yep ..

sometimes i just need to put my thoughts somewhere.


kpm©


 

follow on from the internal fuckery …

woke up in the night & recognised a few things that seemed to have sparked off a few things … hence the internal fuckery post

note: think its a good thing: i just haven’t quite dissected the fuck out of it enough to know that fo’sure.

.

i joined a womans online pts(d) support group about 4 days ago. it seemed like a good idea at the time.

pause.

yes you read right.

i thought it was a good idea to join a support group. after writing a post a few days ago, whereby i stated that support groups for sexual assault were not the one for me?!?

what? did i all of a sudden think it was gonna be a whole lot better cos it’s online?

un-pause.

.

i guess i thought i might find some kind of ‘support’, but instead its just completely fucked with my feng shui. & please note: its not the people in it per se, its just that me & that sort of mixture, really don’t gel. i get that now.

yah see, my support team, for most of my life, has been my logic, my lack of feeling & my ability to improvise. to some, that my seem like an unhealthy trio, but its saved my life on multiple occasions.

as the years have strode on, i’ve had peeps show up @ certain times & i’m able to offload verbally, or connect & find support with them. but by enlarge, i’ve done most of this ‘journey’ alone.

to get into a group where there are multiple talking about their trauma like its a friend, is bizarre.

but not unusual.

what i discovered over the last few days, is theres this habit or comfort or something, that most people do. they talk about ‘my abuser’, ‘my pts(d)’, ‘my rapist’, ‘my trauma’.

now no disrespect intended, but for me, none of those fucking things are ‘mine’.

theres no ‘my abuser’, theres just the cunt that inflicted his sickness on me. theres no ‘my pts(d)’, theres just the result of that cunts sickness inflicted on me. there is no ‘my rapist’, theres just a filthy rotten fucker who enjoyed tormenting children. there is no ‘my trauma’, there are just results of someone else neglect or actions.

does that make sense?

i found it kind of sickening that ‘we’ should be on equal terms so to speak with a piece of shit that deliberately harmed us.

then there was the fear of emotions.

now i kinda get this. i’m not big on emotions or random feelings, at.all. but take anger for instance. my fuck, that shit can be as empowering as fuck!

yet in this group, i noted that the cure all for anger was prescription medication.

really????????

which got me thinking about how much the world is afraid of an angry woman & they would prefer that we shut up rather than vent.

like, literally. & wtf?

i’m tired of being muted. with drugs. with words. with actions.

i’m fucking over it.

& maybe thats part of my internal dialogue taking a turn for the better. cos if no other cunt is going to let me be angry or voice my disdain for rapists & racism or hear me when i scream in pain … then i sure as fuck am not going to join that crew.

if i cant let myself speak & express myself, then i really am well & truly fucked.

ps: i un-followed the group xx


kpm ©


 

does it …

try asking for help & you can’t get a word out.

yup. its sucks rotten balls.


kpm ©


 

it/tis.

expression is purpose.


kpm ©


 

i do love my grandfather. but.

today i heard my grandfather

in your voice.

not in a nostalgic way.

but a cringe, a recoil.

he spoke to my nan like she was a piece of shit.

a waste of space.

an annoyance.

he rolled his eyes @ her.

grimaced when she spoke.

if you weren’t a child with child eyes

if you weren’t a child with child ears

one would wonder:

why on earth he stayed around.

why on earth she stayed around.

is there a pain more stinging

than being in a place, you are clearly not wanted

or required.


kpm©


 

so.

what happens, when you become aware

that you have diminished your

own voice.


kpm©


 

Image

sectioned.

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

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

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

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

realistically though: i was still colonised.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and i was the instrument that did it.

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

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

i betrayed me really. as well as him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

i sacrificed my voice.

literally.

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

i’ll never do this again.

figuratively or physically.

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


kpm © : ig @kpm-artist


 

Image

so.slowly.unfucking.thyself.myself.

Karakia:

Atua

Tukua

Homai to Aroha

Ae.

Believe it or not, I’m still trying to find my voice.

After a shittone of years of being silenced in a shittone of ways, I am still unravelling who I am and what I have to say.

Some of it is necessary.

Some of its not.

Some of it is pure and utter rage.

Some of it is not.

What I’m learning, is that it is ALL alright.

We all need to find our voice. Find what we want to say and say it. And voicing shit is not always something that comes out of our mouths. But it is emotion and emotional and it needs to be told.

Our stories, the good and the bad … the mundane and the horrific … all need to be told … some way.

Today I found more of my voice.

And now I have a sore throat.

But thats Ok, because my throat was sore-er when I was actively silent.


kpm © : ig @kpm-artist


 

Link

My Pledge

#throwback Nov 13, 2016 @ 11:24

Written by my friend: Johanna <3


In all my readings over the last few days, no-one has responded better, in my opinion, than this self proclaimed “old woman who happens to be white” and is “not proud of what other members of” her “race (and the electoral college) have done in electing Trump. What can I do?” <3

All Things Chronic

As an old woman who happens to be white, I’m not proud of what other members of my race (and the electoral college) have done in electing Trump. What can I do?

I pledge to stand up with every group that Trump has denigrated. I pledge to be vocal about my support for the LGBTQ community, people of color, women, veterans, the disabled, those who suffer from mental health conditions, the homeless, and of course, pain patients.

If you want to be a racist or a bigot, you cannot do so if I’m around. This has nothing to do with political correctness. This is about being a human being.

On the internet or out in public, at Walmart or in Walgreens, if you behave like a racist, sexist, or homophobe, be warned that I will call you out on it. I’m not afraid of you. You think Trump has given…

View original post 27 more words

its an individual thing?

SaveSave

SaveSaveOhhh yaas, she’s on a fucking roll today lol. That could have something to do with the beautiful rain that is hovering around … or maybe cos I have the day / night to myself and feel like I actually have room to breath for the first time in ages … could have something to do with actually listening to my gutt for the past 72 hours …

Whatever the fuck it is … I’m alright with it.

So, I was reading a fellow bloggers post yesterday … the guts of it was their unfolding of a horrific history, their way. And you know what, as horrific as it all is, there is something extremely gangstah about listening to the roar of someone elses truth … of hearing it rip the silence barrier from top to tail … it’s an earth shaking, spine tingling experience. And for their truth being told, I am grateful and feel honoured to have heard it!

It got Me thinking, as I do.

I have written, repeated and re-written the same old things … over and over again. I started tentatively … barely a squeak lol. And though, to some, it seemed like a roar – I know, for Me, it wasn’t my Whole voice. Just a whisper.

Profanity or swearing like a sailor, is second nature to Me. It is what I do. But I’ve realised it’s whats put some off my Blog, just as it has reeled in those who can relate or speak in a similar vein. Am I worried? Fuck No … those that have stayed and those that can relate, have become some of my closest compadres in this fucked up journey of ours ;)

But I’ve also reasoned with myself, that this is why people stay away. Not just on this platform, but in real human life lol.

Have I inadvertently done this on purpose to keep the fuckers away?

I hadn’t thought so … but maybe … and thats alright.

Those that have stayed around, in real life, are just a handful of some of the most beautiful people this world has spat out. And I wouldn’t change that either.

But following my original train of thought … I began wondering … why do we follow or trust the words of people who say they know something, because someone else says they’re right?

Make sense?

There are few peeps that have an original idea … their own ideas … and can roll with them, unchecked and unhindered by the criticisms of ‘others’.

If Martin Luther had’ve been a petrol pump attendant from Wellington, would anyone have listened?

If Hitler was a conservationist working with 10 kea in the outbacks of Mangaweka, would anyone have eventually voted the cunt in?

They were listened too … given a platform … followed … hailed … because they were listened too, given a platform and then a larger platform, followed and hailed as ‘the one who knew’.

Were they ever questioned by their peers? Ever held in check?

Good and bad … do they become what they are because a whole lot of like minded souls tag themselves into their posts? If they didn’t, they’d just be Susan from Christchurch who likes cats and drinks camomile tea on sundays and is trying too write a self help blog on the intricacies of pet hair and allergies.

There are so many voices in this world … and we give those voices importance or non-importance if you get my meaning.

But then we seem to think that We are unimportant if no-one hears us … likes us … follows us … quotes us and tags us into their extremely long facebook posts lol.

Whatever happened to following our gutt … doing our own thing … creating and loving and dancing to the beat of our own fucking drum without the ‘consent’ of anyone else?

I guess I’m prattling on about this, because I see so many blogs and people, come and go, (and I may end up being one of those ;) ) and get swallowed up in the figurative-ness of internet-ness lol. No-one hardly hears them. No-one seems to care. Well not unless someone ‘more important’ ‘gives’ them a hand up pfft …

Does that mean they’re all really un-important?

Nope.

Not at all.

In conclusion lol …

Heres to the little fuckers … whose blogs, whose voices, whose art … never gets seen, read, heard …

We all fucking matter!!!

Throw that shit out there: its important!!!

xo


kpm ©


 

me, she

no more said she

she said no more

but no-one listened

 

why me she said

she said why me

but no-one listened

 

scream she did

she did scream

but no-one listened

 

rage she did

she did rage

but no-one listened

 

no-one listened

too her

her too


kpm ©