That’s what I used to read in my novels. If someone did something wrong to someone, the wronged would tell the other, “I hope a curse gets you! May you suffer for the wrong you’ve done!”
David was a man like that. He knew his weaknesses. He knew his strengths too. And he knew that everyone who was evil only had one place they were going to, only one ‘reward’ coming to them.
This is my strength. People may have the gumption and guts to spout absolute nonsense to or about me. They can be cruel if they want to. They can be nasty behind my back and smile at me and keep digging for information, not knowing I know they’re as real as a Brazilian weave on an African head. But their day is coming. So I’ll wait.
Random side note. Yesterday, I had a sad realisation. I was born with a club foot and feet facing ‘wrong.’ I had physio and stretches etc that were done to me to help me. At some point, I even wore special boots. Yet, instead of my ability to walk without having needed surgery being rejoiced over, my mother constantly told me to fix how I walk. I used to do ballet. You know how ballerinas toes point outwards? That’s how I walked. Toes out. And she HATED that. I was always told to “walk normally” or “properly.” I felt.. Life is not about looks or physique etc but I also grew up being told everything about mine was wrong. besides being ugly, having a large forehead etc, I couldn’t even MOVE right. I felt like an embarrassment and a shame. Which is what I had been told I was, so hey, wouldn’t you believe it if someone older than you kept telling you that?
Yet when I was older and had my boyfriend/husband, when we’d notice people who walked like that, we’d wonder if they were a dancer. He never thought they moved ‘wrong,’ he wondered if they’d done ballet! No man in his car ever mocked me for the way I walked, they wanted to get me into their cars.🤦🏾♀️None of my school friends who walked like me had been made to feel like they were an embarrassment. Just like when they got teen acne. I think I shared how my mom would go from doctor to doctor, not be able to pass by a cosmetic counter without asking for my son to be fixed. Yet it wasn’t even bad. It was just really a rash. Our family doctor didn’t even suggest anything medical. My mother is the one who made me wish I could fix my skin. Not my friends, not TV, not my own thoughts. My mom. And I didn’t realise I was being beaten down. I thought only the physical beatings and attacks were harmful.
And so yesterday, as I saw people walking in the shops-all different styles of walking, it hit me that I’d wasted decades fixing something that didn’t need fixing. I still automatically try walk “properly, like a normal person.” But I already was a normal person. And only at the ripe old age of 43 did I finally break free. When I realised that I saw nothing wrong with anyone else’s walking. If I see nothing wrong with them, perhaps my MOTHER was the one in the wrong…
The voice of our mother rings forever in our ears. We are’ trained from birth to love then and need them. After all, they feed us. And the world said we owe them.-whether they beat us (unjustly) or not.
I wish the world had told mothers that they owe their children love, security, uplifting, encouragement, wellbeing, kindness and safety.
They said I should write a book 