Image

“Too Much Truth” Exhibition: Finale and Shout Out

The Exhibition “Too Much Truth” Women’s Global Resistance to Sexploitation, in Wellington, is coming to a close.

I would like to Thank, the organiser and curator of this most righteous Exhibition – “Renee”of  “Writing By Renee”. What a brave and fierce woman, who I am truly honoured to have connected with.

I would also like to Thank “Thistle Hall Gallery” in Wellington, for supporting Renee’s venture and for supporting the contributors of this Exhibition.

From the bottom of my slightly blackened soul, I am humbled to have been part of such a beautiful and fiercely staunch conglomerate of feminists, activists and artists; all representing their Truths.

As promised, the following photos are the scoped out versions of the macros presented previously. The Descriptions below my “Response ~ Resistance” pieces, include the writing on each piece, and the context / explanation of each piece.

They are all painted from a Childs perspective and are a dual perspective / response of a Child / Adult Survivor of Infant / Child Sexual Assault.

“they said i should have got up and walked out ~ instead of holding him accountable”

I can not recount how many times throughout my lifetime, I have had ‘bad advice’ levelled at Me. When superimposed in this context, its ignorance becomes crystal clear.

“from her ~ he let me pick the colour felt pen he would use ~ to split my tiny cunt open”

Often times, therapists / counsellors / psychologists, have asked Me to ‘describe’ the ‘act’ or acts in the hopes that there will be something for Me to ‘reconcile’ or work through. What they seem to forget is the ‘devil’ is indeed, in the detail.

“he said i could put sugar on it so it would taste better ~ and to make me an accomplice to his sickness”

‘Professionals’ and family alike, forget that a child doesn’t have the vocabulary to recount the emotion of a crime enacted against them, but they can recount the ‘simple’ things. And it is in those very simple descriptions, that the filth of such a crime and sickness lies.


To find other contributors works, please follow this Link, as permission hasn’t been sought to display their works.

A Final Salute and Congratulations to the Organiser – Curator, Gallery, Contributors, Artists and Activists.


photography & art @kpm-artist 


From Sep 30, 2017 –  2017 Wellington Exhibition


 

SaveSave

Advertisements
Image

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.

tearing.

bruising.

scarring.

a womb, that won’t bear children.

just to name a few.

then there’s the psychological

fuckery.

paranoia.

fear.

anxiety.

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 –

smell.

pain.

sight.

hearing.

taste.

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.


from pts(d) expression series #75 – Jan 2, 2017 @ 08:03

Image

exhibition art [2017] resistance, response

art has a way of

expressing.

what can’t be.

like a child’s.

description.

art can describe

what may otherwise be;

unmanageable.

to explain;

unfathomable,

to understand;

too uncomfortable,

for the polite;

to raw for breakfast.

table.

talk.

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.*


First Published: Sep 29, 2017 @ 00:08


photography & art @kpm-artist 


 

SaveSave

SaveSave

SaveSaveSaveSave

SaveSave

them and that stuff

Yes, yes, yes.

I know I talk about it

all.the.time.

and at great length.

And I shall keep talking about it

until I’m good and ready to stop,

which,

by the way,

won’t be any time soon.

Image

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!.

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?”

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.

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.

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.

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.

<3

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.


 

doggy daydreams

them: insert eyeroll

“you still going on

about being assaulted”

me: insert eyeroll

“you still going on

about your decomposing dog”

the 3

they may seem –

outwardly,

‘overwhelming’ type

emotions.

but i saw my insides

today.

and i was a

little

surprised.

there is something that

happens,

when you can’t

breathe.

it’s called

dying.

gasping for air

and not finding

it,

is dying.

when you survive

that,

you are left

with

2

things.

possibly a

3rd

if your lucky.

callousness.

everything and

anything

seems

trivial.

fear.

the fear

of being

there

again.

not breathing

that is.

if your lucky.

theres:

appreciation.

for life.

for living.

for breathing.

i have yet

to master

the

3rd.

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 look
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.

.

First Published on: Jul 6, 2015 @ 12:14 <3

the preference is…

they would prefer

that my response is more

technical

than literal

figurative

than literal

but literal

is what you are

pathetic is what you

exude

for you to die

quietly

would be

a

shame

the preference

is for

you

to die

with

the same

amount of

fear

as you have

inflicted.

thats the

preference