Do you remember when we didn’t attend virtual meetings while wearing slippers? That time when we didn’t do our shopping while wearing facial masks and trying to dodge that fucker in the cleaning materials isle with that nasty little cough. This would be the time before we clucked our tongues disapprovingly while shaking our heads in disgust at the poor woman that sneezed in the dairy isle. I refer to that time as PC. Pre-Covid19.

In that era, it was socially acceptable to have a meal in a pub. The pub was even allowed to serve alcohol whenever it pleased to do so. I had a meal in such a pub at such a time, where I sat sipping on my legitimately purchased brandy. At the same time, just across from me, a group of older ladies and one very lucky gentleman was also ingesting copious amounts of wine and what looked like gin to me.

It was also a time where people in the music industry could still work and sustain themselves – the good old days. So, in this pub, a live band was doing exactly that. Perhaps calling them a live band is extremely generous. They were two old men behind a sound system. They also had real guitars slung across their tired bodies that they strung passionately. I gave them an A for effort. They performed some of the old classics that always get pub crawlers excited and across from me, the very lucky gentleman took turns dancing with all the ladies at their table. One by one he would take them for a shuffle across the dance floor and you could see their faces light up – all except for one old lady.

This old lady remained seated at their table and hardly paid them any attention while they danced to all the classic pub tunes. I felt strangely comforted knowing that I am not the only human being alive that would rather eat a roll of barbwire than to be seen dancing in public. I pointed her out to my partner and proudly declared that I am indeed not the only rhythmically challenged person on earth. Soon after, the band performed their version of Green Door by Jim Lowe and lo and behold – she rose from the table, strutted to the dance floor and shook what her mama gave her. Well, at her age, her hips are probably not the ones her mama gave her anymore. But she shook those hips nonetheless.

All it took was that one song. Green Door.

I was reasonably familiar with the song, but I couldn’t really tell you what that song was about at the time, so I read the lyrics:

There’s an old piano

And they play it hot behind the green door

Don’t know what they’re doing

But they laugh a lot behind the green door

Wish they’d let me in so I could find out

What’s behind the green door

That old lady didn’t inspire me to humiliate myself or my poor partner by trying to move my hips, but she did, in that one moment, remind me of my own awakening.

The word ‘awakening’ is described as ‘coming into existence or awareness’. This coming into existence happened for me in the same manner that my coming-out happened: suddenly and without an iota of planning. My brain doesn’t process most things. The image I have of my brain is that of the living room of a hoarder. It holds so many things and I’ve scrambled it all around to such an extent that no individual item can be found without sending out a search party – which is exactly what I did a short while ago.

Somewhere in my scrambled brain, I knew that I had been abused as a child. I wasn’t confused about the fact. It wasn’t a suspicion. It was something that I knew to be true. The memories of these traumatic events however, were lost among all the other debris that I have scattered around in that hoarder’s living room that is my conscious mind. I was walking around that living room, lifting various objects and moving things around, but on my own, I wasn’t able to find the details of my truth.

So, I called in the experts – people that are trained to sift through the debris we gather in our minds in order to find our truths and ultimately our healing. My therapist performed EMDR treatment and together we sifted through the debris and we did find my truth, but more importantly we found my healing. Covered in the debris, cowering in a corner, we found the four-year old me – just waiting for a warm embrace. I was able to convince the four-year old version of myself to take my hand and follow me out of the destruction of our past and into the blinding beauty of our future.

Healing from CSA (child sexual abuse) is not an event, it’s a journey. You don’t take that little girl by the hand and lead her into paradise immediately. She has learned not to trust anyone, so she often retreats and you have to talk your way back into her confidence and ultimately, into her heart. Unfortunately, the path out of the debris leads past every transgression ever made against her. It leads past dark car garages, into musty alleys and forlorn backyards where monsters lurk and prey. Her senses are overloaded at times and she smells the sweat and foul breath of every perpetrator that forced their way into her innocence, but the only way out, is through.

About a year ago, out of the blue, I walked into a salon and cut my hair. It might sound strange but it wasn’t a conscious decision. The discerning feature of the four-year old me was long white hair. Long hair that I kept for over thirty years. I walked into a salon and without planning it or thinking about it, I asked my hairdresser to cut it off. He gathered my hair into a ponytail and snipped right through it and I could feel the weight lifting off my shoulders as my hair fell to the floor. It sounds completely silly, but I entered that salon that day as a petrified, lost, lonely little girl and I left as the woman I was always meant to become. For the first time, I looked into a mirror and liked what I saw. I remember looking at myself in the mirror and whispering like a crazy person:

There you are.

Studies show that CSA manifests in medical problems with the reproductive system. It has more to do with the psychological link between our minds, our souls and our bodies. The uterus and ovaries revolt against the abuse and becomes hostile. I had the first cyst removed from my ovary when I was only 17. Exposure to CSA is associated with the incidence of a condition called Uterine leiomyoma. This is commonly known as fibroids.

I have such a fibroid right in the middle of my hostile uterus. It’s been sitting there for years, just being ugly and angry. Over the last year, coinciding with my journey of healing, it started growing so big that it has now been decided that my uterus will be removed.

So, today I spent the last day carrying this angry, sad and hostile uterus.

Tomorrow, an anaesthesiologist will put me to sleep in a sterile room where I will count backwards from ten to one. By the time I reach seven, the doctor will prepare to gently remove the manifestation of every vulgar man that treated himself to my body when I was just a little girl with a bright white ponytail.

Tomorrow I will wake up behind my Green Door and finally get to open it, walk through it and discover how to laugh along with those behind it. Tomorrow, they will let me in so I can find out what’s behind the Green Door.

From what I saw in that pub, it seemed like freedom.

I think it’s safe to say that I will still not shake my hips. Nobody deserves to see that.

Her mother should have accompanied her to the bathroom.

His mother should have gone to prison with him for introducing him to drugs as a youngster.

The drugs made him do it.

I don’t believe in new year’s resolutions at all, because I think it’s just a sure-fire way of setting yourself up for failure. So, I wouldn’t call it a resolution, but I did promise myself at the beginning of this year to spend some time investing in me. I would do more of what makes me happy. I would focus more on myself and what I needed.

Keeping that in mind, I have also undertaken not to follow the news too closely, because I always end up browsing through the comments on the news pages on social media, which leads to my mind exploding and all of the vitriol I keep inside to pour out of my mouth. Before you know it, I have to double the dose of my blood pressure meds. So, while I don’t read every article anymore or constantly have the television tuned to the Crime Channel, some cases are just impossible to avoid. Naturally, some cases also just feel slightly more personal than others.

I am sure if you are alive and in South Africa you know exactly which tragic incident all of these statements above refer to. I don’t believe the offender in this tragedy deserves the airtime he already received, so I won’t mention his filthy name – his name should never be spoken, because he should never have breathed his first breath. I would like to attack the three idiotic fucking statements one by one, hoping that I can finally forget about this horror.

Her mother should have accompanied her to the bathroom. This one is loaded, because while I feel that a devoted South African mother in this day and age should do exactly that, I also know that it absolutely should not be necessary. As a woman in this generation and as a victim of abuse myself, I detest the fact that some men need to be reminded not to invade the privacy of a woman, let alone the privacy of a minor. Why do we need a stamp across our boobs reminding men that this is a restricted access zone? Why can a seven-year old girl not relieve herself unaccompanied, without the threat of being accosted in a bathroom? I don’t feel it’s fair to shift any part of the responsibility for the freedom of movement to the women and children trying to stay alive in this country.

Who then takes the responsibility? The fucking same government that takes our taxes to fund their luxurious lifestyles. You, Mr President, owe it to every woman and child in this country that buys you every luxury you enjoy. You owe us the peace of mind. You owe us the assurance that every sexual offender will be brought to book, prosecuted and punished so harshly that the next predator thinks twice. You owe us, at the very least, a gigantic fucking effort from your side to make this insanity stop. I don’t care if the offender is black or white and I want you not to care either. I want for you to imagine that every victim is your wife, your mother, your sister or your daughter. I want for you to spend the same amount of effort and resources hunting these people down that you would have if your blood coursed through that victim’s veins.

Can the government do this on their own? Probably not. So perhaps every single mother takes responsibility. Not for accompanying their daughters to the bathroom, but for raising a boy that knows how to respect a woman. You raise the man that will not hide behind his so-called animalistic fucking nature. You raise the man that will not smile and nod when his friends objectify women, body-shame them or discriminate against them. Men don’t always objectify us in person. They don’t always mock you about your weight to your face and they certainly don’t make their crappy sexist jokes in your company. These things happen at the bar, around a fire, on a hunting trip and around the boardroom table. Raise the man that tells his friends that this is not okay.

Abuse is not only when a body is violated, but also when a right is refused and a courtesy denied. Abusers were not taught that rape is socially acceptable. They likely were taught that little girls play indoors with Barbie dolls and that mommy does the dishes. They were likely taught that boys mow the lawn and lift all the heavy stuff and that daddy casts the final vote when it comes to decision-making in the household. They were likely taught that the best piece of meat is saved for daddy. Will every boy raised to be chauvinistic become an abuser who follows little girls to the bathroom? Surely not, but every chauvinistic man will abuse a woman in some shape or form in his lifetime. I guarantee it.

Her mother should have accompanied her to the bathroom. It sounds a lot like she shouldn’t have worn that dress. It sounds a lot like she shouldn’t have led him on. No woman should buy into this fucking notion that we, as women, should be careful about what we wear, what we say or how we move. We shouldn’t raise girls to think twice about the length of that dress. We should raise boys who don’t feel tempted by it. As a lesbian, I shouldn’t be afraid to have my sexual orientation exposed in a social setting where men are drinking. I shouldn’t have to get in my car and drive home instead of spending the night in the room that I paid for, because the dodgy fucker outside our door noticed that we are a lesbian couple. I shouldn’t be terrified walking to my car with my girlfriend at an arts festival, followed by men who are questioning our friends about our sexual orientation.

Every boy and girl should be raised to understand this: there are no blurry lines when it comes to anything of a sexual nature. The boundaries are not determined by what she is wearing, how she talks to you or what she’s into. The boundaries are determined by consent – consent that can only be given by an adult that is sober, awake and of sound mind. Consent is not implied. It is expressed. If you don’t intend to be mindful about what you teach your children, not only by what you say, but also by how you treat others, do the world a favour and don’t procreate. Which brings me to the next idiotic statement.

His mother should have gone to prison with him for introducing him to drugs as a youngster. Now, if this fucker’s mother paid attention to the number one rule of parenthood mentioned above, she would have used a condom the day he was conceived. Unfortunately, the truth of the matter is that if you take a good look around you will notice people who had no fucking business being parents, pushing around strollers or dangling snot-covered toddlers by their arms. It should be quite easy in life to determine if you should be having sex without using contraceptives. If you are an addict, mentally challenged, reckless, immature, or financially dependent you should be using contraceptives. If you want to dumb it down: if you open your wallet and you find there a bank card with coke or cat residue, but no actual fucking cash, go beg the clinic for a steady supply of condoms. If you are mentally challenged, we are not picking on you, but your mother has long since had your ovaries removed so the wallet test does not apply.

What happens when the wallet test was never performed and an ill-equipped teenager gave birth to a child? Again, we love to complicate matters that are very simple. Parents can’t give their children something they do not possess themselves. If your mother is devoid of emotion, she can’t shower you with love. If she has no sense of responsibility, she can’t teach you how to be responsible. If she takes no accountability for her mistakes in life, she can’t teach you about being accountable for any of your actions. Parents can however share with you what they do have – even if it’s a substance abuse habit. Should this mother be punished for introducing her rapist son to drugs? It would have been absolutely wonderful if the government did their job 21 years ago, when a drug addict gave birth to a baby boy. Yes, reportedly, he ended up living with his grandmother at some point. The real question here would be, why was he left in his mother’s care up until the point where he started using drugs with her at the age of thirteen? Also, should we have trusted the grandmother to raise a fucking upstanding citizen since she did such a fantastic job with her own daughter? I am just saying she didn’t receive raving reviews for her first body of work. Why wait to see if she fucks it up a second time? The best predictor of the future is in fact the past. Her past was not exactly inspiring. You would expect the government to place this child in safe custody before he becomes a statistic. It almost sounds like I have sympathy for this bastard, so I will move on to the third statement swiftly.

The drugs made him do it. Now this is where my mind exploded and a lot of filth poured from my mouth. I have a very disturbing range of reading material in my collection and most people would not be comfortable in a dark, confined space with me if they see what I read. The psyche of a human being fascinates me to no end and I’ve spent many, many hours of my life studying it. I probably know more about the mind of a serial killer than is good for me and generally I am not grossed out by what people do as much as I am fascinated by why they do it. I have read countless books about addiction and murder – not the fictional kind. I prefer to read the ones written by reporters, profilers or psychologists and by no means does that make me the expert, but I consider myself to be relatively informed on the subject. I also happen to know a few addicts. At the same time, I have sadly been exposed to more than one child molester in my lifetime.

I’ll let you in on a secret: drugs can’t make you do anything you are not capable of, and quite possibly fantasising about on some level, while you are sober. I know addicts who, at their worst, were gripped in the clutches of a heroine addiction but never ever physically hurt a single person. I also know child molesters who performed their acts of violence and abuse without a single drop of alcohol in their system. It’s quite simple really. Some addicts are not inherently evil, while child molesters are. Drugs, or the altered state of your mind when you abuse drugs, can’t cause you to do anything that you are not capable of doing while consciously sober. It reminds me of a line that spoke to me on such a deep level that I remember it so clearly twenty years later.

The clinically depressed patient, Susanna, in Girl Interrupted tried explaining her take on mental illness once she was released from an institution of healing and this is what she said: “Crazy isn’t being broken, or swallowing a dark secret. It’s you, or me, amplified.”

I think we can all agree that perhaps using drugs makes you act a little crazy. Let’s just try to remember that crazy is simply you and me, amplified. It does not create what is not inherently there. It’s like music turned down low. The soundtrack to this fucker’s life was always sexual abuse, playing softly in the background. The dial was just turned all the way up in that restaurant when he saw his opportunity to do the things that he’s only ever had the balls to fantasize about. The drugs didn’t make him to do it. The drugs simply gave him the confidence he lacked up until that point. Given the opportunity, he will do it all over again. Which brings me to my own closing statement that I think should be addressed to his grandmother and every person that feels sorry for him.

Pedophiles can’t be rehabilitated. You can castrate them – you don’t need genitals to sexually abuse a child. Ask any victim who suffered at the hands of a predator. You can lock them up and throw away the key. The reality is that wherever they go, there they are. It’s biology. Inherently, they are sick, evil, twisted. So, Mrs. Grandmother, you should be ashamed of yourself for begging for a lenient sentence. Don’t tell us that he is not only a rapist – that he has a softer side that people will find endearing if only they try. We are all a sum of our parts, but one of his parts forced a little girl into a cubicle where he stripped her naked, thrust his penis into her mouth and penetrated her with his fingers. I think it’s fair for us to ask that no little girl is ever exposed to that part of the monster that shares your DNA.

The wounded little girl inside of me, terrified of men and the way that they smell and talk and feel is deeply affected by a case like this. It propels my mind into a dark recess where thoughts of retribution and justice take the shape of anger and hate that consumes me to a point where I feel physically ill and mentally unhinged. Yes, we are a sum of our parts. We have to own every single part – not only the shiny parts.

Unfortunately, retribution doesn’t always look like we think it should. Sometimes retribution is living your best life, loving yourself enough to rise above and claim the happiness that you deserve, being just a little kinder to yourself and avoiding the fucking newspapers.

The first time I Googled the distance between South Africa and Columbus, Google told me to go fuck myself, but once I realised that I had made a typo Google delivered the cold, hard truth. Google candy-coats nothing – if you don’t trust me just type ‘childbirth’ into the search bar. I did it because I wanted to get my information from a trusted source before I standardised my response to that dreaded question: why didn’t you ever have children?

The distance between South Africa and Columbus is 13 392 kilometres. If I travel to work and back for the next 535 days, I will have covered the distance it would take for me to stop right in front of the house we are hoping you will find next week. That’s how physical distance works, but we have invented so many ways of bridging this distance. We can hop on a plane, take some time off from work and be knocking on the front door of your American house, up that American road in that American state.

Thank goodness for technology – the same technology I curse every fucking day when my laptop refuses to be a laptop unless I update the piece of shit software every 2.5 seconds. Technology also means we can chat every other day, just like we do now. Addison can still type me her encrypted messages that neither one of us understands and she can still facetime me when I am at my ugliest. You can still send me pictures of Logan smearing his food all over the pink feeding chair he inherited from his sister. There is no reason I can’t get video clips of the makeshift toys you and Brendan make to keep the kids entertained. Nothing has to change right?

But I am all about reality, so let’s just admit – everything changes now.

Addison’s warm hugs will be replaced by virtual hugs and nobody will ever put 7534 clips in my hair all at once. I won’t have to cringe as she mixes all of her paint colours, flipping my OCD switch and I won’t have to steal glances at Logan while Addison’s not watching. In my experience, change always comes with a certain amount of pain or discomfort.

Luckily, the reward is sometimes worth it. In this case my pain – and undoubtedly yours – will buy Addison and Logan a backyard where they can play outside. Our pain buys them the opportunity to learn in a safe environment where the standard of education is more in line with what they deserve. Our tears will buy them a future where they are less likely to become part of a statistic that makes your skin crawl. Our tears for their freedom seem like a good deal to me.

So, while I am broken about the fact that a month from now you will board a plane that takes you 13 392 kilometres away from here, I am also grateful. I am grateful for thirteen years of the purest form of friendship I have ever known. We have always rooted for each other and therein lies the strength of our connection – we truly want the best for each other. I am grateful that I always felt unconditionally loved and accepted in your presence and in that of your entire family.

I am grateful for sharing in the adventure that was raising two beautiful children with gorgeous smiles and beautiful souls. I am grateful for Brendan, who restored my faith in husbands all over the world with his quiet strength and his unshakable love and support of his wife and children. I am grateful for tiny arms around my neck every time I came around and that indescribable joy the moment that Addy first spoke my name – I should say our names because from the moment she could talk, Addy always considered me and Charese to be a unit, called Né-and-Shwies.

The National Geographic Traveller ranked Columbus 11^th on its historic destinations list in 2008, describing the city as authentic, unique and unspoiled. Those are three words I readily use to describe our friendship, which makes me think that maybe Columbus is equipped to look after four of my favourite treasures.

I also discovered that GQ named Columbus as one of the 62 reasons to love your country. I can still think of 62 reasons to love my own country as crazy as that sounds and I am pretty sure you will find more than 62 reasons to love your new home.

While I am trying to wear my big girl panties, I do have legitimate fears. People easily outgrow each other and that was my initial fear when you started talking about leaving. So, I decided to remind you of a few things we survived together:

1. I survived listening to Britney Spears in your car thirteen years ago – only because there was a good bit of Paramore and Flyleaf in between
2. Miemie – we both survived Miemie and that’s how we know we can do anything
3. We both survived my insecurities and irrational behaviour in the dark years when I would crap all over you because you ignored me – you have since learned that I can’t be ignored or completely understood
4. That one dodgy new year’s party of which I remember very little apart from the fact that I fell asleep next to a man – that hasn’t happened again I am proud to report
5. Audits at Frio Foods
6. Graduating – you did it a few times more than I did, but you always want to show off, like that one time you got the number of that extremely hot chick at The Terrace and I later found out that you knew her and the entire thing was staged
7. Teazers and the wrath of Russian stripper number 4
8. Brendan’s youth
9. Witnessing that crazy thing Addison did with the Spaghetti that one time – I still have nightmares and flash backs
10. Denny’s tragic death in Grey’s Anatomy
11. Thirteen years of PMS

I also think that it will be harder to outgrow each other if we have a clear idea of our expectations. So, I managed to draw up a list of what I expect from you and what I am willing to offer from my side.

So, this is a list of my expectations:

1. Make some space for pictures of Né-and-Shwies on your wall
2. Talk about us so our kids don’t forget us
3. Send video clips of birthday wishes every year
4. Don’t vote for Trump – fucking ever
5. Don’t attend Justin Bieber concerts – I will cut you
6. Do whatever you can for Logie not to have a yankie accent – we pray this
7. Get a little emotional whenever you hear the South African anthem
8. Only ever speak fondly of Karen Zoid, Ingrid Jonker and Speckled Eggs
9. Remember we gave you Charlize Fucking Theron and Trevor Noah – do not claim them
10. Don’t ever say you have better wine
11. Don’t every say you have better meat
12. Good people don’t go to Katy Perry concerts – if they do, they hide it
13. Don’t make America great again – we don’t want to hear how great the US and how crappy SA is
14. Don’t start calling Bakkie’s trucks for fuck’s sake
15. If you go to a Pink concert, don’t tell me – even if I tell you that I want to know, I really, really don’t
16. Don’t start calling Autumn fall – remember in South Africa fall is what you do when you hear gunshots in the mall

In return I shall:

1. Send you weekly updates on the crime statistics so you can feel better about taking my kids away from me
2. Get rid of the Voodoo doll I may or may not have that may or may not resemble you with an American flag wrapped around its head with a pin up its ass
3. Send you Speckled Eggs once a year that will get lost in the mail before it leaves South Africa
4. Send you biltong once a year that will get lost in the mail before it leaves South Africa
5. Remind you what the Rand/Dollar rate is once a week so you can gloat while I vomit in my mouth
6. Wait patiently for Addy to get to the age where she can send me a text message that we can both understand
7. Save some hard-earned cash so we can visit you to make sure our pictures are still up and Logie doesn’t sound like a fart

I think this should be a walk in the park. We have never been overly emotional and if I disregard the daily breakdowns you suffered at work when I first met you, we haven’t seen each other cry. I am not about to start that shit now. Now, you get on that fucking plane and keep Addison and Logie entertained in a confined space for as long as it takes to travel 13 392 kilometres. The rest should be easy in comparison.

Do you know what’s worse than drinking water when you’re not thirsty? Drinking water when you need an ultrasound.

I don’t drink water unless I’m forced.

Today was one of those forced situations. Walking into the radiology department, I could tell my fellow ultrasounders from the X-rayers. Ultrasounders pick the seat closest to the toilets. I know it’s not like you can empty your bladder before the procedure is completed, but you find some comfort just being close to that holy place where swollen bladders are relieved. You just want to be close enough to hear the victorious rumble of the flush and bathe in the glory of the released.

Ultrasounders have shimmering eyes – every orifice and pore in the human body feels like it is filled with water when you are prepared for an ultrasound. Your organs are literally sloshing around in your body and if you walk fast enough you can hear the waves breaking against the wall of your bladder – so you don’t. You sit down, close to the toilet, with your thighs clenched like a catholic school girl. You can’t cough. You can definitely not sneeze. Not even farting is recommended. Ultrasounders don’t page through magazines in the waiting room, because suddenly every single page in every single magazine portrays one or the other water related activity.

So, there I am, eyes shimmering and thighs clenched. Normally I would bounce my right foot up and down. Not today – this might set in motion a tsunami and I didn’t pack dry underwear. I look around me for some moral support. The only other person in the room whose eyes are not glued to the display of a cellphone is the very old man next to me. I’m not sure if he is aware of the fact that he’s even there, but he smells like urine and I contemplate moving away from him – fucking tease. I decide to follow the example of every other patient in the room except for smelly pants next to me. I unlock my phone.

No service. Are you kidding me? I had service right up until I set foot in the consulting room. I switch my phone off and reboot it. It works for everything else in life, right? Smelly pants just coughed – clearly not an ultrasounder. The display powers up – no service. I turn the phone around in my hand like you do with anything you don’t understand. Almost like looking over your shoulder when you trip – involuntary stupidity. Needless to say, the back of my phone tells me nothing. I have no other choice. I start staring at my feet, because surely if I look up I will see water fountains and all things aquatic. Two seats over, a little girl starts pulling on her grandmother’s hand. She needs the loo. I can’t help giving her a death stare – don’t we all you little shit?

I can’t sit for a second longer, so I float to the receptionist – slowly. I ask her if I can step outside for just a second to make a call. I really only want to change seats, but I don’t want to hurt stinky pants’ feelings. The receptionist assures me that it will be fine. I float down the corridor, convinced that people can hear my bladder protesting. I have no doubt that my seat – next to stinky pants – will be taken once I get back because that place fills up like the East Rand Traders Square when there’s a Kurt Darren show. I am not disappointed when I get back – I have to find a new seat. I take a seat next to a mother and daughter on the other side of the room. I open my Kindle app on my phone and start reading until my name is finally called. I follow the radiologist, Vincent, down a long corridor when the power suddenly fails. Seconds later, the generator kicks in and he shows me to a cubicle where I am ordered to take off my clothes – all of it. I replace it with an ugly maroon robe.

I slip my arms into what I think are the sleeves and tie the robe in the back. I look like one of those girls on Escaping Polygamy. Who do they make these robes for? It’s too long and it hangs in places where I can imagine it needs to be snug. I can feel air on my ass and my back is on display. I hold it in place just above my crack and leave my dignity in the cubicle as I’m called into a room for my chest X-ray. Yes, I’m having X-rays, an ultrasound and a mammogram done today. Because my bladder is full and I’m as uncomfortable as a stripper in a convent, they decide to do the X-ray first. The universe hates me like that. This means I will wobble around with my ass hanging out until they finally do my ultrasound. I take my pose for the X-ray and as I lift my arms in the air, I can feel the robe parting like the Red Sea did for Moses. My ass is officially on display and I’m not allowed to move. Vincent politely steps up to close my robe somewhat. The color of my cheeks now resemble the ugly fucking robe.

X-rays done, I’m pushed back into the cubicle to wait for the ultrasound and mammogram. I can hear people chuckling down the hall and I wonder if Vincent just shared the anecdote of my lily-white ass. While I ponder this, I open the Kindle app and carry on reading. In the middle of a steamy scene, another radiologist steps into my cubicle. I almost drop the phone and I’m sure that she now believes that I was watching porn. I follow her down the corridor with the wind on my ass. Into another room we go – mammogram time. Because my bladder is bursting and the universe still hates me.

The female radiologist dips her head to the side and stares at me, frowning.

“That’s interesting. The robe actually goes on the other way around, dear.”

Just fucking shoot me. My ass had been hanging out because I put the robe on the wrong way around. Now Vincent probably thinks I’m a raunchy slut. Should I pretend that I know exactly how the robe should be worn but I just like to set a trend instead of being a follower? I decide that this is no time to be rebellious – this woman will literally hold my boob in her hand in a few seconds. I slip the robe off without saying anything. She looks at my boobs and nods. I nod back. Weird little conversation we’re having, I think to myself.

“Is this your first mammogram, dear?”

Like she couldn’t tell. She flops my boob onto the plate like a fish that needs to be filleted. She then positions my boob and squashes it between the plates, telling me to relax my shoulders. You have my fucking boob in a vice, woman. I remember that there is nothing stopping her from turning on that knob one more time, so I try to relax my shoulders. We do the other side and then she tilts the machine to check my glands.

This part requires a more complicated pose and I have to drape my arm across the machine, lean my boob against the plate, but push my back away from the machine slightly. The end result is a pose that would put Marilyn Monroe to shame. I am draped across the machine, my head thrown back and my ass protruding. I have seen people in this pose. High jumpers – that second before they finally catapult their bodies across the bar and land on the mat. I concentrate so hard that I almost forget to contract every muscle that has the ability to collapse my bladder. With every turn of the knob she clenches my boob tighter and I’m that much closer to actually pissing my pants. Again, she tells me to relax. We repeat the ridiculous pose for the other boob and I’m pushed into another cubicle.

Another lady tells me to take off my robe – which I now wear their boring way – and wait for her on the bed. In any other setting and if I wasn’t in real danger of pissing myself – literally – this would have brought a smile to my face. I lie down and the struggle to gain control over my bladder is more intense. She returns with what she calls nappies that I will use to clean myself up afterward. Silently, I hope that that won’t be necessary. She tells me to relax my arms above my head and squeezes the lube onto my boobs. I’m embarrassed when my nipples jump to attention. The lube is cold, okay.

She pretends not to notice and she starts rolling her probe around my boobs while asking me all kinds of funny questions. Have I had kids? Am I using contraceptives? When you answer no to the above questions at the age of 36, the general consensus is that you’re either Amish, or a lesbian. In this robe, I can pass as both. She finally shuts up and continues to roll the probe around my boobs. She orders me to turn on my side and face the wall. As I roll back my ass hits a blob of lube and I thrust my pelvis in the air. Great. Now she probably thinks I’m a pervert. She tells me to take off my belt. You liked that didn’t you, you nasty little interrogator? Turns out she just wanted to push down on my bladder some more.

She can’t find my left ovary. Look lady, I can assure you that it’s in there somewhere. If you keep pushing that hard, it might actually slip out with the gallon of water that’s in my bladder. Finally, she stops and tells me to stay right there. She returns with a male doctor. He introduces himself to my boobs and adds more lube. I now have more lube on my boobs and tummy than Chasey Lain has ever seen. He rolls his probe around my boobs – see now it just sounds dirty. ‘His probe’ is more offensive for some reason than ‘her probe’. He bids my boobs farewell and heads back to his office. The radiologist says the five most beautiful words I’ve ever heard.

“You may empty your bladder.”

I am left alone with the ‘nappies’ to clean off the lube. I rush through the process – fantasizing about that moment when I can finally let go.

I put the robe back on – the boring way – but it now clings to my lubricated boobs and suddenly it seems a little less boring. I feel a little like Chasey Lain now too. I go back to what I believe was the cubicle where I left my clothes. I’m about to yank open the curtain when Vincent stops me.

“No, madam. You’re in cubicle number five.”

He does. He thinks I’m a raunchy slut who’s trying to take advantage of the young man in cubicle seven that I almost exposed for all to see – much like my lily-white ass. I get dressed in cubicle five and I can almost hear the harps playing as I get closer to the toilets. Just before I enter the bathroom I overhear an assistant informing a new patient that she doesn’t have to take of all of her clothes – just her shirt and bra.

Vincent, you kinky fucker.

I see the sign on the door and very little has ever made me happier. The universe had a change of heart – there is no line. It’s just me. Me and my toilet. Finally.

I drop my pants and the harps begin to crescendo. I catch a glimpse of my face in the mirror and finally I know what I look like in the throes of passion. I just sit there and revel in the moment, my elbows on my thighs, eyes closed. I hear a knock on the door and realize that there are fellow ultrasounders still in pain.

When I get to the front, the receptionist hands me my reports.

“That will be R940 madam.”

What? I just showed much more skin that I needed to and they charge me?

I feel a little used.

As I walk out the door I start humming a tune…

Dear Chasey Lain, I wrote to explain………..

What a crazy time to be alive!

That man with the terrible hairstyle and strange complexion is at the helm of what is considered to be the most powerful country in the world. The United States of America is slowly but surely regressing to the conservative nation it once was. Bigotry is rife and minorities are deeply concerned and anxious in that country.

Even the elite community of Hollywood is in turmoil as women who have been suffering from abuse are finding the courage to speak up. Careers spanning so many years are being destroyed, and in some cases, celebrities that we have been putting on pedestals are found to be despicable human beings with feet of clay.

On home soil, it seems that our former president allowed the unconscionable Guptas to influence some major decisions that he was trusted to make, leading the country into a darkness that it’s now slowly emerging from – not without consequence. Corruption is at the order of the day and every citizen of this country is feeling insecure and overwhelmed.

The tourist Mecca of South Africa, the Western Cape, is under immense pressure caused by a water shortage. While some provinces are being blessed with rain in abundance, the Western Cape, who is in dire need of rain, is parched. Fanatical religious leaders are urging the people of the Western Cape to repent, as if a loving God would ostracize a selected community and punish them exclusively. What is probably meant to inspire trust in a godly force, now inspires doubt.

Among all of this chaos and insecurity, your Mommy rubs her hands across her swollen belly. You can probably feel a pleasant tingling down your spine – I can tell, because it makes you squirm and we take such delight in watching the tiny ripples across your Mommy’s belly.

I don’t know where things are heading with Trump or if there ever will be justice for what the Guptas did. I don’t know what the solution is to the water crisis either, but I think you might find some comfort in the things that I do know.

I know that you have the most beautiful little sister that lights up a room with her presence. She has a huge personality in a tiny little body and she demands attention like you can’t believe. She likes dressing up like the princess she is and she has bucket loads of energy. Her smile can make the sun break through the clouds on the bleakest of days.

I know that you have a loving, extremely supportive and hands-on Daddy that will sacrifice anything to make sure that all of your needs are met. He is always there to wipe away tears, allows your sister to paint his nails, and has a bottomless well of patience. He is a man that you will be very proud of and if you just follow in his footsteps you will inherit an arsenal of tools that will allow you to stand out among the crowd. Try and dress like Daddy too – he’s quite stylish. Just pay attention to how he treats your Mommy and follow suit.

I know that you have a Mommy with superpowers! She knows exactly when your sister is up to no good and she can sense when Daddy is planning a golf day. Be careful around her – she knows things. She also happens to be utterly devoted to her family and she does everything in her power to ensure that you and your sister will have everything that your hearts may desire. She’s not the most vocal woman on earth, but pay attention, because her hugs and cuddles will do the talking. Her devotion knows no bounds and in her, you will always find a soft landing.

I know that you have wonderful grandparents. There is no doubt in my mind that they would lay down their lives for their grandchildren and are all so excited to meet you! They raised amazing children, so if you need to tap into some wisdom, they are your best bet. Pay attention to how Mommy and Daddy treat them and follow suit.

I know that you have the coolest aunts and uncles ever. They will shower you with love and attention and make you feel welcome in their company. Your aunts are all inspiring in their own way and there is so much to be learned from them. They were all blessed with supportive husbands and you will always be among great men.

You see, the truth is that things will always go wrong in this world. There will always be destructive, selfish presidents. Natural processes aren’t flawless. Rainfall patterns are out of whack and global warming is wreaking havoc. These are all things that are not under our control. Nothing is perfect. The key is to shift our focus to things that don’t petrify us. The reality is that in the darkest of nights, there is always a glimmer of light.

There will always be people brave enough to dedicate their lives to exposing corruption. There will always be people selfless enough to become the voice for those who are not strong enough to do it for themselves. There will always be people considerate enough to inspire generosity in hopeless situations.

In your life, my little boy, there will always be the McCutcheons, Annandales, Friebes, Venters and the Hunters. There will also always be the Niebertse.

There will always be hope, love, and the knowledge that in the end, everything works out imperfectly fine.

One of the numerous things about human beings that completely baffle me is why we insist on lying to ourselves. It’s entirely possible that I am the only one actually guilty of this, and that fact doesn’t really console me. In fact, it infuriates me more than the lying does. You know which part is the strangest? The absolute shock and horror when I realize that I lied to myself. Again. How dare I?

I am officially in an adulterous relationship with myself – discovering every transgression, much like lipstick on the collar of a cheating spouse, (I am wracking my brains trying to figure out what the lesbian equivalent is since we all know lipstick is not a given – do I suck as a lesbian for not knowing? Do I suck as a human being for thinking inappropriate thoughts when someone mentions sucking?)

Like with any other extra-marital affair the lies range in gravity. You get the tiny little lies that leave very little undisturbed – no real harm done, right? In this category would be the honey-I’m-working-late lie. The tiny little lies I tell myself range from, I will start keeping a regular diary (you can probably copy the bible word for word on the pages of my unwritten diaries) to, I will really stop farting in the car (again, this could only be me, but I would feel significantly better about myself if I can get some validation from fellow farters).

These are some of the little lies that irk me the most.

1) I will start keeping a regular diary (surprise)

No, I probably won’t. In fact, I honestly don’t see the fucking point. What am I? Anne Frank? The reality is that if I had to keep a regular diary and some unlucky bastard happens to stumble across it years from now, he would not gain one ounce of wisdom from it – if it’s a he, he will probably feel that we are kindred spirits if he comes across my motivation summary for topless Fridays. If it’s a she, she would run screaming from the attic. Yes, my diary would be buried in an attic. It sounds cooler than it being discovered between two copies of Fifty Shades of Grey and How to win friends and influence people. I don’t know which one scarred me more.

2) I will stop farting in the car

I actually find this one a little disturbing and will try and give it another shot. No promises.

3) I will stop biting my fingernails

Yes, I will. For short periods of time. The truth is that I don’t care how many fucking strains of bacteria can be found under my nails. When so-and-so from this-or-that-department gets on my tits, I will take out all of my frustration on my fingernails. Unlike punching someone in the balls, biting my nails will never get me fired.

4) I will lose weight

Yes, I will substitute my pasta meals for lunch with the odd cracker and tuna here and there, desperately trying to convince myself that the smell of tuna makes me feel connected to the ocean. It doesn’t. It makes my office smell like the underwear of a crack whore. And what are all those little veiny parts? Are they fucking veins?

5) I will not be so quick-tempered

I prefer the word cantankerous, because it makes me sound like a superhero instead of the foaming-at-the-mouth-hyperventilating-bitch that I can be sometimes. Look, let it not be said that I haven’t tried in this department. I’ve had arrangements with humanity before – you stop acting like an asshole and I will play nice. Problem is, there’s always this one bright spark that will renege on the deal and that means all bets are off and out comes my inner-bitch. I can tell you that she does not count to ten and take deep breaths. Ain’t nobody got time for that.

6) I will stop being so opinionated

Just fucking no.

7) I will remember to untangle my socks (I wear two pairs of socks every day – the white ones go on first, and then I cover them with black ones. Don’t judge. That’s a different blog entirely) before I put them in the washing. At the same time I will remember to unroll the sleeves of my shirts (90% of my shirts are three-quarters – yet another blog on its own).

I feel like I should work harder at this one. Also, my girlfriend reads my blogs. Also, she packs my lunch and who knows how she might retaliate? With veiny tuna perhaps!

8) I will stop swearing

See number 6 above

9) I will try not to ingest some form of chocolate every day

See number 6 above

That deals with the tiny little lies. I feel like I should at least mention the more outrageous and hurtful lies. Not because they leave me whimpering in a corner with my thumb in my mouth, but because if I see them on paper, I just might break if off with the skanky version of myself completely. These are the more serious lies, such as it-only-happened-that-one-time-and-she-means-nothing-to-me. These are the more devastating lies. The ones that keep us tossing and turning at night, fantasizing about chopping that mistress up in tiny little pieces and serving her as dinner to the neighbor’s dog. Or my other favorite – slashing through her Achilles tendons and setting a fire behind her. Thank goodness I’m not vindictive or anything like that. I feel like I should mention that I haven’t been cheated on. It could be because my girlfriend is honorable, but it could also be because she is fond of her Achilles tendons. I’m going with the honorable part.

These are the big fat lies that make me cry.

1) I will stop taking it so personally when my novel is turned down for publication

Firstly, have you popped out a novel from the deep recesses of your soul? I know that makes it sound like releasing a turd after being severely constipated, but try on your serious face. If you haven’t, then please don’t pretend like you know how it feels when someone takes a stroll around the inside of your mind and pass judgement on your decorating abilities. Nothing will ever be as personal as that. It’s very similar to people commenting on your baby’s big ears, or that lazy little eye that you perceive as uniquely beautiful while the rest of the world calls it squint.

It will be devastating every fucking time. I’m okay with that. It makes me want to do it even more. I can be a stubborn little fucker that way.

2) I will not be lonely when I’m seventy and childless

There will come a time when I will look in the mirror and the person staring back at me will be the only person left. That’s my reality and I live with it every day. Besides the practical benefits of having grown-up children when you are seventy, such as diaper changing, ass-wiping, feeding and clothing, there is obviously the sentimental value of knowing that you were responsible for the miracle that is life. I will never be able to point at someone and say, “Look, I contributed to who that wonderful person became”. I will just be honest and admit right now that I am more terrified of the fact that I don’t know who will wipe my ass. Also, I have really sensitive skin and if my diaper is not changed often enough there will be fiery consequences. Literally.

3) Nothing scares me

This can’t possibly be true for any human being, can it? I mean just look at number 2 above. I’ve already admitted that I’m terrified of thinking about who will wipe my ass. Fear is relative though, so what scares you might not scare me and vice versa. Very little does scare me, but I’m not immune. The thought of trying to figure out how to cope with the loss of a parent scares me as much as it does the next person. Imagining my life without my girlfriend is horrifying – nobody will ever love me as profoundly, understand me as effortlessly, and trust me as unquestionably. Moths. They scare the living shit out of me.

You might find it interesting that it took me all of 10 minutes to list the 9 little lies, while it took me longer than an hour to list the 3 big fat lies. This makes me reassess the entire situation. I am no longer entirely sure that this should end in a break-up after all. Perhaps I can live with the little lies. Should this love not be unconditional? Like any other form of love, perhaps self-love should also conquer all.

You know what?

I’m okay with me. In the grand scheme of things, I don’t mind being a slightly overweight, feisty, opinionated, non-diary-keeping, foul-mouth. Perhaps I took our relationship for granted and forgot to say nice things to me. Perhaps I stopped buying me flowers and arranging myself much-deserved massages. Maybe I stopped making time for me. It’s possible that I was being too hard on myself.

I deserve better from me.

I should love me better.

I should take me, to be my faithful companion, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part.

I just totally chucked my virtual bouquet up in the air. It wasn’t all traditional and shit. I’m not boring like that. It was an arrangement of black roses. In fact, I wore a black suit. Fuck the white dress, okay. I haven’t been seen in one since Charlie Sheen was a virgin.

Now, catch the fucker and be next in line to vow to love yourself forever.

I had a dream.

It was nothing like Martin Luther King’s visions. It was more trippy and confusing than that. The theme right through every dream I’ve ever had, is confusion. I never seem to know why I am wherever I am – and not in an existential crisis kind of way either. I literally do not know where I am and why I am there. I can never find my family and my phone is never functional.

This time, it was no different.

I am ushered into the back of a room that can either be a classroom or a party venue. Confusion. For some reason, my hair is soaking wet. No, it isn’t raining and strangely I am the only person resembling a wet dog. A few people are lining up behind a desk for a purpose unknown to me. Uncharacteristically, in my dreams, I don’t try very hard to figure out where I am supposed to be going. It’s like I’ve made peace with the fact that I will forever be lost. Suddenly I am second in line and I can see the person behind the desk. Melissa Brayden!

What?! Melissa Brayden?

Being a huge fan, a million stupid thoughts run through my mind. I forget about my soaking, messy hair and try to figure out a way to impress her. I know! I will show her a picture of a goat. No! It dawns on me that it’s in fact Georgia Beers that would be wooed by my goat picture. Okay, okay. I will tell her that her son looks like an angel. Wait. No, that’s Rachel Spangler’s son. Shit. I can always tell her how much I loved A Fairytale of Possibilities. That would be random, since Kiki Archer actually wrote that book. Boobs. I would tell her that I am obsessed with boobs and that we have that common! She would probably have me removed since I actually have that in common with Tig Ashton. Suddenly, it’s my turn (for what, I still have no clue) and I’ve run out of ideas.

Well, I’m next, and Melissa is either going to blow dry my hair or mark my test paper. The problem is that she seems ill equipped for both. Man, did she come unprepared. She has no blow dryer or pen. She’s literally just sitting behind the desk, paging through papers. She was probably sitting on her couch, minding her own business, when the leader of the Dream Team tapped her on the shoulder and ordered her into my dreams.

Finally, she smiles at me and pages through a paper that I am assuming is mine.

Provincetown! That’s what I’ll talk about.

“So, did you enjoy your week in Provincetown?” I finally ask.

She blushes profusely and I realize that I have just completely outed my teacher/hairdresser and she’s either going to fuck up my hair or give me terrible grades.

Without a word she jumps up from the desk and starts blow drying my hair with a dryer that had magically appeared out of nowhere. Guess I failed my test then. She seems really pissed off with me. She asks me if I want her to do a cut as well, but the dreamy version of me is also very wise. I know of a million ways she can get back at me with a pair of scissors in my hair, so I politely decline her offer.

She abandons her post as hairdresser midway through a blow drying session that really wasn’t going to be her best work and she starts taking selfies with random people in the classroom/party venue/salon. I stare at my phone which is on the verge of dying, as usual. I look around the room for someone who can take a picture of me and Melissa. I figure I won’t ask her to take one with her phone, because she clearly wants to get away from me as soon possible and I just know that she’ll never send me the picture. I start asking people around me if they could take our picture, but apparently none of their cell phones had cameras. I have to admit that I suspect a conspiracy between Melissa and every other person in that room. No pictures would be taken of me.

Finally, my mother appears out of nowhere. There’s probably a prop room in dreamland. It’s weird how props and people just suddenly appear out of thin air when they are needed. In my case, the store clerk is probably like, ‘Who knows what the fuck she’s going to dream up this time. Just stock up on unicorns and chainsaws. You know what happened last month’. I probably have my own little red room of painful props.

Relieved to see my mother, I grab her by the shoulders.

“Look, Mom. See who it is? It’s Melissa Brayden!”

My mom sports a blank look on her face. Like the prop manager forgot to program her.

“You know I have read all of her books, Mom! Remember, I showed you the cover of her new book on my Kindle yesterday!”

There’s a flutter of recognition on my mother’s face and she starts describing the cover of Poppy Jenkins. Embarrassment.

“No, Mom! That’s not what I showed you!”

At Melissa who is doing her utmost to ignore me : “Melissa, that’s not what I showed her. She’s old. She forgets things.”

If all else fails, turn on your family for Melissa’s approval.

It’s Melissa’s turn to wear the blank look.

She’s had enough. Without another word, she slips out the door and disappears into a crowd of strangers.

“Have a good one,” I mumble.

I’m a serial reader. The worst kind. I don’t even hide the evidence. In fact, I take great pleasure in displaying my collection of victims on shelves all over my house. I love being surrounded by them and my addiction is so powerful, that I can be found with my nose in a book for most part of the day.

My Modus Operandi is simple. I take every possible opportunity to escape reality and slip into another world where people get along, and bicycles are just bicycles.

It happens from time to time – your neck gets stiff and the letters start to blur. You simply have to perform a neck roll and a stretch before you can carry on reading. So you surface to the real world for a short while.

Boy was I shocked when I came up for air yesterday. Everywhere I turned, I was faced with Facebook pages urging people to sabotage an entire radio station. I started searching the internet, scolding myself for always having my nose in a book while life happens around me. I found some references to Tumi Morake and some bicycle.

Never having seen a comedian on a bicycle, my interest was somewhat piqued, so I dug a little deeper.

I listened to interviews, read articles, and scanned through some of the most disturbing comments on Facebook I have ever seen.

Is there a lot to be said about the entire debacle?

Sure.

Here’s what I know:

1. I still haven’t seen a comedian on a bicycle
2. The analogy Tumi Morake used to explain Apartheid is spot on
3. As uncomfortable as it might make any white South African, the bicycle belonged to the black South Africans. Why? This: If you are white and you live in SA, you will find that your forefathers are not originally from SA – you might be British, German, Italian, Dutch or Portuguese. If you are black and you do NOT live in SA, you will find that your forefathers are originally from Africa.
4. The bicycle was forcefully taken from black South Africans. If it wasn’t done by force, slavery wouldn’t have existed.
5. Democratic elections brought into power a new government – the bicycle was declared a SHARED asset.

This is where I stop agreeing with Tumi.

Here’s what I also know:

1. There was in fact retribution. The purpose of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission was restorative justice. That happened. The commission chaired the amnesty applications for 7112 cases of white people that had committed crimes of abuse in the Apartheid era. Only 849 of these applicants received amnesty. That’s what I call retribution. Was the system flawless? No. No system ever is.
2. Affirmative action also happened. That’s a form of retribution.
3. Retribution happened in the past, Tumi. You talk about your struggle and I will never diminish that. However, I would like to introduce to you the struggle nobody ever speaks of. The struggled of being white while NOT being a racist. We get ostracized by our own white families for being too “liberal”. Because of the colour of our skin, certain black people also assume that we are oppressors or at the very least, the spawn of those oppressors. That struggle is also real.
4. When you plan to have a meaningful conversation with people, know your audience and don’t speak in anger
5. So much venom can be eliminated simply by acknowledgement. Don’t ever underestimate the power of acknowledging someone else’s frustration, pain, or loss.
6. Stop making children pay for the sins of their fathers. If you were born in 1994, you’ve had 23years of equal opportunity. That affords you ample time to go to school, graduate, and become employed. No more white privilege nonsense.
7. If you were born after 1994, stop apologizing for the abomination that was Apartheid. No more collective guilt feelings. If you were born after 1994, stop raising the issue of Apartheid. No more excuses.
8. If you feel you have to share your opinion, be respectful about it
9. If you are still pro-white or pro-black, do us all a favor and buy that ticket. We don’t need you here. This bicycle is pro-peace. This bicycle belongs to everyone and if it moves, it moves forward.

Now, I would like to thank humanity for reminding me why I prefer keeping my nose in a book where Poppy Jenkins strolls down a lane lined with summary flowers, with a beautiful old castle in the backdrop, with a song in her huge heart that knows no bigotry.