said in an earlier post that i’d been having quite vivid dreams lately.

another of those awesome (but not so awesome) dreams woke me with a memory. and it is the memory that lingers even now.

as some of you will know, i used to work in a kiddie prison. the government doesn’t call it that of course, but potato potahtoe … it is what it is … a fucking prison as far as i’m concerned.

when i started at this hell hole, i was bright eyed and busy tailed and was ready to take on the world. i wasn’t ignorant but was slightly naive.

realistically though: i was still colonised.

i believed the negative stats that say our people are at the bottom of the heap and the only way we can change that is by assimilating. again, the government cunts won’t state it like this … but it is what it is.

i went into youth justice with the notion that getting them kiddie fuckers early meant that there’d be less damage done. my theory was sound. i hadn’t factored in though, that the powers that be, didn’t and don’t, actually give a shit.

anyway … the memory i had was of a young man that i had sectioned. when i say i, i should be saying the government entity that i worked for. i followed the instructions i was given and did what was required of my position.

what lingered … lingers … in my memory and my gutt though, is how it made me feel and what it did to my body.

it was the first time it like 20 odd years that i had been that sick. true, my health was declining over all at this point … but i got tonsillitis for the first time in like years. so bad, my throat swelled shut and i couldn’t speak.

at the same time my gutt turned and i was vomiting.

little hard to vomit out of a swollen throat. enough said bout that.

and i knew in the pitt of my stomach that i had done something that i neither believed in or wanted to do.

without going into the gory details, sectioning this young man, in my opinion, was about managing him not helping him. it was about getting him out of the way and using the power of the crown to do so.

and i was the instrument that did it.

i had to go to court and back up the statements that were included in the report. and no shit, i could barely speak. not that they gave a fuck.

i remember looking at this kid in the box, thinking: fuck, i don’t even want to be here and i don’t believe any of this shit. and then looking at him and him looking at me like i was betraying him.

i betrayed me really. as well as him.

i didn’t act on my instinct and on my beliefs because they were all up the shit.

honestly, our system was not and is not equipped to deal with young people with mental health issues. aside from the mono cultural bullshit they have to go through that puts them in the position of being misunderstood in the first place – ultimately winding up in a facility like this one … they then have to navigate health issues that this system doesn’t understand and isn’t designed to assist with.

excuses aside, this was one of those moments that had me wanting to head out the door. but i had spent so much time and money studying – i had sacrificed so much to be here, i lamented.

and in the meantime it was destroying me, literally, from the inside out.

what i understood this morning regarding this memory, was i hadn’t just sectioned one of Our kids, one of My kids … i had gone against everything that i believed in … i had silenced myself and done as i was told. i had advocated for the wrong side.

i had silenced my own still small voice for the sake of time, effort, money and sacrifice.

i sacrificed my voice.


my resolution this morning, after this long-winded realisation …

i’ll never do this again.

figuratively or physically.

no matter the cost, i won’t ever be on the wrong side of my own values ever again.

kpm © : ig @kpm-artist



the unfuck of thyself.

So this is another one of those rambles … those ones that brew away for awhile, that don’t quite have the vocab to pad them out proper like … and then a wave of hormones hits … or an extra shot of limoncello is downed … or the right ignoramus espousing the spiritual awakening of the year clears their throat …

And the flipping of the bird doesn’t quite do it .. but it manages to placate the need to throttle.

Today. Is. That. Day.


Yes. This is a blog about Me working through the daily shit-fest that pts(d) and all the other happy delightful fuckerys that go with it.

Yes. I don’ always get it right. But by fuck I give it one hell of a go. Always have. Always will.

Yes. I can be cunt.

Yes. I can be a right royal cunt on some days.

But here is where I pause. Because the comparison I’m about to make, isn’t supposed to be cunty, it’s supposed to be a reality check for those who don’t understand pts(d), mental illness (I fucken hate that title … and working on another …) and ‘hidden’ illnesses …

I had someone “Pfft” My pts(d) symptoms and diagnosis the other day.

That “Pfft” was also accompanied by an eyeball roll that almost got lost at the back of their ignorant head.

And I let most of that slide … cos, hey, you can’t teach the ignorant. Well more specifically, this ignorant fool … I’ve tried … It don’t work.

My management means I have little to nil to do with this particular person.

Then, lo and behold, I have another ignoramus do a similar eye ball roll, ‘Pfft’ing, followed by a shoulder shrug and the line … “Ohhhh whatever … you’re just using it as an excuse …”

Hold the fuck up Mate ….

No-one has been this stupid for awhile … as in, saying shit like this directly too Me or within my ear shot … so big ups for having the lady balls to say it out loud … High-five and moving the fuck on …

My response however wasn’t the cordial – ness they were expecting:

‘Digression and quick back story’:

We have a nephew who has cerebral palsy. It effects his speech, coordination, walking, communicating … He was left this way after dying in utero, being cut out and resuscitated, thanks to a midwife and health system fuckup. But I won’t get into that one … Our little man is gangstah as fuck … he’s a fighter, because he has to be … he’s learning new skills everyday … his dream is to oneday … Run. Fuck he’s cool ;)

‘Back story and digression done …’

So after the above ignoramus statement, I says:

“Have you ever said that too [nephew]?”

*Head shake*

“Would you ever say something remotely close to that to [nephew]?”

*Head shake*

“Then why the fuck do you think you have the right to say shit like that to Me? For the record, I don’t fucking want to hear it. I have enough to deal with and I am not educating your ignorant ass hole – not now, not ever”

*Open mouthed … looking a tad surprised*

You know sometimes I am all kinds of surprised about the shit people say to others because they want them to comply, or they want to feel more comfortable, or the want some other fucked up thing that someone like Me just doesn’t get …

But I Am Over It.

No More Motherfuckers.

kpm ©



discussing ‘mental health’

added August 2018

Good old Wikipedia, the lay-woman’s authority on everything from mental health to when a song was first released; notes the following:

“The DSM-5 was published on May 18, 2013, superseding the DSM-IV-TR, which was published in 2000…. Notable changes include dropping Asperger syndrome as a distinct classification; loss of subtype classifications for variant forms of schizophrenia; dropping the “bereavement exclusion” for depressive disorders; a revised treatment and naming of gender identity disorder to gender dysphoria, and removing the A2 criterion for posttraumatic stress disorder (PTSD) because its requirement for specific emotional reactions to trauma did not apply to combat veterans and first responders with PTSD.”

So I wondered to myself, who made the DSM the bible of mental health diagnoses?

Google and Wiki say – “the American Psychiatric Association‘s (APA)”.

Okey dokey I say…who the fuck put them in charge of diagnosing shit? Did their overpriced education make them an authority, or the authority on all things ‘unexplainable’? And…what the fuck have they got to do with me? I’m not American? And these Americans, are they speaking for all ‘Americans’? And do they realise that there are indigenous peeps that were there long before them and Columbus or whatever his handle is…long before those crusty dudes? And their exquisite ‘mental’ make up aint anything like the crusty’s? And do they understand that the peeps they snatched up from all around the world, to demoralise and enslave in the land of the ‘free’; they also don’t have the same ‘mental’ makeup as the crustations. Do they understand that those that have chosen to migrate to the all great America, also don’t have the same ‘mental’ makeup? And if the ‘non white’ population out number the ‘non coloured’ population, how is that they can have an authoritative say on anyone’s health, mental or otherwise, other than their own?

To my country and all their mental health theories, I’m rocking the same thought pattern. How can they have an authoritative say on Maori mental health, when they know nothing of our state of being? How can they diagnose and medicate after dissecting and eradicating our own health system and ancient forms of healing? How can they know when they don’t know shit?

People are all the same, in the sense that when we are cut, we bleed. We inhale air…however that may be…we are alive.

But we are not all the same.

I’m not talking division and one peep is better than another type bullshit. I’m saying that we are all distinct, different, unique, individual and a ‘one off’. There is no one like me. There is no one like you. Similar, but not exactly the same. And that right there is what makes it all so fucking beautiful.

But to say I have a mental health issue, based on some crusty American Psychiatric bible; that neither pertains or relates to me, is some of the most backward thinking bullshit that makes absolutely no sense what so ever!

kpm © : ig @kpm-artist


expectations are a bitch.


As much as I hate to admit it, I had a moment today, just a slight glimpse…into the unrealisticness of my expectations. And it grieves me to know that as realistic as I thought I was…I am not.

I think somewhere in my little world, I’ve had this view…hope…expectation…that someday, somewhere…when I had done enough…was good enough…had got better enough…had succeeded enough…when everything was calm enough…

That I’d be alright. That I’d be content and happy…when everything else is settled and in order.

And I’ve spent a long time trying to order my life…get all my fluffy ducks in a little ultra organised row.

Well…I think I have been mistaken. And I really really don’t like to admit it…because its a cold day in hell when I am wrong ;)

I think I’m beginning to understand what those tree huggers are getting at when they talk about ‘grounding’. It all sounded to airy fairy for me…and it still is…I think their language choice bites. But I think their version of ‘grounding’, reinterpreted, is about being OK with yourself…right now. Not waiting for the story to get better…not waiting till the stars and universes align…but right now.

That I am, OK right now. Shitty and angry…is OK. Its real and its me…at the moment. Sad and stressed…is OK…its real and its me…sometimes. Nervous and anxious…well that’s real and slightly imagined (blame ptsd for that atm)…but its real, and its me…right now and sometimes.

All of it…is all right.

It’s when I start trying to fuck with it and make it all clean and tidy and prettied up; or make excuses or give reasons for it, that I get into strife.

There is no happy ever after…theres just the here and now…and I’m OK here and now…as I have always been whenever and wherever I am.

I am who I am.

kpm ©




the unpredictable

surprises…I hate them..the unknown and unpredictable…no place to stop…to be safe…to be alone…then I feel trapped. Restricted. Suffocated. Unable to move or make a noise. Can’t breath…hate that…I panic instead. Waiting to pass out. It hurts. My chest. My stomach. My head. I feel like a trapped animal looks. My ears hurt. My shoulders hurt.

My head hurts.