BOTTLES: A STORY OF TRAUMA AND ART

BETTY CHARUMBIRA – THE BUNDU THERAPIST

Bottles,

I can’t stand

bottles they absolutely repulse me. Normally, I shy away from using the word

“hate,” but when it comes to bottles, no other term can capture my intense

aversion. I've seen  the most dignified

people I know behave unrecognizably because of them

Look,I don’t

recall a single moment when my Dad was ever kind to my Mom while he was drunk,

which seemed to be a daily occurrence. The memories are seared into my mind

with painful clarity: around 1:41 a.m. every night, he would stagger home,

already intoxicated. Moments later, the house would erupt with crashing sounds

and explosions, followed by Mom’s desperate screams. The night would invariably

end with her seeking refuge in our room to escape the chaos. For a child  as sensitive and introspective as me, the

violence and the screaming felt very traumatic, as if I a live amagedon was

taking place inside my house. It’s no wonder I harbor such a deep aversion to

bottles.

The bottle

saga doesn’t only end in my family home, After my father passed away when I was

7 Years old,I found bottles following me in my adoptive home. As if it was not

enough,this time it was the feminine figures in my life in the war of bottles. This time,

the chaos wasn’t just from one person but from four siblings ‘my aunties’, each

turning every disagreement into a loud, violent showdown, thanks to their

intoxication.I still can’t shake away the memory of custard splattered across

the kitchen ceiling a grim souvenir from one of their bottle-fueled fights.

That mess, left to fester for months, stayed as a  reminder of how bottles breed disorder. I’ve

carried anger  with me throughout my

life  because of how I’ve been a victim

to the havoc that bottles cause

The story

doesn’t have a happy ending however because hating bottles did not stop me from

falling into the hands of my own demon

Mine wasn’t

loud  and provocative, it didn’t smell

like  African sour grapes (masau),it was

soft and numbing, it was quiet and self contained it didn’t get in anybody’s

way, With each slow puff it taught me to shut the hell up and hide my voice, repress

my feelings  emotions thoughts and

opinions. It swallowed me into the valley and hid me in a dark place where the

light was hard to access. Before I knew it, I attracted an emotionally

unavailable and narccistic partner who was also addicted to bottles, It feels

like my life has been a cycle of attracting bottles. Something in me really

hated bottles but also found myself associated with them everywhere

I’ve

unsuccessfully struggled trying  to

escape my past and the components of my story, believing that distance would

bring me peace. Everything about my past felt like pain and shame distorting my

sense of identity and eroding my confidence. While detaching from everyone and

everything I knew provided a temporary sense of liberation, the relief was short

lived. At this point my romantic relationship and just coming across bottles

kept me reminded of my nasty past, dragging me back to the uncomfortable

memories it carried,” pain and shame”

The biggest

mistake I made was seeking help from someone who had only studied my experience

but never lived it. Getting advice from a person who hadn’t truly grappled with

addiction and the emotional turmoil of trying to break free was a complete

misfire. Growing up in the ghetto and coming from a poor background, my only

exposure to psychological support was through Christian counselors and

community therapists who lacked sensitivity and  emotional conversational skills. I was

constantly reminded of my misfortune and helplessness. My soul craved freedom,

but all I knew was chaos and impossibility. That’s when the dark night of the

soul hit me hard yes, I hit rock bottom.

At rock

bottom, something remarkable happened,the rise of the artist within me occured.

I experienced a profound mental and spiritual shift. Just like raw cacao, which

seems unappealing until it's transformed into a delectable chocolate cake, I

saw an opportunity to turn my disdain for bottles into something beautiful. I

decided to craft art from these bottles, transforming my anger into pieces that

fascinated me. Bottles, with their fragmented beauty, became my unexpected

teachers, guiding me to embrace my own brokenness. In every direction I turned,

I was surrounded by these glass fragments, reminding me how we can never run

away from the shadows of life, each one a reflection of my inner struggles.

Instead of shying away from their sharp edges, I chose to confront them,

learning to see beyond their imperfections. Through the cracks, I discovered

parts of myself that needed healing and renewal. What once seemed like

obstacles became opportunities for creation.

Each broken

bottle became a brushstroke on the canvas of my life, revealing the artist

within me. I began to see that these fragments were not just remnants of

brokenness, but the raw materials of beauty and resilience.I started putting

the broken pieces together, creating wall hangers that reminded me of the powerful

woman behind the broken glasses.Yes,I wanted something that I would equally see

all the time as much as I saw bottles. Now,Every day, before I step out the

door, I pause to admire the stunning canvas of broken bottles I created. It’s a

powerful reminder that within every shard of broken glass lies a narrative of

beauty and resilience. This artwork reflects not just the fractures but the

remarkable stories they represent, showing that even in our most fragmented

moments, there is profound beauty to be found and celebrated

Today when  I encounter a bottle, I am reminded of the

powerful woman who emerged from the shards.one who turned adversity into art

and gave new life to the remnants of the past. I choose to view these bottles

as symbols of my strength, turning them into masterpieces that honor both my

journey and the environment. I did

not  only 

heal myself,I healed my self and I healed mother nature and today I

write in fufillment as I look at my craft beautifying the environment and my

voice being the voice of reason for the less privilledged