IN SANITY

IN SANITY

(August, 2019).

IN SANITY follows the journey of artist-activist—

academic, Siv Greyson, throughout their journey in (and out) of sanity.

The piece emerges from a photo essay assigned in the Anthropology Honours course ‘Societies in Transition’ convened by Marlon Swai, prompted to “reflect on how you or your community is currently transitioning in some way or other”.

Though the piece appears here as a neatly curated zine, the experience exists corporeally in Siv Greyson themself.

Small, Sore, Silent “If my father – a parent ! someone who made my life possible; if he doesn’t love me, who will?”

Meditations on abandonment, repeated once a day shortly after the alarm beeps into arm, with the lights off and a single bed pushed next to the wall.

Sivu was crying. she cried ever-so-often and never in front of people. What did she cry about? Well, Grade 10 was a tough year, South African history was being taught by an Afrikaans Apartheid-flag owner, her mother spent a lot of time away from home, and she was bored, scared, lonely, and hungry; hungry for arms to cry into, hungry for revenge, hungry for a change. Revolt! Revolution!

The English set-work piece was Animal Farm. She loved Animal Farm.

She had never thought about dying before. She hardly ever ruminated on anything big like life, death, god, or sex. Little things like the novel she was writing, her career in music, and her gender expression occupied her mind instead. She had never thought about dying before.

The thought was quickly there and quickly gone, yet, the space it took up lingered – softened, waned, floated, misted in a part of her she feared.

And as she laid – looking at her ceiling wondering if glow-inthe-dark stickers were as cool off-screen – a growl rose from under the bed.

Jesus Day 5 of the meditation, Sivu wrote a letter. Handwritten. Her letters are always handwritten. Sivu wrote a letter addressed to Mrs [Redacted]. The contents of the letter now escape Siv, however, they remember it being something along the lines of “I can’t stop crying – please make it stop”.

Mrs [Redacted] read the letter over the course of 2 weeks, carefully crafted a response. A meditation of her own kind. Sivu didn’t mind. Sending the letter was enough and laying on the speedbump (adjacent to the pedestrian crossing visible from every classroom in the high school) remained an option.

24 January 2013 Dear Sivu My heart aches to think that …

As much as we all would love to know exactly where it is we are going …

I like to look at life as if it is a puzzle …

When we let go of focusing on just one piece of our puzzle and we start to concentrate on the greater picture that we are slowly building …

It is also important to remember that life is not just about …

You have exceptional talent; you are an exceptional person; you can become whatever it is …

God bless.

Mrs [Redacted].

Sivu loved her and she loved Sivu. It was obvious to even the people who didn’t know. Sivu called her ‘Mommy Number 2’.

Sivu called her husband ‘Papa’. It’s a pity Sivu couldn’t pray the gay away.

It’s a pity she mistook Sivu’s cry for help for a prayer.

The Fantasy of Being Completely Healed Things smoothed over and Sivu found ways to make changes.

They changed the way they dressed.

They changed their role in their friendships.

They changed their hair.

They changed their name.

They fell out of love with that boy from that place.

They found ‘non-binary’ and, after some confusion and rejection, wrapped its arms around themself.

They argued with their grandmother about studying Philosophy.

They applied for Oceanography to use their exceptional talent.

They wished they were rather studying English at Oxford like their 13-year-old self planned.

They danced more, stopped watching The Ellen DeGeneres Show, (re)started their YouTube channel, and kissed some girls and kissed some boys.

They made to-do lists.

They finished with 5 A’s.

They didn’t study for science and still passed.

They wished they were white.

They wished they were skinny.

They wished they were taller.

They wished they had a flat chest.

They wished their father found them interesting enough to stay.

They wore a dress to their matric dance.

They got blank out drunk 3 times.

They never smoked weed – they were afraid of it.

They moved to Cape Town.

They attended a Rainbow UCT event.

They saw [Redacted] for the first time.

They fell in love with [Redacted].

They had sex 1 week into the relationship.

They were ready and also not and not at all regretful. …

Do you regret?

(35 mm Archives, Greyson, 2018).

Diagnoses [Redacted]’s life was quite different to Siv’s and yet the two of them overlapped comfortably. In hindsight, co-dependence is not the healthiest form of relating – especially romantically – but at the time things were good.

Siv knew that [Redacted] struggled with many things; things Siv sometimes had to google. Things familiar (like fighting with one’s mother or trying to sneak into the house or asserting one’s existence outside of the binary) and things strange.

Anxiety and Depression.

[Redacted] had been diagnosed at a young age and, with the help of medication, managed. Just, managed. Happiness, sorrow, rage, desire, exhaustion, all of it; all of it happens alongside, against, and across management.

The next part is a blur.

[Redacted]’s first attempt.

Siv was in Thailand on a family trip.

Life continued and both of them managed.

Second year started.

[Redacted] seemed okay.

The two spent an ample amount of time together.

[Redacted] restarted therapy.

[Redacted] reminded Siv of the importance of processing their emotions.

[Redacted] convinced Siv to start therapy.

[Redacted] accompanied Siv to their first session.

And their second.

[Redacted] managed less and less.

[Redacted] thought about death more, talked about death more, argued for euthanasia against Siv in the middle of Spur in Cavendish.

Blur. Blur. Dark. Blur. Distance.

Siv took on the role of keeping [Redacted] alive.

Siv missed an essay deadline.

[Redacted]’s second attempt.

[Redacted] goes to a clinic.

Blur. Blur. Dark. Blur. Distance, Siv broke a heart.

08/01/18 16:08 My therapist laughs at my jokes that I tell too many of and cuts her hair every now and then – I make sure to comment so she knows I notice – and I found her via a google search. Queer therapist cape town – click. Every Friday at 2pm, previously Wednesday at three, I walk into her office and sit on a very comfortable couch placed close enough to a window to feel comfortable. Sunflowers enjoy natural light and co-incidentally so do I. Sometimes we talk about serious things, like my grandmother’s now frequent trips to the hospital, the time my father said goodbye for the last time, and my … “feelings”. But mostly I tell jokes and she laughs. To her defense, I’m a difficult client, I hide my feelings from everybody especially myself, and my jokes are hilarious. No seriously, knock knock.

Who’s there? My crippling self-doubt. But sometimes, when we’re lucky, my feelings are too big to hide. Too big for under the bed. Too loud for right behind me. Too proud for the closet. Too heavy for my shoulders. Too bright for my closed eyes. Too slippery, they just fall right out of my mouth, in between my fingers, and suddenly my head’s in my lap and my therapist is saying “let it out” but I’m too scared because last time it nearly killed me and I have so much more to do and the world needs me and I need and I can’t and I’m feeling a little sorta kinda a tad like I can’t breathe. Nobody laughs.

Thankfully, I’m not a comedian and my therapist isn’t my audience.

I’m learning that there is nothing wrong about feeling and everything right about letting myself feel even when feeling feels too much. I feel, I mean I think – no, I mean I feel … that feeling feels better than not feeling, that something is more than nothing, and that my feelings are valid no matter what anybody else feels. And can I tell you? Feeling feels soo good. It feels like learning a new language. It feels like diving underwater. It feels like running aimlessly through a field of sunflowers. It feels like getting up after falling down. It feels like laughing; laughing so much you slap your thighs and jolt your head back and forth, from loud yells to silent squeals, bright teeth on display for the whole world – my audience – standing ovation, hands clapping and I need a little sorta kinda tad bit like I can’t breathe. … … … And it is only when I raise my head, tear-stained cheeks, lump in my throat, that I realize … nobody is laughing. … Isn’t that funny?

08/01/18 16:43

08/01/18 16:08 My therapist laughs at my jokes that I tell too many of and cuts her hair every now and then – I make sure to comment so she knows I notice – and I found her via a google search. Queer therapist cape town – click. Every Friday at 2pm, previously Wednesday at three, I walk into her office and sit on a very comfortable couch placed close enough to a window to feel comfortable.

Sunflowers enjoy natural light and co-incidentally so do I. Sometimes we talk about serious things, like my grandmother’s now frequent trips to the hospital, the time my father said goodbye for the last time, and my … “feelings”. But mostly I tell jokes and she laughs. To her defense, I’m a difficult client, I hide my feelings from everybody especially myself, and my jokes are hilarious. No seriously, knock knock. Who’s there? My crippling self-doubt. But sometimes, when we’re lucky, my feelings are too big to hide. Too big for under the bed. Too loud for right behind me. Too proud for the closet. Too heavy for my shoulders. Too bright for my closed eyes. Too slippery, they just fall right out of my mouth, in between my fingers, and suddenly my head’s in my lap and my therapist is saying “let it out” but I’m too scared because last time it nearly killed me and I have so much more to do and the world needs me and I need and I can’t and I’m feeling a little sorta kinda a tad like I can’t breathe. Nobody laughs. Thankfully, I’m not a comedian and my therapist isn’t my audience. I’m learning that there is nothing wrong about feeling and everything right about letting myself feel even when feeling feels too much. I feel, I mean I think – no, I mean I feel … that feeling feels better than not feeling, that something is more than nothing, and that my feelings are valid no matter what anybody else feels. And can I tell you? Feeling feels soo good.

It feels like learning a new language. It feels like diving underwater. It feels like running aimlessly through a field of sunflowers. It feels like getting up after falling down. It feels like laughing; laughing so much you slap your thighs and jolt your head back and forth, from loud yells to silent squeals, bright teeth on display for the whole world – my audience – standing ovation, hands clapping and I need a little sorta kinda tad bit like I can’t breathe. … … … And it is only when I raise my head, tear-stained cheeks, lump in my throat, that I realize … nobody is laughing. … Isn’t that funny?

08/01/18 16:43

“I’m … still alive.”

Therapy continued for over 2 years. For someone who was too arrogant for therapy (they assumed they’d constant outwit the ‘mhm’-ing person on the chair, completely disregarding the fact that they weren’t the first arrogant twat to attend therapy). I digress.

Therapy continued for over 2 years. In that time, [Redacted] and Siv spent many hours together. Roughly calculated: 92 hours (if we compensate for occasional missed sessions).

Therapy continued for over 2 years and in those years, Siv relived, unwound, healed, opened, and licked their traumas.

At age 6 her grandmother bought her a pair of camouflage shorts she picked out from the boy’s section of a plus-size underwear shop. Her mother hated them.

At age 9 she wondered out loud about her father.

At age 10 he decided to be a boy for a week. Nobody noticed.

Blur. Blur. Dark. Blur. Distance.

At age x her father visited for the first time. They went shopping for an expensive toy at Reggies, they got milkshakes at Café Capellini (he preferred lime, she preferred vanilla), and went putt-putt golfing at the Boardwalk.

They repeated this meditation for 3 consecutive years.

He stopped calling.

He stopped coming.

Blur. Blur. Dark. Blur. Distance.

At age 19 they lost Mommy Number 2.

At age 20 they found [Redacted].

At age 21 they lost and found themselves.

They were ready and also not and not at all regretful. …

Do you regret?

low, lower, lowest

“Very few people know how to talk about suicide. Very few people know how to hear/read talk about suicide. Perhaps because suicide happens in the realm of things we are afraid of? Things like death and pain.

If we want to cultivate worlds within which people want to live - worlds where living (I mean really living) is something possible (something possible not just for the FEW), we’ll have to learn how to talk about the effects (and Affects) of the worlds that try to kill us.”

(Greyson, 2019)

There are multiple ways to ask for help. When one is drowning at sea, they may wave their arms in distress. When one’s plane is falling, they may radio in to the airport for assistance. When one is choking, they may do it in such a way that a person with first aid training springs into action. And, when one’s father leaves them for a second time, they may write a letter to their English teacher.

What does one do when they want to die without anyone knowing and yet, likewise, want to live with everyone holding them? What does one do when they are bored, scared, lonely, and hungry; hungry for arms to cry into, hungry for revenge, hungry for a change? Well, they update their Facebook status.

20 x 50mg SERDEP: Sertraline Medication was a logical step. Logical. And calculated. And researched. And, with hesitation, pursued.

Siv ‘didn’t believe in medication’. They had this super idealistic aspiration of encountering the world untouched by human interference and human destruction. They were also adamant in the ‘problem’ in need of ‘fixing’ being ‘the system’ and ‘not them!’. This is of course true. However, when it comes to neardeath Fear makes choices on your behalf. Fear logically chose medication. Plus, the world is fucked up place. One may do what is necessary for survival.

The first month was chaotic. Call it placebo effect or quick adjustment but Siv was walking on sunshine. Yeah yeah!

Walking on sunshine! Oh oh! And don’t it feel good! Hey! Alright! Their middle name was Productivity (yes, Siv Productivity Greyson) and their main push was hope.

Somehow, by the work of a divine being (surely?), they managed to pick up the pieces of their degree as well as find love on one of the most godforsaken social media platforms (it rhymes with ‘histogram’.)

Once the initial high wore off and their body adjusted, they fell asleep with ease, slowed down into a far more relaxed pace, stopped replying to WhatsApp messages, found a collective of artist activists, and fell into an engagement with Blackness that pulled at them – tugged at the selves they buried in the mother tongue tied in knots.

Things were stable and meaningful and sharp and painful. But they were. At least things were.

Crazy Mad Jacqui is their mother’s spiritual healer. She heals through the practice of Body Talk and incorporates a rather rigorous counsel-like session prior to tapping into your wrist. Siv’s mother had met with Jacqui consistently longer than Siv was in therapy and frequently encouraged Siv to at least try a session or two.

It wasn’t until Siv fell in love with [Redacted] earlier this year that visiting Jacqui opened doors. To enter the realm of spiritual healing, one must respect the power of the spiritual.

One must always already be in conversation with the Universe and Their incarnations. The first door must at least be ajar.

[Redacted] and Siv’s love was the key.

Amidst incorporating anti-depressants into their daily routine, Siv took an emergency flight home (Port Elizabeth) to rest, reset, and recoup. Back again in their bedroom in a double bed resting in the centre of the room, Siv performed their meditation – although this time with less tears and more emptiness. They had no plans of returning to Cape Town nor any plans of finishing their degree.

Following a well-timed visit with Jacqui, they booked a flight back to Cape Town and wrote the introduction to their proposal on the flight.

Their main takeaway from Jacqui was this: “The earth needs compost; the earth wants compost. You would make good compost! So, you are being called to stop – to decompose. You need to choose life.”

They were ready and also not and not at all regretful. …

Do you regret?

How to Roll an Entjie: You Will Need: • Short, Pure Hemp, Rolling Paper • Tobacco – Vanilla Colts • Super Slim or Micro Slim Veniti Filter Tips Step 1: Step 2: Step 3: Step 4: Step 5: Step 6: Step 7: Step 8:

Find an artist activist who knows how to roll an entjie.

Ask them to roll you an entjie.

Give thanks.

Form The Collective.

Commit to committing.

Eat, cry, hold, be held, revenge, change, revolt.

Join in on the smoke breaks, learn from their technique, develop your own.

Be an artist activist who knows how to roll an entjie and be found. Be found.

Thank you.