Archive for the ‘Personal’ Category

Close your eyes, open wide and take a bite. Now listen. That sound that you hear, crunching in your ear? That’s the sound that drives me to a madness I am certain I need a diagnosis for and its only one of many annoyances that push me to the brink of insanity day in and day out.

I am no psychiatrist but I am certain that I need to see one, you see I am pretty sure that I suffer from a condition called ‘Misophonia’. No, I don’t hate all sounds… only most of them. I don’t complain about your noises because I want to irritate you, I complain about them because they genuinely are the reason that people like me want to injure other people. It is an almost uncontrollable rage that creeps over me and all that I can do is plug my ears and hope it will end soon, before I do or say something I regret.

Over time, I have learnt to block out some of the sounds but it is impossible to block them all out. I am human after all and my hearing is one of my senses that is still near perfect, to my own detriment. Add my unexplained hatred for noise to my obsessive compulsive disorder and we have a healthy combination of crazy in a crusty bucket.

resized_the-most-interesting-man-in-the-world-meme-generator-my-misophonia-doesn-t-always-get-triggered-but-when-it-does-i-will-murder-you-10a4c1 506ba37044106b6cb99ffe3ced6877f7


Ask anyone that I have ever shared a bed or a room with just how much I can handle a snorer. Simply put, I can’t. I grew up sharing a room with my sister, most of that time in a bunk bed, many a night spent kicking her in the back through the chipboard to wake her up so I could sleep. It was not uncommon for her to wake up with her nose inches from a pillow that I was contemplating suffocating her with (I am not actually going to admit to trying to suffocate her here). Ask my husband about our nightly ritual and it will always involve me going to bed and falling into a deep sleep before he is even permitted to lay down – Heaven help him if we watch a movie or something on the laptop in bed and he dozes off. I have been known to pinch his nose closed, throw water on him and sometimes get out the threatening pillow. (Again, not going to admit to any suffocation).


I really wish people did not have to breathe. (No, that is not the reason for my pillow suffocation antics – not that I have ever suffocated anyone). I have tried to explain to too many people that we have noses through which to breathe in and mouths with which to breathe out – Alas, some people have never mastered that co-ordination and breathe in and out of their mouths alone thus allowing for an awfully loud huffing sound with every breath bound to try drive me nuts. I don’t think I would have a problem with mouth breathing if it could be done quietly but every oral inhalation is generally accompanied by a raspy throaty noise that cannot be explained as anything other than gross. I get that you need your mouth to breathe when your nose is blocked but there is no need to do it in my ear, on top of me, in my face where I can neither run nor hide.


And if you are going to breathe through your mouth because your nose is blocked and you are ill, I suggest you avoid sniffing and sputtering at the same time. The thing about Misophones is that we see sound, which probably explains why we hate it so much. The sound of your sniff gives me visions or mucus travelling its path from your nose to your stomach – If that sentence did not just make you want to be ill, I don’t know what will. Don’t sniff. Just don’t. It is unattractive, unhealthy and unintelligent anywhere near me and a pillow.


If you are not swallowing your snot, I commend you. That, however, is not license to turn your oesophagus into a drain. It is possible to drink or sip quietly and swallow sweetly without pain and injury. Walking around listening to people swig liquids like they’re auditioning to be a roto rooter drain cleaner is hardly my idea of a good time.

Nail biting

The sound of silence is beautiful, silence or some really good music through my earphones. Seeing you munching on your talons is a sure way to kill my sound of serenity. I don’t even have to physically hear you chewing or biting your nails to get annoyed because if I see you doing it I am already imagining the sounds… the sounds of the teeth on nail, grinding and gnawing away. Not only am I now hearing that unnatural crunch, I am imagining you swallowing those talons and feel sick all over again.

Hand rubbing

I appreciate it if you are not biting your nails in my presence but that doesn’t mean that you should be rubbing your hands together instead. Why do people even do this? The only time a hand rubbing is effective is when Gargomel in The Smurfs does it and that is because he is EVIL and wants to kill Smurfs. Are you evil? Do you want to kill Smurfs? No? Then WHY are you rubbing your hands together. If you are rubbing your hands furiously like you are trying to start a fire, perhaps you should consider moisturiser. Only dry hands sound like scratching sandpaper.

And of course, chewing.

There is no sound worse than the sound of someone eating. Other people, myself, pets, babies. You name it, I cannot hear it. Every meal of the day is eaten while trying to block out the sounds of gnawing and squishing and squelching and crunching. At one point, this irritation was so bad that I had to eat a meal in a different room from my husband and children altogether because the sound of them eating would cause me to snap. Most of the time I have learned to deal with this irritation but after a long stressful day, even the softest sound can set me off and eating is bound to be one of those sounds. I have been at such a point of desperation that I have used a pillow on myself to try and drown out the sound of the chewing but alas, this is near impossible.

Now that I have successfully worked myself up by replaying all the sounds that annoy me most in my mind, it is time for dinner – Wish me luck.


How does that saying go, if the shoe fits then wear it? What if it never does.

I have never been able to just ‘purchase a pair of boots’ and I am certain I cannot be alone in this battle.  The struggle is real, not only for our more feminine friends but for the tom boys as well.

Boot shopping for me is an all day event which usually ends in me going home empty handed or with another pair of casual shoes to make up for the loss of the boots I never owned. While I know I am a little more plus sized than the socially accepted norm, I never thought I would categorize my own calves as plus size – I did not even know that plus sized for calves existed! Because of my ‘socially unacceptable’ calves, I have resorted to ankle boots (The UK phenomenon). Something I swore I would never do.

I decided (3 months ago) that I needed a new pair of flat, knee high, work appropriate, flat boots. I wanted to find a pair of boots that would see me through winter that I could wear to work and could comfortably cover my calf tattoo (New job so the work attire must be up to scratch). I had ordered a pair of boots online after discovering that in the UK, your items actually get delivered to your door, but when they arrived realised that they were mid calf boots. I was not upset, instead I thought that I would go on a hunt for some boots for myself and spent what felt like an entire day out looking for unicorn footwear… but alas, no success. I then went the online route again, this time ensuring that the look, size and feel of the boot was exactly what I wanted but when they arrived they barely zipped up my ankle – let alone up to my knees! Disgruntled and disheartened, I returned the boots and after a few more searches I gave up on ever owning a pair of boots that would fit my dancing calves again.

I have since seen some desirable boots by trolling the interwebs and have been recommended various boot outfitters by friends, but to be fair, I will not be ordering boots online knowing that my success rate is nil for 2. I had some time to kill over the weekend so decided to brave the sales at my local shopping centre and see what I would be able to find (if anything) in the hopes that I would fulfil my boot desires months old. Boy, was I mistaken.

For those of you that know The Oracle in Reading, it is safe to say that I entered every single boot selling shop inside the mall and tried on almost every single size 8 pair of boots I could possibly find. There is the first problem, I wear a size 8 shoe. The most beautiful boots are made to a size 7 (Docs excluded of course) and thereafter the dregs of the factory floor have been sewn by a small slave child to create a shoe bigger than they are.

In and out of store after store I pursued this quest and repeatedly failed. Here is why.

1. Size 8 shoes should not be made without a zip to the knee. The retarded little zip at the ankle that is created to allow space for your foot to go into the shoe does not work. Not only does it NOT create any space, it looks daft when the top of the boot doesn’t go past mid calf – That is IF you can even get your foot in, which I cannot. Ever.

2. XXX / EEE / XXL / XL fit or whatever the shop would like to name or brand it is a load of bollocks. Just because you have sewn in a small square of elasticated fabric at the back of the boot does not make said boot  WIDE fit. Also, boots should not be made with a toughened material in the front and elasticated material behind, it looks daft.

3. If I manage to get my apparently obese foot into your midget made shoe, it is an even bigger task to get my foot out again. In many a shop I could be seen yanking, tugging and even blowing into the boot to get it off again – I am starting to wonder if I have grown a shoe size?

4. Hey – Let’s sell boots and shoes and pretty things but if they want to try them on, it is tough. We have no space for chairs. Well, when I am sat on your store floor trying to get boots on / off, don’t bother helping me up again when they don’t fit.

5. Ok so I see what you did there – You really did make the calf of this boot a WIDE FIT – The problem is that this boot looks like Barbie. Big boobs, no waist. Big calves, tiny ankles. It is all very well I can fit my calf into your boot but that is not going to make my ankle feel any better about itself.

6. Screw it – I will buy these cute Wellingtons instead. Oh wait… no size 8’s.


In the end I went home with nothing but shoe envy that day. I have not found any boots that fit my description to date and sadly, stumbled upon a different pair of casual boots that have now been added to the ‘Calves need to lose weight to fit into’ category. I will continue wearing ankle boots in the meantime and hope that my calf muscles are not opposed to some cardio… apparently they need it.

How do you direct your thoughts onto something far less selfish when all that occupies your mind is what is currently happening to you? And by ‘to you’ I mean to me and by ‘currently happening’ I mean separation from my family. The truth is, you just don’t. When what you feel like you are experiencing is all encompassing and rules everything you say and do, there is no room for thoughts of anything else. This may make me boring, selfish, self-centred or reclusive even but to be fair, I cannot be bothered what people think it makes me. I am fixed onto one thought, one goal, one light in sight – Being reunited with my husband and my children, the reason that all this was put into motion.

4 months ago (16 weeks and 2 days to be exact) I landed in the UK with only my suitcases in tow and a dream that I was prepared to sacrifice everything for to achieve. People disagreed with my decisions, disapproved of my methods and judged my choices and yet despite all of this, with the support of my closest friends and family I persevered. I put myself into a lonely situation for which there was no alternative and the desired result? That my family would join me as soon as possible.

When the conversation between my husband and I took place and we discussed our move to the UK, we knew the sacrifices that would have to be made. We did every investigation possible and based on our individual circumstance, at the confirmation of various experts, the only way that I was going to be able to move my family was for me to go first without them and build a life here ready for their arrival. I came under fire many times for this, for the fact that as a mother and a wife I could desert my husband and my children and throw our lives into utter disarray for my own selfish desires… to those naysayers I say up yours. Extended time without my children beside me is most certainly not what I wanted but it was the only way that our future could be forged, ‘small’ sacrifice for a grand ambition.

We knew it would be difficult, we knew that the girls being without their mother was not the best idea. We anticipated that our relationship could take a knock or two with a prolonged marital separation and I knew that being away from my family was going to kill me…  Kill me? I did not know, understand or realise the half of it. If I thought what I would endure would ‘kill me’ then I am in fact feline and have died multiple times since I have been here. I cry for my children every night that they are not with me and every morning I wake to my empty, quiet house is another day in self-made hell that I have only myself to blame for. Don’t get me wrong, I am happy for this change and our move but without my family it is worth nothing. It means nothing. It will continue to mean nothing until they are here.

16 weeks later and here I sit alone, still. Each day we wait on the visa a new torture for us to endure. I find myself checking on the visa tracking almost hourly and requesting constant updates from my husband that I know haven’t come. While we thought that we had gone through the worst of the waiting, it was impossible to anticipate these last few weeks that have been nothing short of unbearable. Each day drags. Each night endless. Each minute silent. I try to throw myself into work, into a hobby, into writing (which has come to an almost standstill) and yet all I can think about is what they are doing, who they are with, what they are wearing and try to prompt myself to remember what they smell like. We thought that modern technology would aid in our communication but due to travelling, working hours and a horrible 2 hour time difference, that has barely been possible. In fact once a week is probably all I get, along with the various pictures that are sent to me sporadically. It is expected that the visa should only take a ‘few more days’ but that was said almost 2 weeks ago so I guess we are back on South African time, waiting while the paperwork gathers dust on the desk of an underpaid administrative clerk.

I have never been more ready for them to arrive. Everything that we have done for the past 4 months and more is about to culminate into a glorious reuniting. A very tearful but long awaited meet that I hope will happen this week, UK visa office permitting. Then this pretty awesome life I have already started working towards for us in a new country can finally begin… We have a beautiful (albeit small) little house, we have food, we have warmth and most importantly we will have each other. My children will know a life in a world not plagued by constant troubles of crime and basic utilities – which I have chosen no longer to voice my opinion about on social media due to being chastised by the very people living in SA and posting these updates. For all its faults, South Africa was home and is the birth place of my children but I am ready for them to know stability, I am ready for them to know the difference between privilege and right. I am ready for them to receive the world and everything I have sacrificed is so that that can happen… none of this has been for me. All who dare to question my motives and my reasons for leaving can go and do one.

So yes, my Facebook updates may be annoying because all that they appear to be is updates on the visa. Yes, my Instagram pictures are full of photo collages of my daughters who I miss as if I had had my limbs removed. Indeed, I sit at home most nights (weekdays and weekends) because first and foremost, finances do not currently permit a social life and secondly, I cannot bare to be false and to be out and about and pretend as if I am not going through the most painful experience of my life. I am sorry if this worries or offends people, this is just how I am dealing with it. Unfortunately the only other person who has even the slightest idea of what I am going through is the one person who has to appear to be the strongest, for the children and especially for me.

Do I think we made a mistake? No. I know that the life that I am making possible for my family is the best life for us. I know that the choices we made, however debilitating, were the right ones and I have no hesitation about the advantages of such a drastic change for our family.

I gave up almost everything I owned.

I sacrificed time I will never get back.

I left a forged career and reputation.

I walked away from lifelong friendships.

I waved goodbye to family…

The hardest part of all is about to come to an end and while everything else will remain just as difficult, as with any family who relocates countries, at least I will have my life partner and my little best friends here to endure it with me.

So friends and family, I ask that you bear with me just a little while longer – It is almost over and regular ‘Shevy’ programming will resume as soon as humanly possible. Thanks for sticking by us, for being our rocks and for lifting us up when getting out of bed has been a challenge in itself.


Dark blankets shadow the night

A moon, ever glowing, ever white

Hidden and removed from my sight

Lost to me, sadness, my only light

Sinking, swallowing, feeling alone

Tired of listening, hearing me moan

No ring, no message, no telephone

The sound of silence, the lingering drone

No one around to see me weep

No human touch, my hand to keep

Tangled emotion locked away deep

From pit to pillar, my love does leap

Away from them, myself I did shove

Thought of my actions only for love

Hurting, aching, longing to see their face

Smell their hair, feel their embrace

So difficult on my own it has been

Many aches, many nights, my tears unseen

So it draws near, the end that is nigh

Each dragging day, ending with a sigh

So close you are, so far away

Why does tomorrow always feel like today?

And yet soon I’ll wake up and so it shall be

Finally, you here with me

Yesterday was the worst day of my life.

While I have never been the ‘Christmas’ kind of person, I have always done my best to make an effort with Christmas, to make sure that my children have an amazing day and to make sure that we spend the day as a family with family, the way it is intended. Yesterday, I spent my first Christmas separated from my children and my first Christmas separated from my husband – A Christmas tradition I would sooner not repeat.

I have been in the UK for 10 weeks without my family now (10 weeks and 1 day) and yet I remember that day at the airport as if it were yesterday. The awkward uncertainty of goodbye and the fear of not seeing my family for what felt like forever, with no end in sight. I remember checking in and walking down the hall towards the security desks as they walked alongside me on the other side of the pillars – I stopped to reach for my phone and when I looked up, they had gone. The emptiness that swallowed me at that point was something that can never be described and was only the beginning of the loneliness to come.

Many people have told me how proud they are of me for doing what I have done so far, for leaving my family for months to build up to a new life for them. As far as I am concerned, no matter how good of a life I am trying to give them, no one can take away the guilt I feel every second of every day for deserting my family. No one can take away the loss I feel. No one can give me back all the days I have and continue to miss with my children, no one can give me Christmas or my 30th, my husband’s birthday or H’s 9th birthday. The truth is, I made this bed and now I must lie in it until it has all played out and everything we are fighting for finally comes to fruition…

That said, supposedly, we are almost there. In 10 weeks, I have moved countries, started a new job, found a house, moved, familiarised myself with public transport and have tried to fit right in as I have been here for much longer.  Just the other day, a train was cancelled and I shared a cab with a South African woman who immediately heard my accent and was curious to my origins. After chatting briefly on our journey home she was under the impression that I have lived here for a long time, she was surprised that I had only been in the country a little over 2 months. In the time that I have been here, my husband has sold up everything we owned, lived with his mother-in-law, single parented two daughters and made sure that we are ok financially. The girls now have their British passports and my husband’s visa application has been submitted – The waiting game has begun and now the ball is in the court of the UK home office to issue his visa, hopefully sooner rather than later.

The truth is, the hard times are only just beginning. As soon as J-P and the girls arrive we need to find him a job, the girls need their placements in schools, we have to figure out how to manage without our full time nanny and instead work out after hour child care. We have to learn how to be a family again, without the support that we have in South Africa. We have to learn to fend for ourselves, our little family, alone and in a new country. Am I nervous? Absolutely. Right now though, all I can focus on is my family and their arrival… I cannot even count the days because we do not have a definite date, but I count each moment that passes as another one on my own without them. Something I vow to never do again. I will never be separated from my family for this long, ever again.

Merry Christmas everyone, I am not sorry that it is finally over.

I had every intention of boarding this train to write a blog to rival the best of them. A piece of work that would have each and every reader rivoted from the very first line. A piece of writing that incorporated only the most sophisticated of writing styles on one of the most controversial topics I could find. A blog that would perhaps one day be recognised by a blogging council and maybe even win an award, the blog that would get me recognised in the blogging community and not just writings of a misunderstood mind. The truth is that the blog I am talking about doesn’t exist because, well, it just is not me.

When I started writing, I fooled myself into believing that I wrote for myself. That writing was therapeutic and it was the only way that I knew how to channel this big personality. For a time I believed that my thoughts and pieces were written for me and me alone, I kept written and printed copies of my writings and referred back to them when I needed inspiration, motivation or when I just wanted a reminder of why I was as dark and brooding as I was. Then social media flew onto the scene and suddenly writing was not just for me anymore, it was a way to get noticed.

I spent a lot of time lonely growing up… I was constantly surrounded by people and yet never had I felt more alone than in my early teens. I was not looking for attention, I was not trying to mimic the ‘wannabes’ that surrounded me. I was just a really confused kid, I did not know where I was going and chose to forget where I had been. I liken myself to Hank Moody’s Becca in Californication sans the guitar playing. I was an emo kid, before emo kid was cool. I was a black sheep before being a black sheep was mainstream. I tested the waters of many a label before I realised there was no label for me and I tried to put myself into many boxes knowing that there was no box I would be comfortable in. I spent hours pouring my confusion, my thoughts and my misguided aspirations into words on paper. It was only when the idea of a blog or social media arrived that I realised my writing could be put out there, that someone somewhere may understand what I have written and perhaps even identify with me… Maybe someone out there was like me? Maybe I did not have to be screwed up on my own…

I remember the first time I put a piece of my own writing on the internet. Long after I was chastised in my English writing class for submitting a piece of work based on the fight between good and evil, the unwritten book of Revelations that I was told was blasphemous and earned me an F for that particular piece of writing. Long after I had started writing poetry and started writing my own book (numerous times may I add, I still have not gotten that right). I became part of the 5FM blogging community and suddenly there were people around me, anonymous ‘people’ that were interested in what I had to say. They were encouraging me to post my writings online. They wanted to READ my most private thoughts and for some unknown reason, I was willing to give it to them!

I remember how belittled I felt when the criticism started, suddenly every one was a writer and I had the grammar police critiquing my English more than people were actually commenting on the subject matter. Surely these people should care about what I have written? Surely the importance of the content far outweighed the fact that I put a comma after the word and (Which is now acceptable I believe). I did not write to become a writer, I was writing to heal myself. I was writing because I wanted to make sense of my thoughts. I was writing because, I had nothing else to do. Now that I could write and post these writings online, it was time to have a concrete shake and deal with the criticism – Suddenly my misguided self medication was not for myself anymore, I was writing to please the people in the PC. I was writing because I wanted to get noticed, I was writing because I wanted someone to care.

How ‘special’ I felt when these bloggers started giving me positive comments, like I was doing something right! This only encouraged me to post as much as possible online and I felt like people finally understood me, I was not alone anymore. How ridiculous a thought that I was seeking approval from people I had never met (Some that I still am in contact with) instead of those closest to me. I was completely misguided in feeling comfortable posting my most emotional works on a blogging site when I could not even share these with friends or family.

Many years was spent posting my life’s work online… Poems I had written in dark times (Available on this blog under the writings section), stories, pieces, rants, reviews… Admittedly, I wanted to be heard and I still do – I am still here aren’t I? I am comfortable now, posting my thoughts here on my own site for the world including those closest to me to see. Do I still seek approval? Or course. Writing is still therapeutic to a degree but at the end of the day, I am in a position where I feel like I have a voice and I want it to be heard, posting these thoughts online is my way to get noticed and my audience is global. I feel honoured, accepted, approved of when people from all around the world take the time to get interested in my work…

Thanks to the internet, I am not just some dark brooding female holed up in a room with a pen and paper.Thanks to the people who actually give a crap, I still have a blog and even if I only get 1 view a day I know that someone took the time to read what I had to say… and that is worth far more than self medicating with a dictionary. I am not always intelligent, I am not always linguistically superior and I am not always controversial. Sometimes I want to write for the sake of writing, like today, like now sitting on this train when I decided that my award winning blog could wait because my desire to ramble was far more important…

Shevy Xxx

Don’t you find it strange how you can decide to buy a blue car and suddenly every second car on the road is blue. Or you hear of someone being pregnant and suddenly everyone around you is falling pregnant. Now that I have moved, now that I have removed myself from a country rife with crime I feel like all I see is bad news and crime reports on South Africa.

I am writing this post out of anger, something any writer will tell you never (or always) to do. Recently, I have seen many news headlines of criminal activity in and around Southern Africa. Violent, racial, sexual or abusive crimes that no human being should have to endure and no savage be allowed to inflict. Now more than ever, these headlines grab my attention because I am here in the UK but my family have been left behind temporarily in South Africa. Just the other night, while my family were all asleep in their beds, someone cut the electric fencing whilst there was a power outage in the attempt to break into the property and ultimately, rob the house. You can understand how this would be extremely worrying for me, not around to protect those I love with no control of how quickly I can remove them as well from the crime rife city of Johannesburg.

I have said it repeatedly and I will say it again – I do not want to bitch about South Africa. I grew up there, it is still classified as my home. I met my husband in South Africa and my children were born and so far raised there as well. If the crime were to have driven me out, I would have left a long time ago – I have been held at gunpoint with my toddler in my arms, I have been hijacked and inappropriately frisked by my assailants, I have had men follow me home and attempt to run me off the road, I have had a man attempt at hijacking me on my bike… the list is endless and does not stop there, so if crime was the problem I doubt I would have been in South Africa for as long as I was.

The plans to move to England have been around for some time. I knew when I had my children that South Africa is no place to raise a family (My personal opinion, bound to upset people). When the opportunity presented itself and the decision was made, there was no question that it was time to give up everything we knew to make the move – For our future and for the future of our daughters, after all this is who I am doing it for. If not to give my husband and myself a better life, to ensure that my children are not raised in fear. Do not flinch at every noise in and around the house, do not have to ask me questions about the violent attacks on the news, it was a no brainer to me to take their vulnerable bodies away from a country raping its people.

I am sick to death of people accusing other people of being traitors to their country if and when they want to get out. First and foremost, I am not a traitor, I did not choose to grow up in South Africa – I was born in the UK and the first opportunity to move, I did it. Secondly, I have every right to remove my family from a dangerous situation. If something criminal happens, why should we feel scared or ashamed to discuss it? We have the right to be angry, have the right to voice our opinion and have the right to moan without being told that if you don’t like it, you can leave. After having done the leaving myself (As I didn’t like it) I understand why this country move is not for everyone. IT IS NOT easy, in fact it is one of the most difficult things I have ever done. Thankfully I am young enough that my career is still wide open, my children are young enough that they can adapt and I know that I will settle and quite easily make new friends as I learn the rhythm of my new life. Not everyone can just get out. I would not expect people to be able to move who are held down by strong family ties, careers, financial responsibility and the basic ability to move without a foreign passport. I am irritated at the fact that every ‘Happy South African’s’ solution is if you don’t like it you can move instead of ‘What can I do to help you and your situation?’

Now I am not saying that England is where the grass is greener. Every single country in the world has their crimes, for goodness sake a man was eating off his girlfriends’ face just the other day. The differences between South Africa and England when raising a family are what matters… AND TRUST ME, there are many. I am free to walk around, in the dark, alone as a woman, with my phone in my hand to and from the train station and I am not scared that I will be raped or attacked on my walk home. I grew up in South Africa, of course I am still aware and make a noticeable effort to be vigilant, much to the curiosity of the innocent joggers that come past. There are children out and about, playing and cycling. Cars give way to pedestrians. There are no burglar bars on the houses. Cars sit unlocked in the car park. Public transport is safe. Hundreds of different cultures and ethnicities can live so comfortably together (Still with some degree of discrimination but not noticeably so).  England is not perfect but since I have arrived I have felt exactly what Rantchick has described in her blog…  I have felt the fear lift, I have finally felt what it is to be free and I cannot wait for my husband and my children to be with me to feel it to.

What has to upset me the most is that when someone in South Africa is hijacked, everyone else will say at least you weren’t injured. When someone is injured they will say at least you weren’t killed. When someone is murdered they will say at least it was only one person and when a family is murdered they will say at least they went together. It is NOT OK to walk around scared for your life or your children’s lives – In the same breath it is not ok to say that you accept the crime and are prepared to die. Rape is not ok, it is sick. Murder is not ok, it is sick. Theft or Xenophobia is not ok. Racism is not ok. Millions of tax payers money for a presidential house is not ok. Your children not being able to grow up in a country that has their best interests at heart, that IS NOT OK!

Everyone has a right to be angry and complain about the criminal state of South Africa or any other country for that matter. Everyone has a right to get upset when someone else is a victim of the violent criminality prevailing in South Africa. Everyone has a right to love their country and want to make the most of living there but everyone also has a right to leave. No one has the right to judge others for the decisions they make to better their or their families lives. No one has the right to judge freedom of speech and no one has the right to speak out against the exodus when they themselves are one of the very few people left yet to experience the wave of crime that I have. I get it, people want to stand up for and defend the country that they have lived in their whole life and that is admirable but I am afraid to defend, you must be informed and to be informed you must understand what has been experienced by those around you.

The next time someone shares an awful story about South Africa, take a minute to realise just how awful things have gotten and instead of attacking those that choose to leave, think of what you can do to make it better for those who decide to stay… because trust me, if everyone could actually leave, South Africa wouldn’t have any educated people left.