the other half of the ‘flash back’:

whilst opening the car door ffs, included a forgotten little gem, in line with the other one.

i was pregnant, vulnerable. fat as fuck.

i showed up to my grandparents house to find the pedo fucker there in all his filthy glory.

he had a habit of showing up there uninvited & just sticking around & torturing the living shit out of them for as long as they’d let him.

he’s such a cunt.

anyway, i was pretty young & timid back then. & feeling vulnerable, like i said.

no-one had any real idea of the effect this cunt had had on my existence, & i was only really just starting to feel the tidal wave of the havoc he’d reeked.

i was married @ this time, & for some reason, the husbands job hunting came up in conversation. he’d decided to apply for prison officer work …

well pedo cunt flipped his lid.

& when he flipped he became more of a scary motherfucker than when he was in his ‘resting’ mode.

i cant really explain the fear he caused, but i knew it was amplified by the fear i felt from everyone else around me. this had been the same all my life.

no-one except my grandmother, ever stood up to him; & she was admonished for doing that mainly because it caused the pedo cunt to escalate.

long story short … he escalated & i froze with fear … gathered my senses slightly … & then took off.

i drove & sobbed for an hour.

this was another piece of the reason i decided to out the filthy cunt.


kpm ©


 

and, yes, of course theres a dream to follow …

You know what animals do when they’re vulnerable aka sick? They hide.

Hiding has always seemed like a cowardly thing to do unless your playing hide and seek of course. But no-one wants to admit they hide. So instead, they pretend. Same thing, different name. Like Sade and Shar-day ;)

Yesterday I realised I’ve been hiding.

Not a pretending to be something I’m not kind of hiding. I’m no good at that shit, in fact I suck at it. My attempts and whines at ‘being normal’ are really a wish to be plastic … well to be able to go along with the ‘quo’ and to just fit the fuck in.

But really? I can’t.

Never have.

So instead … I hide.

Hide in the house. Hide behind ‘pain’. Hide in the ‘average’. Hide in the outskirts.

And up until yesterday, I hadn’t realised that I’ve been beating the living shit out of myself, for doing so. And whilst talking a dump (my place of inspiration!), the opening thought came to mind.

Animals know when they are sick and because they are vulnerable, they hide until they are better. It’s called Survival.

It’s called self-preservation. It’s not about fear, it’s about practicality.

Our society doesn’t let us hide. It forces us into situations that make us ashamed to be afraid. Ashamed to want to run. Ashamed to know that we need to run and hide. It’s ok to fight back, as long as it’s not violently. It’s ok to be a little sad about the whole situation, as long as it doesn’t last past Monday morning.

And that’s pretty fucked up.

So, realising that little gem I reanalysed my situation.

Being vulnerable has never done Me any favours. Not a One. Period.

Vulnerability is about being small, incapable, open, unaware.

So I became capable, closed and finely tuned to my surroundings because I couldn’t do Big. Big comes with time. I didn’t have time. I had the need to survive. I became an analyser of my surroundings and the predictor of behaviours. By doing so I could  minimise the damage done to Me. Pretty smart really.

And then I became Bigger. And the tool that had helped Me survive wouldn’t switch off. They named it PTSD and decided it was a mental illness.

Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. What I do know though is, without the ability to analyse my surroundings and the behaviours of others, I would be dead.

So now I’m in hiding. Because I can’t make shit work in a world that expects Me to be inclusive, social, chatty, pleasant, productive … I hide because I feel vulnerable for different reasons? Are the wounds of old healed?

No. But they’re healing.

But I don’t know how to be a different kind of Me.

How the fuck you sposed to do ‘vulnerable’ and ‘open’ when those things are directly related to being fucked in a very small vaginal cavity? How are you sposed to be loving and caring and sharing and intimate when those things are weaknesses that get you trapped in a room you can’t get out of?

How do I re-write that narrative so I can come out feeling fucking Safe?

I thought having all my little bits and pieces to help with movement, sound, sight, smells … all the extras I take to distract and simplify things … were to help Me feel Safe. But they don’t make Me feel Safe, they just remind Me of how fucking vulnerable I feel! Of how fucking shit scared I am and of how I want to be anywhere, but here.

How do I re-write that shit?

So with all that on my mind, I finally drugged up last night and went to sleep: and noted, that I didn’t feel particularly bothered … just numb … the state that I like. And then dreamed … a sort of unusual one for Me … sort of nightmarish, but not entirely, taking into consideration the bigger picture of “Me and nightmares”.

I dreamt about the pedo cunt. Now I don’t always dream about him directly: sometimes its just a shadow or a voice .. but last night, it was him … in all his skin-headed ugliness. He looked slightly diminished, but his presence was permeating and lingering … hard to explain. I felt tired in my dream. Like that drained tired and I could see my Grandfathers old bed in their old house. I used to jump in bed with him in the mornings, when I was little, and he’d read Me pages and pages of the Bible. I felt Safe there.

In my dream I saw the bed and I wanted with all my senses to crawl up in there and sleep. And then out of my peripheral I saw the pedo cunt. He strolls in the room and sits on my Grandfathers bed. He’s trying to act ‘normal’, but I know he’s fucking with Me. Scaring Me … just quietly torturing Me. Then he starts trying to make ‘fun’ conversation with one of my mokos, whose been sitting on the ground in front of Me playing with some blocks. I felt vulnerable and afraid … but angry and protective.

I sat and looked at him trying to talk to her. She didn’t answer him and stayed close to Me. I felt frozen; but Not. I was aware. And although I was afraid, I knew I that I needed to remove her from his presence.

Somewhere in here there was a moment where I wanted someone to remove him from Us … but I knew that was never going to happen.

I woke up here.

I knew that I’d never subject my mokos to being anywhere near his mindfucking games or his sick filthy ways. Never. I’d never excuse him or make them listen to him. I’d remove them to save them. I’d also never subject them to anyone like him for the sake of ‘being polite’.

Difference is though, I’d come back and Remove that cunt. Forever. No doubt about it. No way, no how, would they ever have to be subject to his cruelty and perversity.

Not Ever.

AND YET:

I have tortured myself for years for trying to do the same thing for myself when I was a child.

I fucking survived that cunt! I survived and there was No-one to save Me. No-one picked Me up and removed Me and went back and told him to pull his fucking head in. No-one told him that his violent outbursts were completely inappropriate around children. No-one called the Police for fucks sakes.

And Yet … I fucking survived!

I spent adulthood hiding and recovering and yet I still can’t give myself a fucking break! This wasn’t a high-five moment, where I should sort of kind of congratulate myself in a millennial kind of way, about how absolutely ‘aweeee-sum’ I did … Fuck No …

That is a ‘I fucking survived a sick cunt for years and fucking years … my body survived … my fucking mind survived … My fucking spirit survived!’

FUCK!

I have spoken to army dudes that get trained to resist psychological torture and they still end up fucked up! Try being a teeny tiny little girl and resisting that shit.

Now that is some hardcore reality right there.

So today, I gave myself permission to hide as long as I need too! To shake and cry and sit in the corner and rock backwards and forwards if I fucking need too! For as long as I fucking need too!

As long as I need too! No more apologies or excuses. I’d really like to see someone else survive my life and not be dead or dribbling in a corner in a straight jacket.

But when I’m done … cos I will be done eventually … I’ll be putting that pedo cunt to rest. He doesn’t have a place in my life anymore and he has occupied to much space already.

And when I’ve put that cunt to rest …

Ima gonna get Cronked, Tear Shit Up and Celebrate the Shit Out of Me!

<3


kpm ©


 

peeling it back: one miserable layer at a time

This has been sitting in the ‘to post eventually’ pile and now seems gooder time as any I reckon …


Heres the conundrum …

I note:

  • the anxiety (general and specific – to certain things) has increased incredibly since just before the end of last year
  • therefore, my sedative consumption has also increased

Before 2010 I was reasonably fit, healthy-ish, could socialize and actually enjoy it, could walk for an hour or so by myself and unaided. I also note however:

  • I was always tense as fuck
  • I was always dizzy as fuck
  • Couldn’t hold much food down
  • Couldn’t hold onto any weight

So even though I ‘appeared’ healthy, there were things brewing.

Upon reflection, after being medically discharged from my job in 2010, I am almost certain that what I was having for the 4 years of working there, were increased anxiety and big ass panic attacks. The result of those going undetected and undiagnosed started a long battle with myself, the ‘specialists’ and doctors and their medications and of course an actual diagnosis.

In hindsight, all their ‘diagnoses’ were symptoms and their medications inaccurate.

From 2010 till now I have spent more time incapacitated and bed and house ridden than any other time in my life. I have watched more movies than I can remember and tried more medications than I care to remember. I’ve spent nearly half of that time trying to wean myself off’ve those medications and another space of time recovering from the after effects of those medications.

My muscles are weak. My mind feels weaker than it ever has. My nerves are rattled more times than not. My thoughts are scattered and my guts is in knots.

What has always kept Me going, is My Fight.

So what happens when the Fight feels like it’s being sucked out of Me? What happens when all the movies have been watched? All the ‘alternative treatments’ have been tried? All the reflection and mindfulness is dried up? What happens when all the plans and re plans have been done, re hashed and hashed again? What happens when theres nothing left to photograph and no more stories to tell?

Where the fuck do I pull the ‘Fight’ from when it feels like theres none left?


And then there was this:


I learnt the other day, that the pedo cunt who violated my tiny being; terrorized my tiny world; imbedded fear and mistrust into my tiny little soul; who invaded my tiny body and soul and spirit …

Yeah, well that cunt …

It turns out that he is now old. Obviously.

He doesn’t leave his room.

He stays locked away and doesn’t come out.

Do I feel sorry for him?   …. Nope.

Do I care? …. Nope.

Do I hope he rots away in his own evil for whatever is the rest of his miserable life? …. Yup.

….. Then I Pause …..

….. And it occurs to Me ….

That that cunt … and I … are living pretty much the same existence. And I feel repulsed.

*******

Now try swallowing that one whole.

*******

Thats some serious fuckery that needs to be addressed.

Soon.


kpm ©