the ol TW ..

& here’s why.
there are no prior warnings to being sexually assaulted as a child.
so it is with the same grace that is shown them, that I afford a nil TW with regards to CSA.
we’ve become another gen & legacy that closes our eyes & ears to anything that makes us uncomfortable. & when we tooooo uncomfortable, we blame the info or the messenger of said info, for that discomfort, instead of examining the reasons of & for the info.
them days are tired.
for a fuller extensive version of the one & only TW I’ve ever given, go to the link in the bio.



another shift ..

2-3 aug 2020.

this isn’t pleasant .. thats my version of a trigger warning i spose. & i’ve dictated it in very short unedited terms.

it is what it is :


had period, bleeding heavy.

was in pjs, got up to go to bathroom to get a pad.

felt ‘presence’, not seen physical person though – biggish presence – hurried. threatening. looming presence.

felt behind / to side of me first.

knew it was coming, turned head to see no one.

grabbed my arms.

my pants started to come down and blood was dripping.

i was turning my head to see where i was being moved / directed too.


not sure whose.

bed – pushed forcefully down.

they were quiet but the presence was ‘strong’.

they’d pinned my arms.

their weight was heavy on me & i couldn’t move.

i knew there were people around.

the thought occurred to me that i didn’t want to disturb the other people but decided it was my only chance to get this thing away.

as they lifted their arms to rip my top open which they did, and they grabbed both breasts in their hands forcefully, i felt scared.

with that feeling i opened my mouth and throat to scream.

while they were distracted.

the scream started off small and i forced it to be bigger and bigger and louder.

enough to scare the presence.

enough to wake me up.

i woke up semi screaming yelling.

frozen-ish ..

but calm & pleased.

its a shift.


no-one heard me. noone woke up.





the angst.

there is no dispute, not with myself anyways, that i tried to get assistance & protection.


& repeatedly.


up until recently, i hadn’t thought of these incidents as types of attempts to get what i needed. what i deserved. 

but thats exactly what they were.

not just teeny tiny cries for help.

they were loud repeated hollahs to those who should have listened & acted.


but they didn’t.


so what do i do with that?

what do i do with all those words? all those inactions? all those failings? all those reports? all those empty empty words? placating words? condescending & blaming words? condescending and blaming actions??


where do i put all that?



the comfort ..

it is more comfortable to limply acknowledge ‘pts(d)’,  than it is to discuss how pts(d) got there.


kpm ©


what i learnt from the white supremacist cunt.

not sure if i’ve ever talked about this bit or not: so buckle up & scroll on if need be. ps: thats my version of a trigger warning soz.


so the kiddie fucker that assaulted me as a child, was a self professed ‘white supremacist’. donning the skinhead label, he thought it was a good idea to have it inscribed in ink, on his mug. as idiotic as it sounds now, it also made for a scary as motherfucker to look at.

hindsight says: that was the point. a scared man trying to hide behind something he could relate to.

but it was his constant adolph hitler & nazi rants, that schooled my little self on what an actual racist cunt was. as my years have rolled by, i’ve heard the same rants come from some of the most unexpected places.

i learnt that the superiority of white skin and blue eyes was bred. that jews were filthy creatures that needed to be eradicated, like rats, from the earth. that hitler was the only person strong enough to have attempted and nearly achieved such a culling. i learnt that the jews that were left had infiltrated all sorts of important positions in government and were responsible for wars, killing, greed, banking fo-pars … i learnt that if hitler had achieved his goals then we would be living in a different world.

i learnt that the jews that were gassed by nazis were heard screaming and choking through the doors. that nazis laughed outside. i learnt that the clothes of those that were gassed, were infested with fleas therefore proving the filth of the jews.

i learnt that black skinned people were inferior & also needed eradication. that slavery was the beginning and should have been the ending, if hitler had been in charge. i learnt that all dark skinned people were unintelligent & a by product of some great sin committed on the earth. i learnt that my own skin was in this category & was not good for anything other than fucking and killing.

i learnt that an inverted pentagram was evil as was a goats head. that both of these could call demons who would come and tear my throat open if i was lucky, or stay around and torment the living shit out of me if i was unlucky. i learnt that anger was a tool. that violence was a pretty word for suffering.

i learnt that children were idiots. they were toys to be tortured. that small was unfortunate just because it was small. i learnt that if someone yelled loud enough then a child would cry and a bigger person felt important.


& then, i learnt that i was a jew.

& i learnt that i was a dark skinned person. a maori.

i learnt that i was a child. small. & that everyone around me was afraid of the cunt that was my uncle. so afraid were they, that they were ‘unable’ to confront him about anything. including his racist rants. his actions. his hatred.

instead it was appeased, fed & consoled.

you may have wondered why i go on about intersectionality & racism.

& this is why.

its pretty fucking hard to watch a world unfolding before me, at the moment, where all the things i was told as a child, are ideologies that are being celebrated.

xenophobia, racism, homophobia, misogyny – are not new things. but they are putrid & have no place in any society.

i learnt this shit more than 40 years ago. i had an up front, cold, cruel experience with one deranged self confessed white supremacist.

from that experience i also learnt however, that what i was told was utter bullshit. that any type of superiority is not worth the latrine its shat into. & more importantly i’ve learnt that ‘they’ are far too fucking tolerant of bigotry & way to quick to turn the other way cos it makes them feel uncomfortable.

wake the fuck up world, before history repeats itself. again.


kpm ©


the reals.


had a bit of an epiphany yesterday. ay. in amongst all the shit thats going on, i get to have a fucking epiphany. typical. & not just your average ray of sunshine hitting you with warmth & radiating light all over the place kind of epiphany … fuck no. it had to be a ‘me-morbid’ fucking epiphany.

any.ways … here ’tis:

*que music*


i been dealing with this whole ‘i was sexually assaulted’ bullshit, most of my life … nothing new there … but when i discovered it was a ‘thing’, i was about 17.

during that time, the ‘trend’ was to ‘talk about it’. counselling was just becoming a ‘thing’, as was the 0800 ‘dial-a-helpful-person-but-not-fucking-really’. my first point of contact, in a fit of despair, was one of those unhelpful fuckers, who suggested i get ‘help’ & that was it.

as i entered the 90s, counselling became more of a thing. every cunt was getting ‘trauma’ counselling, mainly cos every cunt had been assaulted as a child. left right & centre we was coming outta the woodwork, trying to make sense of the immense rage & sadness we all felt. as well as one on one counselling, the ‘help-groups’ became a thing. from what i can gather, AA was a hit. however, transferring that into a ‘i was sexually assaulted’ group was not one of the better judgment calls of that era. i landed in one of these groups & was sooooo fucking traumatised by it, it put me off going to another one, ever again. ps: just as well!

note: pts(d) wasn’t a thing or a diagnosis. it was what veterans came home with. not those who were raped as children. we were just unfortunate.

ps: in the early 90s, depression also wasnt a thing-thing either. neither was medication. js.

roll on mid 90s heading into the latter, & that changed drastically. all of a sudden, every cunt was being diagnosed with depression & medicated accordingly.

holy fuck.

counselling was advised, but medication was preferred. a combo was, well, was ‘fortunate’. & i note, depression was severely, severely misunderstood.

also note: sexual assault wasnt really a phrase. the prefix ‘sexual’ was attached onto ‘abuse’, but said in more of a hush hush tone.

in this era, we were dealing with addictions, not specifically trauma. we were advised that ‘trauma’ would be resolved or fixed, when our addictions were dealt with. & counselling was morbid as fuck. it was hashing and rehashing said trauma in the hopes we would get over it whilst making peace with the addictions.

hmmmmm. that didn’t work for me.

in fact, it made it worse.

the thousandths weren’t that much different but added to ‘diagnosis & medication’, were self motivational tools, yoga & suitable ‘retreats’, if you could afford them. we were all about fixing the damaged goods. rising out of victimhood & reclaiming our abused vaginas & making peace with our inner child. *insert eyeball roll*


moving into the present era & we be all medicated AF. we got the #metoo movement housing our collective voices & we’re meditating the social anxieties away. well trying anyways. pts(d) is a mother-fucking thing. women are hell’ah pissed off & not interested in conforming. WOC are roaring loud AF. to be heard in all arenas. especially their own.

but …

guess what.

in all of that progressive shit … i realised …

there is no fixing this shit.

there is no ‘moving forward’.

there is no ‘me too’ to ‘overcoming fear & anxiety’.

while that all sounds a bit dismissive, derogatory, defeatist & pessimistic …

here’s what i mean:


i’ve literally spent a lifetime trying to fix something that isn’t broken. i didn’t break when i was sexually assaulted. i was just sexually assaulted. repeatedly. its not the assault that breaks me / us, IMO. its the trying to ‘fix’ it.

its making others feel alright with the uncomfortable-ness of it all.

dont make sense?

nightmares are nightmares. they’re my version of figuring out my insides. they’re hell’ah fucking frightening when they’re happening, but i wake up eventually. what has fucked me, is the insinuation that there is something WRONG with this process. that it needs to be fixed. that i need to be fixed. & i’ve done most of that to myself.

dam straight, it’d be nice to just manage the shit (aka flashbacks), but i wasnt taught how to do that. i was taught to aim for eradication of said flashbacks.

that is fucking impossible.

its a memory. its a memory that assaults my daily life. ‘scuse the pun. but it reminds me that certain people are shit & should not, under any circumstances, be trusted again.

my dismissing it as a broken thing that needs to be fixed, means i’m dismissing the innate reaction to expel my life of all fucked in the head people.

but instead of doing that immediately, i’ve roamed around second guessing myself.

this is also true for FEAR.

fear is an inbuilt response. even the ‘experts’ concur. pfft.

but lets deny it? bury it? make motherfucking peace with it?

is that even possible?

tell you what is possible; is spending a shitload of time & money on trying to calm the fucking farm.

so it occurs to me, that if i let fear ride itself out .. if i listen to it, maybe it might be able to teach my ass something. something actually useful & productive.


really, i cant ‘fix’ what’s happened to me physically, & i can’t fix being afraid or anxious.

& why would i, when those latter fuckers saved my life.

they are part of me. trying to overcome them or fix them is like saying there was something wrong with my response, or like saying what happened to me physically & emotionally & spiritually, was of my doing & needs to be corrected.

instead of owning it or placing it where it belongs, we’ve been told to invest our energies into changing it, fixing the patterns or damage, remedying the whole fucking thing. we’re taught to box it & get over it, one way or another.

i’m not a victim.

& i’m not to blame.

so why label it & medicate it when really, there is no ‘resolving’ pts(d) as such. fear is a warning. fear taught me how to save my own life.

i’ll never be ‘the same’, because there was no ‘before’. & as fucked as it is, thats alright.

i’m thinking i just need to honour the fuck out of what i experienced & what i survived.

cos there’s a shitload of people that don’t survive that shit.


anyway. thats it.

kpm ©



today, i tried to get clean.

i tore @ the skin of my inner thighs.

i scraped the feeling of filth from my vulva & clitoris,

making my way onto the lining of my vagina;

i hoped to squeeze the bad from my cervix, fallopian tubes & uterus.

all the while i could hear them whisper

“just don’t think about it & it will go away”.

but i wasn’t thinking about it.

i was trying to get clean.

kpm ©


blame game…

the parent

for not protecting

for not loving

for not noticing

the teacher

for not teaching

for not educating

the crowd

for not acting

for not responding

the bystander

for freezing

the friend

for not intervening

the siblings

for not notifying

the victim

for being in the wrong place at the wrong time

for wearing their skirt to short

for being too flamboyant

for being to gay

for being to vulnerable

for being drunk

for being to small

for just;



the perp





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 ©



apparently i’m unsympathetic.

actually, it’s not apparent, its true. i am unsympathetic. it’s not something i understand. sympathy, as an emotion or action, is not something i’ve mastered.

it’s not the first time i’ve been told this. nearly 47 years old & i’ve been told this most of my life, not realising what that even was @ first & then when i did, wondering what the fuck it even meant.

you see, i believe i am one of the most empathetic people i know.

& thats not a gift. to understand or feel someone elses pain, is a fucking curse.

however, sympathy is not empathy.

sympathy is, imo, a platitude. it’s what gets waved around to make ‘them’ feel better about someone elses display of emotion.

empathy is feeling what another feels.

when asked, i’ve described my ‘story’ or memories. what people give in return is sympathy. i can appreciate the sentiment, but i know full well there is no empathy for my memories, story, how i feel or the results of it & what i deal with daily.

fuck, even i can’t handle how i feel & what i deal with some days.

what i’ve come to realise recently is: my darkness is too dark for most. my reaction to that darkness is too uncomfortable for most, if not for all.

& that is my plight.

to handle my business, heal my body, mind & soul; listen to the pretence & platitude – the anger & bitterness. the words: “we put up with you but we can’t support you”, as more of a piecemeal truth told as a means to an ends.

that yet again, my lack of sympathy or understanding, is not measured in terms of my life understanding, but in terms of what i cannot ‘give’.

that this feels much the same as being spread out on a bed i can’t get off, having shit shoved up my little vagina like i’m some kind of dead doll. that crying brought no sympathy that day. not the pedo cunt & not from the family who cued up @ the door to rescue my little ass. yeah right. sympathy is a nice thought but serves no purpose. what saved me that particular day, was me.


not tears. not sympathy. not pleading.

logic. quick talk. analytics. thats what saved me.

but for today, i won’t die. again. i’ll live through my tears & discomfort.


i’ve lived the worst that humanity can serve up in one dish.

so today, i think of my nan & all the times we misunderstood her. i apologise to her, again, & hope she shines some goodness on my ice cold mother-fucken heart.

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.





baca bikers.

Although a tad cheesy in places, there is something about this whole thing that gets to Me every time I watch it.

Theres something completely intricate and overwhelmingly awesome about protection … about feeling safe … feeling enabled and powerful. It is what every child has the absolute right and need to feel.

I guess over the years I’ve learnt and lived, what it means to Not be protected, even in the littlest things. It produces a strange type of species, such as I. Almost slightly feral in action. It becomes about survival and it is dam hard to switch your thinking to anything but survival.

I love that these dudes are there to protect, after the fact.

Because that is just as fucking important, if not more important.

(video via YouTube)

kpm ©

the current news

In our little country, a story regarding the historic sexual assault of multiple children by a supposed prominent member of our Maori community, is circulating. This person is also now, deceased.

His ex wife and family came forward, via Facebook a couple weeks ago, and laid the whole thing bare.

Now on a personal level, I don’t have any beef with how she did this.

What is causing the current shit storm are the outcries of ‘false accusation’ and ‘you can’t condemn a dead man’ and ‘there is no-one else involved’. However the wife has spoken with police and given names of those who may or may not have been involved with the apparent ‘pedo ring’.

Now, I don’t have beef with this either.

The following rant may sound a little harsh in some areas; but, oh well.

The aftermath of this ‘outing’ is rampant on facebook and the  hurt feelings are running deep.

But what is certainly hard to stomach is the LACK of specific and forthright response or support for possible victims.

What is therefore probable, is that hardly any of them will actually come forward … because why would they?

Justice? Relief?

It’s a deep wound and one that can take years to unfold.

Which brings me to the following fuckery.

People are very very quick to jump on the pedo ring rant, or the support for a sexual assault victim – and no offence intended to these peeps. Their journey is just as fucked as the rest of ours.

My bitch is that when it comes to IN HOUSE sexual assault – via family member/s, there is little to Nil sympathy, empathy and support.


In my non-professional opinion, its because the general population can not quite fathom that a family member, a person related to a victim – a daughter, grandchild, nephew, child … can be sexually assaulted by their parent, grandparent, uncle, aunt, cousin, siblings …

We’ve been fed, as a society, the whole ‘monster under the bed’ theory, and the serial killer anomaly bullshit … that psychos are rare and only strike once in a while.

We forget that the stats for this sort of shit are currently 1 in 3 females / 1 in 5 males will be sexually assaulted before the age of 18 … in our country anyways.

It doesn’t seem to occur to us, that if these are the under-reported figures, who do they think is doing the assaulting?

Random strangers?


You are more likely to be sexually assaulted by someone you know, period.

I think what becomes to hard for the general population, is the thought of unravelling an entire families dysfunctions to get the whole shitty fucking thing right out in the open. It costs to shine a light on grubby little secrets that cost our children their entire lives.

But we as human beings, need a fucking reality check.

This shit is happening.

In homes.

In churches.

In schools.

Its done by seemingly normal looking people who hold down jobs, are on the PTA, play golf and do grocery shopping. They are skilled chameleons and do not want their filth exposed for the world to see.

Going back to our current news of the week … whoever is accused in this whole filthy thing, and it turns out that they’re innocent … cool. But I don’t care really. They’ll live.

Those that have had to deal with the ordeal of sexual assault and then have had to live with the secret for years … my empathy lies with them. Whether they speak out or not, they are all survivors and all deserve to heal.

The rest of the pedo cunts can go fuck themselves. I hope they’re called out and dealt with like our tipuna (ancestors) would have done.


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 ©



why am i letting it go?

Theres a time and place for everything … apparently. According to ‘the wise’, the bible, ancient scholars … important peeps – apparently.

But as I was pondering my shizz this arvo; and ruminating on shit I’d read in the last couple days … things I’ve learnt … things I’ve said … things I’ve Had to say … I came up with the above short liner – ‘a time and place for everything’ bullshit.

Not really understanding what the fuck that had to do with anything, I left it.

Till about 10 minutes ago.

You see …

I hold onto shit, because its mine and because some ancient white twat told me to let go of it.

And that sums up my lifes work really.

If you Tell Me I should do something, by fuck, I won’t do it.

If You suggest politely, that I might like to think about doing it ‘such-in-such’ a way, because it worked for You; by fuck, I won’t do it.


Because it’s not my choice.

You can’t manipulate Me into making Your choice. You can’t buy Me into making Your choice. And by fuck You can’t Make Me do what You think or want Me to do.


Because My choice was taken from Me too early and it shaped who I am now. Surprisingly, I don’t care.

Now as simplistic as that sounds is besides the point. Yes it may sound childish … because it fucken is. But when you fuck with a child, ‘normally’, they will show you their stubbornness – their ‘will’ – they will exercise their ‘choices’ … and thats how they learn.

But when you silence them … suffocate and rape them … all that freedom to choose bullshit goes out the window. For That child, it becomes a matter of survival.

Fast forward forty years and someone is suggesting I should forgive and let it all go … You: as well meaning as you might think you are … are just hindering my process.

I don’t let go and I don’t give a fuck if it kills Me.

Do you know how many near death events I have faced?

Can you comprehend what it feels like to be crushed under the weight of a fully grown man whose trying to gets his rocks off, and You are 1/8th of said mans size?


Can you comprehend gagging and choking at the end of a giant dick, wondering if you can breath through your ears?


That my friends,  is survival.

And letting that go is not about forgiveness, thats about making others feel comfortable that I have made peace with the whole fucking thing and we can move on to talking about your new car, or the recipe you got off’ve an ‘amazeballs’ website …

NOT letting go, for Me, is not about forgiveness or unforgiveness …

Not letting go, is about remembering how fucking gangstah I am.

How fucking ‘amazeballs’ that little girl was to learn to breath through her fucking ears!

Not letting go … for how ever long that is … is My choice; My remembrance and my fucking celebration of the sacrifices that little girl made so I can have breathe today.

In her darkness, and in her fucking suffering, I have life.

Why the fuck would I let that Go.

kpm © : ig @kpm-artist



dreams ay …

“I’m having a break … got shit to do …” *insert the largest eye ball roll ever* lol.

So I woke up with my feng shui panties in a bunch … so here I am.

1st the flash / dream that disrupted my 4 hours of sleep .. and yes my sleeping feng shui is also up the shitter at present … but we rolling with it …

It’s the dream I hate. The one that shows up every few months of late and fucks with Me. It smells like a memory but comes in a dream. I try hard not to dwell on it cos I know it’ll unfold as it wants, when it wants. I’ve learnt theres no point stressing over it, or picking it to bits too much … as untimely, annoying, and disturbing as it is, when it happens … I’m learning that it seems to come when my ‘being’ thinks I can handle it. … PS: I’ve had words with ‘my being’ and told it it’s full of shit, but it don’t listen lol.

So the dream … Me being pinned and not being able to move, breath, speak. The difference this time was I was standing upright with glass type thing between Me and the pedo. And I was bigger, not small like I usually am. I still couldn’t breath properly, and had small raspy breaths but this time, although I felt scared, I could feel that I was looking for solutions. I was fully aware of what that fuck was doing to my body, but I could also see myself looking around, from side to side; trying to look for someone, to get attention or help or something … I also tried to scream and instead of nothing coming out of my mouth, a fog horn type sound came out … like a hoarsey throat thing was happening.

I could feel that cunt on my skin, but also knew he was not aware that I was different … bigger … Not desperate, but thinking … I was more aware.

He wasn’t aware. Dick.

And then I felt myself starting to panic and forced myself awake. I woke with sound in my voice … like trying to cry but not being able too; disturbed, but OK. I knew I was awake and that I had had a dream.

I didn’t get up and go and have a smoke like I usually do. Instead I wrapped up in my fluffy blanket and went back to bed. The rest of the night was restless and I had to put my pillow on my chest … but I was Ok. And I am Ok.

As strange as it all sounds, this for Me … as I see it … is Progress.

I can see and feel the changes in my perspective.

It’s exciting and frightening all at the same time. And I didn’t think I’d ever hear myself say that.

I feel like I’m growing up … I know lol … moving from a cowering child to an angry adolescent to an awake, aware adult … who is getting bigger … almost big enough to do some mother fucking damage …

I can feel it happening …

So today I was going to do some important shit lol, but I’m going to paint instead … yeah, I got shit to unfold and don’t have the articulation for it (believe it or not ;) ) ….

I feel hopeful … Now thats weird … Cool … But weird.

Love and mother fucking light all day, all night xoxo


Nature decided it was actually going to do winter today and greeted Us with a big fat frost … Love this season <3

kpm ©


an incident … a narrative

I had something happen the other day: the gory details I won’t regale you with here, other than to say it sent Me into Silence.

In that forced silence I found my old friend Depression.

Now she hasn’t made her presence felt with such force, in a very long time. Some of that may have to do with my ability to deny anything that remotely rhymes with ‘Depression’. I guess I detest the connotations that it rumbles up … the misdiagnoses, the ‘mental health’ issues and stigmas, the battles, the misinterpretations and ‘misunderstandings’. Theres not too much more I detest than the ‘look’ that is bestowed upon the Depressed and the tone that is induced in the ‘sympathiser’ when trying oh so very hard to ‘understand the situation’.

I hate it all.

But Depression is the new go-to word and here I am discussing it.

It feels like a heavy shroud, that covers your entire being. It settles in there and everything in and out seems darker, sadder, heavier … than usual.

And as that settled on my shoulders and in my heart the other day, I could feel my throat start to constrict as the silence strangled my larynx and then thorax. I couldn’t breath.

At that moment I wanted to not be here.

Not be anywhere.

Not dead. But not alive.

Forced silence is My killer.

Too long there has been forced silence. And for too long, when there has been a choice to speak, no words have managed to escape.

It’s the private hell of a small child who cannot talk, walk, cry out, move.

And it was in that moment, of depression and flashback, that I felt a familiar unease … with the familiarity, with the vulnerability, with the inability.

It took nearly 24 hours for it to subside … and as it did, I looked back and was able to identify the moment it had taken hold and why.

I was also able to identify that I am not that little child anymore. And as familiar as those things feel … I am Not forced into Silence literally, but instead flash back 40 odd years and hoover there looking for answers that I’ll never find.

I am here.

I am now.

I was there.

And I survived.

Now I have No need to be Silent.

Unless I want to be.

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.


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!’


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!


kpm ©


to be, to do

I Resist.
I don’t conform.
Even when I do.
My heart with Never conform.
Not to the quo.
Not to the ‘musts’.
Its part of my nature.
Part of the non-conformist dialogue.
And when I snap my pics
it’s also to explain.
To explain my view,
Share my perspective …
the intricate. the narrative. the story within the story.
I was a child.
I still am a child.
I was a frightened child.
Who survived an extraordinary experience.
Who choked on a dick too large for her
tiny throat.
And she’s been choking ever since.
They named it pts(d) and said I was super sad.
So sad that I may harm myself.
But I didn’t.
Not on purpose anyway.
Instead I died, just a little, as the shit got kicked
The head got beat
The heart got broke
The bottle got empty.
And all she could do was cower.
So cowering became the sport.
The sport for healing.
The transport for unfolding.
To build a bubble that could expel the fear
and protect the good.
the good being, Me,
So, so serious has been my pain.
So so serious has been my tone
that even the lights are angry
the brightness is broken.
So she went and flipped the switch off.
Off. Till another could be found.
Not a replacement.
An entirely new form of light and dark.
Where the script is written in the dark
And the sleep takes place under the sun.
A place where an opposite is another.
Another option.
Another alternative.

kpm ©