Thoughts of An Alcoholic Schizophrenic

Continuing to grapple with feelings of discomfort and agitation around everyone. I wonder, if I Google these symptoms, I'll come across a new mental illness to diagnose myself with.

Everyone is in the other room having lucid conversations yet I can't even muster up the courage to say one word.

I used to wish death upon others. When I was younger, I mean. Back when the veneer of self-assurance sparkled before all outsiders. Back when my love of art was greater than my love of destroying it. Before I had discovered John Green and the miraculous world of self-diagnosis. You should try it sometime. It's very therapeutic.

Ironically, I was happier when I was more outwardly depressed. At least there was a glimmer of hope at the end of that tunnel. Sure, the idea of kissing a cold bullet terrified me but I was always reassured by the image of  blood trickling down my arms.

I long to return to that time. Back when I had less friends to appease and more expectations for myself. Now I'm firmly convinced that a stranger will find me curled up in a ditch somewhere: naked, emaciated and best of all, alone.

I'm sorry that I'm so awkward and choose to remove myself from the current conversation. It's just that I get so worried that I'll leave a negative impression within your mind(specifically that little corner dedicated to storing Polaroids of first impressions of people). Now that my departure from Botswana is imminent, I have become increasingly attracted to the idea of physically attaching myself to the few friends I have. My over attachment could be seen by some as endearing, a natural side-effect of switching continents. Shame they don't see it that way. No. To my friends, I'm acting like an overly-attached girlfriend.

Gah. Too many words. There're too many words. On this page. I'm not writing an essay. I'm simply writing my feelings down. For you. Because you're all that's keeping me sane at this point. You're that angelic voice at the end of the tunnel, calling me towards a serene afterlife. Or are you just a dream: an apparition, a figment of my drugged self conscious? I wonder, if I stab myself with this pen, will I actually bleed? Or will you lay your 'healing hands' upon the burst vein and 'stitch the skin together with the power of love?'

Bullshit!

You'll just stand there and watch me bleed out won't you?

I’m sorry if I seem uninterested, or I’m not listening, or I’m indifferent, she sings—But really, I would rather be at home all by myself.- Alessia Cara

simply titled: a short story

It wasn't the high-pitched beeping of the alarm clock that woke him up: it was his mother. Her soft yet annoying pokes in his ribs were getting to him. Outside, a cacophony of orchestral chirps flowed through the air.

"Wake up sweety, or you'll be late for school," they chirped.

Funny how they sounded just like his mother. He had long since learnt how to block out irritations and obstacles by ignoring them completely. And through meditation. Cain loved meditating. Almost as much as he loved the cool kiss of the shower as he stood under her head. That's what he loved: feeling the icy touch of pure recycled water trickling through the leaky shower-head and into every crevice of his being. He often stood silently as the water gushed out sporadically, enjoying the churning sound and rattling of water against metal.

His clothes were almost always laid out for him. He never wore them. Somedays he felt like taking a felt-tip marker and writing poetry across the front of his shirts. His mum would often freak. His walls already resembled the insides of a halfway house, save for the pastel pink that glowered beneath the lines of Cummings and Plath. They had wanted a girl. His parents. He decided to wear blue today.

Breakfast was a tedious affair. Cain always found it easier to smile and nod throughout his mother's fussing and his father's grunts and sports commentary. Cereal: the usual. After the pleasantries, he would retreat to the bathroom to wage war against personal hygiene...and his mother, who was always armed with a new Afro comb and conditioner. He always won these battles. His mother never knew what to with his hair and ultimately retreated to his father.

"It's no good Eli, I just can't tame that man. We need to find him a good barber, preferably one who's similar in tone."

Drives to school were tedious. He preferred to skip through those conversations in the car by skipping through songs, or reading a good book. Reading was always good. Much better than listening to his dad prattle on about which box he should tick on forms when he gets older, Once he got to school, Cain slipped into the group of individuals he called 'friends.' They weren't particularly close per say, they just shared a few common interests and their parents (well, Cain's dad) all grew up in the same neighborhood. If anything, they hung out together because no one else wanted their company.

Cain hated his teachers. They were all the same,. Condescending white liberals who thought that they could take a crack at indoctrinating 'poor' inner-city kids. If they took a glance around the class, they would see that the minorities were in an even bigger majority, with most being upper middle class. Cain tended to only speak when spoken to and even then his comments were met with enthusiastic 'Well done's and awkward handshakes.Everyone seemed to think that he was either a nutjob or mentally handicapped. If only.

Cain's favourite lesson was English because he got to read peacefully for half an hour if he finished his work early. He always did, not that his teachers would care if he didn't. They always let him do as he pleased in that lesson, for fear he might jump out the window. Again. Lunch breaks were the worst because he didn't know where to sit, or rather, he didn't like where he sat. Cain had the awful dilemma of being stuck with a group of people that he wasn't quite sure that he liked. Today he sat with them anyway, piping up occasionally when they asked him a question. They were discussing the slaughtering techniques of butchers and whether or not this meat was kosher. 'God, if I wanted a whiny commentary on the rights of cows then I would've sat with the vegans', Cain thought. But he kept this thought to himself. He often did.

After pumping enough pills in his throat to rival that of a frequent addict, Cain went to the football field. He so detested these social gatherings. What fun. Watching a group of overgrown meat-heads bashing into one another, their veins pulsating eerily from all those steroids injected into them. Exuberant cheers filled the stands as the home-team scored. Sweaty supporters rose and shot their arms into the air, releasing their heavy hot breath around Cain. He felt boxed in. It didn't help that all these greasy ne'er-do-wells rubbed their sticky limbs against him. Their clothes clung tightly to their skin, darkened in areas where perspiration had accumulated. Cain eyed the particularly sticky back of one of the girls in front of him. It glistened in the sweltering October heat. Tiny hairs jutted out from the sink holes between her spine and shoulder blades. Her tight tank top revealed no trace of the ever visible bra-strap. Sudden;y, a deafening buzz thundered through the stands. The home team had won. A sea of arms and legs and faces and hands and smiles and laughs rose from the stands. The rancid stench of vomit also wafted through the air, as one of the away team members retched violently.

Navigating through the sea of limbs, he found his bag underneath the stands. It had been toppled over and was decorated with suspicious dots of sludge. Cain reached inside and dug out his Polaroid camera and his medication bag, A shuffle of pills accompanied the roar of the crowd. He took two this time. Angling the camera, Cain took a snapshot of the chaos on the field.

"Savages," he mumbled.

***   

Through The Lens

My dislike for the strong influence that pop culture has on our society is a topic that is very dear to me. I clutch my opinions tighter than a woman holding the last little black dress at a discount sale. However, nothing has angered me more than the portrayal of women in this plethora of entertainment mediums. More often than not, we find that women are either portrayed negatively or berated for their ‘illicit’ behaviour by some sexist guy in a music video. We even find that they are praised for acting promiscuously and are even encouraged to do so. Today I will peel away the greasy layers of some of our top pop culture phenomena: music videos and their lyrics.

I recently underwent the excruciating torture of viewing a new rap video: ‘Coco’ by O.T. Genesis.  Seriously, I have never rolled my eyes so often in four minutes. I think I may need corrective eye surgery, along with a mind- wipe like they have in Men In Black. I have never seen a larger show of blatant objectification of women since a Lil’ Wayne video! This video (which is apparently the ‘made-for-TV’ version of the original video), depicts the usual buxom women squeezed into microscopic white bikinis, shaking their posteriors lewdly at the cameras. Keep in mind that this display of more skin than a nudist commune was approved by the big wigs at television stations. The cameraman went to great lengths to tape those women from every possible ‘flattering’ angle, crudely taking shots from the ground looking up as they passed by and zooming into their assets. One girl even ground her backside vigorously against the rapper’s pelvis. Definitely not made for TV. We hardly saw any of their faces and all that I took away from the video was: 1) I need to attend Sunday mass to cleanse my soul and 2) That was a terrible song!

Not only are the videos horrendous and demeaning to us, the lyrics leave much to be desired. Amongst the proverbial racial and homophobic slurs, gang violence and drug selling, therein lies a mix of lyrics about treating women like whores, objectifying them, insulting them and encouraging them to ‘throw that thing round for my boys.’ Whatever that means. Hip Hop culture in itself is a juxtaposition. We ask for more rappers with deeper lyrics yet continue to promote the ones who brag about how many women are waiting in their tour bus. It’s disgusting! It makes us appear to be loose creatures with low or no morals that jump from man to man.

It disgusts me how we women are treated as mere sexual apparatus in music videos. This is very prevalent in rap videos from all generations, though it seems to have gotten worse over the years. With the advent of twerking, rap videos have made a mockery of women across the globe. As more rappers hit the scene and gain more and more success, more and more clothes are stripped from women in videos. More and more women are disrobed of their dignity in said videos, and with that, any shred of respect that the outside world may have had for them. Now if we see that same video vixen on the street, she will be met with cold stares from other women and leering men. Often times these women choose to become video vixens, I would assume, for financial reasons (although in this day and age, they could just be ‘expressing their sexuality’).  According to HipHopWorld.com, video vixens are defined as being ‘Hip Hop Honeys’.                   

"What makes a Hip Hop Honey?

To be a Honey the female must be physically extremely beautiful, educated, confident, simultaneously insatiable and demure. A vixen doesn't need a man to get her the finer things in life, but expects it on the strength of her beauty, and love alone.  A vixen is a woman full of curves in all the right places and a style always befitting. A vixen is beyond a show piece. She is what makes the item sell in a culture that is dominated and driven by sexual presentations and money."

Never before have I associated video vixens (or ‘Hip Hop Honeys’) as being educated and demure. Demure suggests that they are reserved and composed, a far cry from the gyrating, oiled-up bodies we usually see. Sure, they may be demure in real life but I would hardly guess that from seeing how they are made to behave on screen. For all we know, that dark-haired girl in Rae Sremmurd’s video could have a degree in Law from Harvard or is currently studying to be an engineer at MIT. The negative portrayal of these women leads many to think that women are actually like that in real life. We’re not. Far from it. At least I’m not.

We do not waste away our days mindlessly chasing after men, then draping ourselves over their arm in the VIP room of a club. We do not aspire to appear naked to the world, shaking everything moveable on our person. We do not want the views of a certain group of rappers to be accepted as the universal truth for all women. I do not oppose the idea that women can’t be sexual beings. We embrace our sexuality and to be berated universally by sexist rappers infuriates us. Why do these rappers continue to harangue the very beings that brought them into this world?

I am not a video vixen, ho, bitch or chick. I am a woman. And no, I will not twerk for you.

-"Throw Sum Mo!"

Why I'll Never Meet Anyone At The Gym

Gym dating: the easiest thing in the world. You just walk up to guy at the bench and say, "Hey, I need help doing crunches (whilst seductively pushing my chest forward). Would you help me?" He drops his weights and before you can say, 'Steroids', you two are exchanging mouldy leftovers in the back-seat of his car. But I digress.

This idea is absolutely ridiculous! I mean, how do people manage to attract anyone at the gym when your mouth is stretched open like a guppy and there's sweat leaking into every crevice of your body? How do people manage to look so alluring in one layer of ill-fitting spandex? I'm usually buried under three: an extra bra, a tank top that restricts any movement of my torso and a baggy t-shirt that perfectly complements my square figure. I look more like one of those before pictures you see on Herbex commercials than a sensuous, fit sexpot.

And I don't mean meeting someone as in meeting a potential suitor. I mean meeting people in general. How do you make friends at a gym without appearing to be a total creep that breathes on people whilst they do lunges? Mind you, lots of the women I see appear to be prepared for the hunt at gym. They come in all gussied up: full hair (horsehair weave), Kim Kardashian eyelashes, red lipstick, six-inch heels, jewellery and about ten layers of make up plastered onto their  blemish-free visages. Then they do the full runway walk down to the changing rooms in tight pencil skirts, swaying their hips like a dog in heat. 

Now to the point of this post: why I will never meet anyone at the gym.

1. I am probably the most awkward individual ever and as such, I would erupt into a fit of giggles if anyone attractive approached me. In fact, I'd probably be so overcome by the shock that someone admires the way sweat coats my five-head, that I would collapse on the spot.
2. I have no clue how to flirt. At all. The closest I've come to flirting is reading pick-lines off of 9GAG. And even those were shared amongst friends, who gave uncomfortable glances and promptly deactivated their Facebook.
3. For some reason, I have a penchant for making eye contact with complete strangers(then promptly holding that contact until my eyes water).
4.  I flail my arms uselessly on the machines, so I probably resemble a schizophrenic with epilepsy.
5. The idea of making out over the weights (the classic scene) is in appealing. Who wants to kiss some sweaty meat-head anyway?
6. My general anti-social behaviour deters many people from attempting to approach me. 
7. I mean, what else would we talk about? What weights are the best? Where to get the best protein shakes? Can I buy your next workout DVD?

-"Let's get physical."

The Impending Demise of My Self Confidence

It can be said that things only get better in the future, with, of course, the addition of time and work. Can it be so that one can really improve their self confidence or will these things fix themselves over time? Honestly l may be reaching but I've felt this coming for a while now.

Here I am, sitting in the library with 3 boys who are also up for the MaP US scholarship. I have hardly spoken to these people in the past 5 years(save for Tawanda who is actually my friend) but now I feel as if we are forced to interact with each other. (Mr Taylor says that we have to become a family. Yeah, don't force things which are unlikely to happen).

Everyone is poring over SAT books and discussing their futures. But here I am, typing this message and not having any clue as to what I'm going to do in future. I mean, what hope is there for someone like me, who's rubbish at Maths and even worse at the Sciences. I currently have an ACT book open on the 3rd page and I still have no clue what any of these words mean. I have to start thinking of what AP classes to take, what subjects to devote more time to in regards to my future career. I also have to consider what life will be like living with a complete stranger in the bed next to me. I need to contemplate how to arrange my study times and "me times" so that I can avoid people as much as possible. But I also need to consider how to make friends who are somewhat sane but not complete snobs who require a "token Black/Exotic African". 

Grappling with feelings of inadequacy are on my to do list of things to conquer. Overcoming my impending diagnosis of depression and Social Anxiety Disorder is going to be a lot harder to overcome. How will I be able to cope in "the Real world" with all these grown up things like filling in bank details and taking out a loan? I swear that if I have to stand in line at a bank and reach the front, I'll cry. Better yet, I might just break out into a sweat and collapse on the spot. What's going to happen when I have to find a job and shit? How am I going to apply my awkward personality to something that requires brains-which I don't possess- and a strong business acumen. 

I feel as if I'm just letting everyone down. It's not that I'm not appreciative of this opportunity to go study overseas, it's just...ugh. It's a strange mixture of both fear and excitement (and relief). I am expected to know what I want to be at this point. I'm expected to understand the ins-and-outs of the American education system or the system of the country that I wish to study in. 

Here's an example of people who know what to do with their lives:

(Excuse the shitty quality of the picture)

I'm hoping that this stay overseas will better me as a person and all that other corny shit. I'm also hoping that it will help me figure out what I intend on studying. Here's to hoping that I don't subsequently kill myself and have my decaying, drug-filled corpse shipped back off to Zimbabwe. 

        -"Let's look at this from my perspective: I hate you."

The truth about Form 5

Well, it seems that it's time for the obligatory 'Freaky Friday'. The time when we Form 5s have a free pass to terrorise the younger masses and publicly shame ourselves. As usual, I won't be participating in the festivities (BECAUSE REASONS), and I'll be deemed a spoilsport by my peers. *internal groan* I can't seem to please these people.

In all honesty, I already know how this day is going to go. The event is going to be dominated by the popular, talented kids who think they're talented. There's actually not many people who can sing in our year, which is really sad. I mean, we'll obviously be dominated by this rap group thing it whatever called Team BDub who'll most likely rap and make me feel uncomfortable and or embarrassed for my generation.

It may be my inability to conform to society's expectations for people like me. I'm supposedly supposed to fit into the archetype of the stereotypical silent weirdo who doesn't have many friends because she's a social outcast, therefore lacking the basic social abilities to survive. The programmer will be as follows: dancing, dancing, dirty dancing, rapping, irrelevant videos, more dancing and likely even more dancing. Having already witnessed some of the stuff that creeps out from the recesses of our minds, I'm actually rather terrified.

The truth is that our year is separated into cliques. We've all been assigned these cliques from Form 1 and even new students soon adjust to the agenda. We all know our place but occasionally different social groups do interact. Like animals in the wild, we occasionally cross paths and share territories but that's about it. The problem is that half of our year hates/dislikes the other half. It's really quite depressing. Again, I'm able to observe this from an outsider's view.

We have the Popular crew which in itself is divided into various subsets. We have the aforementioned Team BDub, who I really don't understand. A group of make individuals who engage in various activities, mainly rapping, music and occasionally art. They even have their own shirts. I'm not sure whether to interpret this as a form of arrogance but I for one would love to have my own shirt.

We have the popular girls who are constant presences in social media(particularly Instagram and Snapchat). They also tend to be overly dramatic and extremely beautiful. They work in conjunction with the popular boys and serve to make my adolescence an awkward and uncomfortable life stage. Then we have that odd group of popular individuals who attempt to transcend the social norms and be more...deep. In other words, they go on about The Fault in Our Stars; blabber about their supposed intrinsic yet extremely superficial view of the world and claim that The Weeknd is the best thing to come to our virgin ears.

Then there's my group of friends, ranging from awkward stereotyped nerds who surprisingly are rather popular, and insecure girls with good tastes in music. Needless to say, with these groups of individuals all on stage there'll never be a dull moment.

-"That pussy kill be so vicious."

People are places are things

I'm never fond of writing titles for posts before I actually write them. I feel Like it takes away from the general idea of the post and I end up getting writer's block because I feel like the title isn't an accurate enough decision if what I wanted to write. 

I'm currently listening to albums online to decide whether or not to torrent it. Currently I've downloaded FKA Twigs, Neutral Milk Hotel, Wild Nocturne, Kelela, SZA ad several BIRP! albums over the past weekend. 

I fell incomplete and inadequate. Like the world doesn't quite understand the eruption of emotions occurring inside of me. I feel like my friends feel like in pushing them away and the truth is that I might be doing that on purpose. Like a child who has grown tired of their old toys, I have grown tired of the tedious interludes of life. I can never seem to compare to other people, especially my friends. Their achievements far outshine my own and I'm sick of it. 

I want to feel like I'm an integral part of someone's life. Everyone seems to be capable of living without me and I just want to feel special. I suppose that that's rather selfish isn't it? I mean, you can't expect someone to feel like you're their world and expect those sentiments to be reciprocated across the board. 

I crave a physical connection with someone. Particularly an emotional connection that transcends from the emotional to the physical, like a metaphysical hand reaching out of their soul and touching yours.

Could it be possible that I'm growing tired of my friends? I strive to make new friends of a higher social standard to feed my life's ambition of feeling like I can be somebody. And to be somebody I have to turn my back on the people who have groomed me into the person that I am today. I suppose it is rather selfish but I see it as sparing them from pain. 

I mean, we're all going to go our separate ways at a later stage and it seems inevitable that our friendship shall whither away like the flowers at my grandmother's grave. As we speak, I am being shunned by my peers and I feel downright shitty about it. 

I mean, people need places to go and just be alone. To reflect on the day's happenings and mishaps. To register the embarrassments made in front of people who we used to hold dearly, our chests, heaving as they glanced in our directions. We need somewhere to go when we want to shun out our peers in a way that is noticeable enough to attract the attention of our friends so that they can comfort us and give us attention. 

People need other people to pay attention to us. We need them to comfort us and to hold us when we cry. We need them to talk to us about stuff that distracts us from our inner turmoil. As we speak, I'm listening to two girls gush over boys and their strategies of how to get dates for Leavers'.

I feel rather out of place. Like the centre piece of a jigsaw puzzle discarded under the bed from a Family Game Night many nights ago. I feel like no matter how many times I read, new words will never sink in. Everyone else's vocabulary seems to be improving and morphing into some fascinating new phenomenon that only hipsters would understand. 

I suppose that nobody understands me. And nobody ever will.