dumb cunt conversation

had an interesting semi-conversation with one dumb cunt the other day.

no im not in a polite,’ lets explain this shit ‘, place atm.

it is what it is.

dumb cunt insinuates / suggests i not sit around all day and dwell on being raped.

*huge dramatic pause, in which time i’m praying sweet geezus please dont let me beat this cunts head in …*

as i gathered the frills of my pantaloons up into a tight wad and braced them under the elastic …

i calmed my tone … yes, in my face & in my voice.

staring directly into the eyeballs of said dumb cunt … i say:

“contrary to your belief, one does not ‘sit around’ pondering on being sexually assaulted. ever. & if you had’ve done your homework or even listened to a fraction of what we have discussed in the past, then you would understand that the essence of pts(d) that makes it pts(d), is that it is marked with what are duly named ‘flashbacks’. no, that is not my choice of word. but if you had’ve googled that years ago when we had a very similar conversation like this one and i gave you grace because, like myself, it was all relatively new information … if you had’ve googled back then, then you would have noted that said flashbacks are memories, not of the reminisce over a spot of tea variety, but of the sharp jolting knee to the groin kind, brought on by anything that reminds your senses of a traumatic event, and by sheer cruelty, your senses, body and mind, are all shot back to that actual event, where you get to relive every little sensation your body or mind wishes you to relive. it isn’t just a remembering, it is a reliving. it happens anytime @ anything; anywhere. there is no need to sit around just pondering on rape. no. pts(d) ensures the joy of being sucker punched back there any old time.”

then i stop talking and just stare at said dumb cunt.

said dumb cunt does not respond. instead, stares blankly at the floor.

kpm ©

a remembering dream.

had another dream. about where i used to work.

most of them make me anxious AF, even in my dream.

i loved that place. i hated that place.

i learnt shitloads. i paid shitloads.


in my dream i remembered my first supervisor.

that there was a time when i felt reasonably safe in that place. i was learning the ropes & it was a new environment but i felt safe.

because i had that supervisor.

he was a potty mouth, brash motherfucker, who did whatever the fuck he liked.

i loved the old cunt.

he was protective of his staff. he had done the job so long he knew what to look for,  what behavioural indicators were presenting in the kids & he had no trouble pulling staff up, high and low, for trailing, or for not doing their job properly … for being unsafe.

id kind of forgotten about my experience with him.

that good feeling got drowned out by all the bullshit that happened after i was taken out of his team.

shit turned to shit thereafter. i started getting sicker as things started changing & home started getting more unpredictable.

that dude reminds me of another experience i had with a woman that utilised maori rongoa. she was hearty & held space like no other person i had ever experienced.

strong. quiet. knowing. protective.


my dreams reminded me of good things. good memories. im thinking this is my feng shui’s way of balancing out the back flashes at the moment.

of giving me something else to hold on to.

*keep watching this space ;)*




remember i said i wouldn’t be here forever?

well im not. in my mind, im not.

but my body says otherwise.

& i am trying really hard to just be kind to myself.



flashbacks that disturbed todays feng shui …

but didn’t completely fuck it up … i’m working on that part.


  1. the fire. yup thats right. that intrusive cunt has even disturbed firelighting shit. as i lit it up & could smell of burning of the lovely wood, which i usually like, i got a wiff of something else. & it was a memory. of that cunt dancing around the fireplace in an old house i lived in as a kid. he was laughing & shrieking cos the fireplace / chimney on fire. he kept saying ‘its gonna burn the house down … hahaha’. why did this memory appear today of all fucking days? with it came the sensation that i had had to put up with him being in the same breathing space as me for way longer than i realised. i’d had to appear ‘normal’. ok with his rants, rage, derangement. & the looming fear he produced & exuded was palpable & in hindsight, completely fucking outrageous.
  2. the garage. it leaks & is therefore damp. & produces a wretched smell. all good i thought. then it slammed me in the face like a 10 tonne fucking truck. i felt myself slide back into the damp cold dark room that ripped my innocence from me, over & over again. its all i could smell. all i could feel weighing on my chest. that mouldy damp suffocating smell & the feeling of invasion that came with it.


& fuck again.

i’m still presently freaking out slightly & have downed a anti-anxiety. its not really working but oh well.

so now i know, what am i supposed to do? dissect the fuck out of it? put it in the ‘memories’ category for later pontification?

fuck knows.

i really wonder what gives some days.

kpm ©


flashy little fuckers

well, they’re not so little actually, & they been rolling  thick & fast today.


oh the fucking joy.


i’m tempted to medicate the fuck outta them but i’m trying the ‘sit with the feeling’ routine.



so, this is one of those rambly posts, cos … well just cos.


2019 ‘goal’ was to get more ‘present’: in my body & not run from uncomfortable shit. however, my intention was that i’d be in control of that. yah know, little walks on the beach followed by meaningful moments of fucking enlightenment.

i shoulda known that that shit has never been how i learn.

i learn the hard way.

so, the beginning of january came with a slap in the chops & me leaving my partner. a big fucking deal in my world: considering my options re ‘leaving’ are extremely limited.

a. i still can’t drive.

b. i had no money.

our relationship had become a thing in the ‘too hard to process’ basket.

the reasons for leaving were simple: i was asked too.

the reason for being asked to leave: apparently my ‘pts(d) shit’ was too much to cope with.

*pausing for dramatic effect*

the upshot was, it forced me into a place of having to deal … & having to find financial resources. it also reminded me why the fuck i don’t rely on anyone.


move forward to february.

my youngest decided to join the army & my moko went to live with her father.

this fucked me up exponentially more than i could wrap my head around … but i could ‘feel’ it in my body, like, in unreal amounts. waves of panic & pain & heat & fucked-up-ness.


it ‘felt’ like a repeat of a decision i had made in my 20s, regarding my kids going to live with their father.

it was one of the hardest decisions i had to make. it was also one of maybe 2 decisions in my life, where i could physically feel my heart break.

yeah well, all that came rushing back.

the kicker .. i hate the army. i hate its control. i hate what it stands for.

more than anything, i hate that it reminds me of a time in my life when i was again, vulnerable.

we were living @ the army base when i left my husband. cutting a long story short; he locked me out of the house, took the car, the keys, my possessions, my money & access to it … lowest of all, he took the kids & used them as a bargaining chip to gain my compliance.

i left anyway.


march rolls on.

i develop toothache.

i need tooth pulled.

i get butchered, literally, by the dentist.

its taken 2 months for it to heal.

… i dont like dentists & being in that type of ‘vulnerable’ state.

but i did it.


april rolls into place & i am determined as fuck for ‘birthday month’ to be a fucking thing.

& it was.


rolling into may like *yuss* :

& we get the invitations for my youngest girls graduation from army basic training.

holy fuck.

& i’m back in february’s groove, flashing the fuck out of all the things i was trying to ‘let go of’ & move on from.

to attend graduation i will have to be back at the same army base i left 20 odd years ago. those present at this graduation will include my ex husband.

& who do i have to help me with all the present shit & the shit i will have to deal with on the day?

that’s right … no one.


so, in all this, i can feel my body going back to little girl state. little sad lost vulnerable fucking little girl who cant do shit. who cant protect herself, or look after herself. & who has no cunt to stand up for her.

yes. i know im a big fucking girl now.

yes. i fucking know i can supposedly take care of myself now.

but guess what?

the panic attacks & flashy fucking flashbacks tell me otherwise.


my skin is crawling.

my gutt is churning.

i want to run.

but please – as if lol.


i hate these cunts. i hate these moments.


thats all for now.



dreams & shit.

It’s not that I forget that they diagnosed pts(d). Not at all. It’s just that sometimes I get a taste of ‘normality’ – very loose definition of – and I just enjoy rolling with it.

And then something happens … usually in my dreams.

And I am viciously catapulted back to ‘reality’ – also loosely defined as such.

The latest catapult came the other night. After another one of those dreams.

Where I am Big, as in, an adult body.

I can’t move. I can’t speak. And when I try to scream, not much more than a whisper, comes out.

So again, I am lying, naked, trying to scream; sticky clammy hands running all over my body … trying to move them away, with my body, with my mind … mouth wide open, in an enraged, violated scream.

And nothing is coming out.

My partner woke me from this dream. He says it was going on for a long time and I wouldn’t wake up.

He’d placed his hand on my head and was speaking quietly and calmly to me; a. so I didn’t hit him; b. so I wouldn’t get a fright.

It seemed to work.

I woke feeling angry, scared, frustrated, violated …

I’m hoping the return of this dream means I am ‘working it out’ somehow; and will come to another ‘ah-huh’ – moment whereby something registers in my being – something is put to rest … I hope.

kpm ©


what does

did yah know that

sexual assault

or sexual violation,

whatever your feng shui;

does a number of things

to ones gig.

theres the physical act.

the physical results.

those scars can be permanent.




a womb, that won’t bear children.

just to name a few.

then there’s the psychological





dreams: nightmares: night terrors,

potatoe – potato.

whatevs: bitches are bitches.

then there’s the sexual effects.

we are sexual beings.

sexual violation, is an offence of the sexual being.

the results:

flashbacks –






to get it fucking twisted

a pts(d) fuck:

that those past violations

are present violations.

that they are re-lived

right here

right now,

even though you know with your head

they’re not now:

you body says otherwise.

kpm ©


unedited ramble … getting it out there …

As the title suggests, this is a spontaneous and unedited ramble, of sorts … there’ll be plenty of mistakes no doubt and no particular flow … so hang in there ;)

I’m listening to Angie Stone, again … loving her stuff at the moment …

I was scrolling through my FB newsfeed this evening and came across a friends lovely little post with pictures, of him and his wife at a wedding in Australia somewhere.

Now my mate has had vertigo on and off, like myself, but other than that he’s pretty healthy. His last vertigo bout came when he last travelled to Australia and seems to think it had something to do with the flu and the altitude.

Anyways … as I’m looking at this awesome pic of him and his wife, a thought crossed my mind … “how on earth did you get back on a plane after the last bout of vertigo???”

Which if course set Me off on a train of thought that I’m still grasping at:

The last time I  got on a plane I had a panic attack and just before the doors shut I jumped up and got off that plane as fast as I could. It wasn’t a pleasant experience and neither was waiting at the airport for 5 hours for someone to pick Me up!

But I’ve never got on a plane again.

The same thing has happened with driving … or going places … or certain people … or occasions … if theres been an inkling of panic I don’t go back.

Enter … The WHY?

And as I’m pondering all the adjustments I’ve made to my life so I can have some semblance of ‘normality’ and functionality … I’m wondering Why I can’t just go back and do what I used too …

Train of thought goes immediately to a little girl stuck in a room where she can’t reach the door handle so she can get out … where she can’t yell cos she can’t breath properly and feels like she’s suffocating … where theres no-one coming to get her … where theres no way Out …

and the only source of survival that she can muster, is her witts.

She negotiates … she pleads .. but not to much because that brings a different kind of fuckery if it goes wrong … she tries to ‘change the subject’, like a diversionary tactic …

And … I’ve been doing this Ever Since!

It’s not just avoidance. It’s survival.

Survival of the fucking fittest.

You see, people are predictable in their own fucked up unpredictable ways.

Just ask the social scientists!

And I had variables … reasons … things to avoid … things to move and remove … faces to employ and a way to breath so as not to appear too frightened … I was able to predict the unpredictable until it became to unpredictable.

And this is Me.

This is what I do … I don’t move for fear of moving and what it may ’cause’ … the repercussions.

Even as a fucking adult, my muscles tense and my heart pounds way to fast … my breathing will slow and I’ll remain quiet … so I can hear ‘whats happening’ … whats happening in the undercurrents … what the ‘feels’ are … whether there is danger or if it’s just a passing noise …

And that whole fucking sensation is built in and no amount of ‘I have pts(d) and I am recovering’ makes that tense sensation subside.

The only fucking thing that works are mind / feeling numbing drugs!

It used to be alcohol and fuck do I wish I could drink like I used too! If anything it was numbing … there was no panic and ‘over watching’ … and I don’t give 2 fucks what anyone says, if the fucking alcohol works then drink that son of bitch till it doesn’t!

I can slow my breathing down … but it’s still intense … and that intense sensation doesn’t subside until my personage feels like it … feels like its ok.

And this is my fucking life. And at times it’s mind fuckingly fucked! When my head aches and my muscles won’t relax and I can’t focus and want to run but theres nowhere to go … because all those demons, are In Me … they never went anywhere. Sometimes they subside and let Me breathe … sometimes they choke the life out of Me.

And …

Why can’t I, I, I get on a plane again and go to Australia and have pretty little photographs with my partner and kids and mokos and smile like the sun is shining out of my happy little ass???

Because …

Sometimes … a lot of times actually … even though I try and try again …

I am nothing more than a frightened little girl standing in a dark damp room trying really hard to breathe, hoping that the needle he’s just injected will kill him and someone will come to the door, whilst scanning the room for something to hide in or stand on so I can reach the door handle … if Only I was just a little bit taller …

Sometimes, I am nothing more, nothing less, than that little being, in that moment.

And that fucking sucks ass.

Thats All.

kpm ©



the screaming dream.

i scream.

noone listens.

fucker is





nightmares. 2

These always start with something different, as in, I’m at the shop, or doing the washing, or talking to a friend…and they end up here…I’d be running away, trying to find a place to hide. I’d end up on stairs that seemed to go on forever and I feel like I can’t get to the top, or I’m going to fall off. I eventually get to the top and come out on a sky scraper type building. I hit the ground and the building starts swinging sideways and like a tree, it starts bending.

I always wake up when they swing to far and I am about to fall off.

I wake disorientated, sweating and usually gasping for breath. These take quite awhile to physically recover from. When I stand up, I still feel like I’m swaying.

did i mention dreams are assholes? i did?

kpm ©