Most of us are barely able to keep our heads above a vortex of misery that always draws us into it’s depths to spit us back out gasping for relief. Many find solution in a bottle or a substance or a behaviour that provides a temporary numbing before succumbing once more to the never ending spiel of torment and misery. For so long this was my addiction, an addiction to chaos that governed all that I did and all that I knew and all that I feared. This is the story of Hine and it’s not unique nor is it incredible. The cratered scars of my life are physically, socially, intimately evident. I witnessed the entire devastation through a thinning film of loathing and repugnance that ensheathed my psyche and lay waste to a victim that I blamed vehemently, myself.
I had held and maintained a fantasy for so long, that in 2020 I would become a wandering minstrel alone without human interference. It was a dangling carrot that kept me going for many years. On the odd occasion that I would see the memes asking if people would spend a year alone in a wooded cabin for a million dollars, I’d scream hell yes. Make it a trillion dollars and I’ll spend the rest of my life alone. I remember telling a former boss that if I never saw another person again, it would be too soon. I fervently desired to be free of people and their problems. The truth is I wanted to be free of my perception that there were problems and that other people are the problems, because in reality my thinking was the only problem. I suffered inextricably over the years because of this and other unattainable desires. Ironically, in a distorted manner, thanks to COVID19, what I had desired has occurred. Finally vindication for the loners and the reason to be alone that I didn’t have to fabricate. Ironically, I no longer maintain that mental illusion but I am busy so I’m grateful for the reprieve. However, the fact is I prefer being alone, the lone honeybadger guarding my territory with ferocious intensity, especially now that I’m no longer suppressing my creativity to fulfill an idealistic notion of perfection. I love the creative interplay of word, action, photography, singing, gardening, cooking, couture, business, exercise, knowledge gathering and joy. Finally, 8 am free to explore my capabilities without worrying that someone won’t like me because I’m highly capable.
Repelled by the established story
I don’t need religion
To deliver who I am
I don’t need cultural identity
To face who I am
I don’t need information and labels
To define what I do
I don’t need gender identification
To govern my path
I don’t need sexual preferences
To determine who I should be
All I need is to be
For then I know who I am26 April 2016
I’ve spent my entire life being rejected for what people perceived of me. This created a mental hell in which I became repelled by established stories of who I was and why. I too in turn, have been repelled by a person’s, town’s, country’s, established story.
What do I mean by an Established Story?
Let me tell you a little bit about my story. As a child I suffered prolifically from eczema and so my skin, from my head to my feet was scaly, itchy and red. This left alot of scarring and I was the butt of much ridicule and condemnation for this skin condition. This became the story by which I was judged. As the years crept by, other taglines appeared, poor, Maori, darkie, ugly, stupid. These became the established stories by which I was judged and which made me, repulsive. Throw in sexual molestation and I am a good old recipe for a lifetime of self-determined and self-inflicted torment. A story to behold.
Living by the stories
The distinction between past, present and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion.3 January 2018
When one continually receives a barrage from the”established story”, one’s perceived identity is defined by it. One becomes conditioned to the narrative and then it’s just easier to act out the prescribed role. Troubled tween, becomes out of control teen, truant, feisty, with a mouth that could cut down the devil himself. “Get you before you get me”!
What one learns in the school yard
Kids are cruel and I was tormented mercilessly, not only for my skin but for being clever. I didn’t fit. I was the wrong colour for the Pakeha ie brown, because I am of Maori descent. Yet, I was too clever for the Maori. This was compounded by my father’s insistence that my siblings and I speak English grandiloquently and his repulsion of Maori, despite being full-blooded, without a known trace of Pakeha blood. Thus, we were forbidden from associating with our own Maori people, which I deliberately and flagrantly ignored. Torn between expectation and reality impacted heavily upon me and, this in turn affected me at school. Academically, I was the classic under achiever. Extremely capable and clever but rarely did I complete or submit school work of any description and, my grades reflected this. In class, I was disruptive, belligerent, recalcitrant and down right rude and nasty. This is how I interacted with everyone, in and out of the classroom.
Mindset to retaining established stories
Why is someone else’s non-acceptance more important than than ones acceptance of self …. personally I’m very comfortable being despised by others, in fact I think I actually enjoy it …. simply because I recognise that fear governs judgement but, more importantly because it gave me more reason to want to outcompete them.12 March 2017
Self loathing and distrust were the foundation for all the stories that I began to weave, to reinforce and to retain what had now become, my established story. This lead to destructive, toxic and self defeating mindsets and thus, behaviour. No good can ever arise from such a state of mind and, so misery and devastation lay in my wake. Like nuclear fallout, poisoning the environment. Suffice to say, there were victims aplenty.
I am a creature of darkness that lives in the light. Anger courses through my veins in place of blood. I tick like a bomb ready to explode at the slightest trigger. I am seeing myself through the eyes of my worst enemy. I am normal.
Once upon a time …..
I read avidly as a child and soon the fabric of the imaginary landscapes became interwoven into my own fervent desires. I used stories to dull pain, boredom and loneliness, ducking in and out of various different story lines, desperately trying to escape reality. Like all innocence, I did believe the fairytales at first, but that was eradicated within the grim reality of cheap and ugly patterned wallpaper, on paper thin walls with cheap material in place of doors. Christmas 1982, after watching a typical American Christmas movie, where Santa clambered down chimneys to deliver presents. I laid my red woollen tights at the end of my bed having childishly believed that it would be filled with presents when I awoke. I can still taste the bitterness of disappointment and I knew instantly that, fairytales were just books.
It was 1982, that my family had moved from Tokoroa to Mangakino and it is here where the bullying began. However, it was something a little less innocuous that caused the burgeonings of fear. The Lord of the Rings animation that was shown in class. The hobbits cowering from the ringwraiths, filled me with terror and later that night, I too cowered under my thin blanket, trying desperately to drown out thoughts of orcs and black riders. Despite having spent much of the previous year living alone in the subdivision of Tokoroa, due to the separation of my parents and, my mother working away from home. It was in Mangakino, that I would learn about isolation, segregation, poverty, molestation, human stupidity and cruelty.
Why does sanity become insanity?
Sanity became insanity, in a cesspool of childish taunting for being afflicted head to toe by the skin condition eczema and, living with a cold and bitter father at home, who would constantly remind my brother and I that our mother had abandoned us. My father having endured his own nightmare life, was devoid of affection and raised us the best way he knew how, astringently. Suffice to say, home and school life were torture. After moving from Managakino to a tiny hydrovillage Waipapa, but continuing to attend school in Mangakino, I would spend most of my time, alone. Isolation created the perfect breeding ground for irrational fear and quickly, the student overtook the master or in this case masters, which were vast, over an extended period of time. Thus, operant conditioning festooned an exceptionally acerbic tongue, that would shred people’s sense of self-worth, including my own. How could it not.
In light of my skin condition, I tried desperately not to stand out, a difficult feat as I was extremely clever. To counter this, I was the classic underachiever, morose, recalcitrant and disruptive, as I had come to expect the worst. Thus, I instigated many an altercation with student, teacher, my father and brother alike. Get them before they got me and never back down. All foes and no friends, instilled and consolidated distrust of other people and self, exacerbating my isolation and providing a fertile breeding ground for fear and predication.
An acquaintance of my father’s Mr Palmer, who lived at the top of Tanekaha Terrace in Mangakino, introduced me to a lifetime of sexual frigidity. He would’ve been in his 70s and almost 40 years on, I can recall every detail with minute accuracy. Unfortunately, he was the first of many, whom thought that sexual touch without permission was acceptable. All of these combined molestation experiences left psychological scars and contributed to my inability to have intimate relationships with anyone. It also generated a fierce protection of my own sons. Hence, very few adults had ever been to my home, when my kids were young. I was born in the Chinese astrological year of the tiger, during the Scorpio cycle and, I am represented in Primal Astrology by the honeybadger. Honeybadgers are solitary creatures and are known to attack lions, which aptly describes my protective behaviour, from other people. If only I could have protected them from myself in the same manner.
Alone in my room, my eyes would trace the decrepit wallpaper patterns and the contours of my bedroom, until my mind could transport me out of the doldrums of my existence. It was this capability to leave reality behind that, I utilised whilst I was being molested and to cope with trauma. My fantasy world would be interwoven into the pages of the books that I poured over, the fictional characters as real as I was. At the very least, the emotion and feelings were real and I fought, ran, loathed and conspired my way through the remainder of my childhood. As an adult, I was haunted by variants of the same dull wallpaper and furniture everywhere I went. Blinded by the same dull eyes, my mind was a toxic infection laying a destructive path ripe for precipitous cancerous growth.
When fantasy and reality collide
I spent most of my teenage years scared and angry, barely passing at school. A week before the end of my 6th form year, my friend Carlene and I both left school, knowing that we would fail miserably, as she and I had spent a lot of time “wagging” school. I never saw Carlene again and I was told she died 7 or 8 years later of an asthma attack. Carlene of the Jehovah faith was a beautiful soul who wouldn’t harm a fly. I think of her whenever I hear Elton John’s Daniel. Barely 17, fear of my father’s wrath, drove me to runaway with my friend Maryanne to pick squash in the Bombay Hills just outside of Auckland. After a couple of months, I was sent packing to Tokoroa and spent the remainder of my 17th year, learning how to sew, couch surfing, getting drunk, experimenting with marijuana and oil and, lost in a cloud of doubt.
Defined completely by the scarred appearance of my skin, haunted by molestation and having barely been touched as a child, apart from the odd fling (and a tumultuous relationship with the father of my sons), I have been single. Although, I do platonically befriend the odd equally mentally bereft person, it’s been easy to justify isolation. I fed myself a regular diet of toxic mental constructs ie “I can’t do anything”, “I’m ugly and repulsive”, “nobody would want to be with me” and a never ending spiel of perceived truth.
I crawled home at 18 and spent the year unsuccessfully trying to finish form 7 or year 12. Most of my friends were getting pregnant and in a desire to avoid the same fate, at the beginning of 1994, I bought a one way ticket to Australia. Doggedly, I finished the form 7 equivalent and enrolled in Victoria University in 1995, hell bent on becoming a psychologist. I was determined to find myself and thought I could do so on the shelves of Melbourne’s libraries. Initially, it was difficult studying because I hadn’t adequately developed the skill in secondary school. However, with single minded determination, I staved away self-doubt and worked assiduously. In addition to studying, I worked part-time at KFC and I was living at my mother’s place in South Melbourne. In 1998, self doubt caught me and I tried to destroy all that I had worked for by involving myself with the father of my children and getting pregnant. My worst nightmare and the reason I had fled New Zealand had materialised.
I destroy everything beautiful that I create because I believe that it’s not good enough. I truly didn’t know any better but, this knowledge wasn’t going to fix the havoc I had created. All I could do was allow the tears to roll silently down my face and cry, not sob cos then other people would know I was in pain and I had a penchant for suffering in silence. At least I did back then. As the stillness deepened, pain and suffering diminished. I could allow myself to view others pain empatheticly without being drowned into the abyss, even the pain of those that I loved. My family.
The stories are more obvious now as they dissipate, as I learn to allow the pain to be. It’s like watching a rain storm rage and slowly stop, petering out into a trickle, but taking eternity to cease. It’s strange that ordinariness can seem to be so painful, on both counts which I had aligned and defined myself by for so long, was insanely normal.31 May 2014
Boris was a lost cause, he had an addiction to gambling coupled with the inability to hold down a job, he was indolent, ill-mannered, lived at home with his mother, had dropped out of school in year 7 and was unable to string a simple sentence together. The perfect recipe for disaster and for a woman imbibed in self-hatred and loathing. It wasn’t long before I threw school in and commenced working at KFC full-time, which I hated. I realised that I was going to have to support my child and I as Boris wasn’t volunteering to help out. I stupidly rented a properly and due to Boris spending the rent money, we lost that soon after our son Kyle was born in 1999. Everyday of the pregnancy, I had prayed I would miscarry and on the day of Kyle’s actual birth, that very nearly materialised. Kyle had wrapped himself around his umbilical cord, which had settled around his throat and neck. My waters were manually broken and after a couple of hours, after no movement, Kyle was born by caesarean section at 1244 April 7 1999. Kyle was a beautiful baby and I felt unworthy of him. What ensued over the years was a litany of torment and sorrow.
Parenting 101 – why adopting your child out may be a great option
Every terrible thing I had learnt and every fear I had, I projected onto Kyle. I was afraid of raising a child alone and thus, despite many misgivings, I stayed with Boris. Homeless, we moved in with my mother and in an effort to eradicate the feeling of failure, I reenrolled in school. However, I drowned in my own depressive sorrow and gave up.
That year, I shed many a tear wallowing in self-pity and hating my life. Everytime my son cried, my soul screamed in agony and I lived in sheer torment. I was afraid to love Kyle, scared he would share the same fate. The truth was, I didn’t know how to love Kyle or anyone else until recently, when I learnt to accept myself. I felt obliged to be his parent, as my father had before me. However, a vast part of my mind, that rejected myself, was repulsed by parenthood.
Scar tissue leave telltale signs
Unwittingly, haunted by childhood memories and things that my parents had said to me, I made my fears for Kyle and subsequently, Amani manifest. I can recall with great clarity, the moment my mother told me that, if contraceptive had existed, that I wouldn’t have been born. I was seated at the white marled round formica situated in a corner near the heater of Park Towers and I responded that, I wished that I’d never been born. Her comment stung, contributing to my sense of worthlessness and confirmed what my father had shoved down my throat repeatedly. He made it clear that he resented having to care for us and when enraged, he would taunt me with the knowledge that my mother had abandoned my brother Atene and I and, had threatened to put us into a foster home if he didn’t return to care for us.
My mother had been fine leaving me to my own devices but then Atene too, was thrown into the mix. We never created a fuss about living by ourselves in Tokoroa, we simply rose everyday and went to school. Unfortunately, malnourishment caused Atene to suffer from shingles, which almost killed him. I got off lightly with optic herpes zoster, ergo I had a cold sore in my right eye. Under severe stress, I suffer from the odd cold sore and in 2016, I suffered from another case of optic herpes zoster. This time due to over exercising and malnourishment. The great thing I learnt is that when food is scarce, my body can survive with few repercussions. After all, I have 2 eyes and with better than 20/20 vision in my left eye, I see exceptionally well. The eczema and carbuncle or boil scars that proliferate my body tell a different story.
Admittedly, I’ve yoyo dieted ever since and had a chronic abusive eating pattern, oscillating between being skinny and fat. Feast or famine! At the age of 10, I severely overdosed on sugar, lemon and lime ice cream, minties and macintoshes toffees. I suffered from a raging fever and the next day and for many days afterward, I didn’t eat. It wasn’t that food made me sick, I simply wasn’t hungry. I was eventually admitted into hospital and spent a month on and off a drip, that provided sustenance, until I could eat again. I’ve never eaten lemon and lime ice cream since and I rarely eat ice cream. To this day, whenever I get stressed or sick, I cannot eat. Thus, as much as I loathe being overweight with excess fat piled unceremoniously around my body, with stretch marks galore, being skinny reminds me of my childhood and, being unwanted and feeling unloved. I predominantly knew torment and misery as a child and this was how I raised my children. It is why I was agonised by my son’s cries. Deep down I knew that I would create the same misery. This remained as such, until the latter half of 2019. Better late than never, right?
On and on …..
It’s one thing to wreak havoc upon oneself. It’s quite another to systematically destroy the confidence and well-being of another. Unfortunately, I pitted my sons against one another. They are hardly civil toward one another and made or make little effort to spend time with each other. That changed in early December 2019, after Boris had a stroke. Kyle is a hermit and rarely makes an effort to venture out. However, at Amani’s insistence, Kyle made an effort to visit with his father in hospital. He’s visited a couple of times since then. Amani who hadn’t attended the movies for many years, also extended himself by attending Star Wars with Kyle and I Christmas evening. They still bickered but, at least we all spent some time together.
The silver lining of Boris’s stroke is that hatchets were buried. Boris had been estranged from his brothers and mother due to a violent altercation between Amani and his family Christmas 2018. Immediately after Boris had the stroke, I was at the Alfred Hospital visiting with him. I spent many hours by his bedside whilst he slept. He needed to pee and I held a bottle for him whilst he relieved himself. One of the nurses hovered near the bed in case he required further assistance. Facetiously, I said out loud, that I was the best ex ever and that not even our sons were there to help him. I surreptitiously added that he should rescind all the times he called me a cunt. I looked at the nurse who just swore Switzerland and I laughed.
What goes around, comes around!
I remember at the age of 7, my parents had a minor verbal altercation in front of me. That coupled with my father constantly verbally mauling my mother, made it seem completely normal to fight with Boris in front of our boys. Financial problems fuelled verbal and physical abuse and forcing Boris to leave on a regular basis became inevitable. It wasn’t long before intervention orders were necessary. Familial violence from all parties became normal and misery seeped into the boys schooling, just as it had mine. Over time, I watched 2 beautiful bright children turn into a male versions of myself, isolated, angry and frightened. All fed on the insane mutterings of a crazed fiend, me! Guilt and regret compounded by viewing the present and future through my childhood lenses, blinded me to the gifts of beauty that I had been presented. My children and most importantly, myself!
Caught in the headlights
Dementia often causes paranoia and I was at the butt of it. Nobody, not even I, knew how bad my mother’s condition was. She accused me repeatedly of stealing from her to my one of my sisters Roi in New Zealand, who insisted that I move out. I asked our younger sister Wai, who had been living in New Zealand to return and support mum. Wai found it difficult to cope and we decided to send mum back to New Zealand. Neither of my sisters Roi or Sugar were able to care for her and within a couple of weeks she was sent back to Melbourne. I reached out to my siblings once again for support and with no direction, I decided to put her into a nursing home. The first nursing home was immaculate, it was open and spacious, she had her own room with an ensuite. Apparently that home didn’t meet health standards and she was moved to another home, which was set out like a hospital ward. All the patients were drugged and placed in a chair in a communal lounge. Mum aged rapidly and occasionally she would ask if she could come home with me. I was living in a flat at the top of 3 flights of stairs and, mum struggled up and down them. Thus, I knew my home wasn’t appropriate. However, Park Towers was an option and I started to put things into place to bring it to fruition.
You’re a good girl!The last words my mother ever said to me
The last four words that my mother uttered to me as she lay dying on a hospital bed, September 21 2008, days before she passed away. They would be some of the last words she would ever say. I looked into her eyes as she spoke with the last vestiges of her soul and my heart broke. I immediately said to myself that if I’d been a good girl she wouldn’t be on that bed. I had failed my mother. My Melbourne siblings and I had tried to get my mother home. Ideally to New Zealand but her deteriorating health made it impossible, thus we tried to get her to her Park Towers home in South Melbourne. My brothers Hiku, Eddie and my sister Wai and I were all committed to caring for her. I had felt personally obligated to complete my mother’s legacy and, seeing her home would have done that. Unfortunately, fate works it’s only path and mum died September 28 2008. I can still see myself howling on the floor near the table in Boris’s flat in South Melbourne.
I now had a healthy fear of failure and obsessed with that notion, I resigned from my job. I felt that if I’d put my mother before my own selfish desires, she’d still be alive. My mother had always put her career ahead of her children but from that moment onwards, I decided to put my children first. What actually transpired was something different. I put my obsession with trying not to fail first and thus, I became obsessed with Amani’s sporting success. I sacrificed everything. Kyle, music, relationships with family and friends, a career that matched my true capabilities. But, that wasn’t enough and so, I suppressed my sexuality, creativity, spirituality and any semblance of self. I didn’t trust myself or anyone else. I dragged Amani from sporting club to sporting club. If anyone did anything that I didn’t like, I moved him. Simply put, I fucked up and yes, I failed.
I’m addicted to the highs and lows
The way it feels
The way it flows
I’m addicted to the way you turn me on
I’m deciding here if I should act
But it’s in my head not an actual fact
I’m addicted to the way you turn me on
oh oooooh woooooh
I’m addicted to the story I must tell
oh oooooh woooooh
Because the more it hurts
The more that I can yell
oh oooooh woooooh
I’m addicted to the story I must tell
oh oooooh woooooh
The devil she’s a sleeping well tonightFirst Verse and chorus – Addicted (2008)
Homme Fatale, my Eden’s Apple! Temptation but more importantly, a reinforcement of my low opinion of myself. I can spot them a mile off and I know how to run straight to them. I can lump them all into one simple category – reflections of my mind. Simply put, unavailable. So of course I’ve suffered extensive motion sickness due to my addiction to the highs and lows.
The flip side to these Homme Fatale attractions is that, it stimulated great creative and spiritual growth. Most importantly, they were all parts of the yellow brick road to my ascension. Albeit, like most of my life, shrouded in the dark and gloom. Yet, light is best displayed against a dark back drop.
Not all men have been lost causes. In fact, I’ve equally attracted some of the most mentally, spiritually and physically beautiful men. The depths of unworthiness that broiled within me, kept them all at arms lengths. It is their light that brightened up my world and I am equally grateful to each one of them. I desired to protect them from my own viperous nature and if I’m honest, my egoic mind, couldn’t stand to know that I had been feeding myself malignantly perceived truths. To acknowledge that I was a reflection of their beauty and thus love, would’ve meant that I was a mythomaniac and suffered from pseudologia fantastica, ergo, I was a pathological liar. Obviously I was but, I hated to admit being wrong. Far better to be miserable, right? After all, fairy tales are books.
Thanks to one Homme Fatale, I woke one morning in February 2007 and began to spontaneously write songs. Both continued for several months and some songs are cringeworthy but one song in particular, I’ve sung at family gatherings. Like the drummer boy, my gift was a simple verse and chorus, made and sung with love. I’d had an epiphany a few years earlier that I needed to pursue music, despite having no knowledge or experience and barely having sung to myself. However, music has always been my greatest ally and there is always a piece that reflects my state of mind. Be I happy or sad, whether I’m right or wrong. They’re playing my song. Thus, on nothing more than an inkling that I could sing, in June 2007, I began singing in my first band, St8, which covered rock music, whilst working on originals.
She’s a stubborn one yeah yeah
She’s addicted to her labels
And conditioned by the ones who used to make her cry
She’s a selfish one yeah yeah
She keeps her heart disabled
She attracts the one’s she knows that she can leave behindFirst half of Verse 1 – She’s reaching for the door (10 May 2015)
Boris imparted strength and resilience as I learnt to stand alone and how to operate efficaciously. These two attributes allowed me to raise the boys, work, help people where I could and, drive the streets of Melbourne. However, as a result I developed a penchant for thinking men were useless. Not just him, but all men. Irrespective of how good they were, I could always come up with one thing that made them inadequate. In my stupidity, I equated cooking with relationships, which fuelled my yoyo dieting tendency and, thus I barely cooked. I would be damned if I would carve a way to a man’s heart through his stomach. Lucky I had learnt not to be hungry. Instead I attracted situations where I would be fed through work, events and people who loved cooking. That mindset coupled with my sport obsession added a sophisticated layer of unconscious reasoning. This set me up for a date with destiny!
She’s pulled from sleep
By recycled dreams
The gingerbread man taunts
“Yeah you can’t catch me”
At times she weeps for broken dreams
But the fox is fed
Truth is dead
So she must be flee
Runaway, runawaySecond half of Verse 1 – She’s reaching for the door (10 May 2015)
Enter stage right!
I managed to successfully run from intimate relationships for many years, so predictably I ran head first into a brick wall. My obsession with Amani becoming an All Black meant that I had to return to New Zealand. In the weeks leading up to my moving to Dunedin in 2018, I would feel physically and mentally ill. When I arrived in Dunedin, at the Manor Place Backpacker reception, I almost fainted. I was shocked at how antiquated New Zealand operated and the appalling standards of accommodation, the education system, payrates and the expense of everything. I hadn’t led a lavish life in Australia but compared to New Zealand, I was swimming in caviar and, I felt like I was slumming it. Everyone knew I didn’t want to be there and I should have taken an “Exist stage left” when my enrolment at Otago University was cancelled. However, I knew before going to Dunedin, I wasn’t there to learn information from an institution, I was there to be educated. Thus, with great resolve, I sucked it up like a princess and I remained. After all, I knew I couldn’t continue to raise an All Black in Australia.
I moved into a dump of a house, 81 Russel St, Dunedin. It was a one bedroom house but, the owners wanted the lounge as a second bedroom. The place was a fire hazard and falling apart. In my haste to procure accommodation, I agreed to take the place. In the cold light of dawn, after a thorough inspection, I realised just what I had signed up. Suffice to say, I terminated that lease and found accommodation at Allen St, North East Valley. I had an appointment at the Otago University Maori department and thus, dressing for that appointment, I turned up to inspect what would become my room in Allen St, later that day. Dressed in a beautiful red strapless maxi dress, Melbourne Kaukau was on display. Within minutes of meeting Dan, I called him a cunt and seriously, I wasn’t wrong. LOL! I don’t recall why I said it, I just remember being shocked and he responded beautifully with “yes but there are good cunts and bad cunts and I’m a good cunt”. I have to qualify, there is no such thing as a good cunt. Cunts are simply cunts. LOL!
How do I explain Dan. Can I explain him. Everyone’s looking for the person who completes them on the level of form. The human level. This has nothing to do with the concept of love, rather that, human beings are one half of an equation. That’s what Dan is for me. I recognised weeks before we were intimate that we were a dyad, two story tellers adrift on the cacophony of life and, where we differed we were extreme opposites. Knowing he was subject to dysfunctional behaviour, I was happy to leave it with just my knowing it was so. However, I was never going to evolve and I had been dying to evolve. All I can say is, be careful what you wish for!
Dan’s behaviour epitomised everything that I despised in men and I mean everything. Thus, to the prejudicial mind, we are incompatible. As I mentioned cunts are cunt, well I too was a cunt because Dan was married. Even worse, Beth who is a great person, lived in the same house. Albeit, in separate rooms. Furthermore, they had only agreed to separate, mere weeks before Dan and I became lovers. Fortunately, wisdom has taught me that people and situations are pointers and, I’ll admit that, there are many junctures where I despised the lessons. Dan’s egocentric behaviour and self-defence mechanisms were as expected, repulsive and my incapacity to tolerate weak men was tested. However, these dissipated in the second half of 2019, due to a realisation that I needed to slough off numerous layers of mental constructs that I had erected over my lifetime to protect myself. In plain speak, I had to stop judging people, including myself. The downside of being exceptionally clever and extremely smart. I also needed to fully embrace who I was and that meant I had to stop suppressing the siren call of passion that forces one to pursue the elusive dreamscape of spirituality, creativity and intelligence. Seriously, I have asked myself why I needed to learn this way. The answer is always the same. Arrogance had caused me to spurn the easy way a long time ago. Thus, I was only ever going to learn the easy way. Suffice to say, I’m no longer interested in pursuing challenges, LOL! I did mention I was a pathological liar, right?
Dan ended things for a while, soon after I returned to Melbourne and then we reconnected in March 2019. After I had a tantrum in July, we didn’t speak until November, when he messaged. I had been travelling around the South Island of New Zealand for a couple of months, fulfilling a lifetime dream and benefiting from the capacity to sift through my minds unconscious layers. I recognised fully that, I had become somebody I never thought I could be and I was able to see my old behavioural patterns in other people’s reaction to me. I was shocked to the core and it was outside of Twizel, that I eliminated all but one mental construct and felt settled within myself
Dan and I picked up from where we left off and despite telling me that I always looked pretty, my hangups still rendered me slightly insecure. After all, I knew what I looked like naked. He quickly followed that by accusatorily stating that I’d spent half of my life focussing on my children and the other half focussing on my looks. I hurriedly denied it but, the truth that I admitted later was that, I’d spent almost my entire life focussing on my appearance. The last 15 years I’d been focussed solely on looking good in the many camouflaging costumes that I owned. On another occasion, Dan himself admitted being insecure about his own appearance and, through his eyes, I saw how narcissistically silly I was. Thus, days before we met again in December, I fully accepted my body’s flaws. However, it was back in Melbourne just before Christmas, that I eliminated my narcissistic and final mental construct. For the first time in my life, I was unladen of emotional, mental and physical expectation and able to see and accept reality. I had already run the gauntlet in Dunedin in 2018 and as such, I was already unburdened with fear and had developed complete trust in who I am. No longer am I afraid of either the past or future and how I look. Now, I truely know I am free!
I’ve come to realise
The only thing I’m running from is me
I’ve come to realise
I don’t need my own permission to be free, yeahHook 3 – Me, Myself and I (2007)