family origins: steeped in secrecy and untruths. pain and hostility toward the feminine. afraid of unease, failure and truths.

kpm ©


pity party .. y’all invited

think its a pity party, but really, more bordering on a big motherfucking reality check.

& please note, this is a bit of a run on from the previous post … it added to my present fuckery.


so, i’m completely down with the ‘upholding the brothers’ & strengthening their resolve to support mental health, awareness, education etc etc. yes, its about time you fuckers cried & let that shit out.

biological women & WOC, all over the world are way over waiting for yous to drop the facade & be real.

with that said, are yous expecting us to teach yous how to do that?


& now on the personal note:

cos y’all didn’t want to support me. in fact you made it 100% more difficult to remain alive, well, living, surviving, thriving.

& yet, here i am.

still ‘unwell’, but surviving, bordering on, thriving.

& now yah want support. & now you want sympathy. & now you want help.

but not the kind that you struggle for, fight for, hunt for … but the kind yah mama didn’t give you.

the kind our mamas didn’t give us.

& yet, here i am.

& yes, this is a tale of my journey. but its a tale of so many fucking biological women & WOC it’d take all day to regale them all.

dont get me wrong. i won’t hold up your process or demean your process or put blocks in front of your process. … like you did to me … but i aint actively letting you suck the life outta me so you can stand on your own 2 feet & tell everyone ‘I did it by myself & my way’. cos yah didn’t.

you were a cunt. an absolute cunt who who refused to deal with thine own fucking shit. who refused to own & change it.

& now your old & twisted.

& fucked.

& expect others to do for you what you were unwilling to do for them.

i’ll leave it there.

kpm ©



go on.

say something.

tell me how I should do it.

what I should feel.

tell me

I’m wrong.

tell me

I need to get a life.

go on.

raise your voice.

your tone.

puff your shoulders up.

stretch out the back bone.

lift that chin.

tell me, tell me

I’m fucked.

I’m a mongrel.

I’m lazy.

I’m useless.

go on, mother fucker.

tell me again.

tell me, what you think.

tell me what I should really be thinking.

go on, correct my feelings.

I fucking dare you.

tell it like it is.

tell me, fuck yah.

go on, just like you used to do.

when I was weaker,


in need,


wanting a hand,

a shoulder,

was whiny,


isn’t that how you put it.

mongrel bitch,

go on, try it again motherfucker.

please, please.

I am in need of a dam good fucking argument.

you used to like it like that,

but now,

not so much, ay.

because my voice

my arm

my anger

my fierce

my being

my woman

my heart

my soul

and my fucking steel


don’t play that shit no more.

so, I tell you.

I dare you.

try it, go on, try it.

and see what happens.




silent night,

most un-holy of nights.





speaking for those that cant.

i have issue with the self-proclaimed gurus whose advise ‘should’ be adhered too.

actually i have issue with anything that starts with ‘you should’.

which is partly why i don’t do the ‘you should listen to my awesome life experience and learn vital shit from Me’, on this blog.

nope. no can do.

and then i realised the other day (as i was finding more of my screamy self-empowering voice) that while i don’t do the self help guru shit, i will on the rare occasion, speak for those that can not speak for themselves.

most of the time, ‘those’, are children.

sometimes it’s those that had no voice; like myself.

but it’s always hell’ah important that any assistance given is about helping ‘them’ find their own voice. there’s nothing cooler than watching the lights go on for someone and then hear them find their voice.

so, why am i talking about this shit?

today is the 2 year anniversary of my sisters death.

after the week or two i’ve had with father bullshit, i made sure today was kinda more about remembering her just on my terms. i did my shout out to her babies, just to let them know i love them and i’ve remembered them today. i haven’t spoken to the father or his wife. they can go fuck themselves.

so as i lit her candle this morning, i was reminded of the relationship i had with her. that it had started not far from where i live now and that meeting her when i was 7, was way cooler than i thought it would be. having a sister you never knew you had is extremely cool.

as my ‘holiday’ with the father, step mother and new found sister evolved, all 7 years of Me, knew there was a whole lot wrong with the picture i was becoming privy too.

this morning, what i vividly remembered, was her and i standing in the parental douche-bags kitchen; me, washing the dishes and her attempting to dry them. she would’ve been about 5. my drunk father was sitting at the table, inhaling a meal the step mother had prepared hours earlier for him. as he looked up from his trough, he started mumbling something about my sister ‘doing a better job’ of drying the dishes. i watched her arms tighten. although i didn’t really understand what was happening, i understood fear. i understood it intimately. and here she was, her arms, then her hands, then her torso, slowly and gradually started to tighten and freeze.

i remember looking at the drunken bum sloshing his food about his mouth and wondering if he was serious. ‘a better job’ was not a phrase he really understood, that was for sure.

as he parroted his twoddle and got louder and louder, my sister started to cry and he went from annoying pickiness to anger. scary anger.

and that i understood too.

i tried to step in front of her and move her away; to the side of me; but she was frozen. i didn’t understand that then, but i get it now.

i told him to stop it. in a quiet voice. but a voice non-the-less. my sister shot me a quick ‘shut up’ glance, and so i didn’t say anything else. he wasn’t going to stop though, i could see that. so i started to cry.

that set the step mother on edge who started badgering him to stop. he got angrier and threw his plate at the wall and stormed off to the lounge.

no-one said anything else. and i’m sure he did a quick wife-battering and the went to sleep.

and my sister; she relaxed again.

what really struck me about all of this this morning, was that because my sister was the only one of us that lived with those 2 fuckwits consistently, she had spent a lifetime co-ordinating, navigating and placating them.

the cost?


her existence. her life.

i despise them for that.

i admire her.

i shed tears for those moments when there was no-one there to speak for her; to stand in the gap for her; to protect her and to ask her if she needed anything. wanted anything.

i’m glad i got to do that for her, at least once in her lifetime.

kpm ©



todays beef…

I’m currently having an ongoing ‘debate’ on Facebook, re ‘forgiveness’ (the christianity version), versus a perpetrators ‘need’ to apologise.

This has stemmed from this article and pertains to legislation that the Crown used to beat Maori children for speaking their native language.

I’ve responded in my varying ways, but am still agitated.

My agitation has more to do with societies response to child victims of abuse, as adults. It annoys the living fuck out of me that there is less than no understanding of what a child has to endure; what they do endure; and what they are left with after that fact. It doesn’t just go away … any abuse. And to refer to Jesus’ call to forgiveness is also appalling and completely misunderstood.

I’m not Jesus. I don’t follow Christianity. I don’t really “DO” religion of any kind. However, I was raised in a ‘Christian’ household; and I know the Bible.

And this is what the Bible says regarding those who hurt children:

Matthew 18:6
“If anyone causes one of these little ones to stumble, it would be better for them to have a large millstone hung around their neck and to be drowned in the depths of the sea.

Please note: this scripture doesn’t mention ANYTHING about forgiveness. It also says ‘it would be better for…’; I wouldn’t mind knowing then …

What did he have in mind for those who DO hurt children ;)



that said

all I ever




was the same


as you


the freedom


to choose


make a choice


like you do


kpm ©



who the fuck was jezebel anyways

I only knew what I’d been told from many a sermon. The ones that were a prelude to sin, sinful ways, un-subservient wives, hell and damnation. That Jezebel was a manipulative, conniving whore who was ultimately thrown out a window into the street to be eaten by dogs.

All the women in the church would shift uncomfortable in their seats. All the men would grow a few inches in their chairs, look down the length of their noses at the surrounding would be harlots of the church. Single parents, young ladies – unwed young ladies, young ladies, girls that had usually turned down their tentacles and bullshit laying on of hands in prayer.

One friend of mine, an in the closet lesbo at that stage, had an older man, a ‘up standing pillar of the church and community’; rub her back during one of those laying on of hands sessions…her back…her lower back…her ass…her side…the side of her boobs…oops her boobs. She smacked him in the face and left in tears. Fucking good on her. She never came back. Go figure. But she was forever thereafter called Jezebel as well.

The first time I remember being called Jezebel, I had refused to take my hat off in church. I think I must have been about 13 or 14. I had come in late and sat in my usual spot at the back. I was still attending church, because I had too. It was part of the requirement for living at home. I came in and sat down. I wasn’t really paying attention, but I had skipped the 3 fast songs, the 1 slow song, the tithing speech, tithes and the next slow song. I arrived on the ‘winding up to 10 minutes of worship’ song, where they would all touch the face of God. I often wondered what would happen if God had said…”shit you lot are predictable and fucking boring! Go do something productive and feed the couple hundred kids round the corner that don’t have any food because their parents spent it all at the pub last night”. That would’ve been good.

But as I was pontificating, one of the ‘godly’ dudes came sidling up to me and asked me to remove my hat as it was disrespectful. ‘To who’, was my reply. ‘To God’, was his. ‘I don’t think God cares’, I said. But this dude did. His shoulders started puffing up and he got a bit of a chest thing going on…nearly frothing but not quite. ‘I told you to take it off…the Bible says you shouldn’t wear hats inside’…’really, where abouts does it say that?’. The good thing about sitting in church for years is I pretty much had a pretty good idea what was in that bible and what wasn’t. And what he was referring to was in the Old Testament somewhere…and they were forever rambling on about how the Old Testament had become defunct since Christ came back and died and stuff. Until there was a good occasion to revitalize the Old Testament for their own purposes…and this was one of them. Needless to say this dude got pretty pissed off with me, in the biblical sense of pissed off; I didn’t remove my hat, so he removed it for me. I told him not to touch me and to get fucked.

I got called Jezebel.

I left.

So here’s an edited version of Jezebel, according to Wiki…

Jezebel (/ˈdʒɛzəbəl/,[1] Hebrew: אִיזֶבֶל / אִיזָבֶל, Modern Izével / Izável Tiberian ʾÎzéḇel / ʾÎzāḇel) (fl. 9th century BCE) was a princess, identified in the Hebrew Book of Kings (1 Kings 16:31) as the daughter of Ethbaal, King of Sidon (Lebanon/Phoenicia) and the wife of Ahab, king of northern Israel.[2]

According to the biblical accounts, Jezebel incited her husband King Ahab to abandon the worship of Yahweh and encourage worship of the deities Baal and Asherah instead. Jezebel persecuted the prophets of Yahweh, and fabricated false evidence of blasphemy against an innocent landowner who refused to sell his property to King Ahab, causing the landowner to be put to death. For these transgressions against the God and people of Israel, Jezebel met a gruesome death – thrown out of a window by members of her own court retinue, and the flesh of her corpse eaten by stray dogs.

Jezebel became associated with false prophets. In some interpretations,[citation needed] her dressing in finery and putting on makeup [3] led to the association of the use of cosmetics with “painted women” or prostitutes.

Cultural symbol[edit]

Through the centuries, the name Jezebel came to be associated with false prophets. By the early 20th century, it was also associated with fallen or abandoned women.[15] In Christian lore, a comparison to Jezebel suggested that a person was a pagan or an apostate masquerading as a servant of God. By manipulation and/or seduction, she misled the saints of God into sins of idolatry and sexual immorality.[16] In particular, Christians associated Jezebel with promiscuity. In modern usage, the name of Jezebel is sometimes used as a synonym for sexually promiscuous and/or controlling women,[17] especially as a racist stereotype of Black women, the Jezebel stereotype.[18]

In evangelical Christian circles, the “Jezebel spirit” is used to describe the curtailment of and resistance to activity regarded as prophetic by nature and to nominate a spiritual force behind individuals and groups which exercise manipulation, domination and control.[19]   “

And here’s another explanation of jezebel…according to me.

She was a strong, beautiful woman, who knew what she wanted. She loved her country and her own religion. Now I’m not sure how the church gets off throwing her name around like that…as an insult. But from what I understand, she was a Queen…born of royalty herself…and her husband was a pansy. :)

kpm ©