Friday, April 20, 2018

Outside micturition

I have a body that's best described as "a fat hairy cherub that grew up".

That was not lost on me as I did a wee outside, one foot raised because it was sore and copied the pose you sometimes see on a water fountain cherub statue that is pissing out the water.

I'd like to see that; an aged-out adult cherub with a pained expression as he blasts forth a tepid dribble.

Take that, fountains! (shakes fist)


I woke up maudlin knowing there was horror work to do and asking myself if it was worth it. What will it achieve? Will it do anything? Is trying making me sicker?

I lay on my bed with my tablet with that looming grey mist ahead. 

Then I saw my battery level was 69%.

Heh heh ... 69.

So it can't be all bad if I can still laugh at that.

Wednesday, April 18, 2018

And the pedal connects to the ... shinbone

It's not meant to, it was an accident, but I managed somehow to slam the pedal of the BYB into my shinbone just outside a McDonald's. I yelled and said words that are not great as I went down ramps to reach lakeside and ride.

A pedal connecting to the shinbone is painful. Not piercing and squeezing an ever boil painful but painful nonetheless. I have a bruise across my lower leg where it struck. 

Fucking hell. I'm out getting exercise and processing distress and I ding my shin with my own super pushie.

That's such an Oz thing to do. Next I'll be dinking into the lake.

Later I got my ever boil pieced and squeezed.

Universe! (shakes fist)

Sanity check succeeded

I copped some distressing crap early in the day then had to deal with the outcome. I did a combo of a response, shower then exercise with music. Though my thoughts were still with the distress I didn't rage. I did bust out two Valium though just before the shower. 

The exercise was an outside ride and the chain came off. With little power and an upward slope I had no chance to glide back on battery. I had to stop and deal with it with the added drama of an urgent wee. I got the chain on after two goes and it stayed on. My wee was safely and legally received by my own toilet.

I took the mental equivalent of a tree branch to the face but so far have not lost it. I applied CBT and meds and dealt with the distress with almost detachment. I didn't lose my shit---or wee---when the chain came off either.

I may have nightmares later. But if I do I know what to do to stay sane when I awake.


Belly button hurt by chair

I was leaning across the old wooden chair when my gut rested on the edge and it went right into the belly button. It hurt. I stupidly went "what the fuck was that?" then poked myself there to confirm that's what it was; a self-strike with a chair to the belly button.

The confirming poke hurt as much as the chair-issued one. 

I'm short and fat; it leads to adventures with furniture. Not sexy ones, just basic attempts at avoidance or use.


Childhood, school and work; the three phases of getting to two legs all afflicted with horrors that invade my sleep. I wake brooding.

The boil

It's still going. Each night it is opened and ichor comes out. It hurts to move sometimes 'cos it's so tender. I didn't ride for five days to avoid chafe.

My cracked skin is appealing to someone who picks their skin. I have to rub moisturiser into my feet so they don't get crusty and picked and look like a baked dry river bed. They hurt to walk on. It hurts to move my legs into a position I can do it. I look like the world's worst contortionist.

The battle continues. Some days I feel it and my Valium use has dropped back---I've only had one in a week as a preventative for a public outing with noise and crowds.

The Ouroboros begins as it ends; I wake brooding but it doesn't define my day or cause snotty deep rage storms where you're wild-eyed and panting, tears and snot streaming from your eyes and nose. They used to, and still can, but for now I just brood instead of wail. That's better for everyone but especially for me.


Wednesday, April 11, 2018

Permanent guest star "leg boil" popped; non-hilarity ensues

My ever boil on the inside of my right leg—it's been there since last year—got popped. We let it rest in case the lump was inflammation from popping but the boil just rose up and had to get popped. Out came ichor and blood. There was much shrieking from me.
So it's back to the doctor for more advice or a what now?! Something is keeping the boil on the boil. I suspect it's an ingrown hair but I'm no doctor; just someone that meets a lot of doctors. 

I have many ailments. But I'm like a special car with a pit crew needed to keep at max efficiency. And I have a wee cup so I don't have to stop for breaks after lap 40. 

It's not all glamour, ladies. 

UPDATE: It got bigger overnight—like the peach from James and the Giant Peachwhich meant it,whatever it is that causes the lump was close to the surface.

When the lump was deep and pressed on it didn't hurt that much. But, close to the surface, after it was lanced with a needle then pressed on it hurt so much I thought I'd pass out. Apparently I didn't scream but did register vocal disquiet. But it means that hopefully the fucker is on the drain. It already feels better, movement wise, in the hours after its brutal open then contents squeezed. 

There's a weird pain after-glow you get from moments like this—or such as when you've passed a sizable poo—where you think back to that pain and the relief you now feel from whatever caused that pain. It's an odd euphoria.

But during the squeeze phase it felt like a broad bladed weapon gouging into my flesh. It was worse than the Xmas one.

Here endeth the ever boil? We shall see... 

Thumbed self in the balls

My left hand was aiming for underpants elastic when it happened and I misjudged where the thumb was going and I thumbed myself in the balls with my over-long thumbnail. 

It hurt as indeed almost all non-sexy testicle contact hurts if it's delivered with any force.

I trimmed my nails back the next day; no mean feat for someone with PTSD and jittery, shaking hands. The right thumbnail was the hardest as I'd let it go the longest and it was so thick the scissors held by my non primary hand ended up cutting into the nail at six spots just trying to land the killing blow to trim it all back. I'd have used nail clippers but I couldn't find them. 

People talk about the facts of life but rarely about the facts of mid-life. Where's sage old men telling middle-aged men that their scrotum is going to drop and they will likely hit themselves in the nuts more so be more careful? 

Balls; sometimes they're balls.

Sunday, April 08, 2018

Disappointed Queen

A while back I gave theboy a money tin I'd filled with spare change over two years from whatever coins were in my pocket when I walked into the shed. When it was full—it was a money tin from a Fathers Day stall that said "My DAD Rocks"—I was always going to give it him to say thanks for the tin

So with money from his tin he bought me a fancy swear box—a tasteful wooden effort with glass frontage allowing you to see the coins and notes fill it up. It wasn't meant to curb swearing, he just liked the box and told me when it was full then I had to spend the money on myself. 

It will take time to fill it. Since I am not in salaried work I don't walk around with a wallet with money in it and rarely enter the shed cashed up.

But there is a scattering of coins and a single five dollar bill, Queen-side facing out. She's in there sideways and she looks pissed off. 

I think it's about all the swearing. 

The swear box; there's an angry Queen in there and she's fussed about the cussin'. 

I still find it weird there's a Queen of Australia. She's nice and all but she's a historical affectation that should be cut loose. I look forward to currency in my lifetime that doesn't have a Queen or her spawn from a distant shore laced throughout our cash.

Saturday, April 07, 2018

Fat king great

I was on my man trike—the BYB—on a weekday afternoon ride when my path intersected with with another on which were three groups of kindy kids in red shirts. There were twenty to a group with teachers in the gaps. For no reason other than sheer enthusiasm they started waving at me as I waited for their pilgrimage to clear.

It was too socially awkward not to wave back but they weren't moving at speed and I caught them at the start of their parade. I waved the entire time and got apologetic thank-you nods from the teachers that were with each group. 

Halfway through I started waving like our current queen, a light hand twist that wasn't too irksome and felt majestic. For they were too young to revile me for being fat and just decided I was worth waving at.

So I felt like a fat king and I felt great.

Then I sped off into the afternoon sun.

Royalty, I get the buzz. I was, after-all, the queen of my high school class's last swimming carnival. 

I got overthrown into the pool.

And the three little ducks went CRACK, CRACK, CRACK

I was taking a cube from the dishwasher powder cube box when the set of three plastic nested measuring "spoons" that are duck-themed with bonnets added to their heads were nudged off the shelf and fell to the floor.

I knew it was going to happen—so I was ready for the noise—but when they all hit it sounded like derringer fire from someone shooting over my right shoulder. 

Derringers are small handguns but small guns still make noise when used and it sounded as if the person's wrist had been resting on my shoulder when they fired. 

PTSD is balls; even when you know a sound is coming it's still unpleasant to go through it. I had just enough time to register their knock, fall and prepare for impact.

And non-holy shit that was a nasty set of cracks. 

My body tingled with fleeting fight flight and left a rattle-stain, the emotional after-glow of a loud noise as your wounded brain recovers from the scare.

The other shit one to dropping things that clatter is the self-slamming a door as you pass through. If the backdoor is open but the screen closed and I pull too hard on the laundry door knob to close it as I pass through then the extra air means it will slam with force while I am in the impact zone. I'll sense the speed of the door is too high and think "shit" and then WHAM!, right in the fucking ear. I did it to myself; no-one to blame but me.

If a portal closes with force next to a person with PTSD, will they make a sound?

Sometimes—"shit" as said as the brain thinks it, "fuck" is another and "Jesus ant-fucking Christ I did that to myself" is a rare one I may have used.

PTSD; it's the fucked-up brain response that keeps on giving.

UPDATE: Seconds later... I turn to lock the toilet door and nudge the bottom toilet seat to fly up with my leg. I turn back as it slams down and blasts me with unexpected noise.

I yelled "FUCK!"

So it's the middle one.   

UPDATE2: I later went through the front door and slammed it behind me. Right into the right ear. Which makes a nice change; usually it's lefty that cops it.   

Wednesday, April 04, 2018

D&D with Lego figs

He had a fishman with a returning trident. I had a figure with bat wings with a panda mask and who was armed with a spiked chain. He came up with the Lego combo and concept and I kept track of stats and mechanics in play using adapted D&D 3.5 rules.

So, how did it end? He downed me with a wing strike, pinned my spiked chain to the ground with his trident, grabbed the still 5' of chain I could use from my hands causing me to stumble prone and then did a called shot to my groin. We used lives instead of hit points but a called shot was two lives and that's all I had left

I couldn't be more proud

(panda mask doffed).

Hurt self before and during sleep

I gave up to the impulse and picked the bottom of my right foot before sleep. I managed to peel off chunks of deep layered skin to the point it hurts to stand on that foot—more so than the day before when I had let the previous effort heal up.

I ripped the index nail off from my left toe. That I can remove entire nails is due to years of doing it and fucked-up feet. 

It was during sleep—or it happened in that null-space between sleep and awake—when I turned my left knee and wrenched it. I won't be able to ride until the wrenching feeling is gone lest I damage what little cartilage I have left. 

By the time I will die, presuming old age is reached, I'll be going into the corpse recyc with two artificial hips and knees. Yes, the knees—for their time will come to an end before me. It's just one of the advantages of having a skeleton warped in the womb—you wear out and replace bits of you way earlier than you should and people hang shit on you for having a body that doesn't quite work properly and apparently reflects poorly on them.

But I'm here, I'm weird and I'm used to it. I am a body and brain that survived in spite of it and even thrived in part because of it.

Fuck survival of the fittest; try the grittiest. 


Tuesday, April 03, 2018

It's a process

I was thinking of the twin horrors of childhood and workplace and reflected on those who've gone through this shit before me.

It was a process and they got through it. They did various things, such as therapy, but time was a factor. It took two years for relationships to settle to a point where they were happy.

I'm still fresh, in the early months of re-trauma and it's a recovery process that will take effort and time. Then I will be through it. 

There is an end point to this; to be both be mad and come to terms with that which caused it.

I felt Zen. There may be some wobbly bits I'm wobbling along the line of the process and then it will be done. Or it may not be; but I will have tried to make it so.

Acceptance is a bitch. It's hard to embrace it because it bites, there are fleas and there is something manky hanging off its ear.

Short shorts fart fail; crockery exposed

I was unloading the dishwasher when my doctor-ordered short shorts fell past my arseline. Behind me was the crockery cupboard, at arse level, which was open to receive that which I was getting from the dishwasher. 

That's when I farted into the cupboard. It's not like I backed up with a reverse beeping noise, and there was no "spackle" as best I could tell—it was just a dry rectal cough. But still I farted on our cups, plates and glasses and that's not cool.

I confessed to the accident but there's little to be done. It happened, we have to accept it and move on. The only other option is to call in an airstrike to remove it or take all the crockery out and wash it solely on the basis it may have had a brief exposure to some arse gas. 

Needless to say neither option was on the table. But if it was John Bolton making the decision my house and the surrounding street would now be irradiated glass

That Mikey, he always has to bring a fart joke back to geopolitics. 

Here's to my big opening

With thanks to Elvira.

My ever boil gets tended every night. It's on the inside of my right thigh. It gets squeezed, stuff comes out and a poultice is applied by thewife.

Unless we close the door the black cat will come, hop on my tummy and watch the show. Because all the action is down there it means I get a great view of her enormous arsehole. As far as cats I know she has the biggest actual action area and the feline eye of Mordor was two inches from my eyes. There were no dags and it didn't smell. But I enjoyed the double-team of having unpleasant things done to my self whilst watching a cat's enormous starfish. In truth it's more fish than star and were it affixed to a wall and man-sized you'd presume it was an organic rip in spacetime to the upsidedown dimension from Stranger Things.

That would explain the nosebleed afterwards.