done and done

I had my big ass assessment this morning … holy hell, what a mission. I was nervous … so nervous, my tummy has been in knots for days.

But now its over, thank fuck!

Aside from the obvious, which I survived to tell the tale, I gleaned a few tidbits I am ruminating on.

  1. Our health, particularly our mental health, system, is fucked. As per usual, my descriptions are ‘layman-womans’ terms. Now this news is nothing new; however today I got another awakening to just how stitched up everything is. After wading my nervous, semi sedated self through the myriad of questions relating to ‘permanent impairment’, I discovered that our health system rates permanent impairment in levels. Under 30% permanent impairment means – whilst you may not be able to hold down a job, or drive, or socialise, or talk on the phone, or be alone, or leave the house – if you are not in an institution and on medication, you are fine. Another words, 30% is the cap before they haul you off to the nut house and jab you with drool inducing meds. As this reality dawned on me during the assessment, 2 things happened.
  2. I became very aware that I didn’t want to rate over 30%.
  3. I became very aware that the likely-hood of receiving anymore than $35 a week for ‘permanent impairment’ was nil.
  4. Which brings me back to point 1.

I left that office slightly grateful that I hadn’t been institutionalised at any time. It would have killed me if I had. I shit you not. Me – Caged? Fuck No. It can’t happen.

But I was also very aware that my dance with ACC is grinding to a rather unproductive halt. It has been an exercise in asserting and flexing my rights, for sure. As far as having a productive outcome … well, apparently I am entitled to a life times worth of counselling slash psychologist intervention. Oh and mind bending medication if I so wish to be mind bent.

What struck me whilst answering all those rather intrusive questions, was that interacting with ‘the health system’ makes me feel more unhealthy. How is that possible? I’m unsure. Maybe because with every question about concentration or socialisation, I am trying to figure out what is deemed as normal. No I don’t interact with many people. But on a whole I don’t find people very interact-able. When I tried to explain this, I actually ended up sounding reasonably mad – even to myself lol.

You see (and I’ve talked about this before), when I go somewhere – meet people -just enter a place really – theres a shit tonne of things that happen. I was trying to relay this reality today.

When I arrived for my appointment, this is what I noted:

  • There are two large slow moving sliding glass doors to get into before you enter.
  • Not an easy exit.
  • 2 ladies sat at the front desk.
  • Mellow, low, horrid music in the background. It’s source was in the corner of the foyer.
  • 1st woman recked of cheap perfume.
  • 2nd was more interested in her lunch. It was 8.50am.
  • The lights were seedy. Lots of them. Meaning it was bright.
  • No open windows.
  • 1 door open, to files room, to the left of me.
  • Waiting room – large, hospital set up.
  • 2 large ugly pictures on far wall.
  • 2 framed ‘signs’. 1 about phones and photos.
  • 1 large ugly picture behind me.
  • toy box to the right in the corner.
  • water cooler far left.
  • it smelt dusty but cleaned.

And thats not the office. And this is me on an unobservant day.

So hows my concentration?

I don’t know how to answer that.

What I know is, it’s all fucking tiring.

Anyways … I am here … I survived. I still hate the system and I’m still unsocial lol.

On a lighter and nicer note: We are now waiting for the impending birth of moko #5 🙂

My partners daughter went into labour this morning and this is her first baby. If she’s anything like her mother, her labour and birth should be quite short. But bubbys have a way of doing what they please 🙂 It was moko #4s 3rd birthday yesterday, so we will end up with 2 birthdays close together which is kinda cool.

Right, I’m going to find some chocolate and make a cup of tea.

Peace Out 😉

me and my mama

My relationship with my Mama has been tentative and sometimes extremely volatile over the years.

When I was little I wanted a Mother that was like all the others appeared to be. I wanted love like everyone else seemed to get. I wanted understanding like I thought other kids got from their mothers.

I pretty much wanted my mother to be different than she was. Not all of her, just the bits I didn’t like.

As the years have gone on, and I had my own children, I still wanted her to be different. I still wanted her to understand me differently.

I also despised her for not protecting me.

Little did I realise then, and have only come to realise recently, that I am guilty of doing to my mother what I don’t like others doing to me.

Wanting me to be different than I am.

And you know what … when I stopped wanting her to be different than she was, I got to see her real beauty, not just tokenly appreciate the things she had done for me.

You see, my Mama is quite an amazing person when I stopped wanting something else … when I actually took a step back and looked at her properly.

Not only did she raise 2 children on her own in spite of the hurdles she had faced with both mine and my brothers fathers … she chased, exorcised, actively sought after and conquered her own demons whilst raising us.

I’ve learnt over the years, that theres a huge difference between parenting well and seeking out the ‘better’ … for yourself and your children … whilst you are nursing your own wounds. And we all carry wounds. No-one is immune to that. And that is what my Mama did. She strived for better, from herself and from us. From me. All her, what I perceived then as criticism, was her way of getting me to think about what I was doing and where I was going. She wanted better for me.

As for not protecting me … I’ve also come to realise that she did all she could and all she knew to do to protect me. She is not accountable for another persons filthy wretched being. She’s not accountable for another persons actions. They are.

I recently helped my Mama move from her little house to another. She’s just retired and her new place is about 15 minutes away from me. In another lifetime that would have been horrid. But now, I embrace it. In fact I absolutely love having her down the road and round the corner from us.

Over the last few days I’ve helped her unpack and de-clutter / re-organsie her living space. I’m good at that sort of shit. Really good. But what was even better was spending time with her.

As we went through all her things, we did this process I do so it’s easier for those that don’t want to let things go, let things go. We look at every item and do a practical count of things; if theres more than 2 things we have to look at what they’re all there for. Usually its got to do with memories. With each item, my Mama had a memory attached to it. I heard all her stories of all the things she held memories of. The things that were the most memorable, or that she absolutely loved, those things she kept and put on display instead of hiding them in a box. I think she enjoyed the process instead of it being painful. I used to criticise her for her clutter and disorganisation, because I didn’t like it and I wanted her to be different. But by the time we were finished, I got to see the beauty in all the things that she loves.

I love my Mama. I appreciate her deeply, now, for who she is.

She is amazingly intelligent; holds a degree; has completed some brilliant research; has gone back to study to pursue her love of art; she is a beautiful artist; a gritty activist; she’s a devoted and loyal woman with a deep deep passion for what is just and what is right; she abhors injustice and greed.

What more could anyone want in a role model and in a Mama?

Lastly, my Mama has always lived on the bones of her ass. I didn’t realise how much so until I lost my income and had to look at how I spent money; what I actually needed versus what I wanted; what was really important. Mama always fed us and clothed us; she always paid her bills and still had money left over to give to others. She sewed and bottled; baked and cooked; she saved and spent less. She was always careful about where every penny went. But I don’t recall her ever complaining about being broke … she just got on with it.

And while I have always heard people complain about the amount you receive when you retire and how little it is … because my dear dear Mama has learnt to live on virtually nothing all her adult life … retirement looks like manna from heaven. Most people would sniff at 30 or 40 dollars ‘extra’, but my Mama is living large … for her, she has hit the jackpot. Mama has never drank or smoked or eaten exotic foods or bought exotic clothing … she’s never gone on expensive overseas holidays or ordered overpriced gadgets to ease her ego; she’s never bought a brand new car or a brand new anything for that matter … she’s always lived minimally. And now … she can buy an extra block of cheese, and her favourite fruits, and some raw milk, and a steak … she can go for a coffee at the cafe if she chooses and buy an extra pot plant if she wants … she can even give the mokos a few dollars if she wants.

For all these reasons and a shitload more … I am forever grateful that my Mama is my Mama. That she is the perfect Mama for me. That I still have her here to enjoy. That she is close enough for my crusty anxiety ridden ass to get to every week. That I’ve figured out how important she is and can enjoy every moment with her, now.

Love you my Mama xoxo


First Published on: Jun 1, 2016 @ 00:06 ❤ ❤ ❤


it seems to me

that if conforming

was easier

my types

of peeps


wouldn’t do it


First Published on: Mar 13, 2016 @ 12:22 😉


hey dear.

hey dear.

how was your day.


and yours.


whatcha do.

oh you know, bit of this and that.

and you.

oh you know,

sweet fuck all.

whose cooking?

not me.


First Published on: Feb 26, 2016 @ 15:53 ❤

so fucking annoying

Should of been 365 things that are
Fucking annoying

Think I would’ve found it easier
To come up with daily shit

For example, well 21 examples:

1. Windows 10 reminder update
2. The neighbours Bogan music
3. Holiday makers
4. ACCs, ‘please hold’, music
5. The cat
6. Ultra fast NOT broadband
7. Spell check, that respells FUCK into DUCK
8. There’s no FUCK off button for Facebook
9. Facebook
10. Randoms, that text the partner for favors, not me, the mean one
11. Pop up ads
12. The rip in my shorts
13. WordPresses new ‘New Post’ layout
14. Messenger
15. Junk mail
16. Fast drying paint pfft
17. No brownies
18. Running out of water
19. Battery in the tablet going flat
20. Charger for the tablet shitting itself
21. Spellcheck changing shitting into shutting and having to go back and change it!

Now that was easy peasy

I suppose no Buddhist monk
Ever said the old inner peace
And tranquility,
Was going to happen during the adverts



First Published on: Jan 21, 2016 @ 19:59 LOL and ❤

the word, cunt

When I started working with Youth Justice, I was reasonably open-minded, I thought. And my language had always been ‘flavoursome’ to say the least. But I had never come across a place that used the word ‘cunt’ so flamboyantly. At first I thought it was severely distasteful…and I can hear the nods of agreement already, ‘it is distasteful; it’s a revolting word’. And while that is partially true, like the word ‘fuck’, there is an exuberance relating to the word that just seems to embody the spirit of its expulsion from ones lips.

Needless to say…I left Youth Justice with a new word added to my vocab-lyric repertoire 😉 And now when the need arises, which it seems to do quite frequently lately, a punctuated ‘fuck you cunt’, is flung at its recipient. Which seems to bring quite a warm fuzzy feeling throughout my body 😉

First Published on: Dec 13, 2015 @ 10:57 😉

I went out…

Now, as a woman, I believe it is a god given right to go clothes shopping at least once or twice a month. And online shopping doesn’t count.

I haven’t been clothes shopping for nearly 3 years. Until today!

Now I’m definitely not saying the ‘shop’ itself was successful…but the attempt at…the browsing…the experience…well that was!

I did the car ride…tentatively. And I stayed in the back seat this time too. The traffic was horrid, but I managed…I breathed. And I think I closed my eyes maybe, three times. I did it without my headphones too!

The shop itself was huge with those horrible fluorescent light things. But I took my time and made sure I breathed…and stopped when I needed too. There were foreign smells and noises that usually cause me to run a mile…but I stayed with it and breathed.

I think we were in that place for about an hour!

I felt pretty depleted after we came out…but not completely overwhelmed! And I managed to purchase 2 items!

I miss doing that! And I’m going to do it again…not sure when…but I will.

To top off my outing…I went to the vege shop. Now I haven’t done that for about 4 years. My daughter or my partner have done all the shopping for all this time. Some of me sees it as natural paybacks for having done that shit for god knows how many years. But going back into the ‘war zone’ was intriguing, triumphant and unpleasant.

I’d forgotten how fast our society is. How unnecessarily busy and rude it is. And I can’t say I’ve missed that.

I was ‘tsked’ and ‘humffed’ a couple of times. Once, for the tattoos…yes, I saw you, you crinkled up old bastard. The second, was for not moving along fast enough.

But you know what…I breathed! I didn’t speed up…I didn’t run away…and I didn’t knock that old bastard out!

That was a successful outing I think!! 🙂

First Published on: Sep 11, 2015 @ 00:05 ❤

emdr take 2

“Note: I’ve been going through all my old posts – re-labelling, re-categorising etc. I came across this beauty. While the post itself is relevant to what was happening then; and I have come a ways since then: What made Me re-post this, was the comment from a Friend. I miss her and her advice dearly. But she was right 🙂 And what she suggests I tweaked and implemented – hence My 366 days posts – my photographic posts – my reflections, dissections and re-hashes. Heres what she had to say:

I can see how reliving a past tragedy in an attempt to change your perception of it might help re-direct the negative into the positive. Even if it is a false positive. Picturing yourself as a mythical hero at three years old would be hard, but with enough imagination, it could be done. These kinds of visualization exercises would create new memories in your brain, even if they’re just memories of your thoughts. I would think adding art therapy and external visuals would help with the mental visuals.

Logically, you were powerless, but visually and artistically, you can be powerful. And if you can’t picture yourself being powerful, even in your imagination, then you can picture some other child who was lucky enough to escape.

Maybe you could train your brain to flip a switch, like a conductor switching train tracks, from the positive to the negative. Then you could use this exercise to treat your panic attacks and phobias.

Why don’t you practice visualizing the times in your life when you’ve been successful? Triumphed over all odds, like Rocky (the movie)? Strengthen those memories and use them to combat anxiety and fear.

Important Notice: I am not a doctor. Read and believe at your own risk. 🙂

Now back to the post at hand :).”


Second session of emdr was just as mind fucking as the first.

Some of it is my own battle with what is logical and what is just freakishly not logical!

I like logic. It has helped me survive. I don’t like fairy land.

We started with the first memory that we had discussed in the first session. I found my ‘happy place’…hmmm and then we took off into the memory. ‘How does the recalling of this memory make you feel on the scale of 1 to 7, 1 being shit (my words), 7 being awesome (my words again).

We had a little discussion here…about disassociation…and I think this needs to be repeated next session…and reality. Because when I answered the previous question re rating…I stated that if I think about it hard enough the distress-o-meter drops out at a 1…if I don’t focus to hard…its a 7, happy happy joy joy.

Apparently the point is to recall the memory in all of its distressing glory…as a picture.

Here’s where I have the issue (one of many I know 🙂 ).

I can picture all sorts of shit and have no emotional reaction at all. Not in my body, not in my mind. The DSM’s have hypotheses to diagnose the type of dissociative disorder a peep has…and I probably fit into a couple of them. But they’re also having a raging debate about whether dissociation relating to childhood abuse, is a defensive or a pathological dissociation.


I wonder if they have ever really studied those that have been ‘abused’…actually ever listened.

Anyway…back onto my beef with it. My dissociative state is my norm. I’ve functioned that way…most of my life. I started having issues…anxiety manifesting as panic attacks and related phobias…when I was required to be PRESENT. Or not in a dissociative state. Yes I want to be reasonably present for the enjoyment factor…if there is one…but if this has helped me survive…is it not a defence mechanism that most likely shouldn’t be tampered with??

So the shrink, after my distress-o-meter analysis, decides that this is not a satisfactory ‘reading’ and starts questioning my recollection of said memory. She says, what would I like to believe instead of the belief I currently hold about this memory. I look at her like…what?? She re words things a bit, but the general gist is…if I could change how I view this event, how would I view it so I end up believing something different than…’I am powerless’.

Touchy thing right there…she’s talking about gaining control of the situation, back then, so I can believe something different. I’m saying, how does a 3-year-old do that?? Reality. She ends up back peddling a bit and says ‘its not the reality of the situation…or logic…its what you ended up believing about yourself’. Ok.

So if I believed I was powerless to change the situation then, then I’m powerless to change a certain situation, like that one, is the present time. I get it…but not. The reality, or my reality, is I could not have changed that situation at all…those around me, as adults had the power to do that. I came out with the belief that in a situation like that, where those around me are fucked, I have no power. Result – stay away from those that are fucked…and don’t put myself in situations I don’t have any control over.

Whew…fucked up shit.

I didn’t like not thinking logically though…well my logic. It is what it is. I couldn’t have changed that situation if I tried…which I did…I reacted as a normal 3-year-old would have…I screamed and cried and yelled and struggled. This was not the violation event btw. So my reaction was pretty well suited to the event and my age.

But she still wants me to find something to change my perception or belief too. We finally come up with…instead of thinking or believing that I am not in control (which clearly I wasn’t), then I could be in control of myself. A bit fucking tree huggy I think…its like a pristine line out of a fucking story book.

But I rolled with it…or I’d be still there right now, with her waving her fingers in front of my face.

I’m not convinced about this shit at all.

But I had lots of dreams…not to disturbing ones.

And I’m more fucked off than I was last week.

Is that progress? I hope so.

Next session in a couple of weeks.

First Published on: Aug 12, 2015 @ 14:01 ❤ Thankyou Johanna 🙂


activism ~ redefining beauty standards

Traditionally women have been expected to meet a certain standard of ‘beautiful’. That standard would usually see them as objects of desire rather than free beings, comfortable in their own skin. In this era, that misogynistic attitude is being slaughtered again, by women brave enough to break those moulds and ‘Do Their Thang’.

Reference: Top Knot Media/News/Publishing


activism ~ satirical response to colonisation

We all have our platforms for responding. This is one of those that educates, creates discussion, relieves and takes an extremely blunt look at colonisation.

Reference: I am South African@IamSouthAfrican