LOVE versus FEAR

By Hilda de la Rosa

Love leads to honour, compassion and joy. Fear leads to suffering, unhappiness and judgement. You can choose again

Jacqui Webb Says:
“What a roller coaster ride my journey with Love Versus Fear by Hilda de la Rosa has been. It leaves me in awe of the resilience of the human spirit and reminds me that s*** happens no matter how consciously, lovingly or creatively we live and love. This book can be seen as a manual for deeper insight into the nature of consciousness and provides a ‘how to’ model for conscious relating, which will serve to revolutionise and bless many relationships.

For me though, this book was an intense ride alongside the author as she sought to live in alignment with her highest inner voice. To love better, to learn always and to wring blessings for herself and humanity from every gut-wrenching, heart expanding moment of her journey.

It’s elegantly written without self-pity, or over dramatisation. It’s sharp, witty, intelligent and warm. Most of all, it is generous – generous to the other people who have been part of her story and generous to all of us, as it gifts us with the deep wisdom of a life well lived.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hilda de la Rosa
• Release date: Feb 26, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463765173

Hilda de la Rosa

Since 1992, Hilda de la Rosa has been a pioneer in the alternative health and wellbeing industry in South Africa. She started a healing centre in 1996 after her son was in a serious motor car accident. His near-death facilitated a huge shift in consciousness for Hilda and made her re-examine what’s truly important in her life. Hilda is known for her no-nonsense approach to spirituality and life and she often says, “If it does not make my life better and if it isn’t fun, I’m not doing it.” At last, Hilda has published her first book, entitled Love Versus Fear. And, as is her style, because the book publisher did a mediocre job of promoting her book, she decided to start her own publishing house. LK Publishers was launched in September 2018. Not only is she publishing her own books but Hilda will help many authors get their work published in a slick and polished way. Hilda’s funny, quick witted, hard-hitting take on life, the Universe and everything will make you cry and it will make you laugh, but more importantly, it will make you think about, and examine your life.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

It is in our actions that our truth is exposed.

I was sitting on the receptionist’s desk when he walked into our offices. Our eyes locked and time stood still for what seemed like an age. Everything else just disappeared. There were only the two of us on the whole planet.

Eventually, after what seemed like hours, the moment ended and both of us appeared to be shell-shocked. Finally he turned to the receptionist and told her he had an appointment with one of the directors of the company. She asked him to be seated and left the room. I remained frozen to the receptionist’s desk, feeling like a fool. I felt like a child who’d been busted with one hand in the cookie jar. I was too embarrassed to leave, speak or even get off the desk; I was mesmerized. This man was simply the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. Immaculately groomed, with beautiful, blue eyes and a voice like smooth chocolate. He exuded an aura of confidence and worldliness.

I stayed in reception, a silent tension between us. Neither one of us spoke; we just sat there trying not to look at each other. The receptionist returned and asked him to follow her, while I stayed glued to the desk.

On her return she asked me, Do you know this man?

I’ve never met him before in my life, I replied.

What was that between you then? the receptionist questioned, waving her finger between me and the space where the man had been standing.

I don’t know, I answered.

I walked back to my desk with my heart aflutter, palms sweating and feeling very much as if I were floating. What was this? I’m not one to swoon over a pretty man. I’m normally level-headed and generally a bit emotionally detached.

Every now and then, whilst the man was in his meeting, the whole office would be disrupted by a loud, reverberating laugh. Everybody would look up from their workstations in complete surprise at this unexpected laughter. Little did we know that we’d get used to that laugh. The day moved on and I became very busy, distracted by the tasks at hand. My heart seemed to settle and I could once again focus.

A few days later, the same man walked into the office. This time, one of the directors accompanied him. The director introduced the man to all of us as our new colleague, Roy; and seated him at the desk right next to mine. My heart was thumping so hard I thought it was going to burst. What was I to do? I was in the throes of arranging my wedding, which was to take place in only a few months.

Roy was a really nice man – courteous, kind and helpful. I learned that he was married with two small children. Everybody in the office got along well with him and he made friends with people instantly. We worked side by side, so, of course, he learned that I was about to be married and even offered to help with the arrangements. Our office was never the same after he started working with us. It didn’t matter to whom he spoke – if he found the conversation amusing, that thundering laugh would rock through the offices.

As with most sales offices, our team was a social bunch of people who’d often go for drinks at the local pub on Fridays and Roy would accompany us. Four of us on the sales team – Roy, me and two others – became close friends and these Friday afternoons became a ritual for us. We’d have a few toots and many laughs at the pub before making our way to our respective homes.

Soon the four of us began socialising at each other’s homes and I met Roy’s wife and children. Roy’s son and my son, Clinton, were the same age and they took to each other like ducks to water.

My husband-to-be and I found a great townhouse, which we moved into with the help of friends. Roy and his family were also there to assist with getting us settled in. My wedding plans were well under way and, finally, the day of my wedding arrived.

A dear friend drove me to the wedding chapel at Gold Reef City and, along the way, I pleaded with her, Please, don’t take me to the church. Please, just drive away; let’s go to a pub and have a few drinks. I’m making the biggest mistake of my life!

She tried to calm me down and told me that it was just the stress and tension of the day. She reminded me of the months of preparation and asked, What about the people who are waiting for you at the chapel?

We arrived at Gold Reef City and I climbed into the waiting horse-and-carriage that was to take me to the chapel. I was crying and thought how silly it was for a bride to cry on her wedding day! I walked into that chapel like a zombie.

Whilst making my vows, I knew that I was making a mistake. How could I promise to love this man in front of God and several witnesses if my heart belonged to another? Nobody else in the world knew how I felt, yet I still said, I do. And life carried on.

Roy was our unofficial wedding photographer and, a few weeks later, he presented me with the photos. While we were looking at the photos together, he pointed to the very last one which was a close-up shot of horse dung. That’s what I think of this marriage, he said – and we left it at that.

Within a few weeks, my marriage began to crumble. I’d barely been married for three months before I moved into an apartment of my own. Again, Roy was there to help me.

In the meantime, our sales team was doing fairly well and we met regularly for drinks or social events. One evening, we were all at a friend’s house with music playing and wine flowing, when Roy asked me to dance with him. We’d never danced before. In fact, we’d never touched each other before.

It was the dance of a lifetime. He didn’t lay a single finger on me, but I felt as though I was the most beautiful woman in the world. I don’t think he was even aware of the effect he had on me. My body felt like it was melting and my legs could barely hold me up. We danced for most of the night until I finally went home, aching for him. He filled my mind; and my body longed to feel his touch. I knew it was forbidden and I also knew I would do nothing about it. I was concerned about the people who’d be hurt if Roy and I had a relationship.

So I started looking for another job and soon found one. However, the four friends who’d worked together continued our Friday evening drinks after work and, at some point when Roy and I were alone together, he told me about a friend of his. He said, My friend’s married, but he’s fallen in love with another woman. I don’t know what advice to give him. We spoke often about his friend’s moral dilemma. He told me that his friend didn’t have the heart to end his marriage and felt incredibly guilty for having these feelings in the first place. I asked him if this woman knew that his friend was in love with her and he replied, He can’t tell her. It would be unforgivable. He says he has nothing to offer this woman.

Almost every time we met, Roy told me how confused and upset his friend was. As time went by, we spoke about values, commitment and promises. We spoke about making one’s bed and lying in it. Roy’s children and my son spent a good deal of time together, so I saw his family regularly. I hid my feelings in the deepest corners of my heart. There is a rule in the sisterhood and that rule can not be broken.

After months of listening to Roy’s story about his friend, one Friday afternoon while having drinks with our friends, I snapped at Roy. Stop talking about this bloody, dumb friend of yours, I said, and own up to the fact that it’s you; and you’re talking about me.

I thought he was going to choke on his drink, but from then on we began to have the most tender conversations. These conversations were about a deep love that could never be fulfilled – a love that had begun spontaneously at our very first meeting.

That first encounter had felt like a recognition – a knowingness, that we’d been together before. He told me that, when he’d walked into the office and first seen me, he’d thought that I was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Then guilt had overcome him. We constantly talked about the hopelessness of our mutual feelings, but that initial physical attraction simply bloomed into love and respect that neither of us could explain. However, it came with the bittersweet knowledge that this was a really difficult situation.

We spoke about the hurt we would cause to others around us and how neither of us had the courage to follow through on our feelings. We danced this particular dance for several months. Then, one morning, he walked into my office and announced, Today’s the day, de la Rosa. Today’s the day. Take the afternoon off. Give me your house keys and meet me outside your office at noon. I silently handed over my keys and he left.

We met at noon and, as I got into the car, the tension was palpable. The heat was terrific, the anticipation off the Richter scale.

Roy unlocked the door to my apartment and I walked in. He’d filled the place with flowers, champagne was chilling in a cooler and there were some snacks on a small table next to the couch. With lighted candles everywhere, soft, romantic music playing and curtains drawn, the ambiance was perfect. Electricity was zinging through the air as my whole body shook with anticipation.

We danced to the music and kissed each other with longing. I remember asking him, What if our fantasies about this day are better than the real thing? He just smiled. We danced some more, kissed some more. My breathing was shallow and my heart rate was sky high. I was so ready for this. We lay down on the couch, kissed and whispered sweet nothings. It was incredible.

Neither of us could follow through, though. We ended up just holding each other. I was crying. We were both too concerned about the hurt we’d cause. Roy was in a complete quandary. He was so torn up and was beside himself with guilt and remorse. He felt guilty about his wife and family and he was also full of remorse for leading me to the precipice. After a few hours, we left my apartment and drove back to the office to collect my car. On the way, he told me that we should end this madness. We both agreed that we’d never see each other again.

After that, my days dragged on and on. All I could think about was Roy. All I could feel were his lips on mine. I sobbed and cried myself to sleep most nights. I just wanted to hear his voice one more time. I knew where he lived and drove past his house more times than I care to remember. I visited all the pubs where we regularly had drinks, hoping to bump into him. I received no phone calls from him. This was before cell phones and emails. He seemed to have vanished into thin air. My son, Clinton, kept asking when he was going to see Roy’s son again and I kept making lame excuses.

One morning, months later, the phone on my desk rang. I answered it and heard the words my heart longed to hear, I can’t not see you. I’m dying without you. We met for lunch. We cried, we spoke … and the world stood still once more. I didn’t return to the office that day.

This time, we drove to my house like maniacs; with Roy following me in his car. There were no flowers, no music and no ambiance. We just flew into each other’s arms and allowed the passion to spill over. It was hot, sweaty, urgent and wonderful. Later that night, he got out of bed and went into the shower. Then it hit me. What had I done? I’d betrayed the sisterhood’s most sacred agreement. As I watched him leave, my heart broke and I sobbed. I cried myself to sleep that night. There was no freedom here. There was nobody I could talk to. There was nobody with whom I could share this secret. But, most importantly, we weren’t free to have a romance. We weren’t free to talk on the phone; and we certainly weren’t free to spend lazy Sunday mornings together.

Roy and I saw each other when we could find stolen moments. They were wonderful, but were always followed by deep guilt and sadness when he left. Eventually, I told two of my closest friends and they conspired to make possible any moments that Roy and I could share. I knew our time together consisted of stolen moments, but I also knew I’d rather have stolen moments than nothing at all. I was loved as I’d never been loved before. However, as wonderful as the few stolen moments were, they were ten times the measure in moments of pain. Birthdays and Christmases were a nightmare. Many nights, lying in bed alone, yearning for him, wishing to hear his voice, I’d know in my heart he couldn’t be mine. Even the act of making and sharing a simple dinner together was denied us. My dreams of waking up next to him, or reading the paper together on a Sunday morning, remained unfulfilled.

The worst Christmas of my life was when my doorbell rang and, as I opened it, I saw Roy with his wife and children standing on my doorstep. They were full of smiles and sang Christmas carols to me. It was a tradition in his family to drive to the homes of everyone they knew on Christmas morning and sing Christmas carols to them. I was broken, guilt-ridden, angry and upset. It was also coincidental that, on that particular Christmas day, my son was with his father. So, after Roy and his family left, I closed the door and promptly cancelled Christmas.

Our birthdays were the same—we could never spend them together. My nights were long and lonely; my days filled with hope that he’d phone. On one occasion, Roy managed to accompany me to a work conference and we got to spend a weekend together. We could finally wake up in the same room—what bliss. On the Saturday evening at the conference, Roy took me onto the dance floor. We’d barely started dancing when everybody cleared the floor for us. We could move like magic together, although I had no formal dance training. When we went back to our seats, there was a whole line of women waiting to dance with Roy; and he danced with them all. He loved it, they loved it and it was fantastic to watch. Somebody came up to me and commented, If the two of you are like that together on the dance floor, I can only imagine … and he was right. Our intimate dance was even more spectacular than what we achieved together on the dance floor, but sadly, those times were rare.

I recall one day when Roy and I were still working together, we both had business appointments in Braamfontein and decided to drive to the city together. We agreed we’d see our respective clients, followed by lunch in the city, before returning to our office. My appointment finished first and, as I was walking along a street in Braamfontein, I spotted a woman in a car. She looked familiar to me, so I walked past again to make sure that it was who I thought it was. I was convinced it was my stepmother and walked past a third time, just to be certain. I had an instant and extremely severe reaction.

I walked up to the car and, in a fit of rage like I’d never experienced before, pulled the door open. I was about to haul the woman out of her car when Roy arrived on the scene. Thank goodness, when I was face to face with her, I realised she wasn’t my stepmother, but I don’t know how Roy placated the woman and was astounded that she didn’t sue me or lay assault charges at the police station. Roy took me back to the car and told me to stay there until he returned. On his return, he asked me what had happened and I explained that the woman in the car had reminded me of my stepmother. He immediately understood that this was a traumatic event for me and, once we were home, I spent the afternoon telling him about my childhood. He’s one of the few people on the planet who’s heard my story. It had happened a long time ago and I thought I’d buried it deeply.

CHAPTER 2

The amount of peace in your life is directly related to the amount of love in your heart.

I was raised in an average South African family and I’m the youngest of five siblings. I really don’t recall my early childhood being traumatic. From my perspective, we had a great life. Although I was aware that my father was an alcoholic, I had no recollection of actually seeing him ever taking a drink. My father had an excellent job and my mother was a stay-at-home mom. I was generally a happy, inquisitive child, who did fairly well at school without much effort.

However, when I was twelve years old, my whole world changed. My parents were involved in a motor car accident. My mother was critically injured and died a few weeks later. My father quickly recovered from his minor injuries. I was just too young to appreciate the impact this would have on the rest of my life.

A few months before the car accident, my father had been sent to Rhodesia to conclude the building of a factory on behalf of his employer. Since he’d only be required to be there for a few months, my parents decided not to uproot our family and it was agreed that my mother, sister and I would stay behind in South Africa. Unfortunately, when my father returned from that trip, he was drinking again. We also started receiving phone calls at home that were disconnected the moment one of us answered the phone. My father had voluntarily entered an outpatient alcohol rehabilitation programme at the time of the car accident, but when my mother died, he immediately took to the bottle once more.

A month after my mother died, my sister and I came home from school to find a strange woman unpacking her bags in our guest room. My father introduced her to us as his friend, Sandra. Her seven-year-old daughter, Barbara, was with her. We’d barely had time to mourn our mother. My sister, Liza, is four years my senior and she’d already begun to play the role of mother to me. We didn’t really know what to make of our father’s new friend, but Liza, of course, had a better idea than I did.

Soon the rules of the house changed. I was forbidden to look at photographs of my mother or to go through her belongings. I missed the smell of my mother and the only way I could find any comfort from my grief was to climb into her wardrobe where her familiar scent still lingered. One day, Sandra found me sitting in the bottom of my mother’s wardrobe and all hell broke loose. After giving me a severe hiding, she locked the wardrobe door, called our housekeeper into the room and told her that she could have the entire wardrobe and its contents for five rand. My young heart broke.

Some weeks later, Liza and I arrived home from school in the middle of the afternoon to find Sandra and my father in bed. Liza was horrified, but I was too young to understand what was really going on. My father told us in a drunken slur that he and Sandra had been married that morning and that she was now our new mother. Liza took one look at the situation and declared that she was moving out. She left school, went to stay with our aunt and found a job. That was when my nightmare truly began.

At first, Sandra’s threats were restrained, but they soon became quite blatant. Her favourite saying was, If you don’t do exactly as I say, when I say it and without complaint, I’ll have you in an orphanage by nightfall. I began to walk on eggshells. Sandra had told me, quite graphically, what happens to girls in orphanages. She’d told me many horror stories, but there was one in particular that stuck in my mind. She’d say something like; People at the orphanage will stick a broken Coke bottle up your vagina if you’re bad. I had no idea what a vagina was, but it scared me witless anyway. She repeatedly told me how bad I was. In fact, she told me that I was evil.

Sandra was a master manipulator and I was an easy target. Sandra often told my father in my presence what a helpful, dutiful child I was. She was full of compliments when he was present, but the moment he wasn’t around, it was just terrible. I learned that Sandra had three children – a son and two daughters. Her son and older daughter had both died and I really don’t remember how; but I do remember that they died before I met her. As the months passed, Sandra began to suggest that her children had died because of me. Although I couldn’t understand the logic of this, she told me many times that the reason they’d died was that God was punishing her because she was living with such an evil child – me. She told me that the world would be a better place if evil people like me didn’t exist.

My daily tasks and chores were so onerous that I barely had time for homework. The result was that I started lagging behind at school. On many occasions, Sandra decided that I wouldn’t go to school on a particular day since the house needed a thorough cleaning. As my schoolwork suffered, so Sandra had more ammunition to justify her punishments. These could vary from a simple hiding to cleaning all the toilets in the house with a toothbrush.

About four months after their marriage, my father and Sandra announced that we were moving to Zimbabwe. By that time, because of my father’s drinking, he’d lost his job. The news of our upcoming move to Zimbabwe made me extremely excited because I had wonderful memories of living in Zimbabwe. I’d spent two glorious years living in Rhodesia, as it was then known, with my mother, father