The closest feeling I can compare it to is that sinking sad feeling you get when you’re about to get dumped. You know know it’s coming but there’s nothing you can do to prevent it and so you anxiously want to get it over and done with.


Speaking of RIP, the feeling is also akin to grief. Not stricken from a recent mourning of passing but rather sombre around the anniversary of a great loss. So that is how I was feeling last week. Sad and sorry and sorrowful.

However, I am relieved to report that my “issues’ were hormonal after all. Unlikely menopause, but definitely physical in nature. Thank god for that. At least I know it’s a course of pills or injection and I’m back to normal (relatively speaking) again.

I wasn’t keen on having to deal with any deep-seated emotional issues. Neither was I thrilled at questioning my state of mind.


I coloured my hair darker during these er … darker moments. Initially I just coloured the roots brown to give myself the ombre look [Google it boys], however on not-so-Good Friday I had reached the bottom of the pits and decided that all my hair needed to be darker still and I erased all evidence of having previously been a blonde.

I liked it for about an hour; but once the hormones dropped from Daisy Louisa C. De Melker nΓ©e Hancorn-Smith levels, to simply erratic Harmony; I immediately regretted the bland boring brown crop I now sport.

The crazy things we (I) do in severe mood swings. Thank god I didn’t cut it because then I’d really have something to cry about.

Oh well, I don’t like the new look and I really missing my blonde-self but I’m going to have to live with it for a while. I’ve already coloured my hair twice in six days, and I don’t think adding bleach to the mix is going to do my locks any favours right now.

I also painted my nails blood red and my toenails pitch black. Yup, that’s the mood I was in. But like I said, I’m back to normal again – even if I don’t look it.

And instead of being mad at the world at large, I can now direct my ire to one deserving citizen at a time.



I keep turning around this misfortune,
this troubled illusion I call myself,
when I could be turning around you,
the giver of blessings, origin and presence.

My chest is a grave that you have made into a rose garden.
What goes in the grave?
What fits in that two-by-two-by–seven?

Not soul.
Soul cannot be contained in the sky.
I turned around God.

I have become a mirror,
yet for these few days I turn around a piece of white wool.
If I were a rose in this spring,
I would change into a hundred rosebushes.

I turn around this frustrated body,
tethered in a barn of words,
when I could be free in the infinite pasture.

why do I keep turning as though fastened to a pole?

~ RUMI ~