Wednesday, December 12, 2018

Scared out of K-Mart

We went late presuming kids abed at that hour, shopping for a Santa pressie swap. I was a dozen feet in when a two-year-old screamed but it was as if she'd come up to me while I was asleep, opened my ear wider, took a breath then yowled as loud as she fucking could.

I countered with a "HOLY FUCK!", left the Xmas section and ended up in toys where happy chocolate-covered toddlers were shriek-babbling at each other and forcing another retreat. I tagged out when I could and as I made a break for the carpark a joyful screech pursued. I left with palm heels against my ears and counting to ten to drown out hints of child.

This has been "Fun with PTSD and Xmas shopping." As in avoid it where poss.

You learn to keep your mouth shut in Canberra

In addition to the Official Secrets Act and need to know principles you learn to keep your mouth shut at times of the year in Canberra. Like in summer when bits of plant or animal float, hover or fly and are small enough to be inhaled if you're riding. 

I hit a cloud of gnats then went lips shut for the next few kays until I was clear of the places where swarms of gnats live. 

Later I saw one of those Cottonwood tree balls floating along, like a sky mine ready to choke anyone not applying lip closed sensibility. 

Canberra: they don't warn you about the inhaling of floating things. 

There should be a disclaimer.

For I am now the neighbourhood Sonja

I was riding my trike alongside a skate park when a teenage boy screamed at me "ON YA, SONJA!" then started clapping and laughing at me.

I nearly turned back to ask "What's the matter, never seen a short, fat man on a tricycle before?" only he'd almost certainly say "No."

I don't know if that's slang for a fat man or if it was just hilarious yelling of a name because of the rhyming but he and his mate had a good laugh at my fucked-up body.

I got annoyed at being fat and yelled at for taking exercise—how's that for logic?—but later, on a different ride, a couple heard me coming and moved off the path and after I yelled thanks he said "No worries, brother."

So that made up for the Sonja. 

I guess that makes me Brother Sonja. I can dig it. 

Tuesday, December 11, 2018


I had to speak to an issue and cried at the end. I left the room to avoid hearing those speaking against. The person whose issue it was then flensed any opposing views with cold fact and got the full win.

I didn't want to but got convinced to try; I got to Shake for her Bake.


Trod on a foot

I have wretched feet—utterly flat, as if drawn by a lazy cartoonist. If there is any imperfection upon the surface that I tread in bare feet I will notice. It's a bit like The Princess and the Pea only a reboot as a Rumpelstiltskin-type antihero and she has deformed feet like they have been drawn by a lazy cartoonist. 

So when I trod on the foot I felt it as sure as someone who trod on an caltrop

It was 1:32 scale and the foot was still standing but snapped at the ankle. Not only was my move reduced in half it fucking hurt like you'd expect within someone who is heavy-set with failed feet who stands heavily on the snapped off remnants of a toy soldier's foot.

It was not lost on me that he too had flat-feet, from being a toy soldier, who in real life could not serve because of their flat feet. 

If I was a cartoon, badly illustrated or not, the words I yelled would be represented by an asterisk, an asterisk, a hash mark, "... what the actual...", asterisk, question mark then exclamation point.

I real-speak it was likely "Fuck, fuck, fucking hell, what the actual fuck?!"

My body; failing miserably since prebirth.

Saturday, December 08, 2018

Flying mudguard

I was speeding along a sloped straight bit on my trike when I was overtaken on the left by my mudguard as it snapped off and shot over my shoulder. It nearly hit me. I don't know why my trike decided my mudguard would snap off then try to kill me but it did and it failed. 

I don't use it in the mud so the lack of a mudguard isn't too irksome. But it looks funny with one on and one off—like it passed out on a couch and its flatmates shaved one eyebrow. 

This is not the first time a pedal-powered conveyance has had at me or caused me ill—once handlebars snapped in my hands and I fell off that bike in the middle of an intersection and the car behind me fortuitously stopped as opposed to running me over. 

You understand the normal risks of riding and accept them as part of the experience; but the firing of bits of itself at you is typically not one of those risks. Unless it was assembled on an ancient burial ground re-purposed as a tricycle factory. 

My suspicion should have been aroused by the instructions that told me to pour the blood of a chicken slain at midnight upon one of the guards of mud except I fully put it on the right one and it was the left that came off. 

Stupid instructions.

Friday, December 07, 2018

Toe fingers

I cannot bend without afearing my legs will snap off. But I can lift my foot up whilst free balancing on the other.

So I use my toes as fingers to grab an floored object then lift it to finger height. I don't have terrific feet either but my toes don't tremble like the fingers so if I drop something the toes get it and hand it back to the fingers.

I dropped seven pieces of clothing, mostly socks, whilst putting away dried laundry. And it was simpler to use my toes and lift than reach for the grabber to grab.

Toes; useful for when your fingers fumble.

This has been "Fun with PTSD and the lower extremities."

Tuesday, December 04, 2018

A royal trigger

I'd accidentally gotten hooked on The Crown then got to the episode about schooling—the sentencing of a child to an institution that is in no way applicable to that child. In this case Prince Charles being sent to a horror show in the highlands where cold showers and dawn runs were the norm. He hated it; every year. 

So I got triggered. I got triggered seeing his shitty school experience in mine; of being a square peg in an institution for round people and suffering as a result. I got angry and stopped watching it. Then got angry again when I finished the ep.

What I think pissed me off the most is his mum gave a shit; she wanted him to go elsewhere but deferred to her husband's decision to put the man into his apparently weak son. My mum was fully on board my distress which included physical, mental and sexual abuse.

I told them at the time and they either didn't believe me or presumed I drew the aggro that caused it.

Private schools that allegedly make boys into men make for shitty men; egotistical scumbags if they're athletic or fractured shells if not. I'm a Humpty Dumpty of spider-webbed cracks from breathtaking cruelty gussied up as elite education.

It's been thirty years since I took myself off to a state school and at least had my final teen years a scratch less fucked. But the damage that fucking place did to me, damage caused by my parents' deliberate, malicious decision to send me to that place still boils my fucking blood—especially in now knowing my shit body was my mother's fault.

I'll never get over that; that an institution took pride in putting its boot on my neck and squeezing down as hard as they could.

I didn't break. But I remember; I will always remember and to never forget means to never forgive. 

And I am just fine with that.

Wednesday, November 28, 2018


The startle reflex is the most shit outcome of PTSD—where if you're triggered you go into "Cartoon hole in the wall" phase where, if you could, you would punch through a wall to escape leaving a silhouette void where brick once was. 

I had an hearing test to see if my startle reflex was more acute because I have greater hearing sensitivity and it turned I both did and did not—a Schrodinger's cat reaction. My hearing is poorer because one ear drum has a saggy hole in it from age and abuse but my hearing is more sensitive because my wounded brain listens for threats and if I hear something likely to trigger flight fight my mind devotes resources to listening for tiny noises in case it's a sabre-tooth tiger headed for my cave. 

It is deeply fucked up. It is deeply fucked up to be scared by a fart which happened the other day. It was a pair of connected rooms, I did not hear the person enter the other room and when they farted I screamed "JESUS FUCKING FUCK!"

What does this mean? Well more therapy, exposure therapy no less, getting used to loud and unpleasant noises and breaking them from the visceral lizard brain reaction to grab a weapon and get ready to run. It's disconcerting to see your hand spasm for want of something to hurt something with; it's like you have fucking alien hand syndrome

I cooked off after the test and had to sate with pills, vodka and Diet Coke and CBT to against the dark eating my head. 

There is a benefit of PTSD; but mostly it's "Fuck, PTSD sucks; how can I make that suck less for other people with PTSD?"

My angry son once threatened to clap at me. He holds the power to cause me ill just by making noise. Do you know how hard it is to parent when your kid can destroy you with mere volume? It's like if Superman had a super Kryptonite-immune son who had a necklace of Kryptonite. 

Sounds, the bad kind, are my Kryptonite. Perhaps the therapy will make it less so. 

Here's hoping; living in a world where normal sound can scare you is not living—it's existing between scary sounds.

Sunday, November 18, 2018

Ha-ha at a-ha

YouTube selected "Take On Me" by a-ha and I laughed at the ending where the cartoon hot dude with the nice hair rents space-time to become real to be with the reality lady hero where they've only had a dance, a fight and universe hopping in a short space of temporal time and that's nothing you can build a long-term relationship on. Plus the scientists will want to dissect nice hair to see if they can also hop between a two dimensional cartoon 'verse and this reality because you could live forever in 'toon verse and presumably no longer have to eat or shit. 

Think it through, a-ha.