But I’ve already paid!

Already paid

With some leftover tea

I chuck some painkillers at me

A certain kind of guilt and

a definitive disgust wash over me

I fight every day

to keep a smile on my face

being strong, overcome

I have a new life to embrace

I know this is not what

I signed up for

I’ve paid the full price

for so much more

But I guess some you win

and some you lose

So I experience my life

in a different pair of shoes

But I’m still so sure

I was destined for so much more

so much more

I’ve already paid for

© Kait King, 2015

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Equal but Different – Let’s Celebrate!

Equality lets celebrate

I believe we are stumbling blindly into an inferno of uncontrolled hedonistic violence and sex. There is no argument that sex and violence are two of the most basic instincts in a human, particularly a male as he is the protector and the pro-creator; or that these two basic reptilian responses have been a part of human nature since the beginning of time.

What I find concerning is the lack of the repulsion response to violence or unnatural/violent sex. Research indicates that women, or young girls, are not only joining gangs and becoming more violent in their everyday life, but also are committing suicide in more violent ways. If we look back in time, women are the carers, the nurturers, the collectors and gatherers. Women were seen as mysterious as they bled and didn’t die and could give birth to another human being. An amazing, necessary and painful responsibility, but one that sets us apart as women and the carers of the next generation. I think we have lost track of that view. Is it because of Women’s Liberation? I don’t think it is because of that, but perhaps a catalyst after so many years of denial and oppression for women that they just went crazy and like most things they snowball into something unmanageable or inexplicable. Women needed to create their own freedom, this was a necessary journey but now we need another hero to pull us back to reality, balance and a normality.

So back to the violence factor. Women used to gas themselves or take pills to commit suicide. Men were the ones who used guns and ropes to do the same. Back in the 1970’s more and more suicides committed by women were found to be with razors, they would slit their wrists. Then they started shooting themselves and hanging too. Women were deemed to see suicide as a way of going to sleep and to look as “peaceful” as possible. They didn’t want their faces blown apart or a mess everywhere – that typical female response seems to be fading as we move forward, women seem to want to be seen as violent, angry, retaliatory and don’t fuck with me individuals. As tough as a man, as strong as, capable as etc. And there is no reason we can’t be. We are all on different levels of ability – what we shouldn’t be doing is denying that ability. We should celebrate our individuality, our gender responsibilities, our strong points – no matter what. But it doesn’t mean we aren’t equal in the ability to be human – we just have different EQUAL roles in the responsibility of the Universe, our lives, our people, children, plants and animals – all Earthlings have a reason to be here. All Earthlings have a role in the world, some of us know this role and others of us struggle to find our purpose. But what our purpose is not, is to degrade, belittle or detract others from their journey.

I’ve watched Jack Ass and I wonder what influence that may have had on today’s young kids. When we were growing up, if we saw someone (young or old) fall over or hurt themselves or if they failed at something like a driver’s licence or baking a cake – we didn’t laugh and point at them and shout “Loser”. We sat down with them, put an arm around their shoulders and told them that they would be all right and be able to do this again. We would help them, pick them up, dust them off and push them forward again, not nail spikes of spite into their very soul to keep them pinned to the lowest low.

So I wonder what has happened to us all. I look rather sadly around me when I see more and more women with guns standing next to a Giraffe, Elephant or Lion they “hunted” with an AK47 and I’m ashamed. Children and babies burnt, tortured,starved, ignored and suffering, our elderly abused and forgotten to rot in unacceptable conditions, animals tortured and used for sick individual’s pleasure. But most disturbing of all is that it is a woman at the end of those appalling acts, more and more.

So I beg of us all as women to take back what is ours, our mystery, our caring, our nurturing and saving of the world. We are women, our power lies in our ability to calm, talk, bring peace, negotiate and love. Please help me bring our job-description back into the light, it’s who we are, it’s what we were made to do – I don’t want to fall into the hole of what everyone else is doing or hardening up for – if we do this we will crack and fall into a squidzillion pieces never to be a whole again. Am I living in hope of a Utopia? Please say it isn’t so….

© Kait King, 2015

What’s wrong with you

mary bell

Mary Bell what the hell

at ten was inside your head?

To choke a little boy of 3

until he’s stone cold dead

And then to carve your name in him

the initials MB in his chest

Did you want everyone to know

that this work was your best?

I know your mother was a prostitute

and she did terrible things to you

And is she the one responsible

for making you into you?

Others have an even sadder tale

and are left with deep scars too

but others haven’t needed to kill

or do the things you do.

© Kait King, 2015

If you want to

if u want to

I have a notion

that your emotion

is not just a session

of dark depression

but a mark on your heart

like a bite from a shark

missing pieces never found

and this is why you’ve gone to ground

I can guess

you don’t see this as a test

but an evil calculation

to distract you from your destination

A calculated move

to jig you outta your groove

But the world is not against you

just try on the other shoe

it’s not that hard to do

and if you walk a decent mile

you might cry but you might smile

ain’t it worth it in the end

if you find you’re your best friend

So don’t knock yourself so hard

you’re not stupid or a retard

We are all given different gifts

And as we live our outlook shifts

from continental rifts

to continental drifts

we figure it’s not just about ourselves

that there are no Christmas elves

and that you need to really care

for everything

if you want to get along here

© Kait King, 2015

Only Sometimes…

onlysumtimes

Sometimes I pull my jersey up over my head

or just want to stay curled up in my too big bed

I just want and wish everything to go away

I feel numb, time is timeless and I don’t know what to say

Sometimes it makes me feel like I’m only ten

and I’m playing hide ‘n’ seek again

Sometimes I want to curl into a ball

and say good bye to it all

Sometimes I don’t know if I have the energy to breathe

let alone anything else life has up it’s sleeve

Sometimes I wonder what a life would be like

if I could be set free without string and fly like a kite

Sometimes I doubt what lies in front of me

I try not too look to far ahead as I might not like what I see

© Kait King, 2015

Warning – things may not be what was expected…

warning

There was this time, when I was with the Police, that a small, older woman came to the front counter to report her son missing. Her clothing looked a little disheveled and she was carrying a plastic bag. Although her hair was tied back, plenty of it had escaped and almost floated around her, like a wispy halo. I believe she was of Indian descent and was a little difficult to understand but certainly not impossible. Naturally this was also compounded by her stress and anxiety of her belief that her son was missing. In briefly assessing the situation I guessed her son would have to be in his late twenties at best and this was not going to be a child we would be looking for.

So she tells me her son is in Australia and he calls her every day to make sure she is all right as she has had some issues too, with her mental health. But disturbingly he hadn’t contacted her for 4 days. She describes him as the loving son, the good son. On a crumpled piece of paper she’s handed me, is an Australian phone number, his passport number and a photocopied driver’s licence picture but no licence details. She’s pleading with me to find him – like any mother, she just wants to know her boy is OK. I see the confusion and fear in her eyes and feel compelled to do whatever I can to help her. So I show her a place to sit and go back into the offices to dig around, both with the phone calls and the data base surely I will be able to give her an answer. And after that there is a lot more to do but I’m hoping it doesn’t have to go that far.

I call the number she’s given me and ask if her son lives there and is employed there as the manager of the backpackers hostel. According to his mother, he’s been working there for 3 years – y’know, he gets cheap or free accommodation for managing the place. Yet according to the person who answered the phone this was not the case. Her son, let’s call him Mike, had not worked there for two years at least. It was the owner I was talking to so I just scratched around the surface to find out if he was worth digging – and he was, as I found some interesting, although sad, information.

So the owner of the backpackers hostel tells me this; Mike left the job two years ago because his mother found out where he worked. She was mentally unstable and harassed him and called the cops on him numerous times even though he was just trying to quietly live his life and get on with it. She told the cops he was suicidal or had killed someone or was going to be killed.

Also, Mike sent her money every month too, to help her cover bills and have a better life. The hostel owner understood she was under care and lived in a particular place but he couldn’t say where. He believed she had been diagnosed as schizophrenic. I thanked him for his help and asked if he knew where Mike might be now. He didn’t – but he did have an old mobile phone number which I took down. I rang the mobile number which was in Australia too and left a message on an answer phone – which did not say ‘Mike, leave a message’ – but someone else’s name. This may be for a very good reason though.

Mrs Patel and I wait for the phone call, I make her and I a cup of tea and I sit with her. With the information I had about her state of mind I gently coaxed her to tell me what was going on. From her perspective at least. I was prepared to wait half an hour before expecting to have the phone call returned – naturally I’d prefer immediately, especially when it’s a message from the police.

“So when was the last time you actually heard from Mike?” I ask between a couple of sips of tea.

“He’s angry with me!” She exclaimed.

“That’s Ok, families squabble – but how long has he been angry with you for?”

She squeezes the paper cups’ rim flat between two worn-out looking fingers and twists the cup gently in her other hand – just going round and round the rim.

“I haven’t spoken to him in two years…” she drifts off and starts to tear up. “I had a dream that swords were stabbing him all over and I could feel the fear and the danger he was in. I need to help him – to warn him of this!” She kept looking at the cup and turning it. “He will die if I don’t find him and protect him! I need to – I’m his mother!”

My heart went out to her as I knew she truly believed her son was in danger.

“Is this why you came into the station to report him missing? I ask.

“Yes…” she nodded. “You will find him and I will be able to tell him, save him.” She gazed at me anxiously.

I take her hand from the cup and lightly hold her fingers, forcing her to make eye-contact with me and stop giving rim to the cup!

” Mrs Patel – who do you think would want to do this to him and why?”

“Well God, of course.” She seemed almost startled at the idea that I wouldn’t know that. I could see her change as she became incredibly suspicious and cautiously pulled her hand away.

“What makes you think God would want to do that to your son?” I ask openly.

“I messed with the TV aerial at home and was so angry with one of the other people that live there that I pee’d outside in the garden…”

I’m not often one lost for words but this time I coughed to make up some thinking time and had a sip of tea.

“Sorry Mrs Patel – excuse me…so you went to the toilet outside in the garden? And that is why God is going to hurt your son with swords?” I have to use a fair amount of question marks as that is what is grammatically correct but really these questions are used like statements – she’s nodding and confirming as I’m feeding her back her story so that I can understand what the hell she is talking about. That really is irrelevant but I realise I have a person here who is mentally ill and has quite possibly not taken her medications for who knows how long.

Short story long – apparently the television backed onto her room and made too much noise. Often it was late and it was always the same old fellow watching something too loudly as he was deaf. So when she asked him to turn the volume down so that she could go to sleep, he would tell her to fuck off and all sorts of other nasty stuff – and loudly, being deaf and all. So in order to get him back, after not having any luck and being called names, Mrs Patel took the TV aerial so that he couldn’t watch any programmes at all.

So the old fellow upped the anti and left the TV on with the white noise at it’s loudest and had been going to bed deaf as a doornail and at the other end of the residence where the men slept. Well Mrs Patel was furious and took a dump and so forth under the window of the old man and being summertime it certainly didn’t take more than a few times to get flies a-buzzing and a super high hum going under his window.

After, funnily enough, four days of this drama going on, Mrs Patel suffered severe guilt for her actions and believed God was going to strike her son dead. When I did track the son down eventually, I explained to him that I wouldn’t expose his whereabouts or phone number etc to his mother. She was very ill and he had been embarrassed too many times and lost too many jobs by allowing her into his life. I felt sorry for him too. It’s never easy living with mental health issues whether you are the one ill or the surrounding network of someone who is ill.

Well I had listened to her story, I knew her son just did not want anything to do with her. This wasn’t something that was going to be healed and she couldn’t expect a phone call on Wednesday at 2 pm or anything. Something else needed to change as the relationship between them both would not.

I asked her afterwards, ” How great do you think God is?”

“Oh God is greater than all things.” She said very confidently.

“Is he greater than man? Than a human being?”

“Of course – he made us, his is greater than everything put together, his love is greater – just everything.” She replied.

“So then tell me this, why would God have such a human spiteful nature to hurt your son – that spite or judgement is a human trait. God is far, far more loving than that. Another human being may feel like that if you do…you-know-what under his window – but God would never do that – he’s most probably chuckling at us having this conversation now.”

I smiled at her and she started to cry, I quickly put my tea down and gave her a hug. She clung to me like a limpet and had a good weep. I handed her tissues which didn’t really get used as much as my shirt. Finally she pulled away and wiping her sad brown eyes, she said to me, ” I have never thought of it that way before – of course God wouldn’t be that petty!” She had a watery smile on her face and gave me another hug. “Thank you , thank you so much!” She said delightedly.

“Now you just need to make friends with your house-mate I believe.” I winked at her.

I found out her carer’s name and tracked down which residence she worked in and she came in to pick up Mrs Patel. She was so grateful to find her safe and sound, she said that poor old Mrs Patel does this every now and again. Although we didn’t see her back – not while I was there anyway.