they actually were more concerned with not upsetting him rather than not upsetting me.
.
& now, it’s amusing that I’m anxious & afraid .
still more interested in getting their own gratification in whatever form than listening to what I have I survived, become, endured, .. you just want the comfortable parts.
.
well i’m all out of that shit sir.
kpm©
anger or is it inadequacies?
your shit .. focussed at me?
the words, the actions, the shifts, the changes, the blame, the yelling. the shits.
yes I pick up them vibes.
i don’t understand completely what they are, i just know they gonna cost me something.
.
& guess what.
i said.
i’m.done.explaining.myself.
that is all.
kpm©
yesterday i had a conversation.
pause.
that conversation confirmed what i knew to be true.
pause.
.
there aren’t too many people that i either love or trust. & am im fine with that now. i no longer buy into the theory that i need to love & light on everybody & that im somehow missing out because i dont trust.
trust is earned. its not a right. its also not a commodity. it also means that if i dont ‘trust’ you per se, that i won’t not fuck with you. we can have an exchange for whatever purposes, that dont require me to completely trust, or love you, for that matter.
.
so, this conversation centred around someone i love, some i trust.
.
it turns out their narrative for me is a lot different when they talk to someone else.
i had suspected as much but like i said, i can still fuck with someone and not trust them completely.
.
turns out their narrative however, pretty much discounted my experience of child sexual assault by …
im still processing.
i think im hurt.
maybe more disappointed.
but not unrealistically so, i think i was just hopeful.
deep realisation that they probably will never get it and dont want to.
that ‘the feeling’ of not being welcome or accepted or believed, is alive and fucken well.
today it hurts.
over the last week ive known there was something coming .. a change, a shift. that the narrative of the family of origin had written for me, actually benefited them, not me. for them to hear me would require they do some work on themselves. deep work.
instead they are rolling with the playwright that says our family were hard working good folks who paid their dues and thats it.
nowhere in there is there accountability mentioned for the pedo fuck or the myriad of twisted ways he fucked me up. neither is there any mention of the myriad of ingenious ways i survived & spent countless years undoing his fuckery so my kids would never have to experience that kind of indignity.
with the voiceover of a few empty words, they discounted the trauma & violation, the survival & management, the growth & enlightenment.
.
i’ll sit with it.
but it won’t consume me.
its done that for too many years.
kpm©
i think i was about 8 or 9 when i knew who eva braun was.
i also thought everyone else knew that too. that this was a semi normal conversation piece for the meal table.
.
it wasnt.
kpm©
‘what? yous don’t talk to your dead people?’ is my new come back.
after a colonised lifetime of fighting to look “normal” re talking to the dead 🙄 this year I decided, fuck it, imma just listen & try & go with it.
so, this will be the first intentional setting of #matariki I have observed. what that meant for our tipuna probs looks way diff than my take on it, but with much debate & negotiation 🙄🤣 it’s ending up as a crossover of #poroporoaki meets #diadelosmuertos with a #hakari to twist it out .. I know, I know 🤣 negotiations included me highlighting to said dead peeps, that I am but one peep & resources & kai are limited atm, so no, your bonoffee pie is gonna have to make nek years menu geez lol & that yes, I hadn’t got my ass into gear & printed off the photos I was going too 🙄 but really, what is a photo but a memory ay 👀🤣 & they agreed, finally 😊
so this is all about honouring my peeps, making sure they are remembered, their stories (whether they be slightly stretched or not .. ) be told. that they know they are loved & missed. that I can shed a tear but smile at the same time.
cos at the end of the day, they are why I’m here right .. & yes, you are welcome 😊 🖤
#thebusiness 🖤😘
kpm © : ig @kpm-artist
Not sure what it happened really. When you stopped talking. Stopped listening.
or were you always that way?
Was it about the same time as me not being able to meet all your needs ? Or possibly when I decided to focus on saving myself because apparently I wasn’t the same person who you met all those years ago? Or was it when I could no longer give as many fucks as you wanted me to give.
Or was it a culmination of all of the above.
It’s not easy watching you sink away .. eating your own words and regret.
But then I remember.
You left me to fend for myself.
You said it was too hard.
I was too hard.
I’m pretty sure that’s not how love works.
I’m no expert in that department though.
Try as I might, to unfold how we got to this, I find myself asking my Nan .. is this what it was like for you? To be belittled, ignored and largely unloved?
.
It’s a strange strange thing.
kpm ©
floating .. thats what i do. just ride the wave. numb the senses & brace oneself.
that has been my life.
.
yesterday i learned somethings i suspected.
.
& i was right.
.
for me, its put my ‘body’, mind, soul, spirituality into perspective. it kinda already was, this is just confirmation really.
.
ive lived in a sate of fear slash survival my entire life. because of the rapey cunt, and because there was no-one able / willing whatever you like to call it, to act on my behalf. to act on behalf of the child.
.
this left me ‘open season’.
.
how i dealt with that was to .. float.
.
i was fully aware of the danger and lack of assistance around me. i still am.
people are disabled & unwilling. but thats nature / life, whatever.
my reality became one of survival, persistence, resistance .. as survival, not as a protest.
.
i dont digest like ‘others’.
i dont see, hear, smell, relate … like others. my body adjusts to the slightest noise or intrusion, as it should.
.
there is no calming that shit down.
.
i get that now.
.
i dont believe theres a movement from survival to ‘thrival’ or thriving. i believe theres a move from basic survival to learning and embracing your tools and then utilising them for ‘attacking’. thriving is passive. it denotes luxury and complacency.
i have no place for that.
.
i have been healing, recuperating .. understanding, learning.
thats it.
thats life in all is realties.
.
note: its not a bad thing @ all.
.
kpm ©
today was abit of a sicky day .. hormones have decided to commence fuckery again, after a nice long interlude .. of which i am grateful.
but whilst i was ailing around on the couch, consoling myself with hot water bottles & herbal teas, i listened to someone outside, constructing something lol. construction noises, of the modern day kind, would usually fucketh me off, but this symphony of construction was of the old school kind.
& it bought back dozens of forgotten memories of my grandfather & uncle (the good one).
both were builders & builders before there was skill saws & pile drivers. they were the kind that could traverse a concrete pad to a wooden wall to a roof to window to plumbing pipes. & all the while today, as i listened to hammers & an old saw cutting through something, i was reminded of sunday afternoons, listening to grandad constructing something useful – cos everything had a worthy purpose back then.
i could smell the wood & the concrete & the hammer on the nails .. i could hear the odd ‘buggar it’ & counting of measurements .. & i felt the awe of watching him create with his hands something out of all that ‘mess’, as nan would call it. he was so clever. so confident.
& i miss him, & my uncle.
but i’m pleased i have memories. good memories. of good men doing good things.
kpm ©
pending:
one way overdue conversation.
kpm ©
well, thats what i call it anyways.
not to cultural misappropriate & all, but this is a remembrance day that i completely dig. not that i dont remember them any other day; its just nice to have an ‘occasion’ where they are celebrated on purpose.
as ‘maori’, our dead are never far from us anyways. i’ve learnt over the years that to seperate them into the ‘them’ & ‘other’ category is cold & pretty much denying part of yourself.
my dead are with me all the time.
my angel babies are always with me.
today i would’ve lit a candle for them … but i packed them all away lol.
*love yous little ones, you’ve never been forgotten*
kpm ©
yep i am a self confessed minimalist.
[funny how they haven’t got some kind of retard mental illness name for that *insert eye ball roll* considering the amount of flack i’ve gotten over the years for being like this … until … apparently, it became one of those ‘new’ things that every cunt was embracing … taking up courses to learn … & paying a trillion dollars for someone else to rearrange their fucken homes …
ohhhh, & then its aight.]
any.way …
me.
i’m a minimalist.
cool.
do i require everyone else to be a minimalist?
nope.
but here’s the thing … which isn’t a new phenomenon in my life, but has made another round and re-presented itself forthwith, so i can re-deal with another layer of it ffs … … … like religion, i dont require you to be like me. like the way i dress, i prefer you do you & i do me. like the way i laugh, smile, eat – you do you, i do me.
so whilst im doing me, all minimalist & shit … the hardest part of that, is holding my own space!
believe it or not. someone sees a clear space (physically & emotionally) & feels to obliged to dump their shit there. whether they think i need the empty space filled up, or whether they think im poor, or whether they believe i could utilise the extra junk … they can not hear my NO or Fuck Off.
the whole idea of being a minimalist & embracing nil shit, is … get this … NOT having extra shit cluttering up my clear spaces.
amazing right.
so im guessing this round of fuckery has to do with a new layer of boundaries & not letting mine be crossed. another level of saying no & holding that no, even when the other cunt doesnt hear me. another level of owning my space & letting them own theirs.
it seems to be (like i said) a never ending cycle in my life.
cos i’m quite content to be left alone to play in the sandbox by myself. i’m also alright to share that sandbox. but you do you over there, & i’ll do me here. i’m not interested in collaborating with your bullshit or your glory.
i just want to be allowed to be. period.
kpm ©
we have multiple ancestors , watching, proud & protective.
kpm©
on 29 sept, it had been 14 years since my nan died. it was also a new moon.
.
that night i had dreams & i woke feeling different. like my third eye had been buffed & my sight & hearing was to the side. like on abit of a gangstah lean lol.
im a dreamer .. some are me processing trauma (always called them nightmares, but they’re not really) or things i dont understand with my mind, & some are ‘old’. not sure how to explain them, but i know when i have them, that they’re different. they usually come before something changes or shifts or something significant happens …. & i’m left with a deep sense of ‘doing things differently’.
part of the dream was of an old white woman who held space like my nan used to, but this woman had a kete (flax woven bag). she was like a shadow, but confident in her space.
my nan is / was a white woman of british decent, & she was also a ‘see-er’, whose gifting was pretty hardcore but she was continuously admonished & misunderstood throughout her life.
she is also the woman who left me in the room to be sexually assaulted. i think her gift brought her too the room in the first instance; or the door of the room – & she knocked and called out, but i think her fear stopped her from opening the door and confronting her regrets & fears. she hadn’t wanted her son / the pedo. so she left me there. i believe this is one of her deepest regrets.
she is now one of, or the most prominent kaitiaki (protectors / guardians) i have.
anyway, so back to the dream … apart from this old white woman, the other significant part of the dream was that i strangled the uncle / her son / the assailant.
in all dreams I’ve had of him i usually cant speak or move or i feel deeply afraid etc etc. this is the first in 43 years, that i have asserted me, over him.
it felt good.
so upon waking, i felt different.
as the day unravelled, this is what i remember.
the self professed white supremacist aka pedo cunt (as i call him) was engaged in what he labelled as occultism at the time of his assaulting me. the room was painted black and on one wall above the bed, was painted an inverted pentagram with a goats head in it – a.typical bullshit. he has this tattooed on his head also. so this was my first experience of anything ‘occult’ like.
at the other end of the pendulum was my mother who had embraced mainstream pentecostal christianity, where all things ‘witchcraft’, maori, woman etc were demonised and ‘prayed out of me’. by relation to the pedo cunt, i was labeled as being ‘touched’ by the demons that were his, including his ‘beliefs’.
as with most things of the ‘club’ variety throughout my life, i have ‘shelved’ all things religious.
as the years have gone on i’ve called on the ‘ancients’ instead of what any religion dishes up & nature is where ive been drawn too. the ocean being my first call.
so, i learned the horned creature that i was told was the devil; that was ‘cast out’ on many occasions; that was above me in crude form whilst i experienced one of the most heinous crimes my body has ever experienced … was not in fact who i was told he was.
today i learnt about ‘Pan’.
he, or ‘Pan’, has many of my traits; being the devil is not one of them.
the 2 things that were safe in my life were music & dance. these are 2 of the traits pan has.
i think he watched over me that day, in a distorted kind of way.
my dreams reminded me of that.
i won in the end. not that other cunt.
kpm©
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.
kpm©
i have tried, over the last couplely years, to make sure i ‘celebrate’ my ‘achievements’; even the small, seemingly meaningless things. cos a. no other cunt is going to congratulate a bitch & b. cos even those extremely minuscule things remind me that its all fucking progress.
*insert an over over the top eye ball roll here*
& i am way behind on congratulatory notes for moi.
so here’s a little of said ‘achievements’ & what i intend on doing to high five the fuck out of myself!
.
this all gets me to the biggest achievement of all really :
that i’m learning to ditch the old methods; the tried & true methods that every cunt recommends (nicely of course), for the things that work for ME.
fuck i’m neat alright.
kpm©
the smell of fear. yes, it has a smell. how you think they find you.
kpm ©
how i managed to raise such beautiful kids.
but i did.
kpm ©
kpm© : me & pts (d) 