a pts(d) moment.

have you ever altered your belief system or added to what you know aka learned something, only to be ‘tested’ on it within the days that follow that shift?

yeah well, here i am, again.

today a statement was levelled at me about taking a shower and it sent me down a pts(d) wormhole that i am still trying to manoeuvre.

taking a fucking shower ffs.

whilst said in jest; & the details i won’t expand on here, i was time warped back to a small body that dodged leering glances, although i didn’t know what they were at the time. i just knew they made my stomach sore.

back to a time where the bathroom door wasn’t locked & would be randomly slid slightly open with the cunt on the other side, salivating, grinning & saying ‘oh, yooouuur in here … ‘ & the lingering moments sitting there in utter vulnerability … utter frozen-ness, waiting for him to finish so i could finish. 

back to a time where the bedroom door would open slightly at night & a dark figure would stand there … the light from the hallway obscuring their face … but breathing loud enough to make it known to the pretend sleeper, that they were watching. leaving with a slight chuckle under their breath, this cunt left his presence in the room; left his scent on his property.

back to time where the cunt would block the exist from a room with the gigantic frame of his body & as i tried to slide past, the cunt would reach for my chest or my groin, laughing lightly the whole time.

back to a time where the cunt would make seedy remarks about my growth; jokes about genitalia or a smelly mick, as he called it … the laughter drawing me in to an unholy, unconsenting union of a perceived shared experience. 

back to a time where my clothing became looser so i could barricade my body from prying hands, leering eyes.

back to a time when … my body was not my own.

where i was a pawn in a sick little game played by fucked up persons. where power was an aphrodisiac. where the scent of their putrid hormones filled the air.

back to a time where my body was open season & no amount of crying, sobbing, ignoring, battling, explaining or excusing, could deter the advances of a sick cunt hell bent on getting off on the fear the rose like smoke, from his prey.

my senses feel assaulted.

my chest feels grief.

my stomach feels the old panic.

this is my moment. another learning moment.

while i’m not here anymore, but i am soooo here. that is pts(d).

i am tired of being thrown back to a place i have been running from all my life. 

i’m tired of trying to explain this whole situation to anyone who would want to touch me on the shoulder, or move my shoes from the door step, or knock on the bathroom door while I’m showering, or borrow my jacket, or eat my leftover dinner, or come in for cuddles, or pass me the pen …

i’m tired of explaining my space, my body, my story, my wishes, my reasons.

why can’t they just let me be?


dont worry. i won’t be here forever.


big breaths.




fight fucker

one of the most pertinent things you need to understand about me, is that i will always come back fighting.

definition: fighting. it looks different for everyone. it makes it no less or more – fight.

i might be crawling the floor today; trying to find my motherfucking sanity & trying to get out the front door … & the nek day – the nek week even, i might do that all over again. but i will eventually slap back. that may be a twist, a renarrate, a rearrange, a rework, a revisit or an old fashioned ‘FUCK YOU CUNT’.

i will always fight back.

it is how i’m wired.

the end.


kpm © : ig @kpm-artist



shoulders way tighter than i realised.

in the morning. they tighten with any noise.

they’re deducing the tone and the mood.

& then my stomach starts turning from there.

but, still and quiet doesn’t feel safe either.

in that, im negotiating myself out of that space.

that silence, that may cost me my life today.

that day.

kpm ©



because that is who i am

Although I’m not a hoarder by nature, and tend to gangstah lean toward the minimalistic slant on life, there is one thing that I do, unintentionally, hoard.

Sexual assault memories.

Now I don’t hoard them on purpose; they’ve just made their way into my basement and that’s where they stay. However, they do make uninvited appearances whenever they feel like it.

While I’m asleep.

While I’m awake.

When something smells familiar.

When something sounds familiar.

Otherwise known as Flashbacks: Or ‘Fuck-off Flashbacks’ as I like to call them; until recently, I thought everyone had this phenomenon happen to them. I figured though, that if their lives had been full of beautiful, picturesque, cheesy moments, then the emergence of any said basement memories, must be a pleasant, rather than horrific,  occurrence. How sweet does that sound!.

(not my meme)

Turns out, flashbacks come with pts(d) aka Post Traumatic Stress Disorder; they’re not an everyday thing for everyday peeps. Although an ever popular title at the moment, the first time I can remember this title being used to describe ‘Me’, was in the late 90s. But that was it. No further explanation, or plan, or treatment, or anything. Just a wave of the psychological hand as I was ushered out the door with the recommendation that I take anti-depression medication. I argued vehemently that I wasn’t ‘depressed’ per se, but having to figure this shit out was wearing Me the fuck out; is that the same thing as a ‘Depressive Episode’? I think Not.

I dodged the system there after. I threw myself into motherhood and studying and working. By 2006 I had nearly completed my studies and was moving into a new job.

By 2008 I was getting physically sick. I couldn’t hold food down; I was covered in an irritating rash; my hair was falling out; my head was always sore; my heart was always racing; my stomach was always turning. A raft of medical tests showed up nuddah. Instead the ‘professionals’ prescribed antidepressants; which I didn’t take. Again citing that I wasn’t ‘unhappy’, but I was losing weight faster than I could keep it on: and, oh by the way – “can y’all fuckers help Me or not?”

(not my pic)

By 2010 I was medically discharged from my job and shit was declining rapidly. I couldn’t walk, couldn’t hold a conversation, couldn’t drive, couldn’t make sense of much. The ‘professionals’, once again, prescribed antidepressants; the kick ass, make yah dribble, kind. Along with a few other strains of pharmacology – just for good measure. This time, I didn’t argue. I took them.

By 2013 I couldn’t leave the house. I still couldn’t drive. I was fat. I was tired. I was drained. I was broke.

So we did what any normal human would do, and we moved to the beach.

From then till now I have had an ongoing battle with ACC, to get assistance. Any assistance. The last assessment was done in August of this year; 3 years after asking for the initial one; 8 years after the one I should have had in 2009; one year after making a long ass complaint with ACC and them apologising for ‘the delay’.

In May of this year, I knew the battle with them was wearing Me thin (not literally – I wish!). The infrequent interaction with them and the long delays in between were adding to the anxiety and making me feel ‘sicker’, which was actually impeding any progress I had made from 2013 to the present.

But: Theres always a But –

I persisted with them. Believing they were my only resource or course of action. I thought I needed more money; more counselling; more help – of which I was actually entitled too, but felt like I was begging for. I really just wanted my life back and I wanted them to assist;  just a tinsy winsy little bit!

But gnawing away in my gutt, was a very clear voice:

“Girlfriend … They can’t give You what You need”.

I could feel the unbalance settling in as the father issue got thrown in there. But I persisted. With the father and with ACC. Because that’s what I do.

(also not my meme)

So on a particularly bleak ‘soldier on, even though I am nearly worn the fuck out’ day, I was trolling through my Twitter feed, and stumbled upon the Podcast of one very righteous drag queen who goes by the name of LaQuisha. Her Podcast was aptly named for my very situation: “Breaking Up With The NZ Mental Health System”.

Within the first 5 minutes, I had big girl tears in my eyes.

Sometimes … just sometimes … there is huge relief in knowing your not alone in something … that you’re not the first person to experience whats going on around you.

I felt relieved. She described her struggle; similar to what I was currently having with ‘the system’. She likened their neglect as similar to what she had experienced as a young person and within her family of origin. And I had a lightbulb moment.

(and also, not my pic)

I could see it falling into place. The father issues … the resounding silence … the blaming … the abuse.

I got it. Hallelu-Jah, I finally got it.

Or so I thought.

So Me and my newly enlightened self, wrote a quick post about it, so I wouldn’t forget and because that’s what I do. I saved the podcast for later perusal and thusly celebrated my Aha Moment.

The End.

That was 5 months ago.

And that’s right. I forgot everything I had just learned and I got further weighted down. Actually, I continued to let myself be weighted down. I analysed the fuck out of all sides of the issues, both ACC and father. I flipped it, responded to it, dropped the anti-anxiety meds, I talked it out, cried it out, blogged some more and then some more; I raged, I painted, I tried to remember the good things, I listened to soothing music, I tried more photography … oh, and I minimised and minimised the fuck out of everything. And yesterday, as I was on another rampant minimising mission, and was deleting shit off my computer, I came across – that’s right:

LaQuisha’s Saved Podcast.

A little surprised it was sitting there, just looking at Me, I decided to re-listen to it. And Yes, that’s right; 5 minutes in, and I was in big girl tears. A-Gain. So I paused LaQuisha – made Me a very delicious coffee – and came back to gaze at the screen for a just a little while longer, before un-pausing and re-listening.

Yes, that shit dawned on Me long and hard for quite an embarrassing length of time.

I had the answers to my conundrum 5 months ago, and for whatever fucked up, deep-seated psychologically mind numbing reason – I freudian-ly, chose to ignore it. I knew 5 months ago what I should do. What I already knew in my gutt, instinctually, 5 months before that. That there was No help in the system for Me and that my father and his bullshit, needed to Get Gone.

So I am now on a break up with ACC. I figure I need them like I need a hole in the head. I’ve done the assessment and gotten sweet fuck all from them. Will I get anything else out of them? Not without applying a shit tonne of pressure. And I do not have the energy for that, and actually, I don’t want to waste anymore of my time and precious resources on hitting my head against the proverbial brick wall. In the new year I may apply for more EMDR if I feel I need it; but that will be done on My terms.

Am I breaking up with my father? Definitely. I’ve deleted him completely from my life – Again. I don’t need his bullshit. And I never needed anything he had to offer; which was next to nothing anyway.

(yup, another, that aint mine)

I’m now talking with my Mama about getting my name changed back to my maternal family name. We’re going to take a trip up the River, where our tipuna came from, to find the burial sites of my Great Grandmother and Great Great Grandmother.

The thought of that stirs my spirit.

This is about finding where I belong. Who I belong too. Who loved Me long before I was born. That is where My healing is at and that is where my strength lies.

It’s not in what I’ve lost, or what I haven’t got, or what I can’t get. It’s in what ‘else’ I am, what else I can be and what else is waiting for Me.



the 3

i saw my insides

today. i was a



there is something that


when you can’t


it’s called


gasping for air

and not finding


is dying.

when you’ve survived

that, you are left

with 2 things.

possibly a 3rd, if your lucky.


everything and





the fear

of being




for life.

for living.

for breathing.


i have yet

to master





a child prostitute

How is that even a thing,

I wonder.

As I watch them come and go.

I see their ‘baby on board’ stickers

In their rear windows.

And who do they pick up?

You look no more than eleven.

Are you eleven,

or younger?

I feel disgust for those leeches.

Those scum infested bastards.

But you leave with them,

And return in 10 minutes.

How is it that you have to be here?

Why do you go with them?

Yes I know the answer.

But all the answer does not lie with you.

They said on the News;

“What should we be doing about the child prostitution issue”.

It’s an issue?


it’s a fucking abomination!

A shame on this nation!

A child,

a prostitute.

Your ‘clients’ are rapist pigs.

They are not clients.

Your job is not a job.

It isn’t a well thought out career pathway.

It’s cunty pedos cashing in on your silence.

Your need.

Your vulnerability.

I hate them for you!!

I told you so,

When you wouldn’t come with me.

I told you so,

As you huffed your poison and rolled your little eyes.

I told you I would hate them for you,

And I do!

I’ll fix it if it takes me forever

I’ll fix it.

So you can braid your hair

And get your nails did

So you can eat your lunch at school

And you can sleep between Dora Explorer sheets.

I’ll fix it

I’ll keep hating them

Until I fix it.

kpm ©


giving up artists

bit of a touchy subject for me, in more ways than one.

“so, when you know someone is probably rapey as fuck,

do you continue to support them?”


well, i have misgivings about supporting the artistry of the following people:

  1. r kelly
  2. michael jackson
  3. bill cosby

i have huge angst over letting their shit go. why? because i grew up on their shit. they were black faces, black music, black expression … that i was sadly lacking in my life, and even though they are not my ethnicity, they were the closest colour to me and i loved that. yes, i followed the indigenous and black female artists too … still do.

and then the accusations against them came to light, and my heart sank.

do i wait for proof?

do i just roll with my own thing?

do i hold to the theory that their artistry is not their ‘alleged crimes’?


yah see, if i write these cunts off, no one but me is going to care. and it will cost me. it will cost me a large portion of my actual good memories growing up. it’ll cost me the music i love. it’ll cost me …

the illusion they portrayed to the world.

and there it is:

this is what its like to be ‘on the other side’.

this is what it’s like to be the person that says … “oh that was ages ago, get over it … are you sure that happened … do you have any proof? …”

and i tell you what, as much as it hurts me to give up the music and the artistry, it hurts me more to remember #AllThoseTimes when no-one believed me, or justified the pedo cunts actions, or told me to get over and move on, or told me leave the past in the past, or said ‘i’m sure they’ve changed’.

you see, no-one gets to give them a pass except that people they offended against. and even then those of us who are supporting the music and the art, still have a choice, whether the recounting of crimes is fact or not.

as the saying goes, ‘if it looks like a duck, quacks like a duck and walks like a duck … its probably a duck’ … and the same goes for a pedo.

how do all those people offended against, feel?

the whole world is still listening to these dudes music and watching and celebrating their visual artistry. what kind of fuckery is that?


the time has come where i have to put my money where my mouth is.

and i’m starting with the hardest for me to give up.

r kelly.

*bye bye rapey cunt*

and heres to all the people whose lives you didn’t give a fuck about.




what does

did yah know that

sexual assault

or sexual violation,

whatever your feng shui;

does a number of things

to ones gig.

theres the physical act.

the physical results.

those scars can be permanent.




a womb, that won’t bear children.

just to name a few.

then there’s the psychological





dreams: nightmares: night terrors,

potatoe – potato.

whatevs: bitches are bitches.

then there’s the sexual effects.

we are sexual beings.

sexual violation, is an offence of the sexual being.

the results:

flashbacks –






to get it fucking twisted

a pts(d) fuck:

that those past violations

are present violations.

that they are re-lived

right here

right now,

even though you know with your head

they’re not now:

you body says otherwise.

kpm ©


addendum: deafening silence

I’ve had some really positive feedback on my art displayed in the recent exhibition. I mean really good feedback. Things like: ‘it had an impact’ ‘it opened peoples eyes’ ‘it left a lasting impression’. I couldn’t ask for more really.

What I guess I hadn’t braced myself for, was the vulnerability I felt, the negative comments and the deafening silence.

I’m slowly working through the vulnerability part.

Most of my artivist pieces have only ever involved my response to colonisation. As sore as that topic can be, I’ve discovered it is in no way shape or form, any where near the soreness involved with personal abuse.

The collective abuse of a culture and the genocide of those people, is a grief, almost shared. The anger is aimed at almost nothing and almost everything. Theres a helplessness in it that is relieved through art. Well for Me there is. My responses that are educational are also cathartic but purposeful. That being, that in the educational process, decolonisation can happen.

I was hoping that that would happen with the personal abuse issues.

I was hoping that in expressing my self, I’d find relief and educate on the topic of sexual assault. That in the education, there’d be a type of decolonisation process, but based in the myths, prejudices, stereotypes and ignorance of sexual assault.

Great hopes.

And by in large, the feedback was hugely encouraging. And I am holding out hope that the impact it had on those that were moved by it, is lasting. That it creates change.

But here at home, the negative and silence resounds at the moment.

Maybe because of the topic? Maybe thats why it all seems so deafening?

The silence is not a new thing. I think it’s just considerably noticeable at the moment because of how I’m feeling. That sucks ass. Really, it does.




“resistance & response” [2017]

art has a way of


what can’t be.

like a child’s.


art can describe

what may otherwise be;


to explain;


to understand;

too uncomfortable,

for the polite;

to raw for breakfast.



but art can capture

the emotion of a scene,

when nothing

else can.

*These are macro shots of a series of 3 paintings I created, that were part of the “TOO MUCH TRUTH – Women’s Global Resistance to Sexploitation” Exhibition.

The Exhibition finishes this Sunday. I’ll post full shots of these pieces, and their descriptions then.*

kpm © : ig @kpm-artist






the preference is…

‘they’ prefer my response be more


rather than literal.


rather than literal.

but literal

is what you are.

pathetic is what you


for you to die


would be



the preference

is for


to die,


the same

amount of


as you have


thats my technical and literal




Hey Caryn Or Karyn Or Whatever Your Name Is

Do you remember me?
Well I remember you
I remember your prying
Invasive fingers
And your trying to look innocent
I remember the nod you would give
As I played on the jungle gym
And I remember your
Let’s keep this our
Dirty little secret look
Did you know I already had one?
Way way bigger than this one?
Did you realise your invasion
Wasn’t the first
And was by no means
The last?
Well I grew up
And I’ve carried the guilt
And shame of you
For far to fucken long
I get now
That you were probably being
Fucked at home
Or somewhere else
And that your little soul
Was probably as tormented
As mine
The empathetic part of me
Feels for the fucked up part of you
But I hated you for invading me
For guilting me
And tormenting me
And while I wish you
No direct harm
I wouldn’t shed a tear
If learned you had
Had your prying little fucking fingers
Severed, the fuck off.

kpm ©