Saturday, July 06, 2019

Murder house

When you think murder house you think house made for murders like H H Holmes had at the Chicago World's Fair. In my case I think of a house being murdered. 

The other day murder was attempted on my house---construction involving drilling through brick. I stayed around so I could provide access to the builders to the toilet but after some hours and increasing loss of tolerance to a drill that my PTSD-afflicted brain said was coming through the wall to strike me like an ice pick through the ear I had to bail. I informed thewife I was going, told the builders I had to leave due to bureaucratic PTSD then drove off. 

I got maybe a hundred metres when I lost it, swallowed by heaving terror as I wailed inconsolable from my loss of normalcy; that I had been driven from my home by noise combined with injury and that I had failed as a man. For to be rendered to the state of a terrified child that knows there are monsters in the dark whilst in the flesh drape of a purported man leaves you useless and bereft.

It was the worse attack of industrial noise I'd ever suffered.

The next day my guts were roiled and and accentuated by a shart so fulsome I had to clutch my arse cheeks together to stop shit dripping down my leg and walk with a catoonish twinkle-toes gait to clean up myself without having to clean the floor as well.

It has been over five years since I got injured and the fucking injury is with me for life.

I had already failed as "a man" through dint of height lack and a fat form so to lose mental control and whatever manly stoicism I once had was the icing on the "have a penis; that's it" cake of masculine countenance.

I read the other day that gender expression is a performance; that we are culturally indoctrinated in how to meet a gender "ideal" for the benefit of those around us who we seek to impress. That to fail to play in that role is to draw aggro for not displaying what our brains consider to be a manly or femmine ideal.

I never had the bod to carry it off and then my manly mind was stolen by injury. 

I do take solace that I boiled for hours before I cooked off and days before I had been in a car with a wailing baby without issue due to CBT technique applied on contact.

But I'll not tempt fate another time. If there be construction again then I'll not be there to hear it; I'll fuck off to the library instead. Which is exactly what I did when they came back the next day.

The library; protecting not men from manly noise since they existed. Except, perhaps, for an audio library of manly noises.

Tuesday, June 25, 2019

Cat yowl

When you have PTSD loud, sudden and or sharp noises trip your panic switch. 

A cat yowl is all three.

The ginger cat would not stop, I think it's missing its substitute mum, and I couldn't find the ear protection for hot minutes of terrifying pussy action. Up until I did my panic escalated and I was now frightened. I'm still frightened.

A workplace mental injury did that to me and it's a seeming ever wound. That a household cat can scare me into an unreasoned animal state is deeply fucked up. 

There's no pithy coda; it is what it is. And what it is is balls.

Saturday, June 15, 2019

Murf is a king

In a small Texan town Murf King and friends voted to make their dale an abortion free zone. It didn't have a clinic so perhaps they were trying to stop drive by terminations.

Murf is a fat old white man and so is the rest of the council. Murf cannot have abortions and neither can his friends.

Not every legislature can have someone with a lived experience of something being voted on---that's where asking questions and understanding how people not like you can have motivations that are not yours matters. Such as being a woman who is pregnant and does not want to be.

Kings make decrees because they're in charge and whatever they say shall be.

Murf is a king as are his mates. Fuck women and fuck people not old, fat and white. 

Sunday, June 09, 2019

Still mad

Ever since my surgeon told me my body was not my fault I've been mad. Not angry, mad. The rush of unfairness for a life I missed has left me steaming. 

I think I could have handled it if I'd been supported but I wasn't. So my unreasonable anger is reasonable. 

If time heals all wounds then it's going to take a while. Like fallen number eight long.

The past; if only you could keep it there.

Thursday, June 06, 2019

Wet slippers

With chickens and winter I have to trade slippers for crocs when entering the pen, switching out on the patio. It had rained and pooled water soaked the blue slippers through.

I tried to dry them in the shed but the cool shade did not help so I pegged them out on the line.

Then one of the chickens asked to score drugs and I realised I'd given the alleged urban signal of shoes on a phone line that street meds could be had nearby. 

I said "no" and left then realised a chicken speaking was a big deal let alone its propensity for an illegal high.

It was the big brown one; she's always been trouble. 



The sexual abuse I suffered was mild; fondling by my child psychologist who diddled me via hypnotherapy. 

The hypnosis did not work and I watched through lidded eyes as he pulled my pants down and played with my junk.

Twinned with that was the physical and mental debasement suffered 'neath a posh veneer.

Child abuse stories make me sick. I will see a headline about a story then judge whether I go in—I owe it to a victim to know their truth but against the shit of my own lest I trigger.

More often than not I bail once in because it just fucking rips me. 

Even a positive tale—where someone lauded is now undone—are a risk.

It was the universe at its best then when I triggered to just such a piece then started angry crying and yelling before ending up on the patio in heaving, chocking sobs in a fucking fight pose, fists cocked, ready to punch out whatever was there.

I stood, battle-panting, scanning for threats or weapons.

It was completely instinctual, animal. There I was ready to kill though there was nothing and no one there because I was fighting ghosts only I could see. 

Trauma: it's the gift that keeps on giving.

Wednesday, June 05, 2019

Cheese dreams

It's near two am and I've just eaten two slices of brie.

Bring it on.

(turns off light)

Sunday, June 02, 2019

Dickensian palace of fuckthuggery

I was having an angry brood about the before ago and I spat that out. It's true—it's as good a description of one of my schools that I've spat. The events of then are thirty years gone—but they echo in the now.

It's fucked and debilitating. To be angered by past abuse is because you relived it. That magnificent gift of worthlessness and lack of agency.

I had nowhere safe to go—even alone because you're just alone with your stupid self. 

I can't see a way back to acceptance of that—save that it is a part of me as a bone or face. And to hate your body is self defeating because you didn't choose it; it was chosen for you. 

But to have shit hung on you for that absence of choice ... fuck...