Thursday, June 21, 2018


From what I can remember a chicken will head to a roost point at slightly one candlepower of remaining dusk light.

So the others had gone into the hutch but the Polish Scruff, the one with the greatest leap, was atop her alternate roost, the mesh roof of the big chicken pen.

It means me having to turn sideways between a fence and the pen, tummy rubbing the metal through my shirt, then shift to squeeze between a shed and the pen until I get to where I can grab her.

The last two nights I had a torch and with it in my teeth I successfully got her, the aim to pin her wings comfortably so she doesn't freak and flap. 

I didn't have the torch since there was light enough to see but I had a hand either side of her and was pressing down when she freaked, flap-ran in a huff to the edge of the pen and hopped off. Then she walked to the entry of the smalls' hutch where she is supposed to roost and as I returned along the fence and pen sides to get back she watched me then walked, on her own terms, into her night house. 

Dignity expressed in chicken terms; yes, I will go in—but for now I choose to.

The end result was the same; she went into the roost. If she goes in with dignity on her own then all the better for me. 

Chicken-based WFTW.

PTSD blindside

Sometimes when you have PTSD you blindside it; you don't react as an animal but instead enter serene calm as a storm crashes upon you.

Yesterday I was riding, bare chested, in the shed when theboy came in crying. He'd made me something at school but dropped it a puddle and was super sad.

I feel acutely vulnerable on the exercise bike; it faces away from the door and I am not aesthetically pleasing and know it. I'm sweaty and grotesque and the riding hurts. In addition the sounds of distress are an extreme trigger, especially from life than I love.

But I hit that serene moment instead, gathered him under an arm and told him it was okay, that he'd made me something was joy in itself and that I loved him for doing it. I said one of my favourite things he'd given me was a card that said thanks for loving him even when he was mad; that I don't get mad back and that he can always come to me when he needs to, even when I'm half naked on an exercise bike.

He was soothed and left comforted. I stayed riding the whole time and was not worried he'd seen me in a tragic not pleasing state.

It's the moments where you should have triggered but didn't that you treasure the most, especially when in service of someone you love.

It's a victory over injury, a win over a wound.

This has been "Fun with PTSD".

Wednesday, June 20, 2018

Call that a feckin' pole-arm?!

My Leprechaun was attacked by Talisman's drunken Tavern Farmer with strength of three and whose pic has him armed with a pitchfork being used as a pole-arm---why he took his pitchfork with him to the Tavern is beyond me but the dust up happens outside.

Me wee green one had the Inferno Spear; a hellish fire weapon that adds two to your attack and if you take another character's life they have to burn an object.

I've fought that farmer thousands of times but that one was special. He's a bully and a drunk and I'm glad I pinned him to the wall with my fire spear.

Let that be a lesson to other drunk, bullying agrarians; don't fuck with a leprechaun when he's packing a flaming pole-arm twice his height.

Re-steered ping clears high bar

I'd sent another ping, one late at night, about an issue that vexed and the next morning I had an effusive thanks but with an ask to submit via the official website. 

The re-steer was generous and accepting and even though my pitch might get knocked back in that moment I felt valued—and they got back to me in the time between I went to bed then woke up.

It's a high bar to clear for me. Too often you get either nothing or an eventual sclerotic harrumph but I got a near instant "Great! Here's the link to submit for realsies."

I was delighted. I know it's socially engineered to delight but I appreciate the effort they put into the engineering. I felt they cared and I felt heard.

So hooray for well-designed responses to missteered feedback; they can actually make your day. 


Tuesday, June 19, 2018

Looked like Humpty Dumpty doing a rob

I've committed to the painful but needed act of getting once a day into the big chickens' pen to check their hutch for eggs. We'd let it go and there were eggs but they'd spoiled. There's no point in me enjoying chickens without the eggs so in I went. 

Their pen is a metre tall and I have to squat and hunch along with my odd bod to check the sides and middle for eggs. I am also balding, Homer style, from the top.

My body could be described as an egg with a light dust of hair plus limbs. I'm concious my short fat balding form looks like a number of fairy-tale characters and none of whom are good or have a good ending. They are the sport of the hero to best; the grist for their manly mill.

I didn't want to rasp my tender head top along the mesh grill of the roof so I grabbed one of theboys's winter beanies and it sat like a condom tip atop my head but taut enough it stayed on.

So I looked like Humpty Dumpty doing a rob, with my balaclava rolled atop my head ready to be lowered just before I entered with my axe handle and leaped the counter of a high street bank.

I did do a rob, of eggs (or an egg), and I distracted the staff (big chickens) with a scattering of sunflower seeds so they wouldn't come after me (leave their pen before I could close it so I didn't have to round them up). Plus in my head I had a tough British crim voice so manly that jar lids would just pop off at first words said; "Now are we going to have a problem then?" (sproings, lids clatter).

I read a lot of books as a kid, as you do when normal body is denied to you, and as my weird skeleton induced fatness and short I was acutely conscious in mythic terms I was the evil to be thwart. In a way that's true; I'm a technocrat in a short fat bod which makes me a distillation of objectivist blanch---a literal opposite to Randian supramen.

I wouldn't have it any other way. My journey was anti anti-hero---an anti-hero that doesn't look like a Randian supraman---but I was only a hero because of my form.

They say you live on in the stories they tell, the ones who knew you. I'm an anti anti-hero, the reverse Rumplestiltskin, and I live on in the stories they tell.


I'm a steampunk cyborg

My neck joints hissed out gas as something gargled in my throat. It was just my body. I sounded like a steampunk cyborg---and I look like a jolly rotund 19th century clerk.

I know bodies make weird noises. But to feel bubbles of gas cook off from where ever it happens is weird and unsettling---much like my last trimester. Add to that the hip replacement of ceramic and titanium and other implants then that's the cyborg part.

It could be worse; at least there's no assimilation threat from a steampunk cyborg. We'd be spending most of our time just locking down food and coal and nothing left over for chasing Dr Who or world domination. Plus we're easy to find, what with the steam noises bubbling from our bodies and the waft of heated mist blowing out our trouser ends.

I also have spring-jointed little fingers. I can lock them back like a rearing snake and then flick them forward with minor force.

If I was a PC in a steampunk game I'd ask the GM for another character.

Monday, June 18, 2018

RIP, manky old slippers

I had manked up my twin pairs of slippers to the point of yuck and found they'd been replaced by handsome tartan innard coloured affairs. 

Hopefully I will not bleed through these ones. I'm still going through a rough patch of picking at the rough patches on my feet. I plan to stop doing this. I don't like this habit but it's deeply ingrained. How to ungrain it?

The wounded brain is a wondrous thing; like an outback road sign peppered with shot. It still does the job but the wind whistles through it.

Immediately fucked up

I immediately fucked up a basic task of not doing something utterly stupid. It sunk in within 20 minutes after I continued to watch what I'd critiqued and what was said changed my perspective. I realised what that meant and had to report the fail and that I would not do it again.

Fucking hell, what a rookie fucking mistake to make. I dobbed myself in; it's always best to admit a fail than have someone tell it to you. It's the equivalent of fucking about with a forklift after you just got your ticket and driving the prongs through a roller door.

Lesson learned. Fucking ouch.


The BYB is cactus. It turned out the bike was experimental in that additional gears and electric assist were fitted to a one gear bike. It was a first time build of that frame as well. The end result over time was a warped frame and it's now unsafe to ride.

I feel like Ney who kept having horses shot out from under him and had to get a new steed to keep fighting.

It was a confluence of events and so it's just is what it is; a new trike with better battery access and gears already present will replace it.

But the BYB while I had it gave me freedom I lacked; the ability to go to the shops with ease instead of pain-riddled walking or busing. I saw places of near where I lived that I had never seen---and the lake ride was, when the BYB worked, a great experience that filled my brain with happy chemicals from exercise and being outside on a nice day. An exercise bike ride is always a toil; the BYB was not. When it worked it was glorious.

RIP, BYB. You were experimental but your results are carved on my heart.

(BYB is shot into space in a photon missile case as a piper's lament fills the ship).

Friday, June 15, 2018

They Might Be Giants V a chainsaw

The former was playing in the shed inside as I rode and the latter was being used across the road.

They Might Be Giants won. I stayed riding and was not scared away.

Which is good; no one wants a chainsaw massacred legend band.

Ping! Ping! Ping!

The pinging paid off and now I get to fix things. 

Going insane was the best thing that ever happened to me; I gained acceptance of self and clarity of purpose. 

I'm the technocrat equiv of a restored pinball machine; let the games begin.


Thursday, June 14, 2018

Horrifying sequence of IT events

The following happened:

--The PDF would not save the entered data on the main PC
--It would save on the laptop but the PDF vanished when looked for
--The network fell over
--After a reboot of the router the laptop froze and had to be rebooted and the main PC goes into a weird hibernate state if the router is reset and it had to be cold rebooted.
--The network dropped out again and the laptop could not send the email to the main PC.
--Then the network was up and with the PDF working it was sent direct from the laptop.

During the half hour of trying to get it sorted I had an acute anxiety attack and got sent off to recover as thewife tried to fix the PDF issue. I hid in the end room. My son then coughed down the other side of the house and I had a fear attack. He tried to come into the room and I had to yell for him to go away. This all happened during the PDF fixing attempt and I had to tag in when the PDF was working and the network was up to do it except it wasn't because it had fallen over again.

We got a text from our ISP apologising for a network drop that lasted three minutes and of course it was during attempted emailing.

I thought I was going to lose my shit, I cried as I said sorry to theboy for telling him to go away because his coughing fit had scared me so much I was terrified to even hear him speak just in case he coughed again. He knows I'm injured and that I had in that moment lost control. He accepted my apology and said he knew it wasn't me who had yelled at him but my injury.

That's life with a workplace psychological injury; a cascading series of stressors can trigger an utterly irrational response where the sound of your child can frighten you.

PTSD and Swedish Chef muppet hands

One of the more common side effects of PTSD is an up-tick in hand tremour after an anxiety event. After the paperwork was done I had a Valium. And even though I am fine my hand tremours are so off the scale it's like they're like the Swedish Chef from the muppets in that without meaning to you make all these dramatic hand gestures and fling things about when attempting to use your hands.

I was trying to return a bottle of oil spray to the pantry and it shook around in my hand as the other shaking hand opened the cupboard. Without thinking I started singing like him as well; "A doo a diddy do a diddy do --- BORT! BORT! BORT!"

I laughed and laughed as my flailing hands attempted normative use of objects, being the Chef in the moment and going hard.

So if your tremours are up where you're finding it hard to pick up, hold and manipulate objects be the Chef and "BORT! BORT! BORT!"

I typed this in via tablet. That's hard too. I keep correcting typos from wobble finger missed targeting. And trying to select text to embed links is crazy difficult.

This has been "Fun with PTSD".

A gold bit from Oz cinema

Malcolm from Malcolm (1986) on his tram ride across Melbourne. The song is "Music for a Found Harmonium".

Paperwork yips

If you've ever had a workplace injury there is a lot of paperwork. It's stressful paperwork and for me so much so I had to make thewife my appointed representative. 

I was filling out positive paperwork; there were no scary things there. But because I filled out forms I had the yips because it reminded me of the horrifying paperwork mountain faced before and what caused it.

It is not logical; I should not have been anxious. But I was and had the dreads because I felt useless, sad and angry even though I had no reason to be; it's just the shadow of that mountain is so overwhelming even a form letter to get lotto winnings would give me those heebies.

The last time I went through a pre-positive paperwork experience I had an acute anxiety attack and cried in the car on the way home from the coast because the fear of that awaiting paperwork had revived the memories of horror paperwork.

But once I got started calm overtook the fear and it came a matter of finding all those various details you need when you start something new. It's now done as best as I can do it and I need assist from others now. 

So I cleared it. I cleared the PP and now I am not as scared. I have lingering anxiety instead of being basted in it.

Half the journey begins with the first step; when you've got PTSD, OCPD, depression and anxiety that is a fucking scary first step.

Tuesday, June 12, 2018

Shaved for tests

Sensors have to be stuck to me and though I am balding I have hair front and back from the neck down. 

That meant a shave back on the chest and the back of the head for electrodes to be fixed. 

It's not the first time I've shaved for medical purposes. Only this time it won't be a wasted fail. I once got my stomach waxed for surgery instead of shaving but got the wrong spot done so they shaved anyway; all that was left was the top left quarter—I looked like a reversed Oz flag with a clear one-nippled pink sky with the remaining hair and other nip replacing the Union Jack. 

Also, when my stomach was waxed, this happened. I'm about as hairy as Carrell save for my projecting sides. It hurt as much as it did for him in that scene. Like bite through the brim of your hat bad. Then the blood seeps up ... it's just yucky. Who brought this up? Wrong.