Ladybird
by Janita Sakoschek
(Umuzi, R190)
in this autobiographical tale, this Sakoschek lady is kind of crazy, and when her house burns down, the people close to her notice that she’s a bit off.
Her best friend recommends her to a psychologist who, after examining her, transfers her to a psychiatrist without delay. She does not think she’s mad, though beset by suicidal thoughts and obsessed with inflicting pain upon herself.
While at the psychiatric hospital, and heavily medicated, she threat-ens to jump out of a window if they do not release her at once.
This earns her a transfer to a rehabilitation centre for addicts and compulsive loonies.
At the facility, she makes acquaintance with a group of interesting people: a suicidal guy; an old lady who’s been dumped there after her husband of more than 60 years passes away; a thoroughly crazy man by the name of Sam, who has the mind of a seven-year old; and a head nurse whom she hates at first.
Through her interactions with these characters she’s able to gain a clearer understanding of how her life is not as bad as she makes it out to be. She also discovers that a lot of her trauma resonates from her childhood of emotional isolation and depression.
The work is personal to a point where Sakoschek clearly does not give a damn about what people may think of her. She intermittently recounts her thoughts and past, which convince the reader that she’s truly off her rocker. Her frank approach to dialogue is childishly comical, while at times the material will scare you a bit when you realise that you’re giving this loony lady direct access to your mind.
All in all, one may find the read somewhat addictive. You cannot help but admire the way in which Sakoschek bares all, which sets the grounds for a connection between her and the reader.
This is a book you’ll always want to lend but never give away. If you thought your life was bad; if you thought you were a bit crazy; if you thought you were misunderstood, then this book has a pleasant surprise waiting for you. – Tshepo Tshabalala