366. Just another friendly warning for your New Years celebrations … Your welcome 😉
366. Just another friendly warning for your New Years celebrations … Your welcome 😉
360. Haha – Merry Bloody Christmas Y’all 🙂
167. These puppies!! Have yet to try them … but I’m gonna! 😉
I enrolled in ‘creative’ study. I figured if I could do something that was an outlet and not stressful, then I might kill two birds with one stone. I decided to do Whakairo (Maori carving) first. It was a year-long course and gave me something to focus my mind and hands on. Whakairo was traditionally a male art but is slowly becoming an art for both genders as there are less and less old schoolers to teach the new, and there are fewer people actually interested in learning the art form itself.
It did give me perspective and kept me busy. Most of the time I had to lean against a stationary object to stay upright, but I mananged…sort of. I was trying to lessen the meds as they were just making me feel hazy and nauseous, and not actually fixing the vertigo. The undiagnosed anxiety was worsening though, and I was noticeably more nervous. The things that I had been normally able to do, like walking, or going to the supermarket, or talking and socializing, were becoming increasingly harder.
The other thing I did over this year, was a Baristary course. I’ve always loved coffee…the smell…the taste. Not shit coffee…but fresh roasted beans, freshly ground and freshly brewed coffee. Yummm.
Part way through the year my eldest daughter came back to live with me and my youngest due to domestic issues. She was hitting the bottle hard again…and after a stint in rehab and not quite finishing it, she tried to top herself with a mixture of alcohol and the medication that some uniformed doctor had given her. She didn’t succeed…but the enabling stopped. She left again. And took the mokos with her. I called the police numerous times and by the grace of her tipuna, neither her nor the mokos suffered irreparable damage.
Me and the partner…well, ex partner at that stage…were talking about reconciling. In the mean time though, he’d got himself into a shitload of shit and ended up on Home Detention for 9 months. In hindsight, it was a good thing for us both. I couldn’t make any rash decisions and when he made me nervous or pissed me off, I could leave…and he couldn’t follow! 🙂
Medication wise, it had been changed again and I was managing on a low-level anti-depressant. That was until they decided to increase the dosage! The shakes started again…the dizziness worsened…the benzos increased and an anti anxiety concoction was added for good measure…even though, they reassured me, I wasn’t anxious at all!
My youngest was finishing college around this time. She had done so well, and really had managed herself…and me sometimes…for the past couple of years. Her and I had fallen out slightly when there were domestic violence issues buzzing in the house…she said I hadn’t stood up for her…I said I had. But later, when we re-hashed it, she was meaning that I wasn’t the same as I had been years before hand…that somewhere along the ways, something in me had faded, and when it came to standing up for myself and for her…I was lacking now.
That hurt. But she was right.
On the up side…I passed both my courses…yah me.
I was still doing the healthy buzz, something I haven’t really stopped I suppose. I had given up sugar and dairy after a myriad of allergy tests and was continuing with the homeopathy. Body wise, it was doing wonders for my usually psycho periods; I was more energetic and alert.
Socially, I was good. I took the girls to Australia for a holiday slash alternative experience. They’d come in contact with a lot of negative associations with being Maori, being a female and being from a single parent home. For a long while, it was literally everywhere we went.
For me, I was confronting a similar strain of bullshit through my University endeavours. I had taken a ‘Treaty of Waitangi’ paper as a minor paper and it blew me away. I had a pretty good idea of what we, as indigenous people, had experienced throughout our history; however, confronting cold hard facts…was nauseating to say the least. It made extremely angry too. So the trip to Oz for all of us, was to gain some confidence, positivity and another life experience than what was ‘expected’ from peeps like us. It did what I expected; it was good for the soul and we all returned with a different sense of focus.
All of us girls also had to face some harsh ‘daddy issues’ that year. The girls hadn’t really spent anytime with their father since he’d dropped them off for the ‘8 months’ whilst he found himself. In fact, he didn’t ring, write or visit, or have them visit him. They finally got to see him during one set of holidays…and he gutted them. My older girl had a little pubescent tantrum and he froze her out…put them in the car and returned them that day. Then he booked himself a train ticket home and left that night…no heads up for them, a good-bye or kiss my ass.
And my father did a similar thing to me. He promised he’d pay for our tickets to Australia to see him, as that is where he’d lived for the past 10 plus years. I booked the tickets…and he didn’t pay for them…no now, not tomorrow, not the next day…in fact he didn’t make contact at all. I borrowed the money to pay for those…and we went anyway…t girls were looking forward to it, and I didn’t want to disappoint them…I’d done enough of that…and we needed it…desperately.
Conclusion…I never believed anything my father said again…and I’m still like that. For the girls…the little one still had hope…the oldest was thoroughly disappointed with her father…but she held out a smidge of hope…for a little bit longer.
The mother in law died around this time, and so did my lovely uncle. Seems to be the way here, one goes and then another…then another. We went to the tangihanga (funeral) up north; that’s where the girl’s family is from, and their iwi (tribe) is from there. It was a hugely sad time…gutt wrenching for the girls…they both did really well. The oldest, as I’ve said before, has a huge compassion for others and she was pinging left right and centre, just for everyone elses grief really. The youngest girl…well she has an amazing deep spirituality; not learned; just natural…that is quite intense and deeply moving to watch. She grieves with every fibre of her being…as it should be I think…she honours the dead beautifully…she’ll sing and cry and grieve and support those around her.
Our tangihanga lasts 3-7 days usually. It’s usually held on our marae (the ‘homestead’, or place where we come from – gathering and meeting place). During the 3 days, the body is laid, depending on the protocol of the marae, at the top of the wharenui (marae meeting-house). Family come and sit with them over those days…theres singing and crying…stories and memories…laughter and more crying. It’s a hugely painful but healing experience. On the final day, the coffin has the lid put on, church is held…the body buried. This is a really simplified version of the process, but it works…its hard and its tiring but it works.
We were on the day after the burial when we got the phone call to say my lovely uncle had died. And that wasted all of us. Physically, emotionally…and spiritually. It seemed to cruel to be true.
We headed down the coast, where my tipuna (ancestors) are from to another body, another marae, another round of grieving. It was hard on the soul.
When we got home, a couple of weeks later, my oldest girl started to unfold, unravel…fall to pieces.
She told me she had been sexually assaulted…three times already. I’m not going into details here…that’s her story…hers to tell.
But what it did to me…was mind blowing, soul destroying…it fucked me…hard.
But I no longer had the luxury of heading for the pills and bottle…and I sucked up my heartbreak…the fact that I had failed…again…I had failed her…hard. I got support…I tried to get her into counselling, but she wouldn’t have a bar of it. I went to the counsellor instead…to help me help her.
God I tried.
I filed a police report…but they said if she didn’t cooperate with them then they couldn’t pursue it…fuckers.
The first assault fucker…he’d topped himself…sorted.
For the second assault fucker…I cut the family member off…out of our lives.
For the third fucker…he was in the Army. I went to see him and his wife first. Confronted him…he cried like a bitch and so did his wife. But they only wanted sympathy for themselves; not to make amends. So I went to his boss…and got his pedo ass thrown out of the Army. Fucker.
But this led my girl down a dark path that I had hoped she would never have to go.
The little one…she knew there was something wrong, but didn’t understand what…
And I wanted to kill…slowly…every single one of those dirty fuckers.
My big girl…she found alcohol and drugs…even way out in the outback…and I was confronted with a replay of everything I had just finished trying to overcome…again.
And my heart…my soul…my very being…screamed and bled for my girl; my beautiful little girl.
I had kept a diary for about 5 or 6 years…until it became part of the reason I left. And up until now, this blog, I had stopped documenting my feelings, or my goals, or my insights, or my recollections. I just stopped. I used to write all the time, poetry, stories, feelings…
I had been trying to get ‘us’ to work and it wasn’t working. We had moved houses, again. And I was drinking, and going out, and drinking, whenever I could. Whenever I could. I was still writing down what I was feeling, but I had mainly left it for the ‘biggies’.
On my ventures out to get blind drunk, I had met a guy…who liked me. Now I say that in the most loosest of terms. At the time…it seemed awesome…flowery and lovely…gave me warm fuzzys, just knowing someone was actually interested in me. Hmmmm. I know better now…but then, the desperate need for attention, something, warmth…that I was exuding…was picked up by this terd. He knew I was married, but it didn’t dissuade him from trying. And he promised warm hugs, and sunshine, and love, and walks along sandy beaches, and hand holding, and cuddles, and conversation…and all that other bullshit.
And there was another guy. The husbands friend…who picked up the scent of my desperation as well…but I didn’t like the way he leached on…I didn’t like the way he treated his wife and his kid…that was enough to put me off him…but he still tried…terd.
And then there was another guy. Another of the husbands friends…loser friends I might add…and he picked up the scent too…he was a bit more subtle…to me..but the husband picked it up. Him and I became great friends…he wasn’t much younger than me…and we had more in common than the husband and I. But that was all I was interested in…abit naïve of me really.
So I was getting attention alright…just not from where it was supposed to be coming from. And on my 23rd birthday…I decided I was out. I was over pleading and begging and whining and pleading some more. I was over scheduling conversations, and chats and conversations. I was over being a wife of someone who didn’t give a shit about me.
I announced my departure. And he announced he had read my diary and was kicking me out.
Oh Kay. What part did you read, I asked.
The part that talks about subject a), b) and c).
Alright…’did you happen to read the preceding bits’ I asked?…’or the proceeding bits’??
This was all the evidence he needed to call his mother, the pastor and his wife, and tell them what a slut I was. They had come round and were evicting me from the home, without the children, without any money, without the car, without my clothes, without my shoes, without anything…
but have you read the rest? I lamely protested!! I haven’t done anything!
“You kissed one, you whore!”
…ahhh, no…he kissed me…I moved him away…came home and told you…you said I must have misunderstood his intentions!
But it was on from there…battle zone. I was forced out of the house…physically, and told to come back for a ‘meeting’ with him, his mother and the pastor and his wife, the following day. My kids were crying, I was crying…my oldest girl has told me about what she remembers from that day. She remembers more than me…she says, she kept saying, ‘that’s my mum’…and ‘mum where are you going’…but I didn’t reply. I walked into town and rang my mother collect. To her credit, she came pretty much straight away.
The following day I sat down with my accusers and tried to relay how I saw it. But they weren’t having a bar of it. Slut, whore, fornicator, back slider, bad mother, horrible wife…on it went. I stopped defending myself after a while and just nodded. They decided I should stay with the pastor and his wife for the week, and come back and look after the children from 730am till 530pm. During which time I’d clean up, make their food, do the washing etc and then go back to the pastors place when the husband had finished work. Sweet I said. I was allowed, yes allowed, to go and pack 1 bag of clothing for myself and say good-bye to my girls. I wiped my tears and went and did as I was told.
My mother took me to the pastors house. We had a very pleasant little dinner and he preached on about wifely duties and what I had ‘done’ to get myself to this place. That I’d have to repent and seek forgiveness from God and then from my husband. That if I left my husband I’d be doomed to hell so that wasn’t an option. I nodded…all the while watching his wife.
She was a little lady. Tiny frame. Tiny voice. Tiny movements. And as her twat of a husband waffled on, she’d look at the ground, then at me, then at the ground, then at him, then back at me. And every time her twatty husband talked about being ‘wifely’ and ‘subservient’ and ‘minding the wifely biblical duties’, there was a little flicky twitch in her eyes. She hated him! She hated the whole routine! She just wasn’t saying anything.
We stayed in their spare room. That night I told my mother that I couldn’t live like this…not at all. She actually agreed with me.
In the morning, we had breakfast, my mother got herself ready, so did I. I threw my 1 bag out the window and as we left at 725am to go the husband’s house, I picked it up from under the window and put it in the car. We got to my old home, the husband left, taking the car and the car seats with him. I gave my girls a cuddle. I rang my friend for a car seat. I took 2 rubbish bags and filled them with the girls clothes and blankets…we got in my mothers car, and we left. I left him a note to say we had gone to the park so he wouldn’t come looking for us until after 530pm. I’d be long gone by then.
For me…I was out. There was no way in hell I was putting up with anymore of that bullshit.
This was the end of that chapter for me. But it was the start of another…of being all-mighty-ly fucked off…with everyone and everything…and not giving a fuck about any type of consequence…at all.
It was also another chapter for my girls…as they watched me spiral into some sort of shitty dismal despair that I wasn’t able to pull myself out of for a long time. They wore the brunt of most of it…as children do in fucked up adult situations.
I spent months going to lawyers and councellors…begging their father, my now non-husband…to come and get them on time…to just come and see them…to let me get their stuff…and my stuff…
I get now that he was angry…hurt. And that hurt turned into bitterness and that bitterness turned into hatred…of me. And the girls wore that too…as they do in fucked up adult situations.
It was all fucked up.
I was diagnosed with Chronic Depression by the end of that year.
I didn’t give a fuck. I didn’t take my pills.
And I drank.
I started 5th form back at college. As I recall it had been a rocky summer vacation time. I had decided I didn’t want to ‘go back home’ for Christmas after telling my mother what had happened to me. It started a sort flood gate for me and a feud that continued for a LONG time. I didn’t want to go and sit in the mix with the cunty pedo uncle doing his typical bullshit and ruining Christmas celebrations for everyone; and nothing was going to happen to him for what he had done to me. I was still scared of him and I knew everyone around him was scared of him.
To put him into perspective…he wasn’t just a straight-laced looking guy. He was scary as shit. Looking and demeanour. He was unpredictable and violent when he wanted to be. At this stage he had limited tattoos, but what he had screamed ‘i’m fucked up’. He would froth at the mouth when he became angry and that was at anything that didn’t agree with him. At this stage he was aligning to the white supremacy movement and skin head logos adorned his personage. What a two-faced cunt. But it wasn’t this that scared me the most…it was that no one every stood up to him. In hindsight he was a spoilt little shit really. But I hated him with every fibre of my being…and I was scared of him with every fibre of my being.
I had asked my mother not to say anything about what had happened…to anybody. I guess I was still grappling with the whole thing myself. I was peaking when it came to nightmares…having extremely vivid and horrific repetitive dreams. So when it came to going back to school, I wasn’t up for it.
I went reluctantly but gravitated more towards friends who didn’t want to be there either…for whatever reasons. And theirs were as legit as mine. I’d found weed by this stage and alcohol had become one of my best friends.
I had a part-time job round here somewhere. Working in a fruit and vege shop. I didn’t like being alone in there all the time, but I enjoyed the pay. It went towards the aforementioned!
And I got my driver’s licence at this age! This was the era when 15 was the age to get your licence; as long as you passed the 20 something questions and were able to perform a hill start and a 3 point turn, you were good to go. The guy that taught me to drive, was a genuine sort…and patient. We lived in a small town surrounded by open land so he used to take me out the back of this place and get me to go 140ks on the straits. His reasoning was that if I could manage 140ks without wobbling then I could handle anything. Fair enough. I got my licence, so his theory must have held some validity.
I found another couple of really good friends during this time. They were both a lot older than me. One lady had 4 kids, she was about 28ish. Single parent and trying to do the parenting and church thing. She was judged harshly but the church peeps, but she was a good lady. I used to stay there when I’d had enough of home. We’d have long conversations on inequality and music and where she came from and what she wanted for her and her babies. The other good friend was still ‘in the closet’ around this time. He too was trying to do the religious thing, hoping it would bring him peace. It didn’t. And he tried to top himself a few times; unsuccessfully I’m pleased to say. He’s out of the church now, and out of the closet.
I found another friend at this time. I ended up ‘flatting’ with her for awhile…it was more like we drank copious amounts of piss and took shitloads of drugs in a flatting situation. It wasn’t really much more than that. Her and I were inseparable for a long time. She had a couple of kids and from what I know she went on to live a pretty good and full life. She died at 42 though, I think; cancer.
Well it was in this flatting situation that I first had ‘consensual’ sex. Well as consensual as it can be when your off your face. As you can imagine this worried my mother. She had taken me out of school as it didn’t seem to be working there. And she’d put me on Correspondence. I did well, again. Academics wasn’t my issue really. When I put my mind to it, I did it well. But I had other things going on, internally, and school was not my priority. Being numb was.
So midway through my 15th year I became pregnant with my first child. This was inevitable really. And at the time there was huge horror and disbelief…but what were they all expecting really? My Grandmother was the only person who was thrilled. Her first great-grandchild, and I guess she could see beyond all the not so important bullshit to what was important…another baby to love :). She called me regularly and told me what I should be eating and doing 🙂
My ‘in the closet’ mate and his mother took me under their wings too. He made sure I was eating and resting and not doing what I shouldn’t be. It didn’t work of course but his love for me was evident and I appreciated it.
The father of my unborn baby, was an asshole. But hey, that was inevitable too really. He didn’t start that way, and I had all the 15-year-old romantic notions that we would have a little family and go on picnics and go to the park and love and take care of our little bundle of joy and we would eventually get married and live happily ever after behind the white picket fence in our lovely little house with our pretty flowers and washing drying at the back and blah blah blah. Yeah, well it didn’t quite work that way at all.
His family was drunken violent fuckers. I’d never met any persons like these ones. They didn’t eat. They drank. They didn’t buy food. They bought alcohol. They didn’t talk. They yelled, and drank more. I’d never met anyone that appeared to detest their kids as much as this lot. They had two boys living with them and they treated them worse than mutt dogs. They didn’t bring food home for the kids. In the two-ish years I was with him, I saw groceries being bought once…and it was like Christmas for them. Most of it was junk food but they ate it up like there wasn’t going to be any the next day…and there wasn’t. In its place, were crates of piss.
He was 16 when I got pregnant and he had started taking harder drugs in there somewhere. As I was giving it up, because I was pregnant, he was revving it up. And as he started loosing his mind, literally…so my white picket fence dream started to go up in smoke. I hung on hoping that it would all change once our baby was born. But it didn’t. Instead, he became violent. The first beating came while I was in the hospital after having my daughter.
I guess I had hoped that escaping home, escaping church, escaping what I thought were suffocating situations…I would find freedom; and peace. What I didn’t get then though, was it was never going to go away…these were my demons. They weren’t going anywhere. I might not have put them there…but 40 years later, I’d still be exorcising them.
Love and lots and lots of light to me as I continue to unfold xoxo
14 if I’m not mistaken…I’m not sure why there’s so much pressure on ‘being’ better…acheiving…striving…deciding…not fucking up…at this age. 14 years of life and you know sweet fuck all, but think you know everything. And I think this is how it should be. Confidence building, learning, fucking up and learning from your mistakes, figuring out what you like and don’t, figuring out what and who you are. Instead of waiting till your 40 something :0
This is where I started my descent…well, I was aware of the descent anyways. Church and religion played a huge part of my life up until this point. Whether I liked it or not or agreed with it or not, it was engrained. Church peeps, church music, church rules…religion and all its restrictions and limitations. Its do’s and don’ts…making sure your soul was A O K just in case you got hit by a bus and ended up in front of your maker in the latter part of a day.
Btw – this was a Pentecostal movement, or religion whatever you like to call it. Christianity…the kind that didn’t believe in homosexuality, abortion, smoking, drinking, fornication, swearing…Jesus dies on a cross and raises from the dead three days later…that kind of religion. Because it was so ‘heavy’ it was hard to see the good in it all…it still is sometimes. I get that it gave peeps some kind of peace…but all I could ever see was hypocrisy and judgement. And I was probably partaking in the same ‘sin’; but really…isn’t that what 14’s all about? Having an opinion and voice and figuring our whether it’s a worthy one to have or not?
I remember having a ‘God encounter’ at about this age…a real one. And it moved my soul. So I don’t have any doubt that there is an entity that is bigger and more awesome-er than us. However my belief on where this entity resides and what they are, has changed. After this God encounter, I felt a whole heap of peace, not like I had ever felt before. And it was fucking great! I slept without nightmares for about a week. Then I became agitated again.
How is it, that someone can be ‘touched’ by God, and not see things differently? As I peered around our church, I saw a whole heap of people who were quite content with their hum drum lives…were happy with their flash cars and full pockets…and bellies…they had no need for anything else…and church was just a motion they committed once a week; like taking a daily shit. They had no need for anything else. And as far as I could tell, they obviously couldn’t read! The shit that was Biblical was not practiced at all! We used to have a huge Sunday feed at church, after service. Every Sunday. And we all ate well. You could go to the shop afterwards, and there were kids there, scraping together change, to buy bread. The church was in a crap ass neighbourhood by the way…I could write that in a move PC way, but I’m sure you get the drift…It was the neighbourhood where poverty resided on every corner; parents drank and kids wandered…that kind of place. The church had set up in that neighbourhood, so they could ‘reach the lost’. Pfft. I’m not to sure who the hell was lost actually.
So my attendance at this place started becoming somewhat of a mission to see who I could piss off and who was actually practicing their religious beliefs. I don’t think I realised what I was doing at the time, but I was pushing buttons left right and centre, to see who was really on the reals. And I managed to piss plenty of them off…they didn’t like my ‘attitude’ and told my mother I needed more ‘discipline’…that being a good spanking! But that just fuelled the fire for me. How is it that I needed twacking and they could sit on their fat asses while the ‘lost’ remained lost? Surely there were bigger concerns than my ‘rebellious, defiant and Jezebel’ attitude? Well, apparently not. After a few good ‘prayer sessions’ and ‘renouncing of demonic spirits’, which apparently came from my cultural heritage and the fact that my mother had been a fornicator in a previous existence…they thought their job was done. They could stand in front of their maker and say that they had assisted with the upbringing of the solo mothers kid.
Actually, that’s not fair…there were a few that did do what they preached…that walked the talk. One dude, taught me to drive. Poor bastard lol. He had been a skin head in a previous existence. He knew the ass end of life and didn’t take for granted anything that he was given. He was a good dude. Then there was another couple that had been drug addicts in a previous existence and decided that they would ‘follow Christ’. They were still human…good people. The guy schooled me in Bob Dylan :)…that dude was deep.
Underneath everything though, I was festering. I was angry on angry. I started to hate school. Hate dance. Hate church…more than usual…I hated feeling. I hated thinking. I hated the people I was around.
I had a couple of really good friends around this time. They were sisters and both looked like they were bred for the Aryan Nation…blonde blonde; bright blue eyes. They had a nice life. Farming girls. Horses. Mother and Father. They were good people. But they didn’t relate to what I felt. And as far as they could see, I had a good life too. Which I did, in comparison to some. I was warm, fed, went to church, lived like a Pakeha.
I was still smoking at this time but because I needed numbness I ventured off to find other things to achieve that. I found sniffing / snuffing, whatever you like to call it. I found pills. I found cheap alcohol. And if you blend all those together they make for an awesome little numbing cocktail.
It’s kind of surprising in hindsight, that I went down this pathway. I had seen my asshole Uncle ping himself up many times with poppies stripped down for the opium or other white substances. And it had always terrified me, watching him change from erratic and violent into subdued and violent…not a pretty picture. But my cocktail didn’t seem so bad I guess…so there wasn’t really a comparison for me at that time. I just wanted numbness.
I told my mother what had happened to me at 4. She cried. I was ‘prayed’ for. It didn’t do much for the overall internal picture really.
4th form was ass. I was put in the top stream Maths class, surprising to me as Maths was not my best subject. And even more surprising was that academically I was doing pretty good. The teacher however, was one of those types that liked to ridicule and belittle publicly, in the hopes that her students would somehow learn better. Myself and another brown brother lol, decided to ask the 4th form Dean, to be moved into another class, as neither of us understood what was being taught and we didn’t like the way we were being treated. So it turns out, that a percentage of brown kids, from a low socio-economic background, were required in each stream. We were the lucky two that had been picked for this particular stream. If he was to move us, it would throw out the government requirement. Pftt to that. We both walked out in the end and attended a different class. Maths for dummies!
Socially, I was floundering. I found my peers shallow and trivial. But I guess this is the age where that’s what should be practiced, in all fairness. But I didn’t fit and it was becoming more and more obvious.
I was still dancing, and dancing well…but I was struggling. I’d go to school stoned, drunk, snorted out or all of the above; just to get through the day. I wanted to explode but didn’t really understand how or why.
Light and love xo