Money is the root of all evil, then what does that make society?

Society has taught me that a young girl should sleep around in order for her to be popular. Society has taught me that a young girl should have a baby while she herself is still a ‘baby’ in order for her to be ‘grown up’…

Society has taught me that I need to weigh 55kg or wear a size 28 in order for me to be seen as beautiful.

I am 62kg, I wear a size 34 and you know what, according to society that makes me fat, that makes me unattractive and ugly, and according to society, that makes me not worthy…

They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder, however if you have been taught that you are fat, unattractive, not beautiful, is that not what you will start to see as well? I sit in a restaurant and eat three slices of pizza instead of two and I find myself looking around and wondering who saw me. I eat a chocolate and wonder if someone looks at me what are their thoughts, are they just deep in thought with their own worries and insecurities or are they looking at me and thinking “can you really afford to eat another piece of that?” I order a main meal at a restaurant and eat only a few bites after which I loudly let everyone around me know how full I am, yet my tummy rumbles behind the laughter of a pretentious and insecure face and as soon as I get home I gobble down the rest of my dinner which I kindly asked to be put in a take away just to feel the satisfaction of a full tummy without the guilt of lurking eyes of strangers that most probably doesn’t give a damn.

I find myself walking around looking at other woman, the thoughts running through my head are twisted and far from the truth but I can’t help myself. Shes got a really nice flat tummy, and I find myself sucking mine in even more than I have already, the fact that I can hardly breathe means nothing to me, I just don’t want anyone to see the bulge I have after giving birth to two boys. No one needs to know I had two kids already, that’s no justification, it’s an excuse… I look at another one’s breast and tend to think that mine are so hangy and saggy and small and I spend money I don’t have on a wonderbra or two just so that I can feel like I have something to show, to whom do I need to show anything you ask, I have no idea, but I have to show something, the fact that I breastfed my boys makes no difference to me, society doesn’t know I did that…

Insecurity kills, not just from the outside, but from the inside. It lurks around in the minds of young woman, and men, alike and slowly poisons every bit of your being until you are sick from it. Insecurity lies deep within us, but once the hold is there it can turn you ugly from the inside out, you don’t realize it at first until it is to late and it has consumed your whole being, every part of who you are, of what makes you uniquely you becomes poisoned and blackened by the grip of your insecurity. I can preach to the girls out there, to the pretty ones, the ones I look up to and say don’t be insecure, you have nothing to be insecure about, your prettier than me, you have a smaller bum, bigger breast, you weigh less than I do, but truth be told, it will fall on death ears, for you know what, beauty lies in the eye of the beholder…

The eye of the beholder have been taught that you need to put your finger down your throat, you have to starve and deprive yourself of food to be skinny and seen as pretty. The eye of the beholder tells you that two pieces of pizza is more than you should have had and three, well gawd forbid, three will push you over the edge into obesity… The eye of the beholder sees every flaw, every bulge, every little tiny thing that is suppose to make you unique, beautiful, worthy as the thing you have to change in order for Society to accept you.

The worst part of all:

Society begins at home…

Watch the following video, for this student says it best: Upworthy




Posted in Me

Love Lost and a cat…

“Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all”.

Seriously, seriously, granted that the poem it self is a very good poem, and yes, he did write it for his best friend Arthur Henry Hallam who died of a cerebral hemorrhage, and yes, it did take him as long as 17 fucking years to actually finish the poem, Alfred Lord Tennyson should have been taken into the street and shot. SERIOUSLY!!


It is better to have loved someone, giving them your whole heart, your soul, your everything, and having that lost than to never have loved that person in the first place… Hmmmm… Again, SERIOUSLY!!

It’s like Schrödinger’s cat, a famous illustration of the principle in quantum theory of superposition. Basically what the theory is all about is placing a live cat in a sleeping chamber, along with the cat you place a vile of poison in the chamber, blah, blah, blah, long story short, until you open the chamber, at any given time, the cat can be either dead or alive. You have no idea when the poison will be released, so for all you know by the time you open the box, it hasn’t been released yet and the cat is still alive, on the other hand, for all you know the poison has already been released and the cat is already dead. So the cat can be dead and alive, at the same time. It boils down to very complicated science and a lot of thinking; it’s the nature and behavior of matter on the macroscopic level, everything visible to the unaided human eye, what ever that all means.

To love or not to love, that is the question… Is it really better to have loved this man, to have been addicted to him and then to have lost him than to have never met him and never loved him in the first place?

Just a glimpse

I have never had a model of how a healthy and loving relationship should work.

I love my parents very much and I have come to love his just as much. But to be honest, even in dating, I have always found myself with the wrong kinds of men, the ones that use you and before Casanova, the addicts. Both my parents and his are good people, good people with a lot of issues of their own. Yes I do blame them, sorry if that is offensive, but when looking to your parents to show you how it should be done, they are your role models, your only form of reference on how a marriage is supposed to work. I will share my story with you, and in the process you will get to know my parents a little, you will however, have absolutely as little reference of Casanova’s as I can possibly give. Again I say this, every coin has two sides and that is his to tell, not mine.

I don’t really want to go into a lot of detail concerning my childhood, throughout the blog you will get glimpses of me as a little girl and how I got to where I am, so to start off I will give you a very quick glance. I was born in 1985 in Pretoria, South Africa. I have a mother and a father. I have three brothers, my eldest brother is two years older than I am and the other two is ten and twelve years younger than me. I was a happy child; I grew up in a loving home where we celebrated birthdays and Christmas with lots of family around and lots of presents. We went on holiday to the coast each year and we had picnics with the dogs in the back yard on weekends. I was daddy’s little girl. I would lie on my dads lap and have him stroke my tummy and back until I fell asleep. I did ballet, rode bike and had sleep over’s with my friends. I’m not entirely sure when it happened, but at some point my father went from being my hero to an alcoholic, his drinking became so bad he lost his business and had to start from scratch. I went from a child that had what ever her heart desired to one that had to live on hand me downs from week to week. Thankfully I am glad to say that my father is almost 11 years sober this year and I do love him with all my heart.

My mother is a very soft and loving person but has been through a lot of ‘abuse’ in her life, a father that died and a marriage that failed and then my dads drinking. It made her into a very fragile person, one that doesn’t really stand up for herself, and I don’t blame her, just like her, I never stood up for myself either, until one day, and I do pray that my mother will get her day of freedom as well, her day to be able to find herself again in who she is, within her marriage of course. Although I don’t really have a mother daughter relationship with her, not the kind every girl dreams of, I do love her a lot. She is who she is now, and that is something I have come to accept with a loving heart.



Would you like to know what the highlight is of most of my days for the past, maybe seven and a half years?

It isn’t the time I get to spend alone just doing what I want to do, it isn’t the time where my children come home from school so I can spend some time with them, it’s the time of day that Casanova comes home for lunch and the time of day he comes home from work. That is the highlight of my day, waiting for the time to pass, checking my watch every five minutes and counting down the hours. I don’t listen to music because I want to, I don’t clean the house so that my house can be clean, nope, I do all those little things from the time he goes to work in the mornings to the time he comes home so I can keep myself busy until I can see him again. Hey, it has worked for me so far, so why change that now? Well, it has worked so good for me to this point where I can not function without him. When he phones me to tell me that they have a work in lunch and he won’t be coming home for lunch, my heart instantly drops down to my feet, I feel myself getting cold from the inside and I feel the depression taking over. All of that just because he won’t be home for lunch. It sometimes gets so bad that it feels like someone punched me in the stomach as hard as they possibly can.

YES, that is how bad I have it. I live and breathe neither for myself nor my children but for him. I would move mountains for him; I would give everything and anything so he can have that which his heart desires. I do not refuse him, anything, I have from time to time, saying no to Casanova, denying him what he wants, that has never been my first priority and in the end I find myself feeling so bad because I said no that we end up buying what he wanted just so I can feel good about myself again. I do not put myself, my happiness or my health first but I do put his first, before myself and even, for the longest period of time, before my children. And no, that’s not how marriage is supposed to be, we are supposed to be equal in this, husband and wife, mother and father, not Casanova and his slave. And please don’t misunderstand all of this, it’s not his fault, he didn’t make me this addicted to him, this was all my doing.

My Addiction Explained…

How the hell can you be addicted to a person?

Easy… Let me explain this in as much detail as I possibly can with the hope that you will be able to understand my addiction better. For those of you reading this that has an addiction or had an addiction before, it might make a little more cense, to those of you sitting there and reading this and thinking to yourself that you are one of the lucky few people that wouldn’t know what the ever loving fuck I am talking about, BULL SHIT!! Weather you want to know this or would believe this, every single person on this earth has or had some form of addiction before.

Weather you are a drug addict, alcoholic, weather you smoke, can’t put down a good romance novel, pig out every night on junk food, sleep with a bottle of coke next to your bed or hurt yourself physically by cutting or sticking your finger down your throat, its called addiction. Being an addict means having something in your life, physical, harmful, emotional that is consuming you, your time, money, and relationships to the point where you can not go long periods, or short periods of time without it. Being addicted means to basically live and breathe the thing you are addicted to, it consumes you, it becomes your life, the most important part of your day, you’re alpha and omega. It becomes your god.

Now, for me, Casanova is my addiction, I can say was, but hey, that’s one of the reasons I’m sitting here writing this blog, he is still an addiction to me. I remember a time not to long ago where he had to go away and I would cry because he had to go away, for a day, and I would cry, for a weekend, and I would cry, the time he had to be away was never relevant, just the fact that he had to leave without me, leave me alone, to be on my own, I would cry my eyes out. Pathetic isn’t it, but hey, I’m sure if you are someone that smokes, you would find it hard to go a couple of hours without a cigarette, never mind a day or more. That’s how it is for me with him. No matter how hard I try, it’s like having to go without my drug for more than a couple of hours and it breaks me to the point where I am consumed with fear of being without him.

Confession Time…

Confession time!!!

I am an addict, I have been an addict for the past seven and a half almost eight years, for the first time I am doing what I need to, even if it means hurting the person I hold dearest to my heart and being selfish in my actions in order for me to come clean. I am putting down my drug, not just scaling down; I am basically going cold turkey on my own ass. My drug of choice, the one I have been addicted to since the age of twenty, a dark haired, brown eyed Casanova. Jip, you read that right, it’s an actual person, not a substance. And yes, I am very much in love with my drug, to the extent that I am having withdrawals as I type this. My drug has a name as well, as all other drugs, more than one actually. For the sake of this blog, his name is going to be Casanova. Do you need to know why, maybe, but we will get to that later, for now, it really doesn’t matter, all you need to know is that my drug is my ex husband, my darling, loving and oh so sexy ex husband. Yes, I am addicted to my Casanova.

Have you ever tried killing love?

“Telling the truth and making someone cry is better than telling a lie and making someone smile.” – Paulo Coelho

Have you ever tried killing love?

Seriously, have you ever had to rip out love, better to describe it, yank out love, destroy it, crush it, and toss it away like it meant nothing to you? The problem with that, it meant so much to me, more than anyone would ever know. I had to start killing love, gawd only knows how one can actually kill love, but I had to. Writing this just shortly after I mutilated love, I am still trying to figure out what the fuck is wrong with me. Hey, its easy right, you just toss in some selfishness, you put in a dash of malicious intent, some anger and hate to top it all off and just for good measure you remeness over all the pain that you went through and all the wrong that has been done to you just to make sure you get it all right. Well, that’s not exactly how it works, because in all honesty, the urge to feel ashamed, sorry, the great need to break down and cry uncontrollably like you have never cried before, the feeling of remorse and a great loss, that all takes over and you regret everything. Instantly you wish you could take it all back, you know you can’t, and you know you need to do this, but you surely wish you could.