Me and the Sunshine Blogger Award ;)

Note: The Italics are Mine 🙂

I’ve been nominated for the Sunshine Blogger award. Thank you very much to for the nomination.

Thankyou for thinking of Me 🙂 

Here are the rules (if you should choose to partake):
1) Thank the blogger who nominated you and link to them.
2) Answer the eleven questions asked.
3) Nominate 11 other bloggers and create a different 11 questions for them to answer.
4) List the rules and include the Sunshine Blogger logo in your post somewhere.

Although I’m not great at doing these, I do like questions. But rather than nominate anyone in particular, (as everyone I follow is well worth an award or 5 😉 ), if it takes your fancy, Nominate thyself 🙂 It’s about time we reward ourselves instead of waiting for someone else to do it anyway ay 😉


Here are my 11 questions:

1. What is your favourite animal?

A Donkey.

2. What was your dream job as a child?

I didn’t have one.

3.Do you speak a language other than English?

Yes. Te Reo (semi). Oh and Bitch: I’m fluent in that 😉

4.What is your favourite colour?

Black. Yes, technically Not a colour; but it is in my world 😉

5.Where would you like to live in the world if not in your home country?

Live? Hmmm … Probably an island … Or Italy 🙂

6. Your favourite historical era?

Does the 90s count?

7. What book or film character do you most identify with?

Hmm I’d say Hannibal Lecter 🙂

8. Do you have any pets?

A black cat. He’s an annoying little bastard … but technically, a pet.

9. Do you believe in God?

Which one?

10. What place would you like to go to that you’ve never been to?

Italy. Definitely Italy 🙂

11. What do you find most comforting when you are down? 

Cookie dough or chocolate. Preferably both. Oh and music. Oh … and the movie ‘DeadPool’. Depending on what kind of strain of ‘down’ I am (yes, I have strains) ‘The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo’ is also one of my go-to movies 🙂

So with those answered, heres 11 freshies. Peruse, nominate thyself and answer 😉

  1. Chicken or the egg? Which came first?
  2. Your favourite go-to Meal you like to Make (not buy)?
  3. Who was the most annoying person you ever had the displeasure of meeting?
  4. Innie or Outie? (Refers to your navel 😉 )
  5. Do you answer the door to Salespeople? Religious or otherwise?
  6. Have you ever got a speeding ticket?
  7. Is your version of god, male or female; both or nothing?
  8. If you could only buy one drink, what would it be?
  9. Favourite piece of clothing?
  10. Do you think racism is a ‘thing’?
  11. If you were Noah, and you could only fit 10 extra people on the boat: who would they be and why?

That was bit of fun for the morning – and there yah have it! Knock yourself out 😉 But before you do, go and check out the writings of luthienthegreen!


I am Racist, and You Probably are Too

A realistic, refreshing and informative read on Racism and what I essentially call, white privilege and a reality check.

Comments are turned off here. Please visit Peas and Hominy for more.


Peas and Hominy

“Hate and ignorance have not driven the history of racist ideas in America. Racist policies have driven the history of racist ideas in America.”

– Ibram X. Kendi

It is quite disheartening to realize that the people that need to read this will not. I assume that if you are reading this, you probably already have an open mind and are willing to engage. I think I have come to terms with this because we have to begin somewhere. We cannot keep sitting on the sidelines waiting for the world to change.

Now, you may think that racism is not truly an issue, or at least not an issue in your immediate context. You may claim that you are not a racist because you avoid hating others because of their skin color. I have believed both of these things, and I was wrong on both accounts.

I can only really…

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Extract: the day the raids came

#lestweforget this fucking atrocity!

“On the 10th anniversary of the Tūhoe raids, we look back at a book published by Rebel Press in 2010 recounting the experiences of 16 people effected by Operation 8. On October 15 2007 the ‘war on terrorism’ arrived in New Zealand when more than 300 police carried out dawn raids…”

Source: Extract: the day the raids came




Fucking ay.

No shit … the figures below are only ‘reported’ figures. Drop the age by about 10 years and treble the numbers and you might, just Might, get a more accurate rate.

But hey … lets raise awareness and money for some other shit, thats way more important 😶

Excerpt :

“And just as the average perpetrator isn’t necessarily a Harvey Weinstein, the virality of #MeToo shows that the average survivor isn’t necessarily a famous movie star either. One in four Australian women has experienced physical or sexual violence at the hands of an intimate partner.

The most common target of sexual violence is girls between the ages of 10 and 14, followed by young women between 15 and 24 years.

Indigenous women, women with disabilities or mental health issues and women in prison are all overrepresented in these statistics as well.”

For More on the #MeToo hashtag, Go Here.


the photography of: “let me photograph you softly”

I’ve been enjoying the beautiful photography @ “Let Me Photograph You Softly”.

See for yourself @ ❤

Comments are turned off here.

let me photograph you softly

v0995-297title   shibuya/winter/in front of a huge monitor at a station square

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because that is who i am

Although I’m not a hoarder by nature, and tend to gangstah lean toward the minimalistic slant on life, there is one thing that I do, unintentionally, hoard.

Sexual assault memories.

Now I don’t hoard them on purpose; they’ve just made their way into my basement and that’s where they stay. However, they do make uninvited appearances whenever they feel like it.

While I’m asleep.

While I’m awake.

When something smells familiar.

When something sounds familiar.

Otherwise known as Flashbacks: Or ‘Fuck-off Flashbacks’ as I like to call them; until recently, I thought everyone had this phenomenon happen to them. I figured though, that if their lives had been full of beautiful, picturesque, cheesy moments, then the emergence of any said basement memories, must be a pleasant, rather than horrific,  occurrence. How sweet does that sound!.

Turns out, flashbacks come with pts(d) aka Post Traumatic Stress Disorder; they’re not an everyday thing for everyday peeps. Although an ever popular title at the moment, the first time I can remember this title being used to describe ‘Me’, was in the late 90s. But that was it. No further explanation, or plan, or treatment, or anything. Just a wave of the psychological hand as I was ushered out the door with the recommendation that I take anti-depression medication. I argued vehemently that I wasn’t ‘depressed’ per se, but having to figure this shit out was wearing Me the fuck out; is that the same thing as a ‘Depressive Episode’? I think Not.

I dodged the system there after. I threw myself into motherhood and studying and working. By 2006 I had nearly completed my studies and was moving into a new job.

By 2008 I was getting physically sick. I couldn’t hold food down; I was covered in an irritating rash; my hair was falling out; my head was always sore; my heart was always racing; my stomach was always turning. A raft of medical tests showed up nuddah. Instead the ‘professionals’ prescribed antidepressants; which I didn’t take. Again citing that I wasn’t ‘unhappy’, but I was losing weight faster than I could keep it on: and, oh by the way – “can y’all fuckers help Me or not?”

By 2010 I was medically discharged from my job and shit was declining rapidly. I couldn’t walk, couldn’t hold a conversation, couldn’t drive, couldn’t make sense of much. The ‘professionals’, once again, prescribed antidepressants; the kick ass, make yah dribble, kind. Along with a few other strains of pharmacology – just for good measure. This time, I didn’t argue. I took them.

By 2013 I couldn’t leave the house. I still couldn’t drive. I was fat. I was tired. I was drained. I was broke.

So we did what any normal human would do, and we moved to the beach.

From then till now I have had an ongoing battle with ACC, to get assistance. Any assistance. The last assessment was done in August of this year; 3 years after asking for the initial one; 8 years after the one I should have had in 2009; one year after making a long ass complaint with ACC and them apologising for ‘the delay’.

In May of this year, I knew the battle with them was wearing Me thin (not literally – I wish!). The infrequent interaction with them and the long delays in between were adding to the anxiety and making me feel ‘sicker’, which was actually impeding any progress I had made from 2013 to the present.

But: Theres always a But –

I persisted with them. Believing they were my only resource or course of action. I thought I needed more money; more counselling; more help – of which I was actually entitled too, but felt like I was begging for. I really just wanted my life back and I wanted them to assist;  just a tinsy winsy little bit!

But gnawing away in my gutt, was a very clear voice:

“Girlfriend … They can’t give You what You need”.

I could feel the unbalance settling in as the father issue got thrown in there. But I persisted. With the father and with ACC. Because that’s what I do.

So on a particularly bleak ‘soldier on, even though I am nearly worn the fuck out’ day, I was trolling through my Twitter feed, and stumbled upon the Podcast of one very righteous drag queen who goes by the name of LaQuisha. Her Podcast was aptly named for my very situation: “Breaking Up With The NZ Mental Health System”.

Within the first 5 minutes, I had big girl tears in my eyes.

Sometimes … just sometimes … there is huge relief in knowing your not alone in something … that you’re not the first person to experience whats going on around you.

I felt relieved. She described her struggle; similar to what I was currently having with ‘the system’. She likened their neglect as similar to what she had experienced as a young person and within her family of origin. And I had a lightbulb moment.

I could see it falling into place. The father issues … the resounding silence … the blaming … the abuse.

I got it. Hallelu-Jah, I finally got it.

Or so I thought.

So Me and my newly enlightened self, wrote a quick post about it, so I wouldn’t forget and because that’s what I do. I saved the podcast for later perusal and thusly celebrated my Aha Moment.

The End.

That was 5 months ago.

And that’s right. I forgot everything I had just learned and I got further weighted down. Actually, I continued to let myself be weighted down. I analysed the fuck out of all sides of the issues, both ACC and father. I flipped it, responded to it, dropped the anti-anxiety meds, I talked it out, cried it out, blogged some more and then some more; I raged, I painted, I tried to remember the good things, I listened to soothing music, I tried more photography … oh, and I minimised and minimised the fuck out of everything. And yesterday, as I was on another rampant minimising mission, and was deleting shit off my computer, I came across – that’s right:

LaQuisha’s Saved Podcast.

A little surprised it was sitting there, just looking at Me, I decided to re-listen to it. And Yes, that’s right; 5 minutes in, and I was in big girl tears. A-Gain. So I paused LaQuisha – made Me a very delicious coffee – and came back to gaze at the screen for a just a little while longer, before un-pausing and re-listening.

Yes, that shit dawned on Me long and hard for quite an embarrassing length of time.

I had the answers to my conundrum 5 months ago, and for whatever fucked up, deep-seated psychologically mind numbing reason – I freudian-ly, chose to ignore it. I knew 5 months ago what I should do. What I already knew in my gutt, instinctually, 5 months before that. That there was No help in the system for Me and that my father and his bullshit, needed to Get Gone.

So I am now on a break up with ACC. I figure I need them like I need a hole in the head. I’ve done the assessment and gotten sweet fuck all from them. Will I get anything else out of them? Not without applying a shit tonne of pressure. And I do not have the energy for that, and actually, I don’t want to waste anymore of my time and precious resources on hitting my head against the proverbial brick wall. In the new year I may apply for more EMDR if I feel I need it; but that will be done on My terms.

Am I breaking up with my father? Definitely. I’ve deleted him completely from my life – Again. I don’t need his bullshit. And I never needed anything he had to offer; which was next to nothing anyway.

I’m now talking with my Mama about getting my name changed back to my maternal family name. We’re going to take a trip up the River, where our tipuna came from, to find the burial sites of my Great Grandmother and Great Great Grandmother.

The thought of that stirs my spirit.

This is about finding where I belong. Who I belong too. Who loved Me long before I was born. That is where My healing is at and that is where my strength lies.

It’s not in what I’ve lost, or what I haven’t got, or what I can’t get. It’s in what ‘else’ I am, what else I can be and what else is waiting for Me.
















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 ~


NZ NOW RANKS AT BOTTOM OF DEVELOPED WORLD – thanks Nats, you do us proud

Just a wee reminder of where our current ‘leadership’ has gotten us -for those heading off to the voting booths:

Rangitikei Enviromental Health Watch

The latest Unicef report has us languishing at the bottom of the developed world in relation to the health and welfare our children and youth. This report was based on the data our government collects and concerningly, with regards to child poverty, a ranking wasn’t provided because of a refusal to follow standard practice (an admission of failure?). In many documented areas we are seriously neglecting our young people (ranking numbers are determined by the data provided from a maximum of 41 developed countries):

  • Child Poverty (41/41?) I consider that we must be by far the worst in the developed world for child poverty when the Government refuses to use the same measures as other countries so that we can be ranked. Our Children’s Commissioner and the Child Poverty Monitor currently state that 14% of our children suffer from material hardship. We have a much higher threshold to…

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Stop or I Lop It

A descriptively ‘beautiful’ piece from Max Meuiner.

Comments are disabled here. Please go to to read more amazing poetry.

Max Meunier

there should really be
some kind of
penis purgatory

for the expiation
of this appalling appendage

and its plethora
of perpetual perpetrations

imposing an impotence

for its presumed

propelled by a petulance
spurred by its misapprehension
of perceived deprivations
and supplantation
of its deepest paranoia
pending inconsequence
and subsequent need
for incessant placation
from people abound

i submit
that penis is synonymous
with the id of male ego

from pliable pink-tipped inadequacy

to piercing impale of pleasantries forgone

and prodding
sans any apology

haplessly trodding
on that which it pleases
for self-validation
of urges capricious

a paragon
of base instant gratification

to which true compassion
opposes emphatically

no more pitching of tents
no more focal points fixed on dubious bulges
no more pencils in pockets
no more untoward questions
as to whether or not
they’re just happy to see us

no more furtive pocket pool
people can…

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essays? really?

Over the next little – or big – while, I’m going to be posting some of my old academic essays / assignments. They’re all pretty long (1,000+ words) and typical academic bullshit in their layout and how they ‘read’. The reason, I hear you ask?

Theres a few reasons.

Pts(d) has done a number on my brain – my memory – and there’s a tonne of shit that I have literally forgotten about. Theres other things that I remember, but have somehow hardwired only the unpleasant bits into my memory bank. When I started my “Me” posts, it was to remember who I was; what I had experienced … too document for myself, the bad bits, and the good bits. I’m glad to say, it did the trick. Although, I kinda sorta ended up with an online diary, but that works for Me 😉 When I started my “365 reasons to smile” posts, this was to start to re-frame and hardwire good shit into my system. That there was always something to smile at – to be grateful for – and this has come from the most unexpected of places sometimes. Yes, it looks like a bunch of memes that board line on racism with a dash of sarcasm and a twist of irony thrown in there; but for Me, that works; and it makes Me smile … everyday.

So this next round of posts, will be categorised under academic essays, and are just that. Some I’ve expanded on; some of them will have a photo attached; some will be down right boring and a couple slightly disturbing; and they all lack my profanity component. But as I go through them, I hope to recapture where I was at at the time; what I was trying to give voice too; and ultimately to remember just how far I’ve come.

I didn’t bother going back to do my Masters – for a couple of reasons. 1. I was fucking tired lol 2. Academia isn’t about opinion (in my opinion); its about regurgitating what some other old cunt thinks is a smart opinion. 3. Financially, I was all tapped out. 4. Institutions don’t agree with Me. 5. Institutions aren’t designed for ‘disabled’ peeps, no matter what they state on their brochures.

Also, as a side issue – I’m now thinking about going back to do my Masters then Phd. I always liked the sound of ‘Dr. Me’ 😉 No seriously, thats the only reason LOL.

Any who – this is a heads up for y’all really. Peace Out – be safe and have a completely gangstah Thursday!

Oh … btw … just randomly – YouTubes new layout is completely Boss, from my minimalistic perspective 😉