A few years ago on a Friday evening, I sat at my kitchen table, understanding that I could no longer get up. That I could no longer do anything else but sit still and not move. I broke down. But my love had invited me to dinner with him that day and I knew I had to phone him. I did not want him to worry. Luckily, my cellphone was within reach. I told him that I wouldn’t make it to dinner, but that he should not worry – I was safe and not in any danger. I explained that I simply could not move. I did not need anything, but to be left to sit still without having to do anything for anyone anymore. He understood. It had been a few extremely stressful weeks and I had been trying to deal with an onslaught of medical disasters in the family; with personal issues, including another break-in that left me reeling, and an impossible workload. I had been insanely stressed, yet coping despite everything for a very long time, but then, on top of everything else, when I was on a tight deadline and about to deliver that Friday afternoon, something went wrong with my computer and I could no longer complete the job. Nothing worked. I managed to contact the person who was waiting for my work, and they were very understanding. I also contacted my brother in Austria who connected to my computer and sorted it all out remotely. I delivered what I had to in the end, but I could no longer move. It had all been too much.

I sat at the kitchen table for most of that evening, doing nothing but being. Eventually, I moved to the couch and slept a little for the rest of the night in front of the TV. The next day, I made a list of the most urgent tasks to accomplish, finding a therapist to help me through the breakdown was on top of the list. I said no to a few people asking whether I could do something for them at the time, and contacted all others to ask for kindness and patience. Especially the latter. I received both from most. Only two people pushed for more than I could give, and I had to end our working relationships.

Because of this experience, whenever I begin working with someone, I warn them that despite my usual efficiency (I am capable of publishing more than twenty books a year – a workload, I’ve realised only recently, most publishers would need a few permanent staff members for – AND this is by far not my main source of income, but rather a financially unreliable hobby), if something out of the ordinary disrupts my everyday – family responsibilities, illness, loss, a burst geyser, or a professional emergency – I won’t be able to always deliver on promises made. When I mention this possibility, most people seem to understand my position, but are eager to work with me nevertheless. When I am fully functional, I am extremely productive – usually on my own. I often work on projects with others, but at the end of the day, responsibility for most of them, especially the bill-paying ones, rests on my shoulders. When those shoulders are driving behind an ambulance with my love inside, or force-feeding one of my furry family members to save their lives, or recovering from Covid-19, or climbing onto the roof because no one else is available to stop the waterfall that had burst into my study, or trying to transition from one book distributor to another, I sometimes can take much longer to complete a job than anticipated. My capacity remains limited: time-wise and financially. I am not complaining. I love my work. I am so proud of everything I have been able to accomplish, on my own and with others. This year alone, Karavan Press authors were recognised with the Olive Schreiner Prize for Poetry, the Breyten Breytenbach-prys and the UJ Prize for South African Writing, and were nominated for three other very prestigious awards (of which two are still to be announced). I have already (co)published thirteen books this year, with at least six other titles to follow before the end of the year. We organised a wonderful new poetry festival which was an overwhelming success. Many amazing things are happening! All this in spite of ending up with a concussion and impossible pains in the emergency room in the beginning of the year, facing the challenges of establishing a company and changing distributors, nursing a frail family member and suffering her loss, fearing a breast cancer diagnosis when I discovered a lump and struggling with my eyesight (my eyes eventually bled, and I was in so much pain, I could no longer see or think straight), and most recently facing the fact that my Mom needs me ahead of a big operation, which frightens us all.

A few weeks ago, I lost control over my life and inbox, the accumulating work backlog threatening to crush me. I informed people concerned, tried to explain, begged, apologised, and yet somehow kept going, still accomplishing the most urgent tasks. Most people have been particularly empathetic and understanding – in words and deeds. But not all.

I know that despite all the accomplishments, I’ve also failed. Big time. I dropped balls, many; I let people down, terribly; broke promises, disppointed; and did not nurture other people’s dreams in the way I am expected to. Because of the way I have been brought up – to serve and never fear the impossible – even when I try to do my best no matter what the circumstances, I feel guilt when I cannot deliver on a promise. I always try to explain and apologise. But sometimes, I freeze in my guilt. Occasionally, when I am met with a lack of understanding, my guilt becomes tainted with resentment. I have been feeling it all again for a while now – accompanied by physical manifestations of another impending breakdown. Debilitating insomnia, anxiety, headaches, forgetting, lack of focus and pain in my jaw that makes it nearly impossible to breathe at the end of the day. I am again on the verge of something shifting me into immobility. I am scared that even though I have learnt so much over the years of therapy, I still do not know how to fight for myself and how to put my needs first.

I know I should not make promises, even with the warnings I usually put in place. This is a failure on my part. I really love what I do, and I usually don’t mind overstretching my capacity to accommodate other people’s wishes. But at the end of the day, no matter what else, I also need to pay bills, and the work that pays for them must have priority. Only then can I make other people’s dreams come true.

This is not a cry for any kind of assistance. I receive enough already. And I am deeply, deeply grateful. Also, I don’t want to be fixed to be able to continue serving only others. I am already attempting to create a space to take care of myself so that I can be there fully for others again.

I know that I have to say NO more often, and to protect my limited resources no matter how much I disappoint other people. In a way, my resilience remains my greatest weakness. Putting up boundaries is one thing, maintaining them is a completely different beast.

All I need right now is time to grieve, to comprehend the layers of loss that hit me at every turn – my life has become so different since 20 August that very little is familiar; and every time I am reminded of the shift in everything that is my everyday, I don’t know how to be. I have lost myself and need to find who I am now without the family who were my home for over twenty years. I need rest and patience, and to be able to sleep one whole night in my own bed. I can see properly again and I do not have breast cancer, but my body is far from okay. As my friend Mica always said, ‘Your body never lies.’ I would like to feel healthy, rested, and to be fully present again for the people I love and who love me even at my absolute worst, and to deliver on the promises I made to people who never pushed for their delivery – their kindness and patience have been remarkable, and I am so deeply grateful for both. I will complete my work in the end – it will just take a little or much longer than I had hoped for. I also hope that I am worth waiting for.

Thank you, my love, Mom, Krystian, Erika, Kobus, Roland, Cathy, Kerry, Gail, Paul, Melissa, Mervyn, Frankie, Grant, Stephen, Monique, Debbie, Sue and all other Karavan Stories and The Scope of Us authors, Naomi, Sally, Nathanael, Fiona, Gillian, and all others who understood and have shown so much care, sometimes only by being patient enough to wait for me to reach out again only when I was ready. And often by picking up the pieces when I no longer could. I cannot tell you all how much I appreciate your support. I know I forgot someone important, but my brain has been scrambled by grief. I can only ask for forgiveness.

After a lovely outing and a lunch with wonderful friends yesterday, I was supposed to work all day today to catch up with some of the backlog I am trying to cope with, but after a few hours of work-related reading this morning, I went for a walk to get a copy of the Sunday Times to see the announcement of the Sunday Times Literary Awards shortlists with my own eyes after Roger wrote to me about the wonderful news of his How to Build a House in the Mountain making the Non-Fiction Award shortlist. During my walk, I felt the sun on my skin and appreciated the unusual wind-stillness. I was smiling, thrilled for Roger and his amazing memoir about how he reclaimed his life after many losses. I love my home and don’t feel the need to build another, but it needs a little more care than I have been able to give it in the last while. Like me, it needs me. We are both trying to find ourselves. We both stand all alone now. We need to grieve and heal together and open our hearts and doors fully to all the people we love, to be here for each other and for them. And so, I returned home with the newspaper and a takeaway lunch and decided to announce the shortlisting but then to leave all the work aside until Monday morning, write this and to explain and to apologise again – I am so sorry for letting so many people down! But now I am going to head over to my love’s place for another walk and a quiet evening of togetherness. In the end, no matter how much I truly love what I do – making books happen – I am not a firefighter or a nurse, I don’t save lives. I am not a scientist trying to save the planet or find a cure for dementia. Occasionally, the most I do is help others make a literary dream come true. And I completely understand how precious those dreams are – they enrich our lives and give us meaning – but all great stories are timeless; they can wait. Our loved ones must come first. So must I. I have a doctorate in literary studies. As a doctor and a writer, I am writing myself a sick note: be kind to yourself, Karina.