Your ministry is where your misery has been #Tell your story (Stars' Story)

WE ALL HAVE A STORY TO TELL

I have had the pleasure of interacting with a wonderful young lady named Dinaledi Mosa Tleane. I call her Stars. Thats a fitting name (she is bright, she is vibrant, she is witty, aims high, stylish and works hard). We connect in many different ways that are neither describeable nor fathomable. We click. This young lady has such depth in her character, how many times do you come across a 24 year old who loves  and understands Jazz Music? Im talking Nina Simone, Chris Botti and the like. Her confidence allows her to take long and comfortable strolls to places where other females her age wouldnt dare step. I have observed her humour, her straight-forward demenour, her peace and even her rage and wondered where her fire comes from.

I have learnt this analogy from her: "Sometimes in life you have to close your eyes, run as fast as you can and hit that wall with all you have. Indeed the wall may not break, but it will sure shake, and if you do it enough times...that wall will eventually break." Yep, thats my stars - high levels of profound at that age.

Below is her story. She responded to the call for us all to tell our stories. The stories that bind us and never set us free. The stories we keep to ourselves until our hearts are filled to the brim with hatred, shame and pain. Stories that affect who we are, how we relate to others, our relationships, our daily lives. Her story (unedited and in her own words is below).



" I don’t know much… All I know is that I hate him. And many nights I prayed for his death.
I am battling with words…
Rather I am battling with hatred and fear.
I hate him so much… that I feel so stupid. I know better not to waste feelings on such a person. I know better to not give a hell about him. But I do….
So many nights I prayed that he would love us. All we got from him was a beating…
I am battling with words…
I’m battling with emotions…
He beat her; he chased us on the streets in the middle of the night… At times, bare footed, other times barely dressed.
He broke her nose one time… and chased us out when we tried to intervene.
Most Friday nights, we spent at the police station... all four of us.

I remember one summer evening. The clouds were heavily pregnant… and I could feel thunder and lightning storm brewing.
It rained hard… and the thunder was just too loud, and lightning was just too bright. It poured like hell, and once again we were on the streets… Trying to find a place to lay our heads… He kicked us out while the storm was on. We ran, with no idea where we going. That’s where my fear of thunder and lightning comes from.

I hated her. I really did. I hated her for staying there. WHY did she stay? She should have left, maybe our childhood wouldn’t have been so screwed up…
Aaaah!!!
I am battling with words.
I am battling with HATREAD and FEAR.
I don’t want to remember. And I have done well to hide these things… I have done well in living a lie.
I hate him so much that I shake when I think about him.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!!!!!!!!!
It could take me a year to tell you the truth about us. And that would only be a percentage of it.
When my peers dreamt of their wedding days, I dreamt of the day he died. Oh how happy I would have been. No wonder none of my relationships work out. I am always on the lookout of “him” in every man I date. And I always find it.

Honesty… If I never had to see him again, I would be the happiest person alive. But see, for now, he has a hold over us. And it is my mission to break that hold. I work hard every day, just so that I can buy my mom her OWN house. NOT a house jointly owned with him.
I want him to suffer and it is ridiculous because he doesn’t give a F@%k about me nor my feelings.
All I know is I want him to pay a very hefty price.
I’m also terrified. By rate that I am going, I will collapse and probably not wake up. I know that I need to forgive and move on. But how do I forgive someone who feels like they haven’t wrong me?
Can I just get what I want for a change? Can I be genuinely happy?
I am battling with words.
I rather speak… and tell the Truth about us."

Your ministry is where your misery has been - tell your story.
There is some little girl out there who can be saved or healed by your story. She needs to hear not only about your success but also about what pains you, about your failures. Tell your story.

You're loved
MM

I admit to you and sundry.....and its okay

“For He has not given us the spirit of fear and timidity, but of Power, Love and Sound mind”

(2 Timothy 1:7)

This is my affirmation, my confirmation, my authorization from a power equal to none.

I say it and recite it, each time with emphasis on a different word, yet I still find myself enveloped by fear.

I am scared

Scared to live on, scared to die

Scared to be defeated, scared to conquer

Scared to be right about myself and even to be wrong about others

I am scared of failure as much as I am scared of success

Scared to decide or make a stand, scared to be counted or even ignored

In a state of analysis paralysis, asphyxiations of anxiety

I am afraid to let go but too frightened to hold on

Fearful to give up, and scared to persevere

You see the theory is not similar to the practice; one has throbbing heart beats while the other is nothing more than words

I have read the quotes, narrated the mantras and internalized the pep-talks

I’m terrified of commissions and omissions, supplications and demands

I’m scared to admit or deny, scared to acknowledge and recognize what is from what isn’t

Scared to be vulnerable or sheltered

Scared to be exposed or protected

Scared to heal and deal, scared to worsen and aggravate sleeping demons

Terrified to burden them by letting them through the door, petrified to shut them out

I stand still, horrified of my bright future, ashamed of my past

I dare not look up as you might recognize the fear in my outlook

As you might spot the panic in my gracious smile

Everyday I am woken up by a rush of adrenalin, edgy and consumed

My questions, my answers, my utterances and my opinions are fear based

Terror speaks through me, it speaks for me. My words are seldom mine

I say it well because I carry it well

Each day brings an opportunity to have a conversation with one or more of my fears

I choose whether it’s friendly or hostile, it’s almost always the latter

Pushes me to nasty confrontations, never soft whispers and pillow talk

Fear is my currency – I trade in it. I often exchange it for love.

It’s never a fair trade as one cancels the other out, unfairly so

I keep running, even in my dreams I gallop in fear

Instead of running from it, I run with it as it is part of my psyche

I admit to you and sundry; I am scared. And its okay.

You’re loved

M.M

Its much much easier to say than to do!

Its been a very tough and draining time for me. I have had so much to share, to say, to write to make sense of. I have had so many thoughts, some completely abstract, come and rent space in my head. I have not found nor made the time to sift through them and make sense of them, but I found in important to say this.

You can read books as thick as your well toned thighs, with big words that neither you nor your learned friends can pronounce. You can google and research. You can write and read thesis'. You can listen and educate yourself on issues. You can have a PHD degree Cum Laude on phylosophy or pshychology. Your title can be Proff or Dr....some issues you will never comprehend until you have gone through them.

Its so easy to stand on the outside to give instructions, to question and judge from the outside. Its easy to point a finger. Its a breeze to say : Build a bridge and get over it or the more common 'move on'. Its easier to say than to do. We forget that context plays a huge role, then there is background, upbringing, beliefs, habits, situations, timing, faith, values etc to take into consideration. You may have been raised in the same city, by parents who earned the same, went to the same school or even better in the same household but your frame of reference is not the same. It can never be. You are two different people.

We all stand on the outside and make interesting yet wrong pronouncements on what we would have done had we been in the same situations. There's nothing wrong with advise - it always comes from a good place, from people who care; mara we have to understand and embrace the peace in our souls if and when our advise is not been taken. It is afterall a 'use it' - 'dont use it' situation.

You will never know, no matter how learned or trained you are, until you have gone through the same situation. So lets not judge or question from a place of authority as if we have been there ourselves. Our place is to support, intercede in the form of prayer and listen (some talk more than the aggrieved person - haaiboh). They seem to know more about the situation than the soul thats going through it.

We need to allow and empower individuals to heal and deal in a manner that speaks to their spiritual and mental capacity. Permit them to operate in their own vision.Yes you may be a stronger person but that's you . There is a serious issue with imposing our strength on others. You see they may take your strength, embody it, move and deal at your pace and tone....very soon they will bomb out, simply because they are operating outside on their capabilities. Being forceful and judgemental can only alienate the person concerned.

Indeed there is always a place for guidance from an objective source, that helps put things in perspective and may be able to device a  way forward.
You'r loved
M.M

Your ministry is where your misery has been #My story

November 2010 and I find myself reliving very painful memories because of what is in the headlines this week. I find myself literally chocking, unable to breath or think. The flashbacks haunt me in my sleep till this very day.

Let me take you back to 1988, I was 7 yrs old when an uncle from Malawi came to live with us. Those of you who grew up koKasi will know what I talk about when I mention diBack-room. He was my mom’s cousin from Malawi who had come to seek the ‘Gauta’ in Gauteng. He was quite an animated character, full of life and energy, he was playful at the worst of times, he spoke funny (think Chirwali – Mzini wezinsizwa) and I obviously took a liking to this guy because I was the only child in a house full of serious adults. I, as a result, ended up spending a lot of time in the back-room. I remember he had this fascinating ghetto-bluster radio thing that would light up all colors of the rainbow when it was lit.

On one particular day, I was in his room as it was the norm after school. I noticed him massaging his ‘down-there’ with me in the room; in my innocence I giggled (as a little girl would) and let it go. A couple of days later it happened again, but this time he asked me to touch him, it felt all sort of wrong but I did it. This happened often for months. He gave me strict instructions not to tell anybody, he threatened me. I never told a soul. It got worse. One day he took all his clothes off and asked me to touch his manhood. I remember my skinny light skinned small hand on him, this was wrong and I knew it. From that day on this man continued to abuse me at every opportunity he got. The one day he made me sit on top of him, I remember screaming in pain. I really had no idea what was going on or whether what was happening had a name; was this love? It was pain I had never felt before. My innocence had been taken by a trusted adult. Here is the thing right, I thought this was normal. That it happens to everyone but my gutt disagreed, my being knew better, even at that tender age.

A couple of years later he left our home and went to live elsewhere. I carried it with me for a long time. I somehow managed to block it out of my life as with many bad things that happened in my childhood. For many years I never thought about it, it never crossed my mind until one day my mom told me that he had passed away after a long illness. I don’t remember how old I was at this time, but I remember secretly rejoicing that at least I was guaranteed that no-one would ever find out how I allowed myself to be violated by my uncle.  A part of me still feels like I allowed it. I remember being particularly jovial at his funeral – a little guilty though but relieved that he would be buried with the shame and anguish I had buried so deep inside me.

Fast forward to 1997, High School in Rustenburg. We had bunked boarding hostel to go out with friends for the weekend. Some boys had come to pick us up to take us to some village about 30minutes away from the school premises. I was with 2 of my girlfriends and these boys, one of which went to our school. The party was lousy, almost hilariously so, but we decided that since we were there we would make the best of it. We danced until our legs couldn’t take it and eventually it was time to sleep. I chose a room in some seedy motel and fell asleep. One of the guys we were with who liked me came in with a gun in his hand. I kept calm and pretended to be sleeping. He took off his pants, my heart started racing. I remember him telling me not to scream as he raped me with a gun in his hand. I remember trying to fight but my body failing me and completely paralyzed by the fear. In my head I was fighting, I was using my legs and hands to fight but the reality is that I just lied there. The memories of my uncle many years before came to poke me in the soul. I remember going numb and the only thing I could feel were the tears streaming down my face, past my temples and into my ears. He finished, and lied there next to me. I stayed awake till the next morning. Walked out of there, found my friends and went back to school. Yet again I never told a soul. I was too scared to tell anyone, especially my parents. On Monday he started telling people I was his girlfriend, it infuriated me yet I still felt too paralyzed to react. This was my fault again. On good days I know better, on bad days the pain is unbearable- but in God I trust.

I read Akona’s story yesterday. Mine is no better than hers, it’s very much like hers. She did it first and I applaud her for it. It inspired me. I am number 2. I pray that there will a number 3, number 4, number 5, number 30, number 10 000. Let’s tell our stories and continue to shout NO. Apparently only 1 in 9 rape cases are reported. If you are one of the 8 –BUA !!! – help some little girl in the same situation. SOMETHING MUST BE DONE!

Your ministry is where your misery has been!

You’re loved

Mmulelantlu More