done and done

I had my big ass assessment this morning … holy hell, what a mission. I was nervous … so nervous, my tummy has been in knots for days.

But now its over, thank fuck!

Aside from the obvious, which I survived to tell the tale, I gleaned a few tidbits I am ruminating on.

  1. Our health, particularly our mental health, system, is fucked. As per usual, my descriptions are ‘layman-womans’ terms. Now this news is nothing new; however today I got another awakening to just how stitched up everything is. After wading my nervous, semi sedated self through the myriad of questions relating to ‘permanent impairment’, I discovered that our health system rates permanent impairment in levels. Under 30% permanent impairment means – whilst you may not be able to hold down a job, or drive, or socialise, or talk on the phone, or be alone, or leave the house – if you are not in an institution and on medication, you are fine. Another words, 30% is the cap before they haul you off to the nut house and jab you with drool inducing meds. As this reality dawned on me during the assessment, 2 things happened.
  2. I became very aware that I didn’t want to rate over 30%.
  3. I became very aware that the likely-hood of receiving anymore than $35 a week for ‘permanent impairment’ was nil.
  4. Which brings me back to point 1.

I left that office slightly grateful that I hadn’t been institutionalised at any time. It would have killed me if I had. I shit you not. Me – Caged? Fuck No. It can’t happen.

But I was also very aware that my dance with ACC is grinding to a rather unproductive halt. It has been an exercise in asserting and flexing my rights, for sure. As far as having a productive outcome … well, apparently I am entitled to a life times worth of counselling slash psychologist intervention. Oh and mind bending medication if I so wish to be mind bent.

What struck me whilst answering all those rather intrusive questions, was that interacting with ‘the health system’ makes me feel more unhealthy. How is that possible? I’m unsure. Maybe because with every question about concentration or socialisation, I am trying to figure out what is deemed as normal. No I don’t interact with many people. But on a whole I don’t find people very interact-able. When I tried to explain this, I actually ended up sounding reasonably mad – even to myself lol.

You see (and I’ve talked about this before), when I go somewhere – meet people -just enter a place really – theres a shit tonne of things that happen. I was trying to relay this reality today.

When I arrived for my appointment, this is what I noted:

  • There are two large slow moving sliding glass doors to get into before you enter.
  • Not an easy exit.
  • 2 ladies sat at the front desk.
  • Mellow, low, horrid music in the background. It’s source was in the corner of the foyer.
  • 1st woman recked of cheap perfume.
  • 2nd was more interested in her lunch. It was 8.50am.
  • The lights were seedy. Lots of them. Meaning it was bright.
  • No open windows.
  • 1 door open, to files room, to the left of me.
  • Waiting room – large, hospital set up.
  • 2 large ugly pictures on far wall.
  • 2 framed ‘signs’. 1 about phones and photos.
  • 1 large ugly picture behind me.
  • toy box to the right in the corner.
  • water cooler far left.
  • it smelt dusty but cleaned.

And thats not the office. And this is me on an unobservant day.

So hows my concentration?

I don’t know how to answer that.

What I know is, it’s all fucking tiring.

Anyways … I am here … I survived. I still hate the system and I’m still unsocial lol.

On a lighter and nicer note: We are now waiting for the impending birth of moko #5 🙂

My partners daughter went into labour this morning and this is her first baby. If she’s anything like her mother, her labour and birth should be quite short. But bubbys have a way of doing what they please 🙂 It was moko #4s 3rd birthday yesterday, so we will end up with 2 birthdays close together which is kinda cool.

Right, I’m going to find some chocolate and make a cup of tea.

Peace Out 😉

and then theres him.

My father.

Yes, long time No hear about him.

This is another bullet pointing bitch.

  • he came back to this country
  • straight back to ‘his land’
  • and building project
  • nope – haven’t seen him
  • our last interaction turned into a heated debate
  • slash argument
  • he tried to tell me that everything i am, everything the kids are
  • is all thanks to …
  • wait for it …
  • him.
  • i don’t fucking think so mate.
  • and haven’t heard from him since.
  • until.
  • i messaged him the other day.
  • just to be polite.
  • just to check how he’s doing.
  • i’m not a nasty bitch yah know.
  • turns out, he left.
  • again.
  • a few weeks ago.
  • oh, and.
  • ‘your cousin wants to ask you something … can you message her please’
  • oh. ok.
  • turns out, he spat the dummy at the cousin and she now wants me to finish his building project.
  • Me.
  • Me, the one he’s ignored.
  • the one he belittles for not wanting to sell out the land
  • Me.
  • thats right.
  • he thought, by the cousin asking me, instead of him asking …
  • i wouldn’t say No.
  • and this is how little he knows Me.
  • good fucking grief.
  • I always wanted to build my own house, so am not completely closed to doing this project.
  • But could you fucking imagine it?
  • Arrgghh.
  • ‘do this … do that’
  • get fucked … and get fucked again.

that gnawing feeling

Ever get that feeling in your gutt?

I’ve had it most of the week and am well over it.

And ever noticed how ‘stuff’ comes in waves? Like one after the other? And you’re just taking a breath and get hit with the next one?

Thats Me.

And don’t get me wrong … I’ve been doing aight. For Me anyways 😉

My moko being suspended rocked my world more than I realised. I’ve only just managed to calm the Nanny farm today.

But heres what I figured: finally: (yes, we’re bullet pointing 😉 )

  • i despise the ‘system’
  • i despise being controlled; especially by ‘the system’
  • schools are systems
  • they condition us to think, act and be a certain way
  • don’t believe me? think about it …
  • i hate that this shit ass system is trying to fuck over my next generation
  • is it a little OTT?
  • mabes
  • but thats my moko.
  • i despise ‘the system’ trying to control my moko.

I have control issues. Big ones. This is no surprise. But I’m also Not wrong.

Have you ever tried to extract yourself from the ‘norm’?

Why would I, you may say.

Just try it. Wear something completely different for You, to work. Still in keeping with suitable ‘work attire’; but just see what happens. Note how many remarks you get – good and / or bad. Try not shaving for a week. Or go to the supermarket in your PJs and see what happens.

These are just simple things. But have a go .. see what happens.

And then you have to ponder how we all got to be so uptight about what is ‘right’ and ‘wrong’. This week, if we didn’t know it already, we all figured out Nazis aren’t cool. 50 odd years ago though, there were peeps siding with those bastards left right and centre. Why? Because no-one wanted to be on the losing side – well, not those that thought they mattered anyway.

And we’re still doing the same thing.

And that conditioning starts in school.

And if we don’t comply, there are consequences.

And thats where we learn, that it was ok to be creative and think ‘outside the box’; eat the play dough and dance in front of the mirror – right up until you have an actual opinion and want to stand for something. Then you are to think inside the box; glad wrap the play dough and adjust your hair and look for blemishes, instead of dance, in front of the mirror.

I never wanted this for my children. I don’t want it for my mokos.

But I also don’t want them to suffer.

If we teach them to be compliant, they’ll suffer. If we teach them to be free thinking and creative, they’ll suffer.

Don’t believe me? I’m not wrong.

And its the fact that We suffer – just living – we suffer – that I hate hate hate that my mokos are in a world so fickle.

I want to protect them from everything … but I know I can’t …

And thats whats been fucking me over the entire week.

I wish I was born with some kick ass super hero powers … you know I’d clean shit up and there wouldn’t be 1 unhappy, hurt child on this planet!

oh, I’ve got issues …

And not the usual ones 😉

My eldest moko was ‘suspended’ from his school today. He’s 9.

My issues aren’t with his alleged behaviour … my issues are with the school.

I can hear the ‘oh you’re biased’ tone … but, I know I’m not.

Here’s the deal.

Moko has been bullied for months at this school. His parents have been down there and talked with his teacher (as is protocol) on numerous occasions. The story is always the same. And always gets flipped back to moko being too aggressive.

Is it aggressive to stand up for yourself?

I think not!

And then today, his parents receive phone calls to say that they need to pick him up from school because he had another child in a head lock, was waving around a toy gun and pointing it at others kids heads, ‘pulling’ gang signs, wearing a gang ‘bandana and acting threateningly’.

Also noted was that mokos behaviour had been unmanageable ‘for awhile’ and they suggested that he get ‘professional help’ and change his attitude before he came back to school.

I note: at no time had the school contacted mokos parents about this ‘unmanageable behaviour’, and at no time was there an incident report filed or a police report made as to mokos behaviour. And at no time was there any other warnings given about his behaviour.

Instead, he was given a Principals Award for his school work and efforts in class.

His teacher has nothing but glorious praise for ‘such a clever young man’.

So whats happening?

I see a lot of lazy ass covering going on, covered over with a large helping of covert racism.

You see (I have delved into this in other areas of my blog), there is an assumption from some of our population, that those ‘of colour’ are automatically gang affiliated. That those ‘of colour’ have parents who ‘can’t be bothered with their kids’. That those ‘of colour’ are predisposed to aggression and aggressive behaviours.

And this is the rat that I can smell in this scenario.

Moko has never been near anything ‘gang related’. Not even television.

And none of this even touches the fact that the last time moko was bullied and his parents went to the school, it was discovered that moko had retaliated to the bully referring to him as being ‘black’. The other child wasn’t reprimanded. Instead, the incident was ‘left’ and it was decided it was a misunderstanding. Moko was told that if he was bullied again, he was to go straight to the teacher.

Here’s where it gets interesting.

The teachers reside in the teachers lounge during ‘breaks’. There may be one or two walking the playground during these breaks. When mokos parents have confronted the school about their lack of supervision, they have been told that they have ‘cameras’ surveilling the playgrounds. So how is moko supposed to tell a teacher he is being bullied if there is no-one around to tell?

As you’ve probably guessed, messing with my mokos pisses me off greatly!

I compiled a rather short sharp letter for the parents to send to the Principal. It states that the school didn’t follow procedure in the suspension of moko and if they don’t give them written documentation of what transpired today, then they would be  referring this to the Education Department Ombudsmen.

No body fucks with my moko and gets away with it.

Yes see, to suspend a 9 year old is huge. And it pisses me off that they thought that that was the right move. No discussion. No conversation. No getting to the facts. Just a knee jerk suspension.

And don’t get me wrong; if moko did something wrong, he should be reprimanded for it. But reprimanded in light of the Entire story, not just one small piece that they don’t want to deal with.

Thats just bullshit.

So I’m not a happy Nan at the moment. Not happy at all.

Image

and this is whats happening in my part of the world today :)

It’s called a ‘Waning Gibbous’. And it looks pretty spectacular!

please

Be patient, if you can
I don’t mean to be slow
I’m not trying to annoy
Or irritate your world
I just don’t always understand
As you do
Just as you didn’t understand
When you didn’t understand.
Please don’t hang up
Or take that tone,
You know that one
That presumes stupidity
Just as I didn’t do with you
When you were too small
To understand,
That you didn’t understand.
Because when you sigh,
When you roll your eyes,
When you chide and chastise,
When you berate and belittle –
You hurt my heart.
You hurt my head.
Your insensitivity
Makes me wonder
What on earth I actually taught you.
But most of all you forget
That you were once unable
And I enabled.
That once you didn’t understand
And I taught.
I’m not asking for any extra
Than I deserve.
Please
Be patient.
Or don’t speak to me at all.
That would be easier,
For now.

***

First Published on: Jun 11, 2016 @ 18:14 ❤

use yah .. initiative??

“I expected you to

Use Your Initiative”

he says …

as he’s

looking for his undies

his socks

the lid for the milk

his car keys

his eftpos card

his appointment card

his phone

the lawn mower

the rubbish bin

his drawers,

where all his clothing lives

…..

shall I go on?

***

First Published on: Jun 8, 2016 @ 09:53 lol

me and my mama

My relationship with my Mama has been tentative and sometimes extremely volatile over the years.

When I was little I wanted a Mother that was like all the others appeared to be. I wanted love like everyone else seemed to get. I wanted understanding like I thought other kids got from their mothers.

I pretty much wanted my mother to be different than she was. Not all of her, just the bits I didn’t like.

As the years have gone on, and I had my own children, I still wanted her to be different. I still wanted her to understand me differently.

I also despised her for not protecting me.

Little did I realise then, and have only come to realise recently, that I am guilty of doing to my mother what I don’t like others doing to me.

Wanting me to be different than I am.

And you know what … when I stopped wanting her to be different than she was, I got to see her real beauty, not just tokenly appreciate the things she had done for me.

You see, my Mama is quite an amazing person when I stopped wanting something else … when I actually took a step back and looked at her properly.

Not only did she raise 2 children on her own in spite of the hurdles she had faced with both mine and my brothers fathers … she chased, exorcised, actively sought after and conquered her own demons whilst raising us.

I’ve learnt over the years, that theres a huge difference between parenting well and seeking out the ‘better’ … for yourself and your children … whilst you are nursing your own wounds. And we all carry wounds. No-one is immune to that. And that is what my Mama did. She strived for better, from herself and from us. From me. All her, what I perceived then as criticism, was her way of getting me to think about what I was doing and where I was going. She wanted better for me.

As for not protecting me … I’ve also come to realise that she did all she could and all she knew to do to protect me. She is not accountable for another persons filthy wretched being. She’s not accountable for another persons actions. They are.

I recently helped my Mama move from her little house to another. She’s just retired and her new place is about 15 minutes away from me. In another lifetime that would have been horrid. But now, I embrace it. In fact I absolutely love having her down the road and round the corner from us.

Over the last few days I’ve helped her unpack and de-clutter / re-organsie her living space. I’m good at that sort of shit. Really good. But what was even better was spending time with her.

As we went through all her things, we did this process I do so it’s easier for those that don’t want to let things go, let things go. We look at every item and do a practical count of things; if theres more than 2 things we have to look at what they’re all there for. Usually its got to do with memories. With each item, my Mama had a memory attached to it. I heard all her stories of all the things she held memories of. The things that were the most memorable, or that she absolutely loved, those things she kept and put on display instead of hiding them in a box. I think she enjoyed the process instead of it being painful. I used to criticise her for her clutter and disorganisation, because I didn’t like it and I wanted her to be different. But by the time we were finished, I got to see the beauty in all the things that she loves.

I love my Mama. I appreciate her deeply, now, for who she is.

She is amazingly intelligent; holds a degree; has completed some brilliant research; has gone back to study to pursue her love of art; she is a beautiful artist; a gritty activist; she’s a devoted and loyal woman with a deep deep passion for what is just and what is right; she abhors injustice and greed.

What more could anyone want in a role model and in a Mama?

Lastly, my Mama has always lived on the bones of her ass. I didn’t realise how much so until I lost my income and had to look at how I spent money; what I actually needed versus what I wanted; what was really important. Mama always fed us and clothed us; she always paid her bills and still had money left over to give to others. She sewed and bottled; baked and cooked; she saved and spent less. She was always careful about where every penny went. But I don’t recall her ever complaining about being broke … she just got on with it.

And while I have always heard people complain about the amount you receive when you retire and how little it is … because my dear dear Mama has learnt to live on virtually nothing all her adult life … retirement looks like manna from heaven. Most people would sniff at 30 or 40 dollars ‘extra’, but my Mama is living large … for her, she has hit the jackpot. Mama has never drank or smoked or eaten exotic foods or bought exotic clothing … she’s never gone on expensive overseas holidays or ordered overpriced gadgets to ease her ego; she’s never bought a brand new car or a brand new anything for that matter … she’s always lived minimally. And now … she can buy an extra block of cheese, and her favourite fruits, and some raw milk, and a steak … she can go for a coffee at the cafe if she chooses and buy an extra pot plant if she wants … she can even give the mokos a few dollars if she wants.

For all these reasons and a shitload more … I am forever grateful that my Mama is my Mama. That she is the perfect Mama for me. That I still have her here to enjoy. That she is close enough for my crusty anxiety ridden ass to get to every week. That I’ve figured out how important she is and can enjoy every moment with her, now.

Love you my Mama xoxo

***

First Published on: Jun 1, 2016 @ 00:06 ❤ ❤ ❤

salutations

hey dear.

hey dear.

how was your day.

good.

and yours.

good.

whatcha do.

oh you know, bit of this and that.

and you.

oh you know,

sweet fuck all.

whose cooking?

not me.

***

First Published on: Feb 26, 2016 @ 15:53 ❤

mine to hear

i hear you still

feel you still

soft, flowing

yet, strong, persevering

and before you

there were others

mine

my women

that strengthened

and taught

gave backbone

and softness

chided

and resided

deep in the echoes

of my soul

i still hear you

your songs

your melodies

the way you patted

and rocked

swayed to the music

when its dark

inside

i still hear you

___

First Published on: Feb 15, 2016 @ 10:49 ❤