I was silent for six months in Tara in Johannesburg. Initially, I was not addicted to that idea at all. My heart was not mental, crazy, or crazy, or about the madness of a crazy madman who I think is the reincarnation of Jesus. I was always tired, so I just took a rest. Sorrow and misfortune penetrated all pores, every bone, and the core of my body. I was diagnosed with depression. I will cry asleep at night. I blurred that my body was broken with a pillow. The world I knew was blinding with my tears.
The hospital where my parents sent me when my parents were depressed was an island with wealthy people in the patient and a magnificent mansion with a kitchenette for the swimming pool. Some of the patients swam,. Young people with poor appetite swim slowly swimming in the air above and below the pool. Inhalation and expiration. Only flew for six months, I was released before my birthday. Please tell me how I escaped to Swaziland in South Africa. It's a long story, but I am making it short and sweet.
I remember the day at Port Elizabeth just before I went to Johannesburg. I curled up on the beach, barefoot, polished, polished toes standing on the beach. My mother who was slowly walking in front of me ignored me. As cold water ran on my feet, I hurried around the water. I thought how much I felt as being part of something bigger than myself, how much I was rewarded. The sea has always influenced me. I am not from a person who wants to know how I can benefit from it, but from humanity.
I am a waves, a rock pool, a foamy white brush, an unidentified piece lying around me, that the sky is melting blue, the rescuer's body is a smooth stone, stone, pebble, light, costume swimmer The beach and my sand feet. I began collecting small shells and pickled salted pepper in that shell.
I remembered the sunrise of pink and the sunrise of Lilac. Frozen ice cream, hamburgers, long hot dogs of feet, soft food like dreams will help my family to go out with my family as my childhood. I remembered all this before I fled to other African countries in a timely fashion.
There was no sea in Swaziland. It is a landlocked country and I longed for the sea often while I was there. With that you never swim. I just missed the large vast water, the dark green water under the pier, the sweetness scattered throughout the beachfront scenery, and the shallow pools in the skies the children used to play in a long time ago. I missed the pizza with my family, the white sun, "something good" and "microphone kitchen".
When I was born, my parents already chose my name. Alice. Aristocrasa. Currently I go to a boarding school in Swaziland, but I live a life in Port Elizabeth. A city facing the sea in South Africa. I live with my aunt, my uncle, my two cousins, Felicia and Magda. It was my dream to study movies at the London Film and Television School, but I decided that they would not accept the South African school qualifications. I decided to study my O & # 39 level and A level at a school in Swaziland.
My family in Swaziland was relieved with peace of mind.
When I still spent with my relatives, my aunt will make these delicious and delicious sandwiches I will take to school in the morning. We were close. I liked her. She was funny, the end and sweet, even when she got a bit drunk, I did not mind. She compensated for it. She swam from the beer can of the garden, breathed out breathlessly, then threw out the evidence behind the bush.
I do not know when words and physical abuse began. I always saw my uncle fortunately lucky to be fortunate. He was always smiling on his face, quiet, kind and calm, but he was drunk. I was not really shocked by this wild return from my own dysfunctional house. I was able to sympathize with my cousin what I did on a daily basis as they were growing up. Nevertheless, their domestic conflict frustrated me.
I thought that I was avoiding anomalies when I was from Port Elizabeth. Domestic distortion may leave signs for participants and unwilling witnesses. They can often be cruel and you can leave the color of plums in the air like breeze. As if you can not control your feelings, thoughts and emotions, you may feel sick, become crazy, or your head slightly get mad. It intentionally destroys and distorts the hometown of people around this unnatural and unnatural violence.
When my aunt began to drink, deliberately and recklessly, when turned face down, I pretended not to see her side. I do not remember his uncle raised up. Emotion tended to be higher in that family. I never stayed there forever. I ran away to a boarding school of St. George Mark's senior high school who met Lule and her sister Menuala.
Someday we went out to eat ice cream. A momentary applause and intense friendship spread over chocolate ice cream sundae which was toppled with red malachino cherry covered with chocolate sauce
My father never truly confronted my decision. He worried. He felt sick. Although he was discreet, I decided to return to another African country after returning to 16 years old. It was later that he taught him how hard it was that he could make me very young alone alone away from home.
It did not stop me more than how I was able to go ahead and make damage in parallel with people, families, and her and other people's relationships. This is what I thought about my mother's dangerous, dark behavior. It was on the other side of her. The other one 's stranger did not see it. My mother was not the easiest person to do with him. This is one of the reasons for my escape to Swaziland.
Growth was not easy. It was not easy to move from home. It was not easy to make new friends at the new school. I made a cool new friend who has a magazine like me. Sometimes I go to her house in the afternoon after school and she will make our tip and we will look at the MTV channel of the music represented by Swazi TV and we will do our homework and talk .
There were also restaurants we went sometimes. Sit there, drink coke through a long white straw and talk about the career of the music she dreamed of. I wanted to go to the British Council library on the same street. You were able to bring the video for a week and I do not know if it's a week or two. But sometimes I still have sad things. I still felt unhappy. I could not put my fingers on it.
If everything seems to work for me, why am I in the same old rut that I hate myself, such as myself and I, people around me, what is happening in the world, Iraq, war, etc. Did you see it sticking? I always helped when I wrote it in my magazine. I have written all my fears, thoughts and emotions. It seemed like free therapy. I did not have to face confrontation with a counselor at times, sometimes boring, sometimes lonely, or when looking after and sometimes annoying.
Mankind was as long as I saw it in the newspaper, and the news fell from grace. I exploded in the civil war, the store was deprived, destroyed, riots and violence occurred in the village, exploded to our neighbors and comfortable suburbs, not shouting screams on top of the voice I worried that women and children invaded the house and steal us naked to cause death, people toys toys in town.
I was miserable at Port Elizabeth. In South Africa, the air was dry and it had a certain taste. I have no real friends. When I was in my era, I could feel that my life leaked out of me. It made me feel like I grew up more and felt as if I had blessed with some sacred knowledge that I have to keep the secrets of the world. All to yourself. It made me feel special and important. I finally felt that I was a woman.
Free love is the worst love for all people. Every day it just makes you feel like you just crashed and burned. It does not matter when, where, where you are. Your feelings, bad things, bad feelings raise up on you and crawl up. Now it is creepy itself. I began to noticed slowly at the age of 14. In Swaziland, I longed, burned and asked the students a question. I have been thinking about Kenneth lately. I will not get married for love. I fell in love every day. It was science. It was chemistry. It was a tone of someone's voice. He expresses himself and his voice clearly, and he was driving a fast car like the F1 driver, for example.
If his hair is kind, calm and caring, there is a big socialist concern that riding in my habit and car, care about myself, there may be somebody in the book. Someone was made up of intelligent ideas, writer talent and versatile pen. I did not mind really hanging photos of celebrities and rich on the walls of my bedroom. I usually found them pretty bored and I did not have any personality, spine or personality. My hero was usually what a female writer thought. It may also drive me to the wild.
You can imagine words like 'red brown copper curl' or 'blue eyes' or the sun shining on your hair. I think that I will diffuse my anger and frustration. It was a sweet and sweet smile, so I was really impressed. I could not go, or surrender.
I wondered how women feel when she did an excuse -less act of killing himself for love like Romeo and Juriet, as she dies for men. I could not imagine love was so creepy.
I have words as well. Talk to the mummy when I called. However, she never did. I was the one who called me all the time. I talked on the phone. Sometimes she stands up from her. I merely spice her but I was biting my nose because it was my father who paid an expensive phone fee. He paid all the calls from Swaziland to Port Elizabeth in South Africa.
That era of my life is over. I made up my mind to marry long ago but I only had children.
Kenny Lowry, a wonderful English teacher. He was an ordinary sarcasm, not a bald Pait British. I was really angry and in love with him deeply. I did not believe in teenage, fashionable, crush. Of course, he was not in love with me. He got married and divorced, and they tell the children how they talked to the children who lived in the UK with their mother. rumor. Whenever I can pour out my attachment I will write to magazine in his letter. Yes, I was talking. I have always been there for the elderly.
He was writing a book published by Heinemann. Once again I heard this through rumors that are floating around the school. I could still see the boy, a young man in him yet, which he thought made me feel more attractive to me. In his eyes there was a small brown spot like a golden bead.
I was safe here in Swaziland, while swimming in the lush hills and rural valleys, and in the swimming pool at my school swimming with my friend. I was apart from the emotional injuries and scars of my childhood home of my dysfunction in remote South Africa.
Every day, we succeed in building human strength and confidence, classifying ourselves from various ethnic groups that have bothered us since the inception of the inborn class system, the present situation, time I was surprised.
Today is a perfect day. My hair is perfect. It is shining, there is no hair outside my place on my head. I just went straight to the hair salon and was straight. So my hair lies flat on my head as if I have a perm, and it is not shortened. It was a natural way. My hair usually operated uncontrollably, especially when it was raining.
October will be a long month. I had lunch today. It was a soft, white creamy mashed potato with a high mountain top and fried fish cooked in a batter. It did not sound quite glamourous, but it was a nice taste. I can cook.
The teacher's strike can be continued with full power. I am staying in the upper class of the school in the hostel 's White House. They say that they will close soon, but I have doubts. I got up late this morning. 10: 15 am. Dolly Parton is playing on the radio.
The universe is a joke the alien made to us. Every day at school I was "Alice in Wonderland". The school was my playground. In my newspaper, abstracts and detailed reports on the day-to-day observations I had around learners, parents, teachers, principals, and meetings were created. The school was Neverland. Nobody was wise during the year when I went to a school of age I grew up.
The school's most popular boy died in a car accident, a monument was held at school. His mother, who was in the car, survived. What I came back to in the second semester of the grade to listen to that interesting news was very sad. It frightened me. He was very young. He had a bright future in front of him, but now everything has disappeared and exploded.
I really did not know him.
The weather is rough and depressed. I wrote a letter to my grandmother. I ended it. I left it incomplete. I can not compare my problem with the destruction of the world's nuclear weapons and the war factors of African tribes. I can not hurt people. They insist that they are just alive.
I am Sta to Mya. I talked to my pen friend from. Francis Bay on the phone I was wearing yellow jersey when I was invited to meet at the shopping mall. I did not own myself either. I said the first thing I came in my head. That was a crazy idea. We met at a local shopping mall. When we met, I was not wearing a yellow jersey. We recognized each other from the pictures we sent to each other. I am full of these made, crazy ideas, but I do not know if it is due to my depression or if I have some strange talent in some way.
It felt when my mother had never really loved me or grew up as an awkward, a strange young man. There is a picture I have in my head of the picture I found. I may be two people. She is grasping on me and her head is away from the camera. My father said that he smiled and was laughing when I asked him about this. She told me that her facial expression was happily one of happiness and love.
My mother was outside the picture of Swaziland. She rarely talked to family and friends there. But in some ways I knew I was like her. Although I was alike, I resembled her more than my father. I looked like him.
I volunteer & # 39; Red Cross & # 39; short term in Swaziland. I was happy. I was doing something productive. It made me passionate. I am no longer a father's girl. Or "A little girl has been lost." I can imagine that growing up is doing what other adults did. It gave me a duty emotion, empathy, unique consideration for others. I became more sensitive to vision and the serious problems others did. I did not think anything like a hospitalized patient among lithium patients who are in the hospital. Already
I did not do anything from the sense of duty. One day, the Red Cross director please transfer me to the pre-primary school in the rural countryside where I worked with the little children all day. I played with them and read to them. I interacted with other people who seemed to have the same goal as me. I work with other people. I found that it is a difficult task to eliminate the difference between people who have different beliefs and cultures from me.
A word like symmetry & # 39; carbon footprint & # 39; tempted me at school. They excited me. As I wrote in my magazine, words will spill hard from my pen. In the local library I did everyday, I read books, huge icons and superstars, international magazines, local magazines, fashion magazines,
I have been growing rapidly, I realized that people can touch that person's life through people. Every moment of change is marked something with pain. War zone and its heat and dry winter. In distant countries filled with the fierce heat of Africa and the unfamiliar territory of war, it seemed to always remain behind my intellect, my idea, my opinion, my minority consciousness.
It makes me more aware of the world around me. It does not make me feel like an outsider. That makes me feel I am not so alone. I passed through my war zone. I know what the climate is like. I know the scar of personal space and psychological fighting that exists somewhere in the heart of that child. Sulfur in the night sky, ruthless bombing and airstriking seem to be well-known in the way I think that it wants to remain.
I do not know why but I feel that I can relate to the stolen innocence and rebellious and stubborn air, the noisy threats lurking in the eyes of those children soldiers. Their eyes are a transparent pool in the sky. I am staring at what is hiding in the corner of the camera. Their violence that is not going straight is cruel, horrible, there is no game plan with no strategy, only killing, torture, torture, and slave murder. They had a foolish style.
In the African war, the lives of children are robbed of innocence, persecution, and exploitation. We are greedily seeking rehabilitation and recovery of children's soldiers threatening guns on the cover of international magazines and newspapers and books, a rapid social change in African countries of the continent. I read the name of the African countries by civil war, refugees, poor people, dead, parcels from OXFAM and international aid, terribly wounded children and devastated countries quietly isolated in my head It was. They hit each person like a bomb, shoot all things and defeat the enemy. Like a battlefield soldier fighting camouflage in Rwanda's ferocious fever and slaughter. Sudan, Somalia, Democratic Republic of the Congo, Rwanda, Kenya, Ghana, Zambia, Zimbabwe, Angola, Mozambique, Algeria, Tunisia, Turkey, Egypt, Ethiopia. I have found all this. In Swaziland 's library and television, we found this madness and traces of invisible gaps. I could not fit in my head how much the war's repulsion was massive.
It seemed as if he was singing war songs for injuries like me. They were out of reach in a comforting way. Play with smoke and mirrors with happy family photos and portraits, and replenish nutrition in the belly. Most of this information comes from the British Council 's library, newspaper, swaziland' s evening news bulletin board etc.
I remembered at Port Elizabeth when I was 12 years old. One summer afternoon, when I saw my grandmother and CNN, my headache was felt, the feeling like sickness and nausea was slightly unpleasant. When I first encountered a cemetery that was first discovered in Bosnia and Herzegovina, I felt like floating on the ground and floating outside my body. The image was displayed on the screen as & # 39; Breaking News & # 39; & # 39; They were seen all over the world, but what I remember was the weekday afternoon fever after school. I was busy doing homework eating my & Ouma & # 39; sandwich. It was made of thick, slippery sweet golden fig jam containing thick, solidified ripe fig.
This is long before Tara, long before flight to Swaziland. It is long before journal entry begins with golden notebook. War fascinated me, all the pounds of my flesh, my brain; It brought my creative ejaculation and applause of what I was thinking about corruption and positive behavior. I had the opinion that it was the individual's choice that I chose to lose my virgin (although I know it is not appropriate). I grew loud and violently when real love was waiting. I came to our school in the position that you must remain a virgin until you got married.
This was in front of Swaziland, before my diagnosed depression. Everyday I was strangely expressing my face on politicians and all opinions related to law and order from current affairs issues. I looked at police television programs and dramas and solved my mass injustice, occasional death, suicide. There was no moment when I was bothered by it. My teachers thought that I would be a journalist. I discussed the inclination and inconsistency of my essay in today's difficult problems and English classes in a way I interacted in class.
I was only able to see how various translations of senior citizens, weak people, fragments of delicate and fragile human bodies were fighting in print, television, or conversation. I was helpless in the face of the siege battle and battle that had been done everyday. I stayed far away from them and stayed at the hostel in Swaziland. My spirit and my soul were safe from psychological or all other harm. In Swaziland, my home in South Africa lacked peace and harmony in my heart.
I was surprised by humans in the countries where lives and livelihoods were destroyed during the war suffering from poverty. Its strength and elasticity helps to keep fighting against oppression and exploitation of the end. I can not do anything in my arms, just by a journalist colliding the unfairness of the world with weapons, monarchs of war, enemies, police spies, information providers, and the sword that kept away by the distance Especially the length from the truth surprised
Swaziland taught us many truths. Especially taught me to think that I am more courageous than the thought of the world. I had the courage to save my credit. It made me realize some more truth. I am still a free freedom of speech, a new regeneration of my country and spare nobody's democracy and independence, and I was a writer who is appreciated in reasonable and convincing voice I value it.
My motivation to write was that my walking from school, the hail shower in Swaziland, the flower forest, the fall of Port Elizabeth, the fall of leaves, the winds of trees, the golden threads of my sisters Angels who are drowning in hunger, spitting, thin rain, heavy rain, who ran with their mother after walking on the beach with hair, poverty, abandonment, abandonment, neglect of hunger, weight of drifting wood, sea water, fish and fish , A horse-riding house, an outside person, an insider etc. are included.
