awkward fucker

thats me @ the moment.

awkward fucking fucker.

oh well …

kpm ©


they come whenever they feel like it.

i remembered the time when i was @ my mothers house & i was pregnant @ the time. about 8 1/2 months pregnant actually.

in that state, you can feel quite vulnerable. well, i did anyway. not that i knew it or really recognised it @ the time.

anyway. the pedo cunt showed up. randomly. as cunts like that do.

he had some drama going on & insisted that he stay, or ‘lay-low’ @ the house for awhile.

completely oblivious to the fear he was causing – or possibly aware & just not caring – he started insisting that mum let him stay.

it was one of 2 times i felt physically ill & deeply anxious slash fearful. all the fear i’d felt as a child came streaming back. i couldn’t run – to fat for that lol. & i knew i couldn’t protect my baby if he chose to lose the plot.

mum told him he couldn’t stay cos there was no room, but i could see her fear & her discomfort in telling him No. because she was afraid of him too.

he had a little hissy fit & then left.

i was left frightened & shaky.

it was then that i decided i needed to out him as a pedo cunt. i didn’t want my children to have to put up with him.


& all the memory came flooding back as i was opening the door to the car.


fuck (p)tsd.

kpm ©


flashbacks are back.

they’re coming like memories put to sour music. smells that stain your nostrils.

flash backs of being young, walking past ‘it’. ‘it’ grazing me, leering over me.

then being in the family scene, just waiting for the temper to flare up. the violence to break out. that gutt feeling, tight. i know in my puku, that everyone, including me, is afraid. but they’re ignoring & waiting.

kpm ©



here we go: the unravel.

Yesterday was a little more of a head fuck than I had prepared for: but thats life aint it!

And as I drifted off into a sedated sleep last night, with my last thoughts being something along the lines of : ‘fucken ay, I survived and thank fuck its over …’ – which is kinda a mantra of mine …

So imagine my surprise *insert eyeball roll* when a nasty little flashback minced around in my dreams and woke me the fuck up, sweating and shaken.

It all came together in that rather uncomfortable moment.

For those that have read my story, this next part is not news, but please Bear with Me – this is the abbreviated version:

I was sexually assaulted by a maternal uncle from approximately the ages of 3 to 7, and psychologically assaulted by the same sick cunt for my entire life up until my mid 30s and both my grandparents had passed away, and I no longer had to have anything do with the cunt.

For those that understand the intricacies of the home based sexual / psychological assault of infants and children, you will know that there is more to the ‘assault’ than the ‘event’ itself. In fact, the event can be a relief, as fucken sick as that sounds; because the torture is the waiting.

Over the last few years I’ve recounted more things and memories than I care too really; and each time I have a duo type thing happen. The first is the horror that comes with realising how inadequate the world is to look after something as vulnerable as a child. The second, is the amazement of the resilience that a child actually has, even when all odds are stacked against them. I’m not referring to the ability to survive falling out of a tree, or the ability to self soothe a stubbed toe. I’m referring to the ability to adjust ones senses and perceptions of the world around them, so that they are able to predict impending harm; minimise harm and process harm done … over and over and over again.

The concept of ‘safety’ is really an opinion of privilege and is extremely variable.

Home and family ‘should’ be a place of ‘safety’; where you are able to have your needs met, your food provided, your clothing provided … your educational needs met, your healthcare needs met … the basic requirements – met. The ‘feel good’ things, in my opinion, are a bonus. By those, I mean, sports participation, reading activities, fucken friends over, shit like that.

Living in fear, should not, in my opinion, be part of the home package. Maybe fear of an ass whooping cos you pinched the neighbours strawberries, or broke their window … that kinda fear is good … healthy even.

The type of fear that has you pissing your pants, is not healthy.

Now drag that dread of impending harm … assault … death … on for 7 years … 11 years … 21 years … 32 years … 44 years. And ask yourself … what does that look like?

Well apparently, it looks like I did this morning, when I realised that all of yesterdays bullshit, was not just about the carpets and the invasion of privacy … of waiting, of stress, of managing shit …

I could smell it. It all felt familiar. And it always does, I just hadn’t quite recognised it. That the feeling of impending dread; of not knowing what is going to happen in my home next; of not being able to find a safe place, a place to rest … is the inescapable feeling that has enshrouded Me all my life.

And as I unpack it, piece by piece, and look for a safe, possibly unreal place, to be … I’m tired. Really tired.

Tired of the ugly in the world. The ugly that takes from children; that sucks the light right out of them.

And at the same time, I’m again, astonished at the ability of children, of Me: to survive the unspeakable; the unthinkable; the intolerable.




flashback: *how exciting* :

It’s been a hard few hours, days … weeks … as I try to re-cap. I think I’m still recovering from the doctors fuckery last wednesday … I can be a bit of a slow processor when it comes to that sort of shit … Yah know, when the senses and feels and emotions have been assaulted … inadvertently; and no cunt gives a shit really.

Wah wah wah …

But since then … I had a process and an un-fold but that tight knot is still in the pitt of my gutt …

After Wednesday, besides the obvious, I still have this gnawing feeling in my gutt. Close to anxiety (which I’ve been sedating with the medication I use; not the shit the fuckwit doctor thinks ‘is the miracle cure’), but tighter … like the verge of a panic attack, but not quite.

It’s sucked.

I’m trying … good lord I’ma trying.

But you know that feeling like your missing something quite obvious?

Yeah, well thats been lingering around the fringes too.

Everything feels Unsafe. And I guess for Me thats one of the responses to being assaulted. It’s a reality. Some would say it’s not a reality anymore and is just a pts(d) glitch that needs some serious meditation to remedy. Maybe they’re right … fuck knows really.

But this Unsafe feeling has been escalating of late.

And I thought it should be getting better.

My house is ‘logically’ safe: I am ‘logically’ safe: But everything in Me is still screaming: “Run Bitch … Run”.

Of course, I don’t run, well not literally anyways.

So a couple of things enlightened my fuckery:

We watched a random movie the other night … mainly cos I couldn’t find anything else to watch … it was called “Rebel in the Rye”.

Long story short, dude was a writer; goes to War and comes back with pts(d), of course. It completely changed him, of course. But the movie goes through his writings, rejections, struggle with the ‘unknown’ sickness at that time, the attitudes of those around him, his reclusiveness, his flashbacks … his struggles to balance the entire fuckery.

I got it.

What astounded Me the most was the lack of ‘listening’ those around him did. He fought hard to remain true to himself … but they didn’t listen. I could see the damage it was having on his family and his relationships: but I could completely and utterly dig what he was trying to do: SURVIVE.

So this whole thing knotted my gutt a bit more … I didn’t ponder too hard about it, figuring: I gotta be ok for Christmas day and we’ll figure this shit out later.

Entrance: A few weeks of partner silence as he does what he does. My beef being: I don’t like being touched. Don’t touch Me randomly. Ever.

I get that this hurts his feelings. I get that he is affectionate. I get all that. But I can’t do it. I can’t do random touching. It completely throws Me into a mind and body fuck that can last for days.

The Present:

Christmas morning and I’m trying to get on with it … chirpy and trying to remain positive. I’ve done my slightly sarcastic but witty posts: I’ve done our food: I’ve enjoyed those simple things:

Partner is sulking cos I’m ‘Un-affectionate”, and today, Christmas morning, seems like the appropriate time to bring it all up:


I had a big ass, slightly drawn out Flashback, that still hasn’t quite dissipated.

And all I could muster through my heaves of tears was:

“I hate fucking christmas. I’m trying: but I hate fucking


And heres what I had forgotten: well not entirely forgotten; but hadn’t ‘felt’ at all.

Christmas day: and the days before hand and at least a week after. But Christmas day mainly. Sitting in the same room as the pedo cunt: ‘feeling’ him making a menace of himself and physiologically torture everyone in his presence. He was usually high as a kite: erratic: abusive: explosive.

And I had to watch it unfold, every year. Never quite knowing what ‘exactly’ was going to happen … but hoping he’d eventually piss off and go fuck with someone elses feng shui.

Now this is ‘normal’ for families all over the world.

The pedo cunt was a torturous cunt. A self professed ‘bad bastard’ and I never met a person who wasn’t afraid of him. Imagine freddy kruger mixed with IT and that fear that happens when the music is getting all suspenseful … yeah well that was the tension he could produce in Everyone. I’ve seen Police look afraid; strangers, big bastards that could knock yah teeth out with one blow … they ALL looked as if they were quietly pissing their panties in the presence of said pedo cunt.

So imagine that around small children and a family that thought ‘loving’ him no matter what, would be the solution to all his ‘issues’.

But he was a pure and utter cunt. Not sure if that is biological; psychological; a random act of nature or a large helping of nurture. Who knows.

But his cunt plagued every single christmas. And every single christmas, I dreaded …un-knowingly really …

But that tight feeling in my gutt … came with the flashback.

The flashback came with a ‘feeling’ or thought:

No-one listens.

No-one was ‘un-scared’ enough … had enough fortitude … or fight … or resistance … or foresight … to realise, that this cunt was not the type of cunt that should be in the company of anyone let alone the company of a child.

The christmas morning flashback was that: split scenes of dumb founded silence as everyone ‘pretended’ that his behaviour was ‘normal’ and if we just smile and get on with it it’ll all ‘come out in the wash’.

Guess what: It may have ‘come out in the wash’ for others, but for Me, that fear of not being heard – Ever; not being considered – Ever; not being put first – Ever; not being protected – Ever … when it came to that cunt, is still prevalent in my being.

I’m not sure of how to exorcise it.

And I’m not blaming those that were around Me at that time, anymore. Been there, done that, and I get it now. They were all afraid of him, just as much as I was.

But how do I get rid of that feeling … the ‘not being heard’ feeling? The feeling ‘un-safe’ feeling – anywhere, any time, especially with fake ass bitches that are too self absorbed with themselves and pleasing everyone else … to even notice the simple things – like a frightened child.

I’m unsure.

I hope it doesn’t take to long to process this one … cos it hurts like fuck and it’s fucking with Me feng shui, Hard!

kpm ©


a. the flashback


Points A and C from the previous post are related … and a relationship I hadn’t recognised till me and the partner got talking / arguing.


When I had the bitch ass flashback … because that was what it was … a filthy fucking flashback … I consciously made a decision NOT to tell the partner. There was a moment after our intimate moment, where the partner asked if everything was alright … he didn’t expand on his question, but I knew he knew there was something off in my universe.

He’s pretty sensitive to that sort of shit …

But instead of being honest … I consciously chose to not tell him what had happened … that I had had a flashback and was reeling from it. Instead I pretended like it was OK and that I was being positive … and that I didn’t need to talk about it.

And maybe that was true.

But I didn’t take into account how that would make Mr Sensitivity feel.

He clammed up.

Hence the co-relation between A and C that I also didn’t pick up on because I was too busy with my head in the sand.

I’m not completely dissing myself … I get I couldn’t deal with it … but what i didn’t want to do was cry. That’s it. I didn’t want to be upset. And that’s what I should have said. But instead I lied and said I was OK.

And that right there is what I cannot do.

Most peeps do this in some form or another … whether we dismiss our bodily warning signs or the dreaded anxiety indicators … there’s always … always a payback. And for Me … when I ignore ‘my truth’, I get nothing but trouble.

But somehow I still forgot my most basic rule … Be True To My Dam Self.

So when we finally got to talking … through my snot and tears … I told the partner about the flashback … that in one of our most intimate moments I had heard the voice of the pedo cunt and had relived one of the most shittiest forgotten experiences ever … that my body had frozen … my mind had left the building so to speak … but the smell and pictures and sounds of that moment resounded in my being for days after.

Through his snot and tears, the partner got it. He empathised. And said something interesting … that if I had’ve told him at the time, he would have taken offence and been disturbed … so even though it had taken all this time to spit out, he understood why I hadn’t, even if I didn’t realise at the time.

It brought up shitloads of other things … that I have never told him exactly what had happened to me all those years ago but that he could see it all over Me … all over my paintings and pictures … all over my writings … and that hurt him; but he still hadn’t been open to knowing … that like everyone else in my life … He Hadn’t Wanted To Hear It … Or Feel It … They all just wanted me to forget it and ‘move on’; not because it was better for me but because it made them feel uncomfortable.

Imagine how it made Me feel!

And that is the essence of pts(d)ness … there is no getting away from it … the cruelty is in the kick of teeth that comes with intimacy … that sexual assault assaults more than your body … it assaults your memories; your soul.

So we cried and talked and snotted all over the place for a large portion of the day and finally came to some kind of understanding and agreement.

If at anytime the partner feels Me switching off … he will stop, wait and ask. That if I can’t answer or he feels that the answer isn’t true, then he is to gently keep on probing for an honest answer … whether that be a ‘i can’t talk now’ or ‘i don’t know whats happening’ … whatever …

And I am to do the same … to the best of my ability …

That whatever is going on or happening … we both need to use that instinct we have and roll with it.

For Me and Him, this is huge. It’s a turning point. And it’s a place I didn’t think we’d ever come to really. And a place we needed to get to as well.

It’s what I have been scared of, ever since the bitch ass flashback happened.

At it’s worst, it is nothing but a memory now … something that happened to Me. That I can’t undo. I’m not sure what else I can do. And I’m not sure what I’ll do when another one happens.

But I think we’ll be more prepared.

It’s a very cruel thing … but at least I know what I’m dealing with now … and as much as it frightens Me … as Nan used to say … ‘It’s better Out than In’ … and thats all that I can hold onto really.

kpm ©


a sniff of …

I had a ‘moment’ last night:

  • I wont call them anything but a ‘moment’ now .. they’ve taken up to much space

A sniff of residue … hint of a flashback … one that’s  probably been waiting for a very long time to make its way to the forefront of my mind’s eye.

Think I wrote a post, or made a comment on someone elses post, awhile ago … about your body, mind … remembering things when its good and ready … that there’s not really any need (for me anyway) to go digging around for ‘memories’ to deal with … I mean, for fucks sakes, who needs more stress???

And I guess I have had a rather long ‘rest’ in terms of pts(d) flashback occurrences. Not that they don’t happen … I just know what to do (for some of them) when they do happen now …

But this …

It’s been floating around on the outskirts of my dreams … my mind … my memories for a while. I haven’t actively ignored it … but I haven’t actively sought it out either!

I’d say I got ‘screen one’. I’m hoping that’s all. But I know it’s not.

But …

I won’t fear it …

It made me cry. But I don’t want to shed anymore tears over it. But I haven’t quite yet harnessed all that anger that is lurking in the back of minds eye as well!

All these years … it’s been silent. My memories. I see pictures. Remember smells. I hear an occasional ‘bump’, but not voices.

Last night … I heard him speak. I had forgotten that he spoke. Questioned. Conversated.

The pedo cunt, ‘engaged’ with his prey.

He lured. Gained trust. Through language. Through conversation.

He tried to gain compliance. He did gain compliance.

And last night, I heard his filthy voice.

Not here. But back then.

What ripped my world though; was it came when I was having a moment with my partner. How fucking cruel is that.

I logically know enough now, to know that it isn’t my partner. That he could have done nothing differently. That because I was having a ‘safe’ moment, that little flashback fucker was able to make its way to the forefront.

That in itself is a good thing. Because its here now … in the here and now … I can deal with it. I have more at my disposal to deal with it than I ever have had before.

Does that make it better? Fuck no.

The whole thing is stewing / coagulating in my insides. I feel like my head is going to explode! But I know it’s already been and gone … this is just the residue. The ‘sniff of’ what was.

I despise that pedo cunt more than I ever have before.

How dare he mess with my world! With Me!

I have no interest in trying to understand the sick fuck anymore. I do hope he dies a slow miserable death though.

kpm ©


nightmares. 3

There’s always blood, lots and lots of blood. Dismembered people, bodies everywhere. And there’s no one left living. There’s blood up the walls, on the floor, in puddles on the concrete. Its soaked into the bed, through the sheets. It’s on pillows, over mats. It’s throughout the kitchen area, and lounge area. It’s literally everywhere. And wherever I walk I can feel it squelching underneath my shoes. Its sticky in places and slippery in others. And the smell is everywhere.

I wake to that smell. And feeling cold.

yep, they be bitches. JS.

kpm ©