Sometimes I remember that I used to love her.
It appears suddenly — a joke, a song, a scene in a movie — and I am transported to a time when her opinions, her words, her affection meant something to me.
Most times I think I’m over it, I can go through entire days and not think about her at all. It’s liberating.
Most of my memories and thoughts about her are tied up in pain. Abuse. Hurt. It’s difficult to think that those emotions were once linked to love.
Love. Love. Love.
I love my parents. I love my…
While most girls were dreaming of their own wedding day, I was dreaming of the day I would be asked to be a bridesmaid. This is weird, I know, I’m not like anti-love or romance or anything, and have a vague idea of what I would want if I ever made the great vow, but there was something honourable about someone wanting you, out of all the people in their life, to be beside them on their wedding day.
Last week, I was bridesmaid for the first time, for my sister, who is literally the best person that I know…
I recently finished reading Persuasion by Jane Austen, and even though I have read all but one of Jane Austen’s books (Mansfield Park you elude me yet) I have found some easier to read than others, with Persuasion definitely being the easiest by far.
Perhaps it is because it is the shortest of her novels, or because she spends less time teaching us about the class values of the day and more on the actual interaction between the characters but I enjoyed this book from beginning to end. …
I have just watched the trailer for Bright Lights, the HBO documentary about the relationship between Debbie Reynolds and Carrie Fisher and I was overcome with emotion. Why? Both Debbie Reynolds and Carrie Fisher have passed away recently, a day after each other, and I loved them both.
But even more than that, Debbie, Carrie and Carrie’s daughter, Billie, have been a public example of the great bond that can exist between mothers and daughters and it made me reflect on my own relationship with my mother and my sister. I group them together because of the large age…
Here’s the thing, I never saw myself as a cutter. There was a laceration here, a finger bitten way too hard there, wrists that were wrung until they were blood red, scratch marks down my arms on the rare moments that my nails grew long enough, it was never visible enough for others to see, and I always made sure to hide it well.
The only time I really realised that it was a problem, was last year, 2016, when I felt powerless in a situation and I immediately reached for the scissors. …
The phrase above might seem like an obvious statement but because it took me so long to feel this way, it still feels novel, a new thing I have to get used to.
For the longest time I wanted to be white. I remember night after night being a 12-year-old and crying and praying for a different life, one where I had straight hair and I lived in Constantia, and no one would suspect my true heritage. …
60 years of
“You strike a woman, you strike a rock”
60 years of
60 years of
“You must have liked it”
“You should have covered up”
“You asked for it”
“Shhh, don’t tell anyone”
60 years of
The end of the facade
The rise of the movement
Move or you shall be moved
The beginning of an era
The embracing of the tears
Remember the victims of male aggression
Remember the ones that the courts forgot
Remember the mother breaking her back To carry her…
I recently bought myself a watch, the first time that I have owned one in years, and I had to reacquaint myself with the more traditional way of reading time since I’ve mostly been working with digital clocks. I mainly bought the watch for decorative purposes because it has a Mean Girls quote on it.
If anything the watch has made known to me my obsession with time and constant fear that I’m wasting it. I usually wrote this quirk of mine off as being productive, being ambitious, being an overachiever, but recently my constant exhaustion, the stress, the fact that I kept shutting out or snapping at people, has had me put into question how I am choosing to spend my time.
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