minutes, minutes becomes hours and before you know it, it’s 2am, you’re still awake and the walls are caving in on you. Or when there is a sickness in your stomach that rests in your throat.

Depression is a funny thing. Many people suffer from it. Many people think that it’s simply ‘all in your head’ and you should ‘harden the fuck up’. Many people think they suffer from it, but they’re just pathetic and starved for attention.Whatever it is, it’s real. And not one person lives without knowing ‘depression’.

I don’t like the word. I don’t like the stigma associated with it and I sure as hell don’t want to be diagnosed with it. It makes me feel like I might be seen as weak. Like a failure.

The biggest challenge for me when the blues hit, usually out of nowhere and like a ton of bricks to the chest, is ‘what the fuck do I have to be sad about?”.

I’m a very blessed person. I have a roof over my head. I can pay my bills. I can afford nice things. I have two healthy and happy dogs.  I have a mother who loves me. I have a great job.I help others when I can.  I can afford to feed myself every day, yet, sometimes out of nowhere an overwhelming sense of helplessness and incredible sadness washes over me. Sadness to the point where even the thought of getting out of bed is unbearable. The thought of facing people in the real world seem like somebody is asking me to go to war and all I want to do is hide in a hole and not go anywhere, do anything or see anyone. But I know I can’t. I force myself to get up. I get dressed, I shower, I drink coffee. I smoke two, three, four cigarettes and I feel a bit better. For a little while.

I do what I need to do, but there is a tornado in my heart and every single person I see or need to speak to is too much. Humans. Interaction.  Why would I want to do that? I feel guilty for feeling this why. Fucking privileged white bitch, I’ll tell myself. Sort your shit out. You have everything anyone could ever want and you are feeling depressed? What makes it worse is that I get uncontrollably angry when I see people worrying about stupid shit. And I don’t mean worry in the bad sense of the word, I mean worry as in being a bloody drama queen. Ooh, my cable is not working. Let me make a public scene about it on Twitter. Ooh, my ADSL is not working, let me lash out about it on public forums because it’s so fucking fatal that I might die if I don’t have my god damned first world privileges immediately.  Oh, the movie that’s on TV tonight sucks, I’ll moan about that too, because the whole fucking world gives a shit about which movies I like. Oh no, I am so tried from sitting around doing fuck all and eating carbs all day, let me throw in a whine about that. Oh no, I’m working so hard. Yeah, at least you’re bloody well working! Do you know how hard it is to find a job in this economic climate? Do you  know what it’s like to NOT have a job and to have to feed a whole entire family? Do you know what it’s like to be 17 and working for minimum wage, cleaning people’s houses because you HAVE NO OTHER choice. You don’t fucking know. You’ll never care to know.

It just escalates from there. I felt bad and now I feel guilty about feeling bad and I’m even angry that I feel bad.  I feel even worse and even more angry because I feel like I’m a hypocrite. What the fuck?

I don’t talk to anyone about it. Unless this blog post counts as talking.

A vicious, never-ending cycle. Is it depression? Probably not. It’s probably just a bad case of the blues.  And I don’t expect anybody to understand it. I don’t expect anybody to pity me or give me advice.

Sometimes, all I really want, is a friend. A friend who I can talk to about more than cricket and other superficial things. A friend who’ll help me understand why I am feeling this way.  A friend who’ll let me talk about ME.

But how can I? Any confession of feeling like this will make me weak, right? It all sounds so fucking stupid when I say it all out loud anyway.

I’ll stick to being grumpy. And anti-social.

“I see a red door and I want it painted black
No colors anymore I want them to turn black
I see the girls walk by dressed in their summer clothes
I have to turn my head until my darkness goes

I look inside myself and see my heart is black
I see my red door and must have it painted black
Maybe then I’ll fade away and not have to face the facts
It’s not easy facin’ up when your whole world is black”

nobody reads this

i’m not sure how many people read this blog, it doesn’t really matter. it’s just broken words, i am speaking into the blue, maybe somebody will read them, maybe somebody will care about them. maybe nobody will. they are just words and feelings, spilling onto a screen.

i’ve been thinking a lot about the people i’ve lost. people who i really loved who i’ve lost. there are only two really. the only friend i ever had and my dad. i’ve been thinking a lot about them both.  there’s a song that really helps me to deal with my dad not being around. it’s just over seven years now, but that doesn’t make it suck less, or make it easier. it doesn’t mean i’ve stopped thinking about him. i think about him every day. it hurts almost every day. but this song helps. the bits in bold are my own thoughts.

the streets- never went to church

Two great European narcotics,
Alcohol and Christianity,
I know which one I prefer

when you died, i’d disowned all religion and launched a fully fledged rebellion on all religions. i nearly refused to go to your funeral, because i was so against it.

We never went to church,
Just get on with work and sometimes things’ll hurt,
But it’s hit me since you left us,
And it’s so hard not to search.

but things change, right? you’re always search and always hoping, always pleading that there is something more.
If you were still about,
I’d ask you what I’m supposed to do now,
I just get a bit scared,
Every now,
Hope I made you proud.

probably the hardest part for me. what do you think of my decisions? what do you think of the person i turned out to be? do you think I’m okay? Do I make you proud?

On your birthday when mom passed the forks and spoons,
I put my head on the table I was so distraught with you,
You tidied your things into the bin,
The more poorly you grew,
So there’s nothing of yours to hold or to talk to.

the more ill you got and the more that horrible disease ate away at you, the more you got rid of stuff. you gave stuff to my sisters and aunts, sold the rest, chucked the rest away. what about me?

Put your hand up and interrupt the conversation with a, but..
People say I interrupt people with the same look.
Sometimes I think so hard I can’t remember how your face looked,
Started reading about dreams in your favourite book.
Panic and pace when I can’t see the right thing to do.
You’d be scratching your head through the best advice you knew.
And I feel sad I can’t hear you reciting it through,
I miss you dad but I’ve got nothing to remind me of you

they say I have your temper and i have your eyes. I have your honesty. Your crassness. Apparently, I’m a lot like you. And I always read about the things you liked. I even read about stupid pigeon racing and I have a Jack Russell, one that’s a bit of an asshole, just like you, just like me.

I needed a break when your book about dreams was taken,
I needed to pray or see a priest that day,
I needed to leave this trade and just heave it away.
But I cleaned up my place like you so I could see things straight.

the only thing of you I had was your ring and your electronic chess set. the ring was stolen and the chess set got lost during one of my many moves.  I have nothing now, nothing except the tattoos on my skin.  I need something, someone to help me.

I never cared about God when life was sailin’ in the calm,
So I said I’d get my head down and I’d deal with the ache in my heart,
And for that if God exists I’d reckon he’d pay me regard,
Mom says me and you are the same from the start.

I guess than you did leave me something to remind me of you,
Everytime I interrupt someone like you used to,
When I do something like you you’ll be on my mind or through,
‘Cause I forgot you left me behind to remind me of you.

But you you still tell me how you didn’t know what to do even now,
And then I’m not so scared somehow,
‘Cause I know that you’d be proud.

not sure if I know, I think you’d be ok with me. And I think you’d think I’m quite a bit like you. I’m even going grey already, just like you did when you were my age.

I got a good one for you dad,
I’m gonna see a priest, a Rabbi and a Protestant clergyman,
You always said I should hedge my bets.

I miss you.

<3

it’s all still so surreal without you here

i had a dream about you the other day.

a dream that you came back, that you made it all okay.

in fact, i dream about you every day. I dream that all this carnage and chaos, this mess you left – it was all just a dream. And you came back. You came back and dragged my hair, sat me down and said to stop kicking, screaming, fighting and hating. You reminded me what it is to love. Not just other people, but also love myself.

i know you’re probably reading this. and you’re probably pulling up your nose, throwing your hair back giggling and saying: “dude, don’t be stupid”.

that’s okay.

i just want you to know that i miss you. and that i am sorry.

sorry that i couldn’t change you.
sorry that i couldn’t be the friend i should have been.
sorry i wasn’t there that day.
sorry for all the times i ignore your calls because i was too stuck up my own arse to pay attention to you.

“I’m sober now for 3 whole months it’s one accomplishment that you helped me with
The one thing that always tore us apart is the one thing I won’t touch again
In a sick way I want to thank you for holding my head up late at night
While I was busy waging wars on myself, you were trying to stop the fight
You never doubted my warped opinions on things like suicidal hate
You made me compliment myself when it was way too hard to take
So I’ll drive so fucking far away that I never cross your mind
And do whatever it takes in your heart to leave me behind”

I miss you, Amy.

I’m still not sure how to deal with what you did.

I still have your number saved on my phone. Sometimes I want to call it, or text it. Sometimes I image seeing your name on my screen.

Because I need you. I really, really need you.

I need a friend.

the power of music

I believe, in the power of music. I believe in music as therapy. I believe music can heal a broken heart.

I’ve been listening to a lot of Boy Sets Fire, they’re very much the theme music to everything that is happening in my life right now.

My favourite song, the one that has been on repeat for the past week:

BoySetsFire – Handful of Redemption

The sick and tired refrain of everyday is branding itself into you

Discouragement defined by all the times when everything just falls apart

And your skeletons have broken down the door and left you there for dead

How do we find a little piece of heaven

In our time before we find acceptance

When no one understands at this point

That a handful of redemption’s all we need

From remorse to rebirth finding it hard to think that this is really true

Ask how long should we wait before we take instead of waiting to be free

And all, all the fear all the anger falls away

All the days that were wasted cut and pasted fall away

Never walked so tall until that moment when fate and circumstance collide

When all it takes is a step that you never saw and burdens fall away

I got some great news today.

All the fear, all the anger….it fell away.

the child is not dead- ingrid jonker

this isn’t quite the poem I wanted to share, but I can’t find the one I’m looking for.
This is still relevant, and still beautiful.

Like somebody said on Twitter: “It’s easy to say South Africa is going down the drain, until you look back at Sharpeville to see what the drain looked like.”

The child is not dead
The child lifts his fists against his mother
Who shouts Afrika ! shouts the breath
Of freedom and the veld
In the locations of the cordoned heart

The child lifts his fists against his father
in the march of the generations
who shouts Afrika ! shout the breath
of righteousness and blood
in the streets of his embattled pride

The child is not dead not at Langa nor at Nyanga
not at Orlando nor at Sharpeville
nor at the police station at Philippi
where he lies with a bullet through his brain

The child is the dark shadow of the soldiers
on guard with rifles Saracens and batons
the child is present at all assemblies and law-givings
the child peers through the windows of houses and into the hearts of mothers
this child who just wanted to play in the sun at Nyanga is everywhere
the child grown to a man treks through all Africa

the child grown into a giant journeys through the whole world
Without a pass

tumi and the volume – what it’s all about

One of my best mates told me to checkout ‘Tumi and the Volume…. and I think I have a new favourite artist.

Here are the lyrics to ‘What It’s All About’…the accuracy might be shoddy in some places, but you get the general idea. I suggest you check them out….NOW.

Or check Tumi out on Facebook.

Ask your mama what its all about
Don’t look at me I’m just a rapper nothing more than that
Aye what you doing with the mic in your hand
You gotta give a little something you a puppet or man
Ask your teacher what its all about
Don’t look at me I’m just MC’ing nothing more than that
Aye what you doing on the podium
Selling people phony ass shit like a zodiac shrink

I got a used verse strong for you
I got a two verse song for you
But you don’t want to
You wanna groove done it all for you
Chance to move more not your only shoe
Let’s go…

Now when the opportunity hits once in the lunar year
Exclusive here for you to hear the truth is here
The Tumi version volume is the word
More suburban cruise not used to burn the rubber
Use the rebel attributes to learn the micro school asserted
Their students learn but the rumours surface
That the universe is only schooling the foreign with the highest purchase
I do the work and kill bills too like Umar Thurman
Gimme loot converted it super eat a few

For more they shooting murder black on blacker
Who deserve a proper shot at
Who preserve it like a barbecue hamburger
Word up the purpose serve work a nerve
Of a CEO interpreter who’s sitting on the verge
Of what only he knows a worthy curse Cd’s
Affording money so he beat me to the vertebrate
I heard him say that the word I spray
Get him nervous days confused
They say you rude I wanna get paid a few
So go ahead…

Ask your mama what its all about
Don’t look at me I want money so just cough it out
Aye what you doing with the mic in your hand
You gotta make use of music you a puppet or man
Buza umama kuthi kuyenzekalani
Ungathembeli abomrapper bona bafun’ imali
Aye what you doing on the podium
Selling people phony ass shit like a zodiac shrink

After the show the zoe was a couple that wanna know
How you mapping your flow and where you wanna go
In six years after what’s your vision for Africa man

I’m just a rapper give me a break stop that
When you at the stop light see your favourite rock star
He aint the answer to your love life stop that
You better of calling your mom or strolling along
Try to work it out you can only grow strong

This the 21st century everywhere celebrities
Billboards are the only books we ever read
Your mama knows better than me I just happen to be
One of 3 million rappers playing their part in this piece
Raise my fees I aint waste my speech
My people keep battling hunger and HIV
You need a pharmacist not some conscious shit
Turn the music down talk to your pops a bit

Yeah… think about those kids in the street
With no beds and the sheets
The cold get to their feet
Their toes they enter and freeze
But most definitely my flow stretching to be
Ayo listen to me I wrote lesson to teach

The person that I am is far deeper than my name
I got the blood of kings of Pharaoh sipping through my veins
Generation of the people surviving
The worst situation like we can define pain

I’m not a biter I’m a writer for myself and others
I say a Zubz rhyme I’m only bigging up my brother
Bigging up my culture… and goes much further than…