Therapy session

Let’s play pretend. You can pretend to push back your imaginary glasses to the bridge of your nose. You can pretend to take down important notes on your writing pad. You can stare at me and pretend to listen. I mean you do not really have to. But. I would appreciate it. If you took a moment to pretend like you cared enough to. To listen to how I play pretend every single day. So much that sometimes I pretend like I forgot to take off the mask. Just so I do not have to start asking myself why or why not. Just so the gap toothed smile remains etched from ear to ear, giving Rasta ideas. Point is, let us pretend like I am sitting across you and smoking a blunt to calm my nerves.

Let’s start from the beginning, shall we? Maybe not the beginning. Let’s flip the script. I’ll give myself a diagnosis. You tell me what I probably went through. Question is. Do I even know who I am? Who am I? Here goes nothing. Therapy session.

I am a people pleaser. I’d rather act insensitive to disrespect than make you feel uncomfortable with the truth. I’d rather let you dance on my head. Itsipa mntwana. Than call you out on your bullshit. I’d rather sit at the back of the room, not raise my hand and downplay my intelligence than appear like a woke girl that not only knows how to spell the word ‘no’ but knows how to use it. I’d rather quieten my voice than say my opinions so I don’t hurt your feelings.

I am not confrontational. Each time someone tries it with me at the back of my mind I think, “Oooh! So they think if this were to turn into a fist fight they’d win. What sheer disrespect!” It’s not an either or situation. It can only be that. In my books atleast. Being small and soft spoken doesn’t help it. Being sensitive to the slightest change of tone or body language doesn’t help it.

I am a lover. I love hard. I love deeply. I love truly. I believe in family. I believe in my girlfriends. I believe in indoda. In every single way. Possible. I’ll tattoo your name on my forehead baby. I’m a rider.

I am insecure. I seek validation. I worry about what you will say when I fail the examination. I worry about what you will say when I get the nose piercings. Yes. In plural form. The body art. I worry about what you will say when you see what’s under my wig. I worry about what you will say when you see him sitting across me at this dinner table. I worry about not meeting your expectations. I worry about letting you down.

I am a liar. I lie to myself. What more you? I say I’m fine when I am not. I put on a mask and show up everyday when I don’t feel like it. I say I miss you too when I haven’t thought about you in the longest of times. I say I’ll make a plan when what I mean is I’ll cry about it first. I say I’ve got it when in actual fact I don’t got it.

I am calm. I seem to have my shit together. Do I have my shit together? No. I am stubborn. When I think I’m right. You cannot convince me otherwise. I am moody. I am reserved. I am emotional. I am a quitter. I am naive. I am tired. I am a lot of things. A whole lot.

How long must I wrestle with my thoughts and day after day have sorrow in my heart? How long will my enemy triumph over me? Look on me and answer, Lord my God. Give light to my eyes, or I will sleep in death.

Psalm 13:2-3

I say I am when what I mean is ‘I was’. I am not. I wish I was. Well. Maybe not. I have been caught up in how I want things to be. How they should be. Not how they are. So caught up in who I want to be. Who I should be. Not who I am.

Pain changed me. Expectations I couldn’t live up to changed me. Heartbreak changed me. Loss changed me. Being violated changed me. Having to be strong when all I wanted was to curl up and die changed me. Watching you grieve changed me. Love changed me. Growth changed me. Hunger changed me. Knowing noone is coming to save me changed me. Knowing I’m on my own changed me. Mistrust changed me. My child changed me. Trying to fit in and stand out at the same time changed me. Not being valued changed me. My reality changed me. Watching my only candle blown out changed me. In more ways than one.

I feel detached from this body. Floating. Maybe it’s the blunt I pretended I was smoking. Maybe I’m high. Maybe I do know me after all. Half smoulder. Half firecracker. A hot mess. Literally haha. Have you met me? Beautiful. Do you think I need another session with you? Or two? Maybe you could tell me how to be a better human being. A young woman on top of her game. In the meantime. Let me continue to pretend like I am super woman.