Monday, September 26, 2016

It's like I've had a second go for me

I didn't know how I'd go at being a dad. It turns out I love the experience and I am good at it. Mind you thewife does 90 per cent of the actual work—because of my disabilities and her preference for domestic excellence—but in terms of emotional and actual availability I am there with boots on.

When I had my seventh psych assessment the assessor asked about my childhood; how it was. I said it was "neutral". He I asked what I meant. I said that I had full care and support and mechanisms to excel but that I endured disability, scorn and mockery which included from my parents.

Needless to say I still have a fucking chip on my shoulder.

So with theboy none of that bullshit is happening to him that happened to me. It's like I've had a second go for me, to raise him how I should have been raised—with deep love and affection and zero judgement for physical failings or, indeed, for any failings. And where effort, even that which ends in failure, is praised then praised again.

Of course he's an only child so gets double-barrelled deep focused love—there's no others to be measured against or favoured like what happens in almost every family with more than one child (and which happened in mine). 

The best revenge is doing well and I am doing well with theboy. I love him and he loves me. 

The other day I watched Lincoln, the story of Abraham Lincoln's attempt to get the thirteenth amendment to ban slavery passed at the tail end of the civil war, The most poignant moment is when he takes his twelve-year-old Thaddeus to bed. Lincoln lies on the floor, interacting with Thaddeus at level, then on all fours playfully throws his kid on his long back and four walks about for a bit. 

The other day I was on all fours and theboy was atop my back, his head nestled in the hollow of the back of my head. I stalked about for a bit then stopped and just enjoyed the experience.

Revenge is fucking awesome. Take that, everyone else—I win.

Sunday, September 25, 2016

A hazy shade of haze

I was up until just before five am, awash with gas pain and unable to sleep. I woke before ten still bloated and pain wracked. I had pain meds then spent the morning drifting about in a haze of fuddled mind and bloated distention. 

Then I saw I hadn't take my head pill last night—the one my brain now chemically needs in order to fall asleep. 

I'd been in that kitchen more than a dozen times during the failed mission to sleep and I can't believe I didn't notice it. It's the first thing I normally check for when I can't sleep. 

When you miss a dose it's normally best to grin and bear it until the next one but my mind is so fuddled from lack of sleep and the wigs from lack of medication that I took it on discovery, along with the morning one, and I'll just have to see what happens next.

I feel somewhat like Elric; he needed medication just to function but when he functioned he was power personified. Mind you he later swapped his meds for a demon-inhabited super sword and the best I can do is a battered laptop and a desktop PC so old it still has a floppy drive—and I still need meds.

So now I wait. I wait and see what happens with the medication and sleep. I'll probably zonk out for six hours and with my sleep cycle shot to shit be up at 2 am again, head pill or no.

It's the price you pay for getting injured, even if the injury makes you awesome; a clarifying event and catalyst for change and self-acceptance. 

It's like an origin story but in reverse.


Friday, September 23, 2016

Chickens want food!

I was musing in the shed when there was this horrid, repeated scratching-on-metal sound through the outside metal wall—the shed making up part of "the wall", the chicken pen fence that separates them from us.

I went out. They were clustered behind the fence near the shed door. The big one had been scratching and pecking.

They looked up at me and clucked with menace—with the implication that the shed wall noise would continue if I did not meet their demands.

I caved. I got a small amount of feed and sprayed it across their yard so they'd be excited about finding it. They didn't move at first; they looked me in the eye with a cocked, tiny, menacing dinosaur eye, and only then went off to find then eat it.

They already own 20 per cent of the garden. One morning I'm going to come out and find they've annexed the shed and I'll have to bribe them out with two sacks of feed and a Tony Abbott chew toy.

I know, the latter surprised me too. I think they're socialists—earlier I caught one of them reading the Green Left Weekly.

Thursday, September 22, 2016

Tyrants pwned; 19th century style

Abraham Lincoln from one of the Lincoln–Douglas debates for the senate race in Illinois, 1858.


That is the real issue. That is the issue that will continue in this country when these poor tongues of Judge Douglas and myself shall be silent. It is the eternal struggle between these two principles—right and wrong—throughout the world. They are the two principles that have stood face to face from the beginning of time; and will ever continue to struggle. The one is the common right of humanity and the other the divine right of kings. It is the same principle in whatever shape it develops itself. It is the same spirit that says, "You work and toil and earn bread, and I'll eat it." No matter in what shape it comes, whether from the mouth of a king who seeks to bestride the people of his own nation and live by the fruit of their labor, or from one race of men as an apology for enslaving another race, it is the same tyrannical principle.

Yo' got Lincoln-slammed, tyrants.

That's the heart of good government—the belief in and dedication to the common right of humanity.

Lincoln for the win. The irony being while he lost this race—the 1858 senate election—ultimately the debates won him the presidency in 1860 due to the earned media exposure. 

Way to play the medium, Linky.  

(Stovepipe hat doffed)

Tuesday, September 20, 2016

Sent off to buck up

My old gallbladder removal scar and tissue beneath is swollen, distended. It hurts depending where I sit. I believe it's surgical adhesion, my organs are "stuck" with scar tissue to muscle and fat above instead of slipping around nicely beneath. 

It's an unpleasant sensation. As I ride the exercise bike the sag of my girth pulls down on the scar tissue within and it feels like someone has grabbed my guts and yanked them towards the floor; surgery meets weight meets gravity. 

Earlier I had looked in the mirror to check my stomach and saw how fat I am and got sad. It looked repellent. I have achieved almost total body acceptance but even self-worth that high can't beat a mirror. Later, a while after the solo viewing, as theboy and I were doing stories he noticed I wasn't focused due to this misery. Then we got to the end. 

"Now go and have a lie down or a cycle," he said. 

He'd noticed me spacing out during the shared story then commanded me to go and fix myself with CBT such as with dark time (lying in the dark and reading the tablet with white noise playing) or cycling (swamping anxiety from brooding with physicality of exercise).

He's less than 10. I love that he can do this but I hate that he has to. Hooray for an empathetic child. Boo for having a Dad that needs a lot of fucking empathy.

Monday, September 19, 2016

Defeated by a watering system so my face watered

I tried to get the backyard tap to work but the automatic watering system that was bolted onto it defeated me. No matter the setting I picked I could not get the water to come the fuck out. 

I started unscrewing the system so as to bolt the hose directly to the tap with my trembling, coordination-robbed hands, thought better of it knowing I lacked the dexterity to put it back or even connect the hose to the tap at all, then screwed it all back up and left it.

I felt utterly useless. I started crying in the kitchen because I couldn't do a basic task and shouted I was useless. Then, as if my son was there, I yelled I wasn't useless because that's he would have said if he heard me. 

So it was an echo of yesterday; feeling defeated, lost and robbed. But the moment passed, I gritted teeth and then kept the fuck going. 


UPDATE: The battery on the automatic watering system had died. It was not me; it was a tech fail.

Sunday, September 18, 2016

They came in the morning then again that day

It's rare to have a double-attack day but the first one primed the second and I cooked off. The second time I was crying under a crossroads sign as the rain fell, huddled, pulled into myself like I could retract deep into my being as pain, anger, sadness and loss collapsed into a single miserable singularity. 

Then I snapped out of it, fixed things, then had another attack but this time in a safe place where afterwards I'd feel better.

That's what it is to live with psychological injury. That you can enter moments of juddering insanity and deep, wrenching grief but then you just have to claw the fuck back out of it because people depend on you.

I hate the injury even as it's made me strong as fuck. I loathe these acute moments because I feel useless even though I am extra-useful; it's just I have limitations with things like basic dexterity and coping with a crowded car park on a wet Sunday. 

If I was a GM in a points build game and someone presented me as a character I'd strike me out as too limiting to the action; "This fucknob has to make a fear check every time he's exposed to a sudden and or loud noise? No deal!"

But it's real life and we play the character we get; I'm the true-rolls version of me and I'm the only me I'll be. Unfortunately only me comes with a side order of occasional grief outs (1).

Being me is still fun to play, even with all the disads—and sometimes because of them.


(1) Space outs but with crying and light staggering

DoSoTPC—the new steed is ridden

SoTPC the exercise bike has been consigned to the discard pile and a new steed, Daughter of Son of The Purgatory Cart, or DoSoTPC, is in its place with thanks to thewife who assembled it from the box (1).

But, in the interests of ease-of-use and in tribute to man meets machine in a perfect resolution, I shall call it "Betsy". For you should always thank the machine that keeps you aloft and helps save you in the event of a crash. 

Betsy was a delight. No horrid, jarring skipping like the dying SoTPC where the resistance would slip causing a "free wheel" and risk you tearing your knee or throwing you forward. 

It was glorious to ride something that I did not loathe. I still hate exercise but if you have to do it make it the least horrid you can.

Hooray for Betsy—long may she hold me in her loving seat.


(1) My fine motor skills being shot to shit from medication and injury such things are beyond me. Not that I built stuff before; she did it then as well.