1989. old and worn and waiting.

I had never seen a sunrise until I spent the two months in hospital prior to having my baby girl. And because I hardly ever slept, I was able to witness my first sunrise from the top storey window of the hospital. It was beautiful. I had a lovely nurse who spent hours talking with me throughout the night. I didn’t really notice then, how nice she really was. As always, I just believed she was doing nothing more than her job.

Thankyou nice nurse lady. Thankyou for your letters, your conversations and especially your kindness :)

I was a good Mum. For someone so young, it came quite naturally. She was my everything. And all I wanted to do was protect her and love her and give her the very best. Of me and what the world had to offer.

Hindsight: That’s a hard thing to do when you believe you’re not worth shit and the world is a savagely brutal place…especially for a girl.

The beatings from her father increased in ferocity and frequency once she had exited the womb. And I knew he was slowly losing his mind. He would talk about the cracks in the pavement talking to him. The birds in the tree telling him he had only two choices. If the left flew away. I loved him. If the right flew away I didn’t and he would have to hurt us. I tried reasoning with him, a ploy of mine that had helped me survive many sticky situations. But this time, it just agitated him and fuelled the frenzy. He would climb through my window at night while we were sleeping and I’d wake to him standing over my bed or even worse, over my girls cot. Just standing there mumbling to himself. That was followed my hours of talking him down, out of the room, out of the house, out of the street…before my girl was due to wake again…or before my mother or brother woke up.

I separated from him after he became openly brazen about twacking me in public or in my home, with my mother in the next room; or  while I was holding onto my girl. I left because I didn’t want her to get hurt. I didn’t want his obsessiveness to one day turn into violence towards her…if he decided she had done some ‘in his head’, wrong doing, towards him.

Separating wasn’t easy. I left behind my dream of everything turning out ‘picket fency’. I left behind the father that I wanted my girl to have. I hadn’t had one and I thought she should. Oh well.

Once we separated, the stalking began. Not just the late night, through the window, stand over the bed looking insane, type visits. No…he’d show up in the supermarket, one aisle over…just watching. He made friends with the adjacent neighbour, by chance, he had a pool table in his garage and he’d go play pool with him. Even though this dude was like 50 years his senior!. He showed up in the bank, next door to a friends, at the café…and just watch. He rattled my nerves. One day we were waiting in line at the bank; my baby girl was in her push chair asleep. He showed up and started walking up and down the waiting queue, laughing at me…getting up into my face, then backing off…raising his hand…then backing off. I was trying very hard to hold it together and not cry. I moved my girl closer to me and carried on waiting. We finally got to the top of the queue and while I was filling in the little withdrawal slip, he took her out of the push chair and walked off with her. I cried and tried talking him round; to give her back and all the while she was screaming. He just laughed. In the end we were half way down the road, in town, with people all around, and no one saying or doing anything…and the lady from the bank came sprinting out…What a wonder woman she was. She stopped him outside of the pub and firmly insisted that he hand over the baby. He reluctantly did. She told him that was no way to treat his child or the mother of his child…how did she know? Clever lady. Then she took us back to the bank, handed my girl back and made sure we were alright. She wiped my tears and told me to go home.

Thankyou nice bank lady! Thankyou for caring…thankyou for noticing and doing something! :)

I had become increasingly afraid and nervous. I was wary of where we went and who was there. Where my girl was and who was around her. I believed she was safer with my mother and brother. And with me not around. If I was around her, he was somewhere around, her. If I wasn’t around her, he was around me, not her. That was my 16-17 year old reasoning anyway. There wasn’t any type of womans help centre for peeps that were being stalked. Not that I knew of anyway. And the town that we lived in was full of people who had been there forever, were in bred to the hilt, and liked things to remain in-house and tidy looking…if you get my drift. There was no such thing as women getting hidings…and if they did, it was probably their own fault.

Then, in amongst all this fluffy spongy loveliness…I found a lump in my breast. I probably would have ignored it. But my ‘she has 4+ kids and is 28-ish’ friend; she died of a cancer that started with a tiny lump in her breast; that she ignored; that got bigger; that the doctor said was normal; that got bigger; that completely consumed her body. And she died. So I wasn’t going to ignore it.

I went to the doctors. They said it was normal. But sent me to have it checked at the hospital. There was no communication between the lowly patient and the opulent doctors. They poked and prodded, inserted needles and then sent me away. They sent me an appointment card in the mail which said I was scheduled for surgery, soon. 4 weeks or so I think it was. I was scared. And didn’t know what to say or ask. The Plunket Nurse said I would have to wean my girl off the boob and put her on the bottle. I cried.

I don’t remember having the lump removed; just another part of my life that I have forcibly forgotten. But I remember having a tube coming out from my breast for weeks…some type of drainage thing I think. I couldn’t pick my girl up properly, because it hurt. I ended up going to a friend’s place to stay for 2 weeks…to heal up and recover. I drank. Lots. And I missed my girl. The lump wasn’t cancerous. They sent me the letter that said so, weeks later.

Her father moved into the house over the road from my friend. Surprise surprise. Stalking bastard. Which meant though, that he wasn’t at the house climbing through the windows and standing over the cot. So I put up with him being there.

I found a new boyfriend. More accurately he found me. Another asshole. I thought he would be able to protect me. Protect us. But he came with his own baggage…but doesn’t everyone I suppose…hmmm.

After the first week away, I received a letter in the mail, at my friend’s house. It was a notice from the court, that my mother had applied for custody of my baby girl. I didn’t understand…so I rang her just to clarify. She said she heard I was drinking again and had a new boyfriend and that was no way to act and I obviously couldn’t look after my baby girl and she was better off with her and when I got myself together and maybe went back to church because I had backsliden and was going to hell now and things weren’t looking too good for me and yeah when I could prove to be responsible I could come back. REALLY?

I don’t think I’ve ever felt so betrayed and devastated and violently angry, in my entire life.

Now, in hindsight, I get my mother was trying to do the right thing, well what she thought was the right thing, by her grandchild. And having grandbabies of my own now, I completely get that. But there is something completely gutt wrenching and helpless and hurtful and screamingly painful, about having your child, your precious baby, who you love and would lay your life down for…taken from you.

I actively forgot this part of my life, for years. Only recently did I remember it. And I cried. Again.

I went to see my mother that same day. It was the first time I had ever seen red. Literally. I demanded she give my baby girl back. She wouldn’t and rang the police instead. I smashed up her entire kitchen, and would probably have smashed her as well…but the police came and removed me. And I had to go. I was gutted.

I hated her for this.

And I drank. And I drugged. And I fucked. And I hated. More.

We went to court. I didn’t understand any of it. She did. And she told them what a horrible person I was. Unfit. They weren’t convinced. She didn’t get custody, but joint guardianship. I hated her again. I didn’t want to be controlled by her and this was just a means of control in my eyes. But I didn’t do what she wanted me too. In some ways it seemed like a relief…baby girls father would stay away from her completely now. And he did.

I moved away to a new town, with the new boyfriend and all his baggage. Turns out he was a drug addict..Yah! But we blended for awhile…and then yes, I became pregnant again. I found out when I went to the women’s clinic to get a contraceptive. Doh.

Okay, so 17…pregnant again…to a different asshole…in a strange town…without my first baby girl…catching a bus to see her every weekend…on $125.00 per week…what am I going to do now? I arranged to meet his parents, they had offered to take this baby. I didn’t tell anyone else what was happening. We travelled down south to meet the prospective adoptee’s slash in-laws.

I decided to have abortion. I knew I’d want to keep this bubby if I saw it and with all the aforementioned reasons running around in my little head I figured at least this way the only person that was going to suffer for this decision, was me. And add that to the list I figured. My unborn bubby would go back to the place she started…with her tipuna, her maker. I believed that definitely, even way back then. And I still do.

So I met the family, then the counsellor, then the psychologist, then rang my mother and told her…she called me a murderer…and then an appointment was made for the abortion.

I travelled alone, on the bus, 3 hours to the nearest clinic. I stayed the night in the local Women’s Refuge as I didn’t have money for a hotel or any other type of accommodation. It was cold and it was lonely.

“You made your bed”…

I was starting to have doubts and was trying to imagine that I could do it all again, and have two children by myself and everything would be alright. I met an Iranian woman whilst in the Women’s Refuge that night. She had a little girl with her, she was about 4 or 5 years old. And she was pregnant with her second. She said it was a girl. She asked where I was from and why I was here. I told her.

She got this look in her eye…you know that look of, ‘now listen to me please…I know you won’t…but please listen…learn…hear me…remember’. I heard her. She had been brought over from Iran, by friends I think? She had been beaten to within inches of her miserable existence…she wasn’t allowed to go anywhere…her body was not her own…and she didn’t want that for her daughters…and it would be their existence…because that’s what it was for a female in her world…she had got out…but she would have had an abortion if she was able to…but now she was alone…running away…to find a better place to be…for her and her daughter and daughter to be…she had no money…no family…just scars and two baby girls.

Oh hell.

Where ever you are beautiful Iranian woman with your baby girl and unborn baby girl…Thankyou. Thankyou for sharing your pain and your story and your love with me. Thankyou for taking the time out of your fucked up existence to enquire on my life. Thankyou for being so kind. I love you for that. I hope you found the happiness and peace and love that you wanted for you and for your babies. I hope you are well. Thankyou for sharing your strength with me xoxo

I caught a taxi to the hospital. Sat in the waiting room. Filled out the forms. Put on the white gown. Sat in the bed. Spread my legs for the internal. Filled out more forms. Looked at the ceiling and then the walls as they wheeled me to the room next door to the surgical room. I heard the lady’s heart beat through the monitor while they performed the abortion. I cried in that little room by myself. I held onto my Ventolin inhaler, waiting. I got rolled in. A needle stuck into my wrist. A gas mask stuck over me and told to count backwards from 10. I had big tears. Big big tears and I couldn’t see the man properly. But I counted. And when I woke up. She was gone. My second baby girl was gone. And I cried.

~I named her. I remember her. I call her, a her, because I like to believe that’s who she is. A beautiful little girl, now in a beautiful place with her tipuna~

The nurse asked me why I was crying, with that ‘you made your bed, now lie in it’, tone to her voice. I didn’t answer and she didn’t ask again. She turned the radio on for me and left. “Like a bird on a wire” by The Neville Brothers, was playing. And I wailed…again.

The boyfriend came and got me. He was out of it. His mother was quiet. And I didn’t care.

I remember that everything looked old…really really old, like one of those old brown photographs. I felt old and worn and tired.

I was allowed to go home to my mothers and to my baby girl, so I did. My baby girl had been crying for me since my mother had taken guardianship of her. My mother had worn herself out and wanted me to take over again. So I did.

Then the nightmares of shredded babies started. And I couldn’t sleep…even more than normal. And apparently I should’ve gone back to Jesus and everything would be alright again. In what universe was it alright to begin with, I thought.

And then I got an STD. I think they call them STI’s or something now. But apparently my wonderful boyfriend had been screwing everything he could get his dick out for. Yah! It wasn’t one I could get rid of and could lead to cancer if unchecked. Which meant regular smear tests. More opening my legs to someone I didn’t want to for more invasive manoeuvres that I didn’t want.

And then the cunty pedo returned to our town. And I was scared again.

I dumped the loser boyfriend…finally. And I decided to kill myself. It seemed like the logical next step.

I got insurance. I practiced cutting myself. I made out a Will with a lawyer. It specified that my baby girl was not to go to her father because he was unsafe and just an all round fucked up shit head. Just in more lawyer-ish language.

It seems like such a selfish thing, now. But in my mind, I was no good. And no good thing followed me around like a crusty fart. I didn’t want my baby girl to suffer for who and what I was. I believed I was a bad mother now. A bad person.

I got a letter in the mail to say that my Will was prepared but because I was only 17 it would not be a legally binding document till I turned 18. When I did turn 18 I was to come in and sign it. I had two weeks to wait.

So I waited. And I decided to pray…to whoever was listening.

And I waited.

Love and light and goodness and peace, to me, as I unfold, some more xxooxxoo

Massively painful #throwback Jul 4, 2015 @ 20:04 



many.many.thoughts. the good, bad & ugly.

This is a massive #throwback … I definitely had a lot to say Dec 6, 2015 @ 00:55!

And as I re-read through this, I remembered the claustrophobic, intense feelings that came with this time. Fuck that shit … I am so freaking glad shit don’t really feel like this anymore … in these areas I have slowly learnt to juggle that shit alot better!!!

Its been a hell of a long week…standard 7 days sure, but they felt like 14+! And if it wasn’t for the little date thingy on my screen, I’m not sure I’d actually, definitively know what the day and date was!

There’s been some awesome moments…and I hold onto those by my ultra long fingernails because they are what make this hellish feeling silently bearable.

So I’ll start with those moments…the good…

We looked after the mokos for the night…ahhh the other day I think. It was intense! Lovely intense; but I’m so past having a 2-year-old running around and a 6-year-old asking questions constantly lol. Don’t get me wrong, they were such a pleasure. I’m just…getting old lol. We were both absolutely wrecked by the time the next day rolled around, and when we finally got home, we hung out the washing and then collapsed in a small heap and slept for about 3 hours! OMG, I’m so soft now. I have a new-found appreciation for my daughter and her partner and their 3 beautiful children!

So, on this night, my daughter and her partner came home from their well deserved dining experience and my girl was slightly tipsy…and she started talking. We haven’t talked, talked, for along time…child restraints, time, distance etc etc. It was so nice…nice to hear her heart again. Shes my girl who has that great big heart; the deep deep soul. I heard her aches and her triumphs and the things she’s struggling with and wishes for. I heard her regrets and questions and ambitions and longings. I haven’t had the privilege of that for a long while now.

She talked about the things from her childhood that had hurt her. Things that I remembered but had a different perspective on. I got to tell her how I felt too. And she actually said, “You know; you’re a good Mum”. That was the best coming from her! I love her to bits…shes just an amazing soul…

Well we stayed up and talked like that for about 5 hours! It felt like when she was a little girl…we’d talk for hours! It’s how I got to know her :)

Her older daughter is also a deep wee soul. She has my sense, and her mamas sense, of the ‘unseen’…intuition, but with the senses. She has an intense sense of smell and can smell where you have been, what you ‘feel’ like, whats bothering you. But this little darling isn’t all hung up on what others think of her gift yet…it just is what it is, and she just rolls with it. It’s so nice to watch her, uninhibited.

Anyway, she had a game of hockey that she wanted me to go too. I said I couldn’t, and she started to cry. I felt bad but I knew I still couldn’t go. Then she stops crying and looks at me, and asks; “Why can’t you come?”…so I told her…”There’s to many people there for me darling, and I get scared. When I’m not scared, I’ll come to one of your games.”….Ohhh, she says…beautiful girl; just like she all of a sudden got it. Then she says to me, “and you can’t bring your pillow and blanky to the game ay”…no, sweetheart, I can’t…

She’s such a beautiful soul. All the mokos are. They have a deep sense, in differing ways, of understanding who and what is going on around them. And as long as you answer their questions brutally honestly, they are able to process all that is happening…the seen and the unseen. I don’t mean ‘ghostly’ unseen…but the vibes, body language, emotion; that is exuded by those around them. They are miles ahead of me, and their parents…all of humanity really. And it’s so beautiful to see.

It’s that subject that got me and my girl talking again later…about how each generation thinks they have a monopoly on ‘being right’; that they have all the answers to the previous generations mistakes and instead of learning from them, they are on a mission to rectify and rub their noses in it. We agreed that this is utter shit and there was a need to be able to transition from one ‘generation’ or era to the next, leaving behind what you need to, giving or passing on what you need to, and getting on with the present. Easier said than done…but a beautiful concept that we are all going to try.


It’s fucken intense times here.

You see…as much as shit frightens me or I panic or have a miniature nervous break down…I know that I know that I know, that there is no rolling over and dying…I can’t…it’s just not in my DNA. I may freak the fuck out etc but I will, will, will get back up and kick your ass eventually. ~ present situation has been a longer ‘pause’ or ‘eventually’ moment than most…but it is still just an interlude ~

And the partner…well he deals with things a little different from I. I find that hard to deal with. I can see that he’s scared and feeling stressed and vulnerable…but he won’t talk…in fact he’s being a bit of a cunt actually. I’m trying to be supportive and helpful and blending-ish (I know what I mean lol)…but he’s angry one minute, sore and sad the next, pissed off then quiet. He’s doing his thing, processing…I get it…It’s just really really really hard to watch!

And the conversations we have include blame laying in my direction…I get this defence mechanism too…but really? Gonna shit on the only person that genuinely gives a shit?? Hmmm. Not cool.

And I wonder how long I’ll put up with being the brunt of the frustration and anxiety? Not too much longer…

I wish I could wave a magic wand and make every bad thing go away…

AND then I went to see the shrink – (who by the way, I called ‘the shrink’ in her office, and she was slightly offended lol…she said she isn’t a psychiatrist…to which I said, ‘so what? Shrink is easier to say than ‘the psychologist’…she got it. BTW, she is a forensic psychologist which I think is rather cool lol)….so back to the shrink…It was really hard to get in to her this time. I had about 3 size 5 panic attacks on the way there and so by the time I hit her office I was a bit of a quivering mess. But I did it! There’s that! We did the breather thingy…and talked a bit. Turns out all the things that are happening with the partner are weighing heavier on the mind and body than I thought. I’m not sleeping very well…6 hours has dropped back to 2…and I can feel my heart beating most of the time and it takes all my energy and concentration to try to relax my shoulders. So I breathed and breathed and rebooked my next appointment.

The next appointment is EMDR, – first and worst memory. Apparently they’re usually separate…but mine are one in the same. I have no recollection of some things, I only know they happen because of what has been pieced together from other people’s versions of events. I only remember one incident…I’m not sure of my age, and I’m not sure whether I’ve actually meshed about 3 incidences together as one. Either way, I have no interest anymore, in trying to ‘remember’ more. I figure if my ‘being’ could deal with it then it would remember…what I do remember is way more than enough.

Needless to say I’m not really looking forward to the next session. I said to the shrink…that I don’t mind talking about this sort of shit, I know its necessary and I’m willing…very willing…however, it’s easier to talk about what causes panic or nightmares etc and how to deal with those…that feels like I’m talking about the 2nd cousin of it, twice removed…she got it. But when we start talking or referring to the actual event…my insides start to shake and then they go numb. It frightens me.

But, I’ll do it…I have too. When my girl and me were talking, she asked me something interesting. Both girls know what happened to me; I’ve always been pretty open and up front with them. But my girl, she asks…”who helped you to understand what happened to you when you were a kid Mum?”. Sweet girl…I told her that there wasn’t anyone and that’s what I’m trying to do now. She cried for me.

Hey, to add a little bit more shit icing to the rather intense cake…on the way to the shrinks office…the partner got a phone call to say that his surgery had been booked in for the 14th…of this month. O M fucken G. It’s a good thing I think…but, but…but…



Starting to get a grip on ‘being me’. Turns out, being me is slightly complex.

Go figure.

But the person that seems to make it more complex than need be…is ME.

Go figure again.

So I breath … and I don’t punch the wall (It hurts).

And I refocus the lens a little and go back to what is important. What the point is.

And like the photographs I like – I take – its all in the minute detail. The teensy weensy macroscopic zoomed in, thing. And when I can see that, I can zoom back.

I’m part of the larger picture.

I just see it differently than some.

And getting a grip on Me means, that this is perfectly and peculiarly, just fine.

#throwback Oct 30, 2015 @ 16:55



i faced my nemesis’.

these cunts …

And when I say ‘faced’, I mean that literally.

Yesterday had its cunty moments, the least of all being a 7.5 panic attack. Brought on by the impending arrival of roadworks on our doorstep.

In hindsight, I lost my shit cos the buildup to the ‘event’ was rapid and the circumstances that changed as all this impend-a-ment was happening, was also rapid … and was what I imagine a swift kick in the nuts would feel like.

By 1030-11 I was hyperventilating and crying and then sobbing (yah know that ugly fucken sobbing … with snot and incoherence …), walking round in circles trying to find my drugs that I had put away cos I had thought  … “I got this … don’t need those”.

I found the drugs. Continued to hyperventilate and snot everywhere … all the while, literally saying to myself … ‘it’s just a digger … it’s just road works …’.

But I’d lost it lol.


I rang my Mama <3

It occurred to Me a little while back that while my resources are limited – ok, fucken limited – I do have some. My Mama is one who is on my side.

I rang in tears lol and told her what was happening and asked if I could just talk for abit … she was willing to pick Me up if I needed it … but I wanted to Be Brave. Lol. As fucken ridiculous as it sounds; and if you’ve never experienced anxiety on any level let alone pts(d) on a cunty level … Being Brave means a little something different than those who idiots who chose to jump outta plans with parachutes on lol.

This is a different kind of Brave.

So I snotted some more and cried down the phone at my Mama and when I hung up I decided to go check the status of the digger cunt.

They were one house away.

I was feeling braver than I had prior to my convo with Mama, so struck upon a new strategy.

I parked myself on my bed, which faces squarely out the front window onto the road. I opened up my computer and my blog and started finding the posts that made Me feel good … the encouraging ones … the ones where I had tried, failed, succeeded, and tried it all over again. And they all made Me smile.

And as the diggers rolled to our house, the house started shaking abit, but not too badly. The roadworks crew piss assed around and peered through the window at Me staring at them.

They looked awkward as fuck! LOL. And the whole scene made Me laugh out loud.

I felt like some kind of stalker watching them doing their thing … but I also could See the progress, or lack, and could figure out how long they were going to take.

The unknown is the bitch that gets Me and the thing that heightens the anxiety and panic. The noise and shaking sets off the pts(d). Watching them and their work unfold, surprisingly made it bearable. And it was funny as fuck watching them be all awkward and shit!

Soooo … I faced My Fears.

I felt scared but Brave. Not enough for a medal yet, but pretty close ;)

Love and light and fluffy bunnies too Me!




trapped aversion

Well this was an interesting re-read of the #throwback, Jul 26, 2015 @ 01:13 … and kinda pertinent right at this moment … cos today is a fucker!

As I read and type and re-type, our house is vibrating to fuckery as a large digger is in our front yard, digging up the road to install a footpath. We were warned about it yesterday.

I don’t like diggers. I don’t like surprises. I don’t like my house shaking. I don’t like feeling trapped inside my house whilst my surroundings shake!!

So its been a tense fucking morning and theres been a couple panic attacks, hyperventilation and a shittonne of tears!! I rang my mama to get her to help me calm down .. and she did xo

And now I’m sitting on my bed, reading and writing and looking straight out my window at the road works fuckers lol … I think Me staring at them is making them a little uncomfortable and them seem to have sped up their digging lol.

Anywho … my point is … anxiety is a cunt!

I have a huge aversion to being put into a position a feel I have no control over. I’m working on figuring out what happens when I can feel it happening. But most of the time it’s here before I get whats happening. It’s anxiety and it’s not. It’s an overwhelming revoltion; a searing seething anger and a pounding headache…usually followed by a flood of tears…then more anger…so on and so forth.

It can be anything that I feel has taken away or seeks to take away my freedom…or freedom of choice. Or something like that. Anything or body that has the intent to manipulate for their own gain; my loss. Loss of anything…but mainly my will, free will.

Favours…I don’t like those. Technically speaking, I’m then indebted to someone or something. Just a straight forward transaction is fine. But a lingering…not so sure…possibly may come and collected on said favour anytime they please…not straight forward transaction…well the bites. Hard. I can’t do it.

I start feeling tight and suffocated.

Anything that starts to back me into a corner…I don’t like it.

Anything that makes me feel like I can’t get out…I don’t like it.

It doesn’t have to be actions…it can be words…or intent. Usually intent. Most people hide their true intentions. I think that’s why I like Autistic, Asperger’s, general mentally supposedly disabled peeps…and children…they don’t hide their intentions….they’re not able too. They are what they are. Beautiful and transparent…completely. Others, who have the capacity for bullshit…utilize it to their advantage…all the time. Their intentions are never quite what they seem. And I don’t like it.

I get that its PTSD and all that shit. I just don’t like it…being trapped.

I had my tubes tied just after I’d given birth to my second daughter. This was partially due to the preceding issue I have with not having a choice. The thing with pregnancy and child rearing is…if the other half decides to re-neg on the agreement, the load gets left with the child bearer. And I get that’s there’s always the exception to the god dam rule…but I didn’t want to be that woman with 50 kids, by herself…because the impregnator decided they…had other stuff to do…someone else came along…they had to help the guy down the road…and get left holding the baby so to speak.

I made a decision based on what I thought was the likelihood of a marriage failing; the history that I had lived and the possible future I was in for. For the now…not 50 kids later. I based that decision of what I knew at the time.

The choice gave me freedom…sort of.

I aborted, so I wouldn’t be trapped. I gave my kids up, so I wouldn’t be trapped. And for all the other prissy reasons…

I can’t be trapped.

When I feel trapped, I feel like what a caged animal looks like.

Pacing. I’ll rip your throat out if I can get out from behind these bars…kind of look.

The psychologist says it’s just a thought, a state of mind…that I need to realize it isn’t real anymore. I’m not trapped anymore.

Easy for her to say…shes not feeling trapped.

I get it though.

I just don’t like being or feeling fucking trapped.

photography & art @kpm-artist 



catching up: briefly

Ay … before I get on with my riveting life lol.

I’m finding it progressively harder to write … as in, string a legible and intelligible sentence together. I don’t really bother with editing anymore … which is nice for Me but probably makes reading hard for y’all.

Soz. But not.

Sooooo … what I really got on here to brag about was: I attended my girls baby shower … people and all … I did it. Yes I did lol.

It was pretty fucken cool actually. My youngest and her mates put it together for my oldest. 5 babies and never ever had a baby shower … she was so fucken awkward … kinda like her mama: she doesn’t like being the centre of attention … but she did awesome. The whole thing was actually really enjoyable and I was ultra proud of them both xoxo

I stayed over the night with my youngest and moko #4 so that was cool too … got to hang out and catch up on her ‘day care’ goss lol. Yep theres day care goss … face painting; farm visits; gumboots; dancing; friends … lol, very cute indeed.

I was a wrecked nanny by the time we got home the following day and it took me a few days to recover form that shit … but I was pleased I had done it.

Now we are on the countdown to 2 more birthdays and the appearance of moko #6. So plenty of rest for Me and still gathering my resource kit … so far, ear plugs and ear phones and some new music have made the ‘absolutely’ list.

Churr … catchup again soon :)

I’ll leave you with this piece of drool material … made by my talented daughter <3



how long is too long.

or not long enough.

to sit in silence and wait.

for another.

to be interested enough in you to.



from pts(d) expression series #107 – Feb 3, 2017

photography & art @kpm-artist 



my.ptsd … is

A thousand butterflies in your chest
A tsunami in your tummy

It’s every fear,

At once

#throwback Apr 29, 2016

photography & art @kpm-artist 



to wait or not to wait

from pts(d) expression series #53: Dec 11, 2016 @ 08:04

#throwback Nov 11, 2015 @ 20:16

Interesting re-read indeed. What I like about this re-reading shit (and yes I’ve said this before …) is realising how far I’ve come … what’s changed … what still needs tweaking …

I guess it’s in my nature to learn the ‘hard way’ … but I’ve also found it’s my bestest way to learn. The victories are mine just as much as the defeats were ;)

Part of, actually a large part of, the anxiety that precedes a panic attack and relates heavily to my state of ptsd-ness, at present…is waiting.

I hate waiting. I hate waiting in line…physically or on the phone… I hate appointments and meetings…deadlines. I hate…I just hate waiting.

Anyway…as I was pontificating today, as I do…a little veil lifted slightly and I got a peek at my insides. Not always a welcoming feeling, having some sort of realisation about yourself that inevitably sucks ass. But anyway…as I caught a glimpse, my pulse started racing and a felt a sense of dread…a familiar sense of dread…cascade down my rather un-sturdy spine. Yes, I’ve turned into somewhat of a pansy in recent years…and before anyone goes all “there’s nothing wrong with weakness” on me…just let me say…I agree with that, I just don’t like it when I’m talking about my vulnerability.

So what did I see?

I saw me…waiting…

Waiting…waiting to be picked up…waiting for the door to open…waiting for a loud voice to shout ‘leave her alone’…waiting for courtesy…waiting for kindness…waiting for them to listen…waiting for them to arrive…waiting for the present he promised…waiting for my name to be called…waiting for the bus to come…waiting for morning…waiting for tomorrow…waiting for the questions…waiting for the answers…waiting for the reasons…waiting for the money…waiting for the ride…waiting for the next time…waiting for the choke…waiting for the dark…waiting for the screaming to stop…waiting for the screaming to start…waiting for the wind to blow my way…waiting for sincerity…waiting….waiting…waiting….

And I know what’s coming…and when its coming…

Nothing and never.

But I still wait.

And with that waiting comes anxiety…and with that anxiety comes dread. Then dread and anxiety…and then panic. Panic to be waiting…but also panic that I’m waiting for nothing. That there is nothing to wait for. If something bad doesn’t happen, then I’ve waited for absolutely nothing.

So I stop waiting, would be the logical thing to do to fix that state of affairs right.

But if I’m not waiting…what if I miss it?

And if I miss it…what will I do?

Who will I be?

Who will I be if I’m not waiting?

And if there really is nothing to wait for, then I’d have to say I’ve wasted my time waiting…for nothing.



like them

and like them,

they said it was ok.

with their mouths.


but their eyes.

said something different.

and their souls.


yes I can see them.


their souls said a completely different



watch my hands.

i’ll sell you something

you don’t need.

#throwback: Mar 2, 2016