sometimes when i

can’t string a

sentence together …

no longer feeling

like some kind of


and the thought of

writing ones own

thesis is,


fucking daunting …

and poetry

(as defined by the poetry gods),

seems to far


away …

i’ll line up a ramble,

that looks like


It works





366 reasons to smile ~ +308.

+308. Ok, good point Capital Letter peeps LOL, I still don’t like capitals though 😉

Dictation ~ Meme reads:

Dear people who type in all lowercase,

We are the difference between helping your Uncle Jack (Upper case U and J) off a horse and helping your uncle jack (lower case u and j) off a horse.


Capital Letters.




updating: about ~ me and ptsd

Yep, I’m at it again … Updating and re-organising shizz.

Apologies in advance if I screw it up and you can’t get to the front page for a while.

In the meantime, this was my first Front Page I ever wrote-ed. Ngaw … 😉

*First Published on: Apr 21, 2015 @ 12:44 as an Intro Page*

I have ptsd.

At the moment.

I write to get that shit out,  to give it ‘a voice’. To get relief and clarity.

My earliest memories are dark. I have had night mares as long as I can remember. I have never slept longer than two to three hours, unaided.

I see danger in every situation. Even the good ones.

I look for motive and intent in others long before I can physically see them. I am and have always looked for ‘the angle’ that is being played. It is my understanding that there is always a hidden agenda to another’s actions and the only way to protect myself is to stay one step ahead.

Apparently this is PTSD. But this is my normal.

Living this way was bearable until I got physically sick and couldn’t control what was happening to my body and my  mind. I therefore cut myself off from everyone and everything.

As at April 21st 2015 (date of publishing; one month after commencing my blogging expedition) ~  I am no longer employed, I don’t drive, or walk out of the house and down the road, if I don’t have too; I don’t like surprises, I get startled easy, my mind races and my heart pounds way too fast for the amount of energy I ‘don’t’ exert; my palms sweat when I feel anxious; my head aches and my chest tightens when I feel too enclosed or trapped or feel like I have no choice…to name but a few.

So, this is not my ‘feel good’…when I made it through the cloudy skies, to the silver lining and over the rainbow, I turned into a well-paid self-help guru…story. This is all the shit in between…good and bad, that got me to this point.

Every ptsd peep has a gory story that goes with the title and while it’d be nice to have a ‘moving on’ theme song whilst I build a bridge that goes over it all, that’s not the point.

These are my mundane horrors.

The blah de blah of life, that goes along, one shit fest after another. The mundane horrors that there are no support groups or campaigns to stamp out and eradicate for. The mundane stuff that peeps say…’just get over it already’, too. The stuff the partner cringes at; the stuff the healers say need to be ‘let go of’; the stuff the psychologists say ‘to breathe through’. Oh as well as all the mundane daily hells that go hand in hand with ‘getting over it already’, ‘moving on’, ‘letting it go’, ‘breathing it through’; feeling my breath stop, my heart race, my hands sweat, my eyes blurr, my stomach lurch, my chest tighten…all that shit too. All the shit that should be talked about, but instead gets left in the frozen food section next to the jelly that no one buys.

But I have always fought back, one way or another. And this is me fighting again. As I have always done, in my own way.

I want to be able to leave the house, of my own free will; to get enjoyment from life; to be content with who I am. I don’t want to ‘reintegrate’ back into a society that I was never really part of to begin with. I still believe the world is a dark dark place. Especially for the vulnerable. Maybe I may change my mind by the time I’m done; or maybe I’ll just accept who I am – completely.

~ ME ~

the reblog …

From what I’ve read (from reputable sources from around these ways 😉 ), re-blogging is a compliment; or like, a big-ups to the author. Like, a way of sharing their stuff … what’ya call that – like, networking but better?!

Lol … as you can see, I’m not really up with that side of things 😉

So, here’s why I rarely do it, and when I do do it it’s cos I massively dig the shit I’m re-blogging:

  • It feels like an intrusion. Like I’ve waltzed on in to someone elses house, picked up something I liked and left with it. Now I know that some of this ‘mentality’, for Me, is ‘abuse’ and ‘colonial’ related: I don’t want to invade anyone elses shizz.
  • However, some of it I think, may be ‘age’ related? By that I mean … I’m one of those people that won’t go onto someone elses personal Facebook page, without being invited. As weird as it sounds, I see it as theirs, not mine. Just because it’s an open shit fest on the internet, doesn’t make it Mine to take. Honestly, I feel voyeuristic stalking through other peoples shit. Which is also why I’m a great fan of the reader aka news feed. I follow you; you post; it comes up in ‘My’ news feed, therefore I can read it, possibly re-blog it.

If I’m really digging something or someones blog, I’ll read the entire thing … even if it does date back to 1982 lol. For me, thats getting to ‘know’ someone … their history, their essence. Sometimes of course, its not feasible, as in, I can’t find stuff on their blogs, or get lost … yes, I do this in real life too lol. If it’s particularly ‘cluttered’ (and don’t take that personally – if theres 2 pens sitting on a table, thats my version of cluttered!) I can’t handle going through everything, or get too bedazzled in the process and am usually in need of an anti-anxiety tab or 2. So – not worth the mish.

These are ‘obstacles’ I’m slowly getting a handle on. But that said … I think theres some depth to my thinking lol. I mean, just cos its ‘out there’ doesn’t make it Ours to take.

So, when and if I re-blog, I’m usually either ‘supporting’, giving props and / or completely digging what I’m reading and agree with it and would rather re-blog it than re-write something similar.


So thats Me.


Feel much better now I’m in the ‘re-blogging explained’ loop 😉


funny old things,


usually held

until necessity

makes them

impossible to hold

any longer.

Dear Dad

Since you don’t seem to be available at present, I decided to write to you instead.

I hope you’re doing alright back in Oz. Hope Aunty is good and your mokos are well.

Guess what? Moko #4 (thats your great moko) turned 3 the other day. She’s the youngest one. My youngest girls little girl. She’s a bright little button – so clever, so beautiful. She loves her bottles still and has a new ‘love’ – chocolate! Apple doesn’t fall from the family tree there! She had a birthday party with her papa and her papa’s family, last weekend. And during the week, her daycare gave her a cake and let her blow out the candles. She loves doing that. We bought her kinder surprises for her birthday present. While it sounds a bit lame – she loves watching YouTube videos where the kid opens up the big plastic eggs and theres kinder surprises or other little things in them. So we bought her 6 of them!

She’s a gorgeous kid. And her mama makes sure she knows all sides of her family: cousins, aunties, uncles, nannys and koros. Because their family is a bit like ours: Separated and spread out. But even at 3, she knows whose who.

Your eldest mokos eldest baby plays the drums. Did I tell you that? He’s 9 now and he’s been playing the drums since he exited the womb. He’s bloody good you know. He’s been having a hard time at school and thats knocked his confidence a bit; but we’re all working on it for him. He’s a dearly dearly loved little man!

Then theres the 2nd oldest. She’s just a law unto her own. She has her own groove and her own means to measure that groove. She loves dance and sport. Dance – like Me. And sport – like her mama. She has this uncanny ability of remembering who is who and who is related to who. She can remember the family tree, a bit like her mama does. She knows the different koros and where they all are. She remembers who stayed around for the main events and who ‘moved on’. She even remembers those she never met; who died long before she was born. She remembers the stories we tell her, and she re-tells them. She’s 8.

Lastly, the youngest of your eldest moko. She’s dynamic, and so so bright. She has a new friend, from her daycare. They both love chocolate apparently; and spend their day making ‘cakes’ with play dough and taking care of their ‘babies’. She has favourite dresses and shoes that she likes to wear every day. She watches out for her little cousin at daycare too. She doesn’t like the bus because she was in one when it crashed into the gate. I told her that the lady that was driving the bus was a douche and next time she saw her she could tell her off. She liked that. She’s 3 and turning 4 soon.

So why am I telling you all this?

Because you’ve never asked.

My beef with you has always been the same. And as I got older and got on with life, I slowly forgave you for not knowing a god dam thing about Me. And I made as much peace as I could, with the thought that your inability to insert yourself into my existence, was born out of your own insecurities – that it was nothing to do with Me.

But here we are, 45 years later, and you still have no ability to see anything other than You. You still can’t talk to Me, or insert yourself into my life without trying to take it over.

That aside …

I see you, on the 3rd generation, doing exactly the same thing. Even as a great koro, you know virtually nothing about your mokos. I’m unsure if you even know their names. And while I feel sad that they don’t speak with you, and haven’t seen you for a few years; I know they know who you are.

Are they missing out? Considering you are still very much in the land of living – the answer should be Yes.

But unfortunately they aren’t missing out on anything. Not because they don’t know – because you have extracted yourself from another generation.

Heads Up – You possibly don’t have another generation to wait before you get it.

They, on the other hand, are just starting their beautiful lives.

Here’s hoping you can get over yourself before they get too old to care. And here’s hoping you can get over yourself before you die.

Anyway – Take care.

Your daughter.


ruminating on the demise of the pedo cunt

this has been swirling around the grey matter for a few days. since the conversation with my girl.

i haven’t let it effect me too much. so thats either progress, or dissociation or both lol.

i found out the pedo cunt has yet another victim. not surprising really.

there is a strange thing that happens though, in the psyche of the victim(s) of pedo cunts generally. we tend to believe, or come to believe, that we are the only ones. i think this is in part due to the disbelief that their sickness is indeed a sickness … like a disease, it spreads. we tend to believe that (maybe thats for preservation of our own sanity, I’m unsure) their deeds must have been a one off; that they couldn’t have possibly gone around fiddling with everything in sight and no-one notice it.

through my studies though, i gleaned that the average offender will have racked up a cool 20+ victims in the course of an average lifetime. these are minimal stats. the true representation is far higher, given that the average offender may have started in their teens and die in their 60s. most of these are unreported.

but these stats alone are revolting.

so back to the pedo cunt at hand.

turns out a neighbours son had quite a bit to do with him. enough time spent for the pedo cunt to introduce this child (7 at the time) to sadistic pornography. if anything else was done to the child, this has yet to be disclosed.

if anything was done to his siblings; this is also unknowen.

the likelihood of the pedo cunt having only picked 1 of the siblings for his loathsome pleasures is unlikely.

this leaves me wondering – how the fuck does the universe let this revolting human live on? why?

on a more realistic note however; it makes the idea of outing him completely and utterly, a likely scenario, to commence very soon.

i won’t dwell on it to much here. at the moment.

i can’t.

i just needed to get it out of my head.

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 ❤ ❤ ❤

touchy subject

I don’t think I’ve written about this before … but feel the slight-ish need to now, due to recent events in my most fabulous life lol.

It’s the subject of intimacy.

I write and talk quite freely about all things awkward, painful and controversial – with the ease of a dissociative twat. But that s how I do’s it; it works for me. And instead of fighting that now, I roll with it.

But the intimacy thing … well that’s all 3 – all kinds of awkward, painful and controversial.

When I say ‘intimacy’ I don’t just mean sex.

I think the cruel ‘irony’ of PTSD by sexual assault as an infant, is that unless you are going to become a hermit, or hermit-tess, you have to be intimate in one way or another, sometime throughout your life.

PTSD comes with flashbacks … sight, smell … intrusive reminders of something you’d rather forget. Sexual assault, at its core, permeates through every little part of you, that is you … that is yours.

Your physical being, that should only be yours … to share when you want … to offer when you want … is invaded long before it should be … in a way that should never be experienced.

And if you believe that your physical being is connected to your spiritual being, as I do, then sexual assault permeates that as well.

And then when someone touches you; stands in your space; comes in for a cuddle; shakes your hand … what do you imagine happens in those few moments?

Thats right, you re-live everything.


You see, I don’t have to be asleep to have nightmares. It happens all the time.

And in those moments, I have to assess what the danger ratio is, before I involuntarily dissociate or have a huge ass panic attack. Fight – Freeze – Flight.

“All she wants is a cuddle” “All they want is to say hello” “All they want is to be close to me”

That is my living nightmare.

And a nightmare I can see the results of everyday, on the faces of the people I care about … and who care about me.

Thats enough now.

I don’t like talking about this.


First Published on: May 26, 2016 @ 12:14 … and is still a subject I don’t do well.


i’m beginning

to see

to understand

as i shed

the layers

that i once


that you still



as i was

and cannot


anything else.

which means

you are looking


what makes



not at what




First Published on: Apr 9, 2016 @ 14:20 ❤