Wednesday, November 15, 2017

It's a yes

Ozzers in the postal survey said yes to same sex marriage in every State and Territory.

Will this now mean our LGBTIQ comrades now get to marry the person they love? 

We'll find out...

UPDATE: Sucked in, bigots.

UPDATE2: It wasn't okay to say no. It was their right to say no but it still didn't make it morally right. And if your very old book can't handle how gender and sexuality works in reality then maybe it is time to re examine your sticking with that motel drawer stocking stuffer.

UPDATE3: I was watching interviews with LGBTIQ people in the aftermath and one reaction was that it was horrifying but yay for today and another woman said "we should be celebrating after a yes vote in parliament"; i.e. LGBTIQ people were put to stress and distress for no purpose given it will be a free vote in parliament that could and should have been held without the need for this process.

So it's a qualified celebration because it caused distress that was not needed. I'm so sorry they had to go through this to get a right that I enjoy solely because I am male and heterosexual.

I deleted the ! from the title of this piece because it is joy writ with pain.

Monday, November 13, 2017

Injury manifests

I'm worried I'll be the one who has to tell theboy about the chickens and it triggered an attack; just the idea of his distress tripped me into this state. I'm not frightened, not yet at least, but crying and distressed because of his soon-to-be-distress.

That's what it is to take an injury to the mind; that you have moments like these where your fear of normal parenting trips you into an attack.

I know I got my PTSD is a self-determined heroic manner—I copped one in the service of the state—but it's at moments like these that I hate the injury and the failure that caused it. I'm reacting in advance of an unknown but likely distressing reaction. I know logically I am fine—a cat and or fox attack on an urban chicken brood is a normal risk you take—but he loved those chickens and I loved them and they were taken from him and taken from me.

The universe; it's mostly crap. There's some good bits but there are times when it's mostly crap. Having an anxiety attack about a likely anxious response is not normal and should not be normal. And a child shouldn't have to come home to a parent that can't do basic shit like this because they got wounded in the brain. All of that is mostly crap.

I have an hour to pull it together if thewife can't do the intercept. So it's time to arrest the quivering hands, the tears and heightened raw emotion with logic, coffee and Valium. 

UPDATE: Have just realised that "a cat and or fox attack" implies the possibility that a cat has teamed up with a fox. It wouldn't be the first time a like duo has spawned...

UPDATE2: He was both sanguine and sangfroid; he started designing fox traps.

Less eggs; leg and chicken

The right leg egg popped during ministration and after a mass of it drained there was padding applied to soak the rest. I'll risk a shower soon and see how it went in the night.

But before shower and egg check I went outside and found three of the chickens murdered in the night; not eaten or carried off—just killed. 

Two of the chickens survived; a brown and the big gray one. In fact judging by the feathers spread around the yard and over the fence that belonged to the big, gray chicken it seems big chicken fought the murderer off.

I gathered the three slain for the plastic bag and thewife check and tried to rake the feathers from the murder sites but the plastic rake, sun-worn made brittle, quickly snapped. I used a kid-sized metal rake but that was too much bending and had to give up.

The survivors won't come out of their zone at the back of the fence near the window. I left them some Pringles in easy reach to make them feel better.

From now on we'll have to lock them away at night instead of leaving them to perch on the old hutch lest their enemy come back.

I loved those chickens, and I loved the scruff who looked like Don Music from Sesame Street. They're now in a bag, ready for the bin.

That's the perils of urban chicken ownership; the occasional loss of 60 per cent of your brood to a spree killer.

I suspect it's a cat that should be locked up at night—but not the usual interloper that torments our house-bound cats by sitting on the mat outside the screen door so they'll charge it with a metallic clang and freak me out that someone is breaking into the house. That cat would have had a go at them by now.

RIB, chickens, RIB (Rest In Bag).

UPDATE: I moved some water near their chosen spot and spread out some grain. They both came out and let me stroke them and check them. Then the brown went into the hutch. So they appear to be okay save for the fact they lost three sisters in the night. I don't know how a chicken deals with trauma. Well I know how the gray one dealt with it---fierce pecks, flapping wings and clawed feet; she's got five natural weapon attacks!

Saturday, November 11, 2017

Left leg, right leg, deflating egg, inflating egg

With thanks to Dr. Seuss ... who was not named Seuss and was not a doctor.

The left egg dent is still oozing but the flow is slow and while it's back to gauze to soak it up it just means more time to heal but heal it will.

Enter, stage right, the next egg. It's been in my leg for years, rising then falling. But I could feel the mass move near the surface so it's being attacked now to defeat it instead of it going back down.

The heated magnaplasm on the gauze was the hard part—people who wax have my fist raised in solidarity—and the padding and pain means the stance of the gun slinger is back, feet spaced apart with deliberate steps up a dusty street then draw!

Well, in this case we're drawing out whatever that lump is that has lived in my leg for so, so long. 

My body is missing bits and is part artificial because I got dudded in the womb. On top of that there's this shit to deal with.

But it's not as bad as lefty was at its worst and the fresh memory of that elicits a blissful sigh that righty merely stings when the left was brain melting.

Hooray for the re-frame; because it could always be worse.

WFTW.

Friday, November 10, 2017

Leggus Eggus Horribilis

The worst leg egg of my life blossomed on my left thigh and when it reached its zenith it presented as a golf ball sized lump of fluid atop a volcano of inflamed flesh that felt like hard rubber.

I’ve spent all of November off from riding as I waited for it to take its course. I had to give up all notions of modesty—and I feel vulnerable when naked because I am ugly—and let my wife tend to it with efficient ministration.

There was no active penetration; we used a blister-popping agent to with padding to cook it off then absorb the disgusting mix of pus and blood that seeped from within. I could feel it oozing out after the first shower post-pop as I soaked in falling water, the ooze viscous, seeming alive.

It’s taken three days to drain and now I just have a bandaid. But I still can’t ride until it’s completely healed lest I open it up.

At the height of it, because of my aging balls, I had to walk like a gun slinger in a showdown, legs apart with deliberate strides, so my balls didn’t hit the lump or I braced the lump within a fold of PJ pants then took micro steps, the lump facing forward and walking with severe discomfort instead of insane.

It’s amazing how quickly your life contracts when you’re in agony and dealing with a health crisis; you’re just focused on getting through it.

I used to sneer at the phrase “at least you’ve got your health” because I never had it but now I’ve got a re-frame; an experience so much worse than usual that I can now say “at least I don’t have a lump of infected fluid bulging out my leg the slightest touch on which is utter agony”.

So it’s a positive for that. I liken it to the time we owned that duck. It was a nasty chicken rapist and we’re glad to be rid of it. But I got to experience owning a nasty duck and re-framed the experience as “at least we don’t have that sociopathic duck anymore.”

Because it could always be worse than it is—so, for right now, at least I’ve got my health.

WFTW.

Sunday, November 05, 2017

Demon defeated by D&D

I had to drive across the ACT and back and in doing so had an anger attack about childhood. When I got home I announced I was rubbery in a quavery voice, went to the shed and cried.

Then my son came in and asked if I wanted to play D&D. I've been running him through solo adventures starting at level one. He was midway to a ruin to explore it when we last we left it having critical killed with a scorching ray a dire badger before it even got out of its den mouth. 

I said no initially, that I was too rubbery. But as my wife pointed out I needed to do something to get me out of the anger grief cycle I was spinning in.

So I changed it to a yes and we spent a couple of hours outside under the patio as he took on a skeleton infested tower as a lone dwarven wizard and we ended the session with him having been tracked by a ghoul then dashing its skull in with his club when it climbed up the tree after him. 

My parents mostly gave me grief for being a pen and paper gamer. My mum supported it—even got me gaming products as presents—but my dad disapproved and made it clear with his snooty derision that a proper boy should be playing cricket, rugby and doing nightly exercises as per that Canadian Air Force manual for fitness he gave me that displayed perfect men doing physical movements that I either could not do or could only do with pain and distress.

I had a body that did not work where I got bullied when I walked out the door to school and bullied when I came in at home from a pair of over bearing people whose egos got in the way of normative parenting. My only place of safety was inside my head and AD&D, which I then played, was a tool of safety and welcome; respite from a reality that judged me warped and weak. 

It was more than delicious that I broke away from having relived the memory of my father chasing me through the house with the intent of ripping my arms off and re-experienced that trauma to be in a state of acute tear-filled anger to then go play a game that gave me wellness to escape an environment that was toxic to my identity and mental wellbeing. Within minutes the terror-rage had abated and I was in GM (or DM) mode running theboy through his game. 

We make our own lives but we live with damage, damage, damage done to us through scorn or seeming love. The trick is not inflicting that damage on others—to break that cycle—and use the things that give and gave you joy to bond with a child that loves you back.

The best revenge is doing well and I got to play D&D with my son.

Suck shit, horror childhood and the monsters that lurk there still, I win again.

Thursday, November 02, 2017

"the fuck"

My psych asked for my middle name and after giving the real one added that sometimes it's "the fuck". 

As in 'I'm Mikey "the fuck" X!' and it's typically yelled after a space out when I've flipped from sitting and crying to anger and oratory.

I do have tickets on myself—but then I'm a stellar performer. It's hard not to kiss your own arse, non-physically speaking, when you realise you're a golden snitch and worth the most fucking points.

Hooray for validation through trauma; not recommended but it's a good outcome for a person who self-hated—even with the PTSD and the rubbery bits. 

WFTW.

Tuesday, October 31, 2017

Chat chair presents as testicular hazard

My chat chair is an old wooden blue number with the backing long torn away that I've taken with me from childhood. It used to be in the bathroom but an IKEA seat with towel rail replaced it. 

So into the shed it came and has become a fixture.

Except for the fact it presents a hazard to aging balls. It seems no matter the pants—tracksuit or PJ—twixt undies because I've aged then sitting on my balls has become a thing now.

And it's a hard wooden chair. 

Several times I've just plopped on and winged my sack on the edge because I don't have the tight scrote of the lad I once was.

I know, it's all part of getting older; it's just that I got fucked at the start.

I will now take care when mounting the chat chair lest I plop them against the edge again.

Balls; sometimes it's balls.

UPDATE: I sat on them again almost straight away. Sigh, or rather, Yelp!

Boiled mad so sent a positive ping

Since exposure to memories past—and I'm about to go through it again with my psych—I've suffered a recurrence of boiling mad space outs where I sit angry and crying. 

I was in the middle of one when I realised the best way to defeat it was doing something positive. So I nutted out a policy pitch plus speech and pinged it off. 

Naturally I had to re-send it when I noticed some typos but that positive exercise of going "we can fix X by Y" then sending it off gave me purpose and it took away the blistering anger-sads of the space out. I was Zen as I wrote and even Zen having to do a re-send.

Fixing things is how I cope with feeling broken. Because it reminds me I'm not broken and that I never was.

WFTW.

BYB on just battery

I decided on a mission on the BYB and I accepted the risk that the chain would come off. It was off before I started so I practiced getting it on by having to get it on. I used advice from thewife and with that got it back on after one or two cracks.

The chain came off twice before it snapped all together and just as I'd started the stretch that is all hill. 

Fuck it. I retrieved the broken chain—it was a FOD risk—then lowered myself over the bars to reduce wind resistance and hit the throttle to max.

It nearly didn't make it past the yellow house—I was going the speed of Blobby's mobility scooter when the entire Hotel Transylvanian crew are stacked on. But the hill stretch was done and it survived the return journey. 

You can't have your hand on the brake when it's thumbing on the throttle—and you have to keep the throttle down to move it unless gravity and kinetic power is assisting. So it's a little dangerous but it's almost all level bike path to the psych's office and there's only one bit I think I'll need to walk it because construction has removed access to the lower-level bridge.

It was nice once the chain had snapped and I no longer had to worry about it. I got to enjoy the trip back because it was mostly down hill, feel the sun and air on my face and hear birds tweeting sexy talk to other birds (mobiles extra) knowing I had enough juice to get the BYB home.

Will it make it to the psych and back? I'll find out. But I won't be aggro if doesn't work out because I am accepting that risk before the mission starts.

WFTW.

UPDATE: The BYB made it there and back. I took the re-charger with me but only lost a bar coming in so presumably it could make that run on the single charge. I had to get up and push on the steep approaches to the higher bridge but apart from that I did not need to dismount. And because I didn't have to worry about the chain coming off I just got to enjoy the "ride".

Hooray for mobility—when the weather holds—for even when a part of your motion is broken. I may not be able to ride places until the chain is fixed but I can glide on battery alone. I am only limited if it rains because of the small risk of electrocution.  

I accepted the risk of the fail but succeeded nonetheless. That's pretty sweet.  

Mikey, he's a man of missions.

Extra WFTW.