Mental Health: Coping Mechanisms


Something happened to me this year, about six months back, I lost my words. Poets, wordsmiths and those with artistic spirits have always experienced their journey in terms of how well they could describe it, on a piece of paper.

Language my dear fellow is an art, not merely a means of expressions. The written word is expression itself, feelings, memories and souls all compressed into what we know as the WORD, the written WORD!

For a blogger/ freelance writer, word mechanic and all round smooth operator, my words are my life. My place in this world is determined by how well I can take you through a journey using nothing but my laptop and thoughts.

To place you in my train of thought and have you take a seat as we watch it leave the station and arrive at a different location, to see it as it chugs along unknown places, taking unbeaten paths, passing through meadows and valleys as you drink in the scenery.

These words are my WHY, my BECAUSE, you know…, like “I am currently surviving my job BECAUSE I want to be an artist, and that’s WHY I wake up every morning.”

When I first wanted to write I believed that the eloquence, the structure or style of the words I picked would pull in the crowd more than the actual content and weight of the words I used.

However, I discovered that my story had to be different. My tale was not to be the same as that of my favourite authors, the slickness of a Mario Puzo I did not have, the intricacy of a Machiavelli I could not replicate, the gravity of a Bukowski I could not muster.

So, myself I had to be, unashamedly. A grammatical rebel. One who chooses to write deep and detailed descriptions of everyday occurrences.

When I first heard that HHP (Hip Hop Pantsula) had passed on, I was crushed…, had he lost his words as well, I pondered. Not too many of us find and keep that sparkle in our eyes, it usually fades over time, the eyes glaze over around middle age, and someone who was once so full of potential and hope is hollowed out and left but an empty vessel of their former selves, this is called a “Midlife Crises.”

They say #DepressionIsReal, I couldn’t say, as someone who lives their lives one day at a time, I just know one thing is for sure, every day comes with its own set of problems and a pile of manure to back them up.

Still, there’s always that one chance to stop and smell the roses, no matter the circumstances. I can’t say what it would take for someone to snatch their lives away from the circle of life, neither can I comment on other people’s emotions and the way that they perceive the world. To do so would be to act pretentiously in the hope that you, the reader, would somehow find my piece “more interesting.”

All I know is my story, my take on my place in the world and how I will forever search for the words I lost. My name is Leoma Monaheng and I am a finder of Lost Words, words of my own.


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