Finding the Calm in Poetry
By Mmakgosi Ophadile Anita Tau
Sometimes I find myself thinking back to the time when my body, soul and mind were immersed so deeply into an ocean of turmoil. Where I am today, is not where I was some years ago. Who I am now, is not the woman that I was yesterday. The years of fighting and struggling have refined my heart which is now as solid, and as precious as a diamond.
It turns out that the turbulence was passing by to make way for the sun to shine brighter and bigger than my eyes had ever seen before. The severity of my troubles was a sea storm directing me to the calm of the shoreline. Every time I drowned I had no idea I would ever taste the heaviness of air.
My mother used to say to me, “there is a golden pot at the end of the rainbow. I want you to search for it mercilessly and tirelessly. Miracles happen, my child but only to those who believe.” Her smile would outlast my tears and I would find myself smiling it out with her.
Throughout the course of my life, I have always known that there was something special about me. I felt it in spaces within my body that no one else would ever know. Something so intense distinctively placed me in a realm of confidence and peace, deep inside my interior.
I recall the first time someone else noticed the star that shone so secretly upon my head. The pastor at our London Missionary Society Church approached my mother and asked to speak with her.
“Do you know that this child is a blessing to you? She is a star! Her purpose is of a great magnitude. Please, nurture her gifts and take care very great care of her. God loves you all, but she is His favorite.” He smiled as he conveyed the Lords word unto her life.
“Oh thank you Lord! Bless you Pastor. I will continue to serve God by obeying His commands. And His word shall guide my actions . I will cherish this angel, my daughter.” She said, springing me close to her for a warm embrace.
Often, it is said that what brings you the greatest delight, can be the cause of your greatest misery. Your blessing could be a curse and the curse could be your blessing, exclusively depending on how you look at things. I was a force to reckon with. That dynamite child who could write, recite, sing, debate and dance but still be an ‘A’ student. People were drawn to me. They admired my passion and hard work. I gave everything to all that I did.
My greatest misery hit when my most fruitful blessing turned out to be a curse. This was the most excruciating chapter of the worst period of my life. It took a great deal to absorb it all and take the time to make good out of it. It took time to disregard what I had undergone because it would never possess the power to break me.
My past, as painful as it is will never alter the woman I am destined to be. I know I am who I am because of the lessons I have chosen to learn and the experiences I have chosen to value. I am the most remarkable, beautiful and intelligent version of me that could ever exist and was ever created.
I was shocked when troubles came gushing my way like blood from an open wound. How could such a remarkable, gifted, beautiful, multi talented and intelligent girl face such a dreadful fate?
Indeed the world is not scary until it hands you over to troubles, trials and instability. The horrendous element comes off as the aftermath of all these when emotions fly around and refuse to be tamed.
It is so vile when consequences rip apart the harmony co-existing between the mind and soul from the body and heart. I remember it as though I lived through it a minute ago. Scary moments when minutes sounded like ticking time bombs and everyone around seemed to be hostile, hurt and harmful.
Poetry seemed to be an escape for me then, I would simply write,
“Growing up I chased butterflies and rainbows.
I never had to worry about loan sharks or lacking a thing.
Back then I worried about the Christmas gifts I would receive,
If Santa knew all my good deeds,
The Easter Bunny treasure hunt,
If I would find the biggest chocolate bunny,
That tasted sweeter than honey,
I would listen to the wind and hum to the melody of silence,
Back when life was simple,
Life was simply simple. Until I ran into the strongholds of trouble”
When the painful events bombarded me the friends I had all went away. Like literally! I had no one genuine to laugh with or speak with. Maybe these are just my thoughts, but I know that my relationships were never the same again after my diagnosis. I kept feeling like the ones that stuck around were eager to see to my downfall. Those that used to laugh with me now laughed at me. I felt a heavy bout of sadness; bitterness and rejection cling to every part of me.
Something about life keeps me wondering where I could have been, had I not made the choices that I made. If I had not overworked myself or underestimated ‘rest’. I had such an unshakable character, dreams that I needed to push and goals that had to be reached.
The confidence my smile exuded prior to the affliction won me a lot of favor. A life full of promise and prospect was crushed overnight into pieces of nothing. I lessened myself in the company of other people. I wanted them to remember the intensity of my pain after seeing me at my weakest point and not the bubbly character I was.
I was numb and ashamed of what I was going through. So I would explode in poesy to relieve the tense aura I limited myself to…
“I know that my wounds mean nothing to you,
they are just a picture of ugly,
covering an already ailing inside,
but I beg words to position themselves into your heart and sow a seed of empathy,
I know you have more troubles to deal with yourself,
your time is spent waiting on time to feel transformation,
all you want is healing,
to breathe new air,
to feel it clean and clear out your lungs,
to feel it expose your heart to warmth,
you view the world with one eye closed,
the other is open in search of better things,
so I understand that my wounds mean nothing to you,
I understand the turmoil that has set on your mind and will not budge,
I understand the fear you have,
for it is the same as that within me,
It too has crippled me,
my wounds will not submit to wellness,
they refuse to heal,
just like you,
you want nothing to do with me yet we are more than the same,
we best not allow these wounds to wound our souls,
for time is passing and so is life”
Although I never once thought of parting with earth I had no idea why I existed. My purpose was cloudy and my drive was running on empty. Suicide was just too far from me, but I kept summoning for the heavens to be my host because I was fed up with mother earth.
Being a mental health patient in Botswana means people look at you funny. They say things; mean and hurtful things out loud in your presence and you are not expected to feel any emotions. They associate such illnesses with witchcraft and so it always causes many rifts in the families of those affected.
I remember clearly walking into the doctor’s office, taking my seat and saying, “I think I am depressed”. It didn’t take a lot for the doctor to agree with me. I was wearing pajamas, my hair was in a state and I hadn’t taken a bath. Just woke up and decided it was time to go see if my worst fear was a reality. After running a few physical tests she informed me that nothing was wrong and that she would refer me to a Clinical Psychiatrist for further review.
I hailed a cab and it drove to a posh area not too far from the doctor I had just seen. The Psychiatrist was an elderly Caucasian man who seemed to master his trade. I noticed the very long line that waited on him. Because I was a referral I was given first priority and my consultation immediately began. He gave me a few exercises and I completed them, then he asked me numerous questions before giving me his analysis. He concluded that I suffered from a mild case of depression.
People just don’t talk about these things. I thought I was just extremely sad and so this was a phase that could be ‘dealt’ with and I would be up and running again. So it made things worse during a second analysis by another psychiatrist when he diagnosed me with manic depression.
I was traumatized, appalled and not in a proper frame of mind. “Me? Manic Depression? Never, this was not to happen to me!” I had a conversation with myself in disbelief. After undergoing intense psychiatric evaluations, scans and psychological reviews I was informed that I suffered from Bipolar.
Now I punctured. Like a hot air balloon falling flat from the atmosphere and crashing to nonexistence on earth. The once very high on life, loving girl began to torture herself for an illness she never understood. This is someone who glowed with her versatile and outstanding nature. Truth is the little gifted girl had too much going on in a small space of time. Even computers crash when overfed with commands.
I had so many stories to live-out and tell, so many degrees and qualifications to chase after, a bucket list to make come true. But at this point I just wanted to finish school. Was that too much to ask?
Education is so satisfying, so necessary and I watched my chance just die out right in front of me. My only likelihood of grabbing the only ticket out of poverty turned into ashes in a flash.
I had it all under control, all until that fateful day I gave in to this mental instability. Maybe I studied too hard, too much research and my brain was bushed. Too much contemplation crammed my cognizance.
My family moved me deeply during that time. They were shaken and so helpless. When I wrote my final examinations that booked me a place in varsity dad would often remind me how much he wanted for me to be better than him.
“I used to sell oranges after school so that I would help your grandfather put my siblings through school. And then I had you and had hope that a part of me would go on and finish school. How I long to see you wearing that graduation gown. You have no idea.” My father would say with so much love and I was convinced I had to make a difference.
“I will make you proud father. Nothing is impossible.” I would say to reassure and comfort him. I was a symbol of hope for my whole family. Having worked hard to reach university without stressing them they had high hopes for me.
Being the first child in both families meant I had a lot of pressure and many people to please. There was a heavy reliance on my enthusiasm, drive and dedication to succeed. Young ones looked up to me and the elders respected me. So they assumed total pride in my art, my education and my achievements.
I remember being in hospital and thinking I was nearing heaven. It’s as though I was living in a cloud. My two friends Bethany and Talia close by. In that moment they were invincible to me. They stood just as figurines in the distance. I cared not for their thoughts or paid any mind to how I behaved and their interpretation of my actions. Confusion filled the atmosphere around us so everyone was stuck with a portion of it. There was no full stop to my sentences and I was deluded, frantic and plain crazy.
One by one I saw my aunt, my mum, my grandmother and my uncle visit me. All of them were in a state of immeasurable dismay. They would hurdle in the hospital corners and discuss just how traumatized they were. They spoke of how their expectations had been crushed and where to go from here. It was like a dream in motion. Deep in the city of Jeremiah, I sat strapped in my hospital bed. One agonizing injection after the other.
The force I used to demonstrate my radical thoughts landed me in a state of confinement. They would isolate me and keep me away from other patients. I somehow believed that I was battling evil spirits and therefore felt the need to spray water and salt around my room. This was an act of sanctifying my space. As I did this I delivered chants of prayer and some patients came by to see what was going on. Losing sanity is something so inexplicable.
Amongst them was a little guy who believed that he was my boyfriend and already negotiating bride price with my parents. There was another man who had lost his wife of twenty six years to a boy half his age. The women were mostly depressed and had marital problems, post-natal depression or heartbreak. So this crowd bore witness to my madness. Their live movie came to an abrupt end when the nurses sedated me then strapped me to the hospital bed. I was motionless, helpless and more confused.
My actions led those around me to believe there was forlorn hope. The sadness in my mum’s eyes is one I will never forget. Her carbon copy disintegrated and lost control. I was not myself. I wish I could put it in another way but that’s just the harshness of it all.
There clearly was no harmony between my spirit, mind, body and soul. No calm at all and no balance. All the peace was lost in my state of confusion. Even as friends came to see me I ranted and gave graphics on my illusions.
My mum worked that hospital a good two weeks when I was admitted. I will never forget. Every day she would come in early in the morning and read to me, pray for me and find out as much as she could from the nurses and doctors about Bipolar.
I know that she was devastated. But even in the midst of the pain she never showed how upset and weak she was. She was strong for me, for her family and herself. She never went back to being the woman that I saw raise me.
The gravity of pain she endured changed her. I think and believe that during this time of immense hardship she grew closer to God. She found comfort in her father and carried on moving closer to her master.
After being discharged I was sent straight to another hospital far worse than where I had been. The first one had great healthcare and support. Then where they took me, I felt like everyone around me was on another level of insanity. The patients fought one another, the nurses and doctors. A poem came to me…
‘the streets listened,
the hallways cursed me,
havoc struck,
I began to feel stuck,
as though my feet found peace in the mud pits,
that’s the feeling of when poverty hits,
it consumes you,
belittles you,
the thoughts end,
so does hope,
numb with feeling and foresight,
I surrender,
to a life of nothing’
I was in school again, but a new kind of school where I learnt the value of life. I would hide in the bathroom and miss meals, refuse to speak with anyone that seemed a threat to me.
There really was nothing exciting about the food in that place. There was nothing divine about dinnertime where other patients were force fed and dehumanized. I too didn’t feel human. Like I lost all my rights the moment I walked in there. It’s as though we were prisoners. Just imagine you are struggling with an illness and then you are reduced to ‘Prison state’. We had specified times for pills and queued up like prisoners waiting for evening patrol.
The only meal worth looking forward to was breakfast. We had sorghum with milk. It made me feel like I was close to home. It put me back in the comfort of my mother’s home and reminded me that there were some sacred things worth looking forward to outside the hell I was in.
Not all nurses were horrible. Some were sweet and genuinely cared. They came across as people concerned about my health and studies. The evil ones always showed their animosity towards us. They never hid that they were unhappy working at the facility and were forced to be there. So they made our lives regrettable.
Being locked up in the hospital always made me feel like I was missing out on the most important aspects of my sibling’s lives. I was their hero so when I went to hospital I wondered how they would cope and what lessons I was going to teach them now. It was like the angel had fallen, like the hero had now been scraped off the book and there wasn’t going to be any happy ending.
The years passed on and Gods hands of mercy touched me. The voice of comfort saw me through and I lived again. I overcame. I won! I now recite a new poem of gratitude, in honor of the strife that drove me find the calm in my life…
“Sometimes I escape the now, to travel down my past,
I see the fast fancy life I once lived,
how I valued beauty and material possessions,
I had it all planned out till terror struck,
I remember the late nights out with the girls,
the dinners at posh places and expensive wines,
I remember the people that always gathered around me,
that loved to see me smile,
and as I move past that stage I get to the painful era,
where I lost it all,
days and long nights in the hospital,
followed by five long years of strife,
sickness stealing all I was to the world,
leaving me with nothing but a memory of who I once was,
these were tough times for those that genuinely loved me,
They saw a woman they hardly knew,
so every time I reflect on that part of my life,
I give thanks for being alive,
I give thanks for finding the calm”
It feels sweet to have had Poetry as my best friend. I am grateful that it allowed me to undress my stress through it and clothe it with my rage. I appreciate the peace that Poetry gave me. It never spoke back, mocked or laughed at me. This release has been the most fulfilling. It’s like I was starring into a mirror and the better part of me looked back waiting on the future to live again. I have another poem I just thought I owe to every survivor out there,
“There is a story,
crouched in our tears,
On modesties bended knee,
engraved in our joy,
That is everlasting
a song,
of testimony,
of peace,…
There is a need,
to hear each one of these tales,
to spread the lessons,
to nullify the hate.
There is a story,
hidden in our thoughts,
pleading for the mercy of words,
yearning for the tongue to utter truths,
I have a story,
which rests on my soul,
complicated,
accepted,
appreciated.
This story sells the songs of convictions,
Hymns of salvation,
to open minds,
and mend hearts.
It builds the peace,
once lost in these,
once broken,
most shaken.
My story is a depiction of hope,
detailed and designed,
to give others hope,
this woman has seen life,
now she lives it.
Before it just passed by,
Winters, autumns, summers and spring time,
Flying past my engaged subconscious,
with its turbulence and
temptation,
I am,
Healed and not hurt
A survivor of many struggles
The triumphant one.
…………………………………………………………………..
THE END
nitzdivinewrites 