Sunday, August 19, 2018

Back fart

Last night as I was headed off to bed I farted and hurt my back.

The fart wasn't that powerful but as it happened something went "werch" in my lower back like I'd been compressed head downward. 

I had to take nurofen. I had to take more the next day. It still hurts. I get that I once wrenched my back coughing but all I did here was a normal fart, nothing super farty, and my body rebelled and hurt itself.

For fuck's sake, seriously, for fuck's sake.

Friday, August 17, 2018

My two visitors

The first was an old man who was seeking help; the second was younger and needed help. I could help the first but not the second.

You can lead a horse to water but don't engage in its views of tower seven and 911.

Fucking horses.

Thursday, August 16, 2018

A night to remember

There are nights that represent a moment, a key into a lock and turn where you know something special has happened. I don't get out much---always sore dampens desire to be social---but I accepted the offer and went. Then the key turned with a soft, welcoming click.

I have a shit body and a sad mind but that led to nights like this. How lucky I am to be cursed as I was; yin within yang within yin.


Wednesday, August 15, 2018

Valium sleep

I rarely take Valium but it's needs based usage which means sometimes there's a cluster of use.

I had a monster chat about childhood yuck and I cried for a bit. It came two days after a scare where I'd had two afterward. After they left the churn from the talk rizzled within and I took two again. I filled a hot water bottle then went to bed, sleeping it off

It's not good sleep. It's not blissy. You just don't feel as intense and you get tired and listless. So I slept a chunk of the day away and when I woke I forced myself to go for a ride. When I got back I got hugged hello and it reminded me that all that bullshit led to okay outcomes.

I'm in constant pain and afflicted by trauma; a recollection can give me the jits and I have to medicate and sleep.

But then you have a moment like that and in that moment of it is all okay.

Acceptance for the win.

Tuesday, August 14, 2018

Toilet pen II

This time the pen was dropped within a near pristine male toilet environment and it fell onto tiles under the sinks which were many feet from the urinal. "Still, don't chew that," I thought, reflecting on the last pen dropped on a toilet floor and which remained unchewed by me and then disposed of.

Yeah, I chewed it. I remembered not to chew it after 40 minutes of chewing. So the ship well sailed on avoiding masticating something from a toilet floor---but I did stop chewing when I remembered.

Just sensational effort.

Well played, pen.

Monday, August 13, 2018

PTSD and buses (interior)

We've covered PTSD and buses in the mechanical sense from the number of posts about when I've had my startle reflex fired by air brakes discharging; they're a constant menace.

But now we move into the inside where the people are because they can be a problem. Buses are supposed to be like libraries or the elevator. People stay quiet and mind their own business. People are not supposed to yell.

The drunk dude behind me, who later revealed he didn't know the day or time, on a mid-arvo ride got frustrated by the large number of passengers so shouted "JESUS CHRIST OF NAVARONE!", which may be a reference to the thriller The Guns of Navarone or something to do with Jesus Christ Superstar, but either way he was sitting right behind me when he yelled it at the top of his voice.

After being told in response to his later shouted question that it was Monday and mid-afternoon he bellowed something about him not even being supposed to be there.

He also sneezed twice with no effort to cover and his drunkenness exacerbated the delivery.

After his first yell and fight flight loomed I put fingers in my ears while I mentally prepared myself for more yelling before taking them away and enduring the queries about the day and time, his ironic presence and the sneezing. At the stop where most of us got off he joked to no one "TICKETS PLEASE!" then smugly stated that this is what bus conductors say.

I felt bad for him. He was disheveled and old before his time and his day drunk seemed likely to be his every day and that is mad sad. I hope he gets help.

But for fuck's sake you don't have to carry on in a bus packed with people whose only fault was using public transport. 

I should have moved but it was jammed with people standing. I'm big so I'd have gut-brushed people in any slow effort to distance myself from Captain DrunkYell.

The CBT helped and it was only a 15 minute trip. But it was a long 15 minutes.

This has been "Fun with PTSD and mass transit".

Saturday, August 11, 2018

Sotto ranting in the dark

I'd lapsed into a sotto rant---quiet because it's night and people are in bed but with the same intensity of yelling and boiled up anger. I hissed and spat as my right hand flexed for an object to fight with. I'd had a lapse back into childhood hurt at being a whipping boy for narcissists and had to ebb off the rage. 

So I stopped, aware I was pacing in the dim red of the single shrouded lamp lit in the front end of the house and the boiling fury was not helping. Then I kvetched here where it's healthy to do so since one is dead and the other may as well be.

It's fucked having a life wracked by a fucked, twisted wreck of a body that was effectively neutered by its potato shape and like-agility who was judged for being that way on purpose---because I self-deformed in utero with my magical powers.

I'm halfway dead and still smarting from the first level.

Then I remember without all of that I couldn't have done what I did and what I did was monstrously important; my tuber body and sad mind did that and couldn't have without it.

But a hunchback doesn't thank the hunch even if it gives them cred because to be hunched is fucked and painful.

I do have a disability parking permit though so that's something.

Soft ranting in the dark; let's hear a pop song about that. 

Old school

It was in an hardcopy newspaper, no algorithm found me, that I saw an ad for a private all boys school and thought "lucky that wasn't my old school" then turned the pages only to see an even bigger ad for my old school.

What the actual fuck.

UPDATE: ... and I just saw the online ad again.

Movie maligned

"Oh fried balls sandwich at the Whistle Stop Cafe!"

As used after a fail move in a game.

Sorry, ladies.

Deep dive in a terror pond

The trouble with a workplace mental health injury is how often you're reminded of it even if you're in another workplace. In my case I had to put on the mental health equivalent of scuba gear and light mesh chainmail and plunge into a fetid pond and grope about to find objects therein. 

I surfaced with the job achieved and with surprisingly little damage because the swim was about making the pond clear---or setting it up so nature would keep it clean once toxic waste stopped being dumped into it.

After the dive I went on and did other things; I didn't trigger from distress. It was as if Beowulf had just killed Grendel then shrugged and went across the road to get a Diet Coke then do some light office work.

That's life with a workplace psychological injury; you're forever diving into foul ponds of your wounded mind's making.