Strangers' Lives

There’s something fascinating about public transport. Not to say the public transport is perfect, certainly not in the streets of Windhoek, the taxis are the most road rage initiating machines. I often find myself screaming the most ungodly things in foreign languages, as if. I think its mostly to make a point to myself than to the driver of the other vehicle – well considering the windows are most often than not closed and the radio is probably playing one of my songs when I am behind the wheel.

There’s a glimpse into a stranger’s life with every 20-minute ride I endure to and from work in public transport. The older woman who sat in front of my seat this morning as I rode to work is definitely a highlight. I watched her from the side mirrors as she made her way to, I’d guess work at 7am. Maybe from work, I couldn’t be sure. She wore a blue tracksuit hugging her body and on top of her well saturated weave which looked like it was flashed down an oil pipe was a read woolen hat that sat clumsily to accompany her seemingly satisfied face.

She dug into something on her lap then she quickly stuffed it into her mouth, chewing while she glanced at the sites outside of her window. An early mind blowing greasy delicious no good for nothing breakfast. That is the only way I would explain her reaction to the food she ate. There is only two things that could make a grown woman stuff the whole length of her fingers in their mouth and that either something to do with for play or those little foods that they tell us again and again are mind blowing greasy delicious no good for nothing foods.

I suppressed a giggle so as to not appear rude when I realized the song playing in my head phones was Silk’s Freak me. I have to say it’s a little freaky when you are listening to a sexual song while someone literally ran her fingers in her mouth living them all wet. I shuddered at the inappropriate thought.

Another highlight, a few weeks back, I had another encounter with a man. I had a long day at work and I had a book I was reading that had reached its peak. I couldn’t wait to get home to read so I whipped it out and found my page quickly then transported into the story. Made sure my characters look returned to me then saturated myself in the word. The man who sat beside me started leaning into me – in my personal space might I add – and he started reading with me. I didn’t know weather to nudge him back to his side of his seat or just close my really good book until I get home. While I was contemplating my options he turned to me, his breathe making it to my face. I suppressed a gag.

“What did Peter do?” He asked

Shocked I looked at him as if he were a rare species. How dare he ask about Peter!? He was my character in MY book! I was possessive it seemed and hated sharing my characters with strangers. He had no idea how pissed and annoyed he made me. I brushed him off with a simple “it’s a long story” and thanked god as the taxi pulled at my stop.

I didn’t appreciate it then, maybe I still wouldn’t enjoy either meetings again but those little things I would be able to talk about with my grand kids at one point or another that made 2016 quite a year.

We cant all be the same, thank goodness, but is that not what make life worth living?

Conversations Within

'Hello Joan, I'm glad you could make it into therapy today'

I smiled as I entered the room, looking around to the familiar surroundings. The white walls, a green plant in the corner of the office, the fish bowl with no fish sitting right beside it. It was like an added irony to the therapy room. There was a painting above the sofa, I looked at it as if in a trance, I still couldn't make out what it was. I frowned at my continued frustration to decipher it.

I figured it had to be a happy piece, only because of the reds and oranges that were splattered around the canvas. What was it with therapists and their rooms? The need to make everything clean, spotless. I supposed it was some doctor code.

'would you like to sit?' She said snapping me back to reality. I looked at her and nodded then sat on the couch facing her. I looked at my therapist, her face was framed by her large reading glasses. She tried to smile to reassure me. She didn't need to, her eyes were gentle. She had that face.

'So how was your day today?' She asked kindly. Small talk was always the beginning of the session. I was accustomed to it. I had a pre-prepared answer.

'It was okay,' I said simply then shrugged. Was there more to say? What was I doing in this place? Am I traumatized? Depressed? In need of someone to talk to? Maybe it was because she had that face. I smiled to myself at my sense of humor.

'Just okay? She looked deep into my eyes. I shrugged again not wanting to repeat myself. She understood and nodded. She looked down at the pad on her lap before she scribbled a note quickly. Looking up to me she tilted her head and took a deep breathe. Was she frustrated with me? My lack of trying.

'It was another day Doc, nothing eventful I'm afraid.' I added before she thought of another question to throw across the room to me. I was aware of her ability to question me to get to the "problem within". What if I didn't have a problem and my day was just a day? What if my visits were just for conversation?

'Have you gone out lately?' She asked trying to lighten the subject.

'Well, I go out everyday. I have a job you know.' I snapped back quickly with a smirk. I was pleased with myself for outsmarting the doctor in the room.

'I mean somewhere else other than work.' she said gently not taking offence to my my smartass nature. I looked at her, at that face.

'No, Not really' I replied and let my eyes wonder around the room. The desk she placed in the corner had a glass top and white horn like leg support. Now that was a masterpiece unlike the art on the wall. I decided her taste was weird but then again no "normal" person would opt to listen to crazy ramblings for a living. I slowly peeled my eyes from the desk and back to her. She had been watching me. I looked at her questioning. I wondered what she thought of me. I was pretty sure I wasn't the weirdest person she saw today. The thought made me feel better about myself.

'Why?'she asked again in her friendly therapy voice

'because-' I stopped myself. I didn't have an answer really except the very ridiculous reason that I knew would probably make her roll the eyes within her eyes. I shook my head at the thought, she was the doctor, a therapist for that matter. Weird wasn't really something I needed to worry about. I was sure she's heard it all. '...because I'm bored with people.' I finished my sentence slowly, looking at her in search for a reaction, any reaction would have worked.

'What do you mean?' I took a deep breathe and looked at her poker face. Should I really answer the question? What would answering that do for me other than maybe take me to the top of her weirdo list. I wondered what others talked about here. Suicides? Trauma? I decided this was just conversation and for the first time since we started, I decided she deserved my truth.

'Well,' I shifted in my seat and leaned forward, resting my elbows on my thighs. 'I'm bored of people. they do the same things over and over again. They wake up, shower, work, go out, at the end of the day to "socialise"', I said it with emphasis in a deeper voice, I paused as i gathered my thoughts before continuing, ' after that they go home, fuck and then sleep mostly with strangers or people they don't want to take time to know then wait for the next day to do the same thing over again.' I took another breathe shaking my head. 'I cannot do that, I am not like the normal person. I wake up, shower and work- sure, but after that I run home and lock my door and hide my head and thoughts behind a book.'

'Why would you think that is not normal?'

'Well that one is easy!' I said more to myself, 'I don't want to go out. I try, believe me I do. I make plans, Hell, I even come up with suggestions of something I could do with people -friends. When I get home though, I start pacing in a panic wondering what in the world I was thinking suggesting something I didn't want to do!? I get  a small panic attack. The idea of sitting there, laughing, cracking the jokes, making the people around me smile, holding conversations-' I let out a nervous laugh.

'Then why do you do it?' She asked, again with the therapy voice. 'Why do you make suggestions?'

'Because...' I couldn't think of a reason really. I searched my brain for the reason behind it. 'Maybe I hate the idea of letting people down, or maybe I hate being a party pooper, maybe to fulfill my predestined task to make everyone around me smile?'

'Do you think that is why you were born into the earth?' She leaned forward. I looked at her then shrugged

'Do you?' I returned the question.

'I don't know,' she said honestly, 'How would i know when I am YOU?'

Crying in bathrooms

There are two kinds of people. The ones who cry with the occasion, and the ones like me. The occasions come, a funeral, heartbreak, what ever it is that warrants the emotion of tears from us and instead we rise to get things done. Tears are suppressed and the world turns from the occasion to the normal without having given the occasion the tears it deserved.

I'm not strong, I act strong. I put my mind to work instead of facing the moment, the feeling or reacting to what would be considered an occasion for tears. Months even years later, while I sit alone watching a show or I bump my toe, the rivers start running. I do not cry, I wallow in endless streams of tears filled with confusion of which moment they fall for.

Its ironic, crying in bathrooms when I was younger was my way of acting strong,. I thought it was okay being alone to cry away the pain, the fear, the emotions I felt. Now, I cry. Not in bathrooms but still on my own.

Its frustrating. When I cry I always wonder the occasion it belongs, I try to cross it out but I can barely identify what it is that I would be crying for. Is it the pain of moaning my mother while she was alive rotting inside from cancer? Is it the fear of not living to my full potential? Is it the heartbreaks I do so well with in the time? I never know, I just cry though, and the saddest thing? I barely feel relieved. Instead I wipe the tears away, say a joke to myself and attempt a giggle.

Its all I've known to do. Perhaps its working, perhaps that's how I heal in a slow haphazard manner that continues over the years. I don't really know but for today when the tears burnt my eyelids before sliding down my cheeks, I let them and I tried not to identify them. It would not make a difference except frustrate me, for in my own way, I feel I constantly fail my heart for not being precise with when I water my cheeks. It is a relief though that i could shut off the jungle in my mind and for that second not be in control. Its a little reminder that I AM still human