A Cane for my Tears

It started on the flight back from Heathrow to Johannesburg at the end of November, and kept building until it reached a crescendo yesterday. I realised after three hours that I was unable to stop crying, and out sheer desperation took a sleeping tablet. Waking up about six hours later, the hurt and longing were still so overwhelming, that it felt the pain came from the deepest core within me, but at least I did stop crying.

Back in South Africa, it did not even take a day for my reasonably bad cold that started in England to turn into full-blown bronchitis. This resulted in being booked off sick, with my doctor that knows me far too well, threatening hospitalisation if I do go to work. It was a long, lonely seven days, leaving me brooding and missing Uncle Nick even more. December is not my favourite month in general but I also had the added stress of having to perform some very unpleasant tasks at work. The New Year arrived, and with that the frustrating, difficult and extremely stressful commencement of trying to obtain work with a visa sponsorship in the UK.   

I hated crying ever since I was a small girl when I realised that a show of tears often would indicate a victory to my tormentors, which meant that they would come back with a vengeance. Instead, I replaced my tears with anger and aggression, as I was determined not to remain the victim. Sadly, a small defence mechanism that started when I was a mere six or seven years old, over the years became such a habit, that the first person that was able to break through that hard wall, was Uncle Nick and his cane.

However, being back in South Africa, alone with the missing and the terrible hurt, the frustration and stress, my behaviour underwent a change. I became more and more impatient, snapping at people, my voice hard and aggressive with my temper ready to flare at the slightest sign of criticism, regardless whether it was done with only the best of intentions. I was so desperate to cry, but once again, managed to suppress and ignore it, stubborn and not willing to feel the hurt to the point where I cannot breathe.

It was decided during this past week, that the wall had to broken down again, for me to obtain release from this hardness inside me and find some form of balance and calmness again. As such, I reported to HH yesterday afternoon, and although every fibre of my body was telling me to run into the opposite direction, I knew that it was needed. As is his normal habit, he engaged in small talk first, but I was so aware of the cane hooked over the chair, my mouth so dry with my stomach doing slow churns of pure panic, that I could barely concentrate on the conversation. One part of me wanted the conversation to carry on indefinitely, the other part wanted the caning over and done with.

It was to be eighteen strokes, and as I was bending over the chair, my bottom exposed, feeling the cane lightly tapping me, I tried desperately to relax, but my fingers were clutching and curling into the pillow so badly, that my fingertips were hurting. As the first stroke burned across my bottom, I thought myself insane, for wanting this, to need it! With every stroke, it seemed that my bottom was numb for the first couple of seconds, and then a streak of fire will race across and deep into my flesh.

I could not help myself, whimpering every time the fire started, but by stroke seven, the initial numbness no longer was present. He was laying on the strokes with exact care, taking his time to make sure that every stroke counts, trying to place all of them neatly over the whole expanse of my bottom, and my whole bottom was on fire. As the strokes continued towards twelve, I could feel myself trembling, with small shudders running through me. My whispered words of pain was now replaced by only small moans, and when he stopped at twelve to ask whether I am still okay, I could barely answer him. I was feeling the pain and burn on my bottom, but the pain inside me had me shuddering from head to toe. I was so desperately trying not to give in to the hurt, but when the thirteenth stroke seared across my bottom, the wall broke.

Although the last five strokes burned, with my bottom on fire and in agony, I was watching in amazement as my tears were silently dropping onto the chair, even having the realisation that I am no longer whimpering or moaning as the cane was finding it’s mark, because I was finally crying. It is a now a day later, and I do have problems in the sitting down department, with last night spent quite uncomfortably sleeping on my tummy, not wanting any linen to be in contact with my bottom. However, me, as a person? I am softer and gentle again, I feel lighter inside, and I know that although I most probably will start building the wall again, for now, I am okay.