Monday, March 19, 2018

Robots with moustaches

Some robots have moustaches; deal with it.


I have on my hutch a MR. HAPPY book still in its plastic wrapper to cover up the remains of an '80s sticker that I had peeled off but I could not remove the final part of—a pair of Village of the Damned eyes staring right at me when I rode my exercise bike.

It wasn't until I used official Blu-Tack with a ball at each corner of the wrapper and pressed long and hard that the MR. HAPPY book remained in place and thus I would no longer be greeted with the mad eyes because the book had fallen off

I have a bunch of shit in the shed to jolt me into active mindfulness such as "today choose happy", "WAKE UP & BE AWESOME" and, of course, MR. HAPPY.

I was riding looking at it and cried because I knew I could never be that; that I was MR. ANGRY and I would stay that way. MR. ANGRY is not from the series, presumably because it would be too unsettling. Why would a kid want to read about the un-sexy adventures of MR. ANGRY where he fumes, rages or cold furys from page to page? It would be a totes bummer. 

Imagine being that; MR. ANGRY.

But, as with Pink, there are cracks in the wall. Today I started off angry and then began laughing because what I was saying was actually positive and self-affirming but I was yelling it like I was upset about it.

The laughter broke the anger spell. 

Maybe I don't have to be one or the other?. Maybe I can be both? Maybe I can be MR. HAPPYANGRY because that is duality of my mind? My anger is woven into my depression and anxiety from failure of duty of care from people who owed it to me. But I get to bliss out on simple shit like being alive, having a normal shower and know that I was a person of consequence—that my life as a bright burned bright indeed, no matter what comes next.

Perhaps I've always been MR. HAPPYANGRY, a yin yang whose pattern is ever churning? 

If so I'm cool with that. Because just being MR. ANGRY is unsustainable and not fit for children's publication.

Sunday, March 18, 2018

Taste the weather

It's a windy day the the nation's capital and like a dickhead I thought I'd risk an outside ride anyway, at power one for penultimate non-assist.

Things I learned.

Squint and close lips when going under a bridge because there will be grit; I can still taste it.

Just because you're over one hundred kilos and your bike is a man trike does not mean you can resist wind; I was nearly blown sideways into a lane divider.

Gum trees drop branches in heavy wind and other trees can lose theirs too. Whilst none dropped as I rode the evidence of branches blown off was gathering with the wind. It became less a case of "I'm enjoying this ride outside" to "I hope a tree does not maim me." That last point meant I gave up on power one and went to max assist to speed home to avoid flying flora.

Australia; even the trees are out to get you.

UPDATE: The ABC article about the dust storm.

Saturday, March 17, 2018

PTSD and noisy motorists

We live off on an arterial road and it means we get traffic noise.

In Oz, and indeed in many places, there appear to be those that re-tool their vehicle so they become louder.

We call them "cock-spanks on patrol" because they drive or ride their vehicles about to inflict noise because it makes them feel better.

Unfortunately to someone whose shed backs onto the road it means I enjoy their presence more than most.

I wasn't even in the shed when the chopped motorbike or de-muffled ute went past but outside having breakfast as they farted their vehicle through the otherwise pleasing ambience. Because my upside down brain has reacted already I had to put on ear protection again in case another CSoP went past.

I didn't get it before I got injured; the need to max the noise of your peacocking choice. But for some peeps they enjoy it. They enjoy the sense of power it gives them and they enjoy fucking over people they don't know. People like me.

Car people and bike people who make their vehicles louder are evil. Not super evil but selfish evil. They know what they do causes annoyance for the normal and distress to the distressed and they get joy from it. It's bullying via vehicle and if you're into that then you're a bully.

Stop tooling your vehicles to make them louder. Unless, that is, you're a cock-spank and you need to patrol the hood to let everyone know what a massive self-pleasuring tool you actually are.

PTSD and fireworks

"I'm out!" (avoids area).

PTSD and pizza

With my not being in a normal, high-stress job means my dairy allergy has passed; I can eat cheese again.

Pizza is a thing I missed since it is basically a cheese-delivery vehicle and therefore I enjoy pizza now.

That is, when I can pick up a slice and transfer it to a plate or my mouth.

My anxiety was up so my PTSD was up and my hand tremours were up.

That's how it came to be I lost a slice of the meat pizza to the kitchen floor. It landed topping-side up but that's a nasty floor so I grunted as I bent—my muscular-skeletal system is dodgy due to prior ownership—and retrieved the slice to bin it. I thought for a second I'd save it for the chickens but that was a "MEAT!" pizza, the one that is covered in meat, and there may be chicken on that.

Pizza is a delicious food. I love it. Its basic slice shape allows for easy retrieval and holding as you consume it. It's not the pizza's fault that it got dropped.

That was the PTSD. So not only does my injury have a monstrous toll on myself and my family it gets in the way of me eating pizza.

The mind melting horror part is the worst of it, don't get me wrong, but dropping a slice of "I CAN EAT THIS?!" also gives me the deep shits.

This morning someone was using a machine to do gardening. I don't know what it was but my mind said "that is a robot being murdered."

How's that for a primeval reaction? Robots didn't even fucking exist but my upside down pre-civ brain is yelling "metal friend hurt; help metal friend!" 

PTSD; it sucks—for the eating of pizza and robot relations both.

UPDATE: My son yelled inside the house. I heard it from the shed. He was angry. I got flooded with fight flight and warily approached the front door to check on things. They turned as I said in a quavering voice "everything okay?" and they nodded and smiled in a Stepford wife fashion to mask their discussion. I said I didn't have ear protection—I couldn't find them—so my son came out later with a pair for me. My system is flooded with adrenaline and I can't do fight or flight. So I'm in the shed letting it bleed off. 

Children being angry and shouting is normal. Utterly, utterly normal. And it made me fear an attack was imminent and I started hunting for weapons and defensive positions. Fortunately, thanks to a show bag bought for me, I have plastic kite shield, a plastic skull-motif sword and a plastic Roman helmet and thus can fight off any imaginary invader.


I was yelling in a conference room about the horror when I woke. The bed sheet was damp with anger sweat so I got up and had a shower.

I didn't dream just about the horror, there was a mix of personalities and predicaments including, bizarrely, a trip home via Dubbo. That last bit didn't make me mad, though. It was an add on.

My psych said I'd be rubbery for at least a week after I finished with the horror and she was right. Multiple bouts of acute anxiety and dreams infested with horror dross. 

And a road trip via Dubbo, we can't forget that.

I know dreams are the brain's way of storing and dealing with memories. But disturbing dreams being far more likely than good due to injury blows goats; I am proof.

Thursday, March 15, 2018

Mad dreaming

I woke angry from mad dreaming and stomped around ranting until logic Mikey pulled me up and made me do things like let all the chickens out, bigs and smalls, into the garden and throw them chunks of a corn cob.

I sat and used CBT mindfulness to be aware of my present surrounds, my breathing and the sounds of food-blissed clucking.

My mood stabilised. This week off is supposed to be about not thinking about past or future. I didn't mean to lapse; the rip cord was pulled and engine roaring the moment I awoke.

But I took steps to salve that wound and get back to even temperament.

Pre-injury Mikey is never coming back but I don't want him back. My injury set me free from self-hate and even at the height of the deepest of anxiety attacks that bedrock of recognition of worth gained from it cannot be shaken or broke.

I mattered; everything else is gravy.


Outside ride

A BYB ride using the power assist at setting one is about the same as an exercise bike set to medium resistance. It's at "not fun" where your heart pumps hard because your legs do.

I did a horseshoe ride on setting one---around the lake until I reached McDonald's. There I got lunch then went to power setting three to zip home to watch TV while I ate.

I saw some things.

A woman, seated, with casts on her legs feeding the birds at her feet on the path. I rode well clear onto the grass to avoid scattering them.

An old man pushing a normal pushbike up the slope of the path and that a ten dollar bill had dropped from his pocket. I yelled "You dropped some money, mate" and he turned to see. He had no upper teeth, lip crimping gum. He said thanks as I rode away.

A cyclist who has previously suffered a magpie swooping attack. You could tell because they had up thrust cable ties sprouting from their helm like a crown of stalks for a summer fair princess.

The outside ride; it comes with benefits.

Tuesday, March 13, 2018

Subconscious fuses the negative

I had a series of ghastly dreams that fused story lines of childhood and work. I was copping it from both ends. Dream me was frustrated by the stress and real me woke with the after-glow of nightmares. I've lost recall of what it was about but I was revving on the crap my dream used as source material and was muttering in the shower. I nearly went to pick my face until I stopped it with a fresh dressing which I had not put on right away on getting out of the shower. Dumb mistake.

I wanted to yell "what fucking chance have I got?" I may have even done it in the dream before waking. A fixed coalition of childhood and workplace horror in my dreamscape will be hideous for future me. I'm going to have to use CBT to steer my brain from here and to protect it from the next allied attack. I just hope my dream avatar realises he is safe and he cannot be hurt physically by the people who hurt him. That he says "no" in a firm voice then protects his dream self from those arseholes.

A third of my life is spent sleeping. I tire of my mental injuries infesting that space and setting my mood on waking.

Sunday, March 11, 2018

logic Mikey says no plans

logic Mikey—the one who is normally in charge—has to deal with mentally ill Mikey and mentally ill Mikey has to listen to logic Mikey. 

logic Mikey had a bad day yesterday; it should have been glorious but it was a bad, steaming heap of shit. mentally ill Mikey battled logic Mikey for supremacy of being until logic Mikey said "a week". 

"Don't plan anything, presume anything, don't do anything for a week."

I've lived my life like a bellows—contraction, inflation, contraction—and it's taken a toll as time-frames went from months to hours, sometimes minutes. It was mind melting—but I got through to hand off. 

Now logic Mikey has said "turn your brain off for a week; no plans, nothing."

It's hard to do that when you're mentally ill, to tell future you not to think for a week but logic Mikey realises mentally ill Mikey needs a break and has ordered it. No "And now!"; No "I could!" A week off.

I'm thinking of it as a cold re-boot for the brain. The toil has been brain hurty and now to no hurty.

No plans, nothing.

past Mikey earned it. I still can't believe he got through it. 

That past Mikey is something else; I wish I was as strong as him.

Saturday, March 10, 2018

My own stunt double

All the horror got to a point where it left my hands. My body then felt like it was in a bar fight the night before where I got smashed across the legs, head and body.

My anxiety was releasing the yuck now it was safe to do so. That means more sleep which is more disturbed and feeling like I've had a damned good thrashing.

This is my normal; it will happen again. A brain soaked in dread only releases when able and whatever stress reaction is happening is expressed as that.

I live a life of always pain; right now it's flared up. Then it will flare off.

I hope so; feeling beaten is not a good feeling.

Savouring the normal

It's been two weeks since I've had to put a bin bag on my lower left leg to protect a wound site. Getting a bag on was unpleasant; getting the rubber band off a wet thin garbage bag was not fun. Throwing the wet bag in the bin; fun not.

Now I am not doing that. I am having normal showers. I'm still savouring the satisfaction of that experience—and that I live in a place where hot and cold clean running water is the norm.

After every hell event—and during—showers made me feel better. To lose that normality for two weeks of arsing-around fuckery with bags, elastic bands and unusual positioning makes you re-love your showering norm.

Showers; they're just great—and I appreciate the systems that make it all happen.

Government for the win.

Cool water for hot chicks

I returned home mid-afternoon and realised the chickens' water places were hot from the weather. I turned on the tap, let the warm water from the hose run free and when cold mains goodness arrived filled the outside red tub in the garden where the chicks were to roam and the main pen water stations.

The adult chickens, now into the main pen, enjoyed the new water. Of the chicks the Polish scruff was balanced on the rim of the bowl for eager drinking.

That's the benefit of mental illness; I see discomfort then try to fix it; Whether it's at work or at home getting stuff fixed is what I do; I do that because I have depression, anxiety, OCPD and PTSD.

When you've lived a life of self-hate then catharsis through injury it changes your view of things. I had to be this way for all that to happen. It's a gift knowing past pain is a critical part of your whole cloth.

I also get enhanced satisfaction from simple outcomes. It counts for fuck all but I got pleasure from giving chickens pleasure by refreshing their hot and stale water for cold and fresh.

Fixing things is just how I roll.


Three minutes

I'd gone days without having a go at my face. Upon first waking, sleep-fogged and fresh from a school-set nightmare—which made a nice change—I had a go at the scar ridge. It was three minutes before I caught myself and in spite of being half-asleep forced me to the bathroom to re-apply cream and a dressing.

I returned to bed and woke two hours later. I had a shower and a re-dressed the site.

So it was just three minutes and it was the first fumble in several days. I knew there would be backsliding but I hoped logic Mikey would intervene and he did.

Go logic Mikey. Without him I'd be dead.