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& i waited ..

having exercised my right to say NO.

i felt the fear rise instantly.

then i felt his soft hand tight on the back of my neck.
it wound it’s fingers round my hair, anchoring me in place.

i grabbed the stroller with my free hand, the other grabbed the back of the anchored hand which had started dragging me, the stroller & my baby, down the road.

2 long streets toward home.

half stumbling.
half gaining momentum.

it was a long enough drag to know there was gonna be damage done at the finish line.

It would be me.
or my baby.
that’s what i thought.

how did i get here.
in a place where this was the choice.

& as i caught a half sight of baby in the stroller, i marvelled at how peacefully she slept.

i steadied the stroller.

the dragging got heavier & lower, making it harder to keep the stroller on all it’s wheels, as we got to the driveway of home.

well, what was supposed to be home anyway.

i started purposefully crying.

it was a distraction.

as he rose in height, feeling powerful in all his mightiness at what he in all his colonised glory, was accomplishing, he didn’t notice me swing the stroller round 360 & set it down in the opposite room to the kitchen.

shutting the door behind.

i took a deep breath.

as he lowered his now solid fist to the side of
my face,
my neck,
my back,
my shoulders ..
i rose my arms up.

i had stopped crying.

& i waited.

waited for him to finish.
he’d get bored soon.
or hungry.
or thirsty.
& he’d make a dramatic exit.

but my girl would wake soon.

lord, don’t let her wake now.
don’t let her cry now.

waiting.
& wondering.
why noone came out of their pretty houses.
why noone came to the door.
why noone.
came.
again.

& i waited.
& waited.


kpm©

agree or not ..

it’s pretty hard to heal per se, when you busy surviving ..
Not just abuse ..
But everyday bs.
Housing.
Food.
Clothing.
Schools.
Health.

Just regular living bs.

& yet here we are. Doing that shit.


kpm©

the stuff ..

all the little pieces i dropped along the way.

in order to survive.

to lean in.

& lean out.

i gotta find.

slowly find.

pick up.

turn over.

welcoming back to my repertoire.

only what i want.


kpm©


 

trapped

“im not trapped, i choose to be here.”

is a lie.

its been necessary.

but it is a lie.


kpm©


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fight fucker

one of the most pertinent things you need to understand about me, is that i will always come back fighting.

definition: fighting. it looks different for everyone. it makes it no less or more – fight.

i might be crawling the floor today; trying to find my motherfucking sanity & trying to get out the front door … & the nek day – the nek week even, i might do that all over again. but i will eventually slap back. that may be a twist, a renarrate, a rearrange, a rework, a revisit or an old fashioned ‘FUCK YOU CUNT’.

i will always fight back.

it is how i’m wired.

the end.


kpm©


kpm © : ig @kpm-artist


 

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un.fuck.yo’self.

Now this isn’t my photo or meme, and this isn’t where I usually make mindful statements about someone elses arty / meaningful shizz … so apologies to whoever wrote this … my train of thought today was more in response to this rather than to criticise your truth …

So, that said … I found this in my stash of memes and was about to repost, as it had obviously resonated with Me somewhere along the way …

But yah know what … it just doesn’t anymore … and I got issues with it.

image

(meme not written by me)

Little girls don’t learn to be strong and independent from being broken … they learn to walk with a limp. They learn to hate and disassociate … they learn to cope, strategise, steal and survive.

Little girls Should Not Have to Broken to learn how to be strong and independent.

Little girls should be able to depend on those around them, to love her and protect her.

That isn’t her issue … it’s Theirs.

Theres no high-fucking-fives to be had out of being strong and independent from being broken … it’s a stain on our fucking nation that any child is broken!!!

Get my fucking drift????

Strength comes from survival, sure. But would you really wish a whole lot of brokenness on your child so they can become strong and independent? Fuck No!

I think it’s an excuse we’ve all made up so we can justify not having intervened, spoken up, asked the right questions, made the phone call, held the gaze a little longer … all those things that people know they should do but it just feels to darn uncomfortable.

Justifying the strength of a woman later on in her life with the brokenness she has experienced … is not a reason / justification.

It’s a poor fucking excuse for humanity.


kpm ©


 

and there was tears and snot, and more snot and tears

I’ve been trying to remain calm about the pending doctors visit today … just calm; nothing spectacular … calm would have sufficed.

I was calm … ish … playing my music, breathing deeply … and then the sour puss which is my partner right now, decided to strike up conversation just as we reached the outskirts of town … just where I hate being … just where the lights are bright and the noises peak … just where I loathe being on the way to somewhere I hate being even more …

“[Moko 1] asked why you don’t come to see them, or come into town.”

“And what did you tell him” was my reply. I shouldn’t have even asked. I should have just ignored the whole pending conversation and continued breathing deeply … but what felt like a slight rage coupled with a deep disappointment overwhelmed my spidey senses …

“Told him you don’t like people … cos thats all it is ay” was his naive and sarcastic reply.

Thats where there tears and snot began.

Now those who have pts(d) … or any other disability, mental and/or physical; and have struggled with educating your families on said ‘disability’ whilst trying to manage your own personal hell … will know the deep sinking feeling that hit my gutt in that moment.

Nearly 14 fucking years its been … him and I … and the last 8 or so have been struggling with the ‘unknown’ ‘disability’ that plagues my being … the last 3 years of actively trying my fucking best to manage that shit. And while he has his most blessed moments … this was not one of them … and I am well fucking over it.

The doctor was late, as usual, even though I was the first appointment of the day. Waiting causes severe fucking anxiety for Me. I got through the appointment, in tears and a large splattering of snot, but was over wiping any of that shit away so I just let it rain!!

Oh ugly ugly … but that shit obviously needed to come out, and come out it did!!

So, I got drugs that I can’t take … I’ll write another post on that fuckery another day arrghh … along with a raft of other shit that is more of the same shit … get my feels.

He filled in the fucking forms and had no idea where to send them so I took them with Me and gave them to the receptionist … she’s gangstah … with strict instructions to make sure some Cunt at ACC got that shit.

I am tired. I am a red faced puffy mess, I’ve just finished sweating like a rapist … my daughter has just walked in the door with chocolate! Fuck I love her!

And after a rather late quarter of a sedative, I have found my calm.

The positive: I fucking survived. I didn’t assault the doctor.

I live to tell the tale and to survive for another day.

Fuck pts(d).


kpm ©


 

the first

41 years of surviving shit,

and i have just realised,

everything i do now …

is for the first time.


kpm©


 

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survival hints. your welcome.

  1. Charge your cell phone before night-time and before you go out.

2.   Have a ‘get away’ pack with you all the time.

Pack should include:

ID

$50

Jacket

Shoes

Car keys

Cell phone, charger

Knife

Medications

Bottle of water

(all in a plastic bag)

3.  Know all exists in every room.

4.  Have a weapon within arms reach.

5.  Your best defence is your voice; use it.

[While PTSD is a bitch, its taught me things that your average peep doesn’t take into consideration – how to survive in the meanest of circumstances with minimal resources at hand.]


kpm ©


 

to smooth

the plan was simple persuasion.

then forceable persuasion.

the bonus was natural depopulation

by imported disease.

Christianity smoothed the way.

Assimilation smoothed

“… their dying pillows”.

as one dies, the other spreads like a virus

which wore down the hanger-on’ers.

with the indigenous soul disabled,

they invaders spread their disease.


kpm ©


 

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many.many.thoughts. the good, bad & ugly.

a re-read @ august 2018, &  I remembered the claustrophobic, intense feelings that came with this time. Fuck that shit … I am so freaking glad shit don’t really feel like this anymore … in these areas I have slowly learnt to juggle that shit alot better!!!


Its been a hell of a long week…standard 7 days sure, but they felt like 14+! And if it wasn’t for the little date thingy on my screen, I’m not sure I’d actually, definitively know what the day and date was!

There’s been some awesome moments…and I hold onto those by my ultra long fingernails because they are what make this hellish feeling silently bearable.

So I’ll start with those moments…the good…

We looked after the mokos for the night…ahhh the other day I think. It was intense! Lovely intense; but I’m so past having a 2-year-old running around and a 6-year-old asking questions constantly lol. Don’t get me wrong, they were such a pleasure. I’m just…getting old lol. We were both absolutely wrecked by the time the next day rolled around, and when we finally got home, we hung out the washing and then collapsed in a small heap and slept for about 3 hours! OMG, I’m so soft now. I have a new-found appreciation for my daughter and her partner and their 3 beautiful children!

So, on this night, my daughter and her partner came home from their well deserved dining experience and my girl was slightly tipsy…and she started talking. We haven’t talked, talked, for along time…child restraints, time, distance etc etc. It was so nice…nice to hear her heart again. Shes my girl who has that great big heart; the deep deep soul. I heard her aches and her triumphs and the things she’s struggling with and wishes for. I heard her regrets and questions and ambitions and longings. I haven’t had the privilege of that for a long while now.

She talked about the things from her childhood that had hurt her. Things that I remembered but had a different perspective on. I got to tell her how I felt too. And she actually said, “You know; you’re a good Mum”. That was the best coming from her! I love her to bits…shes just an amazing soul…

Well we stayed up and talked like that for about 5 hours! It felt like when she was a little girl…we’d talk for hours! It’s how I got to know her :)

Her older daughter is also a deep wee soul. She has my sense, and her mamas sense, of the ‘unseen’…intuition, but with the senses. She has an intense sense of smell and can smell where you have been, what you ‘feel’ like, whats bothering you. But this little darling isn’t all hung up on what others think of her gift yet…it just is what it is, and she just rolls with it. It’s so nice to watch her, uninhibited.

Anyway, she had a game of hockey that she wanted me to go too. I said I couldn’t, and she started to cry. I felt bad but I knew I still couldn’t go. Then she stops crying and looks at me, and asks; “Why can’t you come?”…so I told her…”There’s to many people there for me darling, and I get scared. When I’m not scared, I’ll come to one of your games.”….Ohhh, she says…beautiful girl; just like she all of a sudden got it. Then she says to me, “and you can’t bring your pillow and blanky to the game ay”…no, sweetheart, I can’t…

She’s such a beautiful soul. All the mokos are. They have a deep sense, in differing ways, of understanding who and what is going on around them. And as long as you answer their questions brutally honestly, they are able to process all that is happening…the seen and the unseen. I don’t mean ‘ghostly’ unseen…but the vibes, body language, emotion; that is exuded by those around them. They are miles ahead of me, and their parents…all of humanity really. And it’s so beautiful to see.

It’s that subject that got me and my girl talking again later…about how each generation thinks they have a monopoly on ‘being right’; that they have all the answers to the previous generations mistakes and instead of learning from them, they are on a mission to rectify and rub their noses in it. We agreed that this is utter shit and there was a need to be able to transition from one ‘generation’ or era to the next, leaving behind what you need to, giving or passing on what you need to, and getting on with the present. Easier said than done…but a beautiful concept that we are all going to try.

xx


It’s fucken intense times here.

You see…as much as shit frightens me or I panic or have a miniature nervous break down…I know that I know that I know, that there is no rolling over and dying…I can’t…it’s just not in my DNA. I may freak the fuck out etc but I will, will, will get back up and kick your ass eventually. ~ present situation has been a longer ‘pause’ or ‘eventually’ moment than most…but it is still just an interlude ~

And the partner…well he deals with things a little different from I. I find that hard to deal with. I can see that he’s scared and feeling stressed and vulnerable…but he won’t talk…in fact he’s being a bit of a cunt actually. I’m trying to be supportive and helpful and blending-ish (I know what I mean lol)…but he’s angry one minute, sore and sad the next, pissed off then quiet. He’s doing his thing, processing…I get it…It’s just really really really hard to watch!

And the conversations we have include blame laying in my direction…I get this defence mechanism too…but really? Gonna shit on the only person that genuinely gives a shit?? Hmmm. Not cool.

And I wonder how long I’ll put up with being the brunt of the frustration and anxiety? Not too much longer…

I wish I could wave a magic wand and make every bad thing go away…


AND then I went to see the shrink – (who by the way, I called ‘the shrink’ in her office, and she was slightly offended lol…she said she isn’t a psychiatrist…to which I said, ‘so what? Shrink is easier to say than ‘the psychologist’…she got it. BTW, she is a forensic psychologist which I think is rather cool lol)….so back to the shrink…It was really hard to get in to her this time. I had about 3 size 5 panic attacks on the way there and so by the time I hit her office I was a bit of a quivering mess. But I did it! There’s that! We did the breather thingy…and talked a bit. Turns out all the things that are happening with the partner are weighing heavier on the mind and body than I thought. I’m not sleeping very well…6 hours has dropped back to 2…and I can feel my heart beating most of the time and it takes all my energy and concentration to try to relax my shoulders. So I breathed and breathed and rebooked my next appointment.

The next appointment is EMDR, – first and worst memory. Apparently they’re usually separate…but mine are one in the same. I have no recollection of some things, I only know they happen because of what has been pieced together from other people’s versions of events. I only remember one incident…I’m not sure of my age, and I’m not sure whether I’ve actually meshed about 3 incidences together as one. Either way, I have no interest anymore, in trying to ‘remember’ more. I figure if my ‘being’ could deal with it then it would remember…what I do remember is way more than enough.

Needless to say I’m not really looking forward to the next session. I said to the shrink…that I don’t mind talking about this sort of shit, I know its necessary and I’m willing…very willing…however, it’s easier to talk about what causes panic or nightmares etc and how to deal with those…that feels like I’m talking about the 2nd cousin of it, twice removed…she got it. But when we start talking or referring to the actual event…my insides start to shake and then they go numb. It frightens me.

But, I’ll do it…I have too. When my girl and me were talking, she asked me something interesting. Both girls know what happened to me; I’ve always been pretty open and up front with them. But my girl, she asks…”who helped you to understand what happened to you when you were a kid Mum?”. Sweet girl…I told her that there wasn’t anyone and that’s what I’m trying to do now. She cried for me.

Hey, to add a little bit more shit icing to the rather intense cake…on the way to the shrinks office…the partner got a phone call to say that his surgery had been booked in for the 14th…of this month. O M fucken G. It’s a good thing I think…but, but…but…


kpm ©


 

in-dependence

if I am dependent on another

where is in-dependence.

.

at birth I am dependent on another

for food, shelter, clothing

touch, security and safety.

.

as I grow, am I to become

more in-dependent.

.

able to tie my shoes.

learn how to interact with others.

learn responsibility.

.

is that in-dependence.

.

what if I am not taught anything

and I fumble around alone.

am I still in-dependent.

.

what if I am not the given tools and skills

to lead off, to learn.

does that make me in-dependent;

yet dependent.

.

dependent on another to do for me.

if they are not willing to teach, support

in-dependence.

if they are threatened by it.

.

do I run away

fight away

drive away.

.

are they dependent on me

to be dependent on them.

.

does in-dependence from them

hurt them.

does it hurt me more

to be dependent.


kpm©


 

my challenge : the explanation

I’ve had lots of moments and memories in the last week or two. I seem to lose them as fast as I have them though. That’s whats partially led me to the following personal challenge…

I’ve decided to take a journey through my life….to retain and document my memory of me; to open up and then lay to rest what I need too.

Its not that I haven’t worked on me at all. I’ve done lots of talking, writing, research, soul searching, trial and era, meds, no meds, natural remedies, ‘alternative healing’, councelling, psychologists, education, focusing, meditating, breathing, CBT, tapping, diets, no diets, change in eating….the list goes on. Its all part of my discovery of who I am, what I am. And I guess this is just another part of that.

At my last ‘assessment’ I was told by the well meaning, reasonably pleasant psychiatrist, that my recollection of timelines, dates and events all revolve around my children’s life moments. Not a bad thing. But I have come to realise I’ve had my identity so wrapped up in them, I’ve hidden in it. I’ve forgotten who I am. And forgotten to develop me. I have a lot of difficulty remembering what I’ve done or who I am outside of them.

My children are my defining moments in life. They are why I’m still in the land of the living. They’ve always had my heart, not always my presence or emotion.

My survival has depended on being logical; clear cut; cold and simple. Living in ‘hypo arousal’ made this my normal. And even if you tag all the psychological titles to certain behaviours, its still my normal. I’ve tried to eradicate these behaviours, but they are part of my make up; my survival; they are who I am, with or without PTSD. They are my normal. Therefore I’ve tended to make logical decisions at times when I possibly needed to use my heart. My emotions? They are definitely unexercised and underutilised muscles that I am trying hard to get into shape.

What I do is, make a decision based on what information I have at hand and in its historical context. I analyse the possible outcomes of the decisions I need to make; eliminating the high risk and reducing the risk on the other possibilities. Decision made.

I do this system for just about everything I do. First I desensitise myself by repeating the thought or decision. Similar to playing a song over and over again….the first time may make you cry or laugh or something, because it touches something in your soul.  By the 50th time, you can just hear words. Hear it again in 2 years time and you will remember the feeling that it brought about but it won’t rock you like it did it at the start…well that’s the case for me anyways.  Sheer brilliance I thought! Shame it hasn’t worked instantly on ‘fixing’ PTSD…go figure!

But I have done/still do this for everything. I even have difficulty writing a blog – my personal cathartic vent vehicle! Dah! I have trouble unfolding. I edit, re edit, delete, clean it out, change it round. I simplify and throw parts out. I do the same thing in my home! Yes, I am a self confessed clean freak! I love white walls and clear spaces…minimal, minimal, minimal…funny though, that used to be called poverty, now its a thing!

Soooo, on this new challenge for myself…part of it will be, to NOT edit, NOT delete or eradicate what I write. NOT analyse and reanalyse what I think, reword and rehash. I will document (the word document makes me feel safe lol), my ramble and leave it alone. Well I may still organise it into categories…and then leave it the fuck alone…for a certain period of time anyway! Till I’m finished…yeah till I’m finished. Ohhh I feel anxious already lol!

I’ve always considered myself to be open and transparent, but somewhere along my path I think I started to fool myself into believing my own bullshit. The truth is…I WAS open and transparent, as open and transparent with what I knew at the time. Then there came a time when I decided to ‘leave it be’. Which in itself sounds healthy, but I haven’t really let it be at all. I’ve forgotten on purpose because it no longer seemed viable. And with the help of some serious sleep medication, I’ve lost my ‘mind’ and memories along with it.

As I’ve mentioned before, I have never slept well. Well never slept as the ‘professionals’ say is ‘well’. And after a few hard out years I opted for meds so I could get some sleep! Some long, good, well needed sleep! Ahhh. Im now going through the agony of weaning off the ‘dependency making’ pills, without more dependency making pills! Turns out I should have only been taking them for 3-6 months, not 5+ years! – which, I might add, the doctor failed to mention, but google had all the info on!

This leads to the second part of why I need to do this. I was challenged after reading a fellow bloggers piece on her and her daughter. I realised I had cut my children, and my gender, out of my personal recollections to others; and myself. Partially to protect them, partially out of guilt. Partially for my own protection, partially because I hated being a woman. My children are my heart; but therefore my weakness; my Achilles heel so to speak. I need to recollect all parts, not just what’s comfortable and non-emotional.

In all of this, I’ve got to be myself. Evolve into the me I want to be. To accept who I am, in its entirety.

So for the next while, week by week, representing year by year; I will be documenting ME ;)

#mystory


kpm ©