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Extract: the day the raids came

#lestweforget this fucking atrocity!

“On the 10th anniversary of the Tūhoe raids, we look back at a book published by Rebel Press in 2010 recounting the experiences of 16 people effected by Operation 8. On October 15 2007 the ‘war on terrorism’ arrived in New Zealand when more than 300 police carried out dawn raids…”

Source: Extract: the day the raids came

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a few minor adjustments …

After my secondary ‘Aha-Aha Moments’, I decided to make some immediate and then minor adjustments to my world. Instead of re-minimising everything (which I do rather well I might add), I figured a few tweaks would do just as well.

The first was this:

Don’t get Me wrong, I give a shit about a lot of things … too many things actually; well too many for own well-being at the moment. Yes, I give a shit about world peace, racism, sexism, injustice, in-equality … I give more than a shit actually – I give so many shits about this shit, it hurts. This is how I was made. It is my character and the fabric of my nature. But right now … I need to give more than just a few shits, about Me.

On to the shit I can change:

  • ACC – done.
  • Father – done.
  • Minimising drugs – doing.

So I decided to add 3 things.

  1. More Art for Arts sake.
  2. More healthy shit.
  3. Before the end of this year, pick somewhere to go, that I want to go too … and Go.

Art for Arts sake, means creating without a purpose. My art has always been in response to something – colonisation, abuse, anger etc. It has never been just because I want to create something. It’s actually quite hard for Me to do something that has No ‘purpose’; it goes against every minimal thing about Me.

More healthy shit: this is two-fold. In a few weeks I will try the ‘mindfulness’ walk, with my new found knowledge. This is purposeful, so should counter balance the art-for-arts-sake.

Second part of the healthy shit is practical:

My tipuna were foraging and healing themselves long before the Crown set foot on these islands and long before I came into being. So instead of waiting for ‘the cure’, Me and aunty google set about to find some practical things to do. I’ve added the following to my daily health regime:

Green Smoothie

1x clove of garlic

1x banana

1x cup organic raw milk

1/4 cup water

6-8 puha leaves (raw)

2 dandelion leaves (raw)

2 doves foot geranium (raw)

6-8 coriander leaves (raw)

4-5 sprigs of mint (raw)

I’ve included the health benefits of each of these ‘weeds’ and herbs, in the links. The idea is to increase this a little bit at a time over the next few months. While it may not sound very pleasant and definitely looks a bit dodgy – I figure Chartreuse is way worse 😉 And so far so good on the ‘health benefit’ angle.

 

On to picking somewhere I want to go:

I wanted to go to my art classes this year and felt like a big fat failure because I hadn’t been able to make it all year. Soooo, instead of wallowing in it, I’ve decided to go the the Exhibition Opening on the 4th of November. I may need drugs; I may need all my bits and pieces that I use … and that, I have decided, is just fine! I am going!

I’ve asked my daughter if she’d take Me and hold my hand etc lol, and she said Yes 🙂 And she’s going to bring my beautiful mokos too. I said to her – ‘are you ok with Me freaking out if that happens?’ … and she says, ‘sure ma, we’ll just throw a blanket over you, put a hat on you and hold onto you’. I cried 🙂

So thats Us, well Me … and the mish from now till the end of the year at least.

And guess what?

I’m OK 😉

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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.

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steps

where did i get lost?

was it in between breaths?

was it in between spaces?

was it in between, at all?

i could just make it,

make it so it seemed

bearable.

even more than bearable really.

quite enjoyable.

and then …

and then.

ahhh, i remember.

the first punch

was being forgotten.

it wasn’t my beloved sister leaving

this plane.

it was being forgotten.

they forgot she was my sister.

they forgot, i was her sister.

they forgot.

Me.

and as i gulped for air,

the air of grief,

but i could breath,

because i had learned how;

the torment that comes with

being forgotten

seeped into my pores.

into my pores

and into my blood.

slowly, so slowly it poisoned

my heart.

as my heart turned septic,

my body turned septic.

the second blow came

when the forgotten

was bent, and used as a

step ladder.

its a strange place to be,

bent over in the dirt,

head slightly tilted to see

those who step up.

and there i have stayed.

in the dirt,

stepped on,

forgotten.

the only thing to do now,

is to stand up.

empowerment

As we all know, I have issues … tonnes and tonnes of issues. But who hasn’t ay? Maybe those that are in denial; or those that have waded through the muddy waters of self enlightenment and come out the other end to tell their enlightenment story; or maybe those that live a perpetuated lie?

Or maybe I’m just too cynical.

One of my ‘tonnage’ issues.

But recently I’ve become more and more aware of the lack (for want of a better word) of empowerment that we – meaning society and A lot of the individuals living in that society – are willing to Give.

Do tell Me.

Ok. I will.

When I was raising my daughters I did a possibly 40% shit job, 40% blood, sweat and tears and 20% trial and bloody era. But I think thats parenting really. A lot of it is hit and miss.

But 1 basic, which I thought was what every parent did, was try to empower their kids.

By this I mean, not just teach them the stuff you were taught or the stuff you wish you were taught – but teach them; show them how to Live. Teach them practical skills to help themselves as individuals. Teach them that they have a right to certain things because they are human, but that other things are privileges, that not everyone is afforded. Teach them generosity. Teach them boundaries. Teach them basic life skills.

Teach them to pick up their clothes. Teach them to do their own washing. Teach them to put together a basic meal. Teach them the value of nutritious food. Teach them to make decisions based on what is best for them. Teach them to figure out what they believe in. Teach them to develop their own thought processes. Teach them to be considerate of others. Teach them to say No. Teach them routine. Teach them flexibility.

Teach them to trust their instincts.

But for a raft of seemingly daft reasons, theres a shit load of parents who do not, or cannot do this.

One reason, which still rips my ration book, is the ‘I had it hard so I want my kids to have it better than I did’.

Guess what – everyone has it hard to some degree. We lived through it though didn’t we. Ours kids are not being beaten, unfed, neglected or abused. Don’t treat them like porcelain dolls because We had it hard.

Another reasonably fucked up reason, which I still can’t quite grasp, is the parents who think they Own their kids. They want them for their own benefit. Whether thats to make them feel better about themselves or they want someone to control, I’m unsure.

But guess what. You don’t Own your kids. You gave them life and your responsibility is to Empower them to be righteous, skilled, free-thinking, staunch people. Also – it’s definitely not cool to be manipulating another grown human being, to get what you want and because you think They Owe You.

I’ve met a shit tonne of incapable adults over the last few years. Adults that think it’s ok to let someone else to the hard yards that they can reap the benefits from. Adults that think they can lie and get what they want. Adults that can order a pizza but can’t order themselves.

And behind these adults there are parents that did it all for them.

Now I’m not blaming parents at this stage. An adult has the ability to unravel themselves from dysfunction and grow up. It can take a bit of doing, but it’s doable. If your sitting around blaming mummy and daddy for your co-dependence lazy ass, that is a cop out.

Man up. Grow some fucking balls (lady balls if that be the case).

Empower yourself.

Rant over 😉

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366 reasons to smile ~ +267.

+267. Yup – they’re my favourites 🙂

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366 reasons to smile ~ +266.

+266. Lol, strangely enough, we’ve only just realised that our entire family do this haha.

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mauri of me #37 ~ bullshit-o-meter

I’ve been plodding around my ‘mauri of me’ segment, (much like the rest of my life at the moment) pretty much detailing the stuff that is ‘Me’, is my essence; but is also pretty meh. If you get my drift. Yes, its all helped Me to remember and understand who I Am; but not really getting to the nitty gritty – the deep and dark stuff. Well that shit, in my world, is called avoidance and minimization.

I was unceremoniously reminded of that tonight whilst reading a friends blog. And it kind of slapped Me in the face, and it still smarts lol.

I’ve been avoiding lots. I know … my average ‘written’ post doesn’t really allude to this fact. My ‘average’ is slightly darker and deeper than most … but it in all truth, it’s surface crap.

I’ve enjoyed wading around in the shallow water of avoidance. I think we all need to take a dip in there sometimes. Helps to ease the tension.

But that isn’t really my area of expertise.

My bullshit-o-meter has always been set to ultra sensitive. And whilst it’s been jumping all over the place lately, I was assuming it was because of the issues with my father etc.

I forgot about Me.

It’s always about Me.

You see, when I avoid shit, I run into trouble. The issues with my father, are to some degree, of my own making. I told myself I was being patient with him … understanding … working through things. And all the while, my bullshit-o-meter was pinging off the charts.

I listened to those around Me that said ‘he’s old’, ‘he’s set in his ways’, ‘he’s grieving’, ‘he’s your father’ … because while they were right to some degree, they couldn’t see what I could see. Which was a big old neon signing screaming “Bullshit … come get your dose of Bullshit”.

I thought some how, that I could lure him out of his own bullshit but instead I muddied up my own waters.

So here I am, wondering if I should reset my meterage or take actual notice of it.

It’s still pinging.

It notes that I have invested too much time in a man who Lies as ‘go too’ response. It also notes that it is set to ‘high’ because there has been a need for it, and although I had come to terms with a certain amount of past bullshit, I shouldn’t set the volume on low just yet. It also notes, that bullshit is bullshit no matter whose mouth its dribbling out of.

With that noted, here’s my point.

I lost touch with my ‘bullshit’ receptors. And whilst getting all touchy and feely about things is cool, and necessary to a certain degree – my receptors are set the way they for a dam good reason.

To protect Me.

As I reconcile, I am able to deal with things differently. There is no need to hide under the covers anymore; or freeze and play dead. No, I am quite able to respond in another form – violently or non violently.

But to remove the alarm bells is stupid.

Lesson learnt.

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366 reasons to smile ~ +261.

+261. LOL, my kids still do this and they’re both bloody adults haha.

reality check

You know when you get one of those painful realisations about your reality? Otherwise known as a bitching Reality Check? Yeah, well I just had one of those whilst doing the dishes.

I few days of unravelling whilst enjoying my own company, has been great. But I was still grasping at straws as to what the fuck I was missing.

Turns out, I’m missing my fucking sanity!

Somewhere during the year, I’ve lost a crucial part of Me. That is; not giving a fuck about what other people think and taking care of Me, my world … ultimately, my reconciliation or healing.

You see, I’m still here. Stuck in the house. And no amount of flowery or scenic photos I post, changes that fact. I am still Un-Able.

Unable to fuck off down the road. Unable to fuck off in the car. Unable to go and work. Unable to drop in and visit someone etc etc bloody fucking etc.

Yes, I am more Able than I was, but as far as overall fucking well being – I am still Fucked.

At the beginning of the year my short list ‘goals’ were to get somewhere with AC fucking C aka get some assistance to increase my finances even slightly, as $35 a fucking week just aint cutting it; and see if I can go back to the Psychologist to get Me back to driving at least. The only other thing was to get into my art class at least once.

The ACC review bullshit finally happened in August. Hello! We’re now in September and the end of the year is nearly here. Assistance? Pfft. That won’t happen this year.

Art class? Nope.

Instead I’ve put up with my fathers bullshit and it’s nearly a year since my sister passed and I’m no closer to getting to know who she was.

You see, while banging around the dishes, and trying to figure out how I’m going to get to the exhibition (yes, I have art in an exhibition coming up in a week), and how I’m going to get to the one in November, and if I should do an unveiling for my sister in my own way, and whether I can have the mokos for the holidays (which are in a couple weeks), and how on earth I’m going to pay for paint, and what about the wedding we’re invited too …. fuck it all … Well it dawned on Me …

There’s no cunt lining up at my door step to offer help. No-ones rung to say – hey, how the fuck are yah? You need help with anything? How’s the whole pts(d) situation going there you good thing?

Nope. Not a one.

And so I’m thinking, whilst all this awesome ‘lets find the positive in everything’ thing is like, awesome and shit, in theory … I’ve been waiting for some kind bright light to beam down and go tadah, there you go … shits gonna be sweet from here on in. But Nope. No such luck.

And when I had momentum a few months back, I let my fathers bullshit fuck with it.

Well guess what.

I’m officially over it!

Time to find some more of My own solutions. That I create. That I make. That are suited to Me.

*Waving goodbye to the softly softly approach*