Thursday, May 24, 2018

PTSD and hot water bottles

I spent five minutes with my left hand under cold running water then rested the burned fingers in a plastic cup of water as well. It was only quick thinking that avoided blisters.

My right hand had been shaking as the also shaking left hand held the bottle and that's how I came to pour boiling water on my fingers. That's down to the PTSD and meds.

Workplace mental health injury can lead to actual physical injury.

Isn't that a delight?!

It's not; it's fucked.

Wednesday, May 23, 2018

Due south of ALDI

That's where my pants went in the ALDI carpark and it was only my jacket tail that kept my tail from view. 

It was a risk to go out in short shorts and PJs in that both systems could fail if they went below my waistline and that's exactly what happened.

Fortunately no one noticed.

I can only imagine tne horror of what it does look like.

Forgot about the head wound

Wait, what?

Forgot about the head wound

I bent to gather skin shards from the carpet from my juddering attempts to stop picking my feet now I've stopped going at my face---the habit just went somewhere it cannot be seen.

As I stood up my right forehead crunched into a projecting cupboard edge.

It felt as it it had impaled my head in the second it happened but it was just an ouch and no blood. I looked in the mirror but couldn't see damage.

So I forgot about it until I happened to touch the spot and felt the egg and scratch I got from the attack. It throbbed for a bit.

Stupid me. I pick my feet and then clock myself in the noggin; broken brain leads to a semi-rent scalp. It's head on head action for me.

If this is a simulation I want my money back.

Gave a chicken a haircut

The brown Silkie's feathers were obscuring her vision—her feathers like thick hair to the look and touch. She kept getting hassled by the others and I figured it was 'cos they could sneak up on her. 

I've never given a chicken a haircut before; it's not a bucket list thing—it's just a thing. But still, not something you usually do. 

I'm Just Cuts for hens—plus I then sold her a ridonk amount of product at 40 per cent above retail.

Stupid chicken.

Two chemtrails and a waxing moon

It was a clear mid-afternoon when I set out and I came back in the hour before dusk where all is in stark relief, shadows stretching. The sky held a waxing moon and though the first chemtrail wasn't headed in the direction it felt for a moment I was in the twenty-first century the twentieth envisioned with rockets to the moon—a moon where you could see the shadow of the full sphere. Then another trail, another rocket taking flight.

I was pumped for being outside on a grotesquely beautiful Canberra day and the trike chain only came off twice. I had happy jitters—if that's a thing—so it took five minutes each time to get the chain back on. But, fucking hell, it was so nice and even though squatting with a big tum is never fun once it was done it was okay.

When you spend a life locked in a body that feels sometimes a prison it's days like this where you feel free.

WFTW.

Twirl advert fail

I saw a 15 second ad for the Cadbury Twirl. It featured an attractive woman in a subway car peeling the plastic away to reveal the Twirl's sexy sides, pulling out one or both of the bars up and then taking a bite. Then she's suddenly transported via chocolate-infused near instant onset hallucinogens to sitting on the back of a carousel horse as the carousel goes around.

Also she's now wearing a beautiful yellow dress and the Twirl is still in her hand.

I call bullshit. Even in the depths of the most severe hallucination anyone knows Twirls are crumbly as fuck and there's a fair chance shards may fall onto your clothing. And if it's anything like a choc top from the movies when it drops one on you it will melt there. 

That bright yellow dress be fucked—probably forever. All because of her Cadbury Twirl.

The Twirl; it's a nice choccie—but it's not for hotties, especially in dresses. 

Tuesday, May 22, 2018

Discharge

I got a result off the delve and was not expecting it. I got lost in an immediate return to the horror and my brain erupted on the quiet. I started crying, not big sobs, just tears running down my face. I've been steeped in it for so long that to get a result has made me happy and deepy wretched. It's an insane reaction to have. To get a return ping that was not unpositive and was not expected; it's like I've been screaming into the dark and a tiny voice said back "hello?"

A weird, horrid, wonderful, dark surprise.

It's WTF meets WFTW; a bizarre state to be in.

Post delve dreaming

The dream was a cacophony of horror involving work, childhood and trying to meet a deadline without having started the project. It was as if yesterday's active thinking and reflection was put into a blender then poured into my subconscious.

I woke in a state of anxiety, immediately sorted out a business hours issue and only then processed what happened. I ended up taking a Valium and curled up with a hot water bottle, a cat and Netflix. 

I need to avoid churning on the day before and the dreams I had. I'm already a sausage; let's not think how I was made.

The workplace mental health injury---your brain is branded forever more.

Monday, May 21, 2018

Tomes re-opened

In every attempt to delve into the horrors of Cthulhu mythos there's likely something you missed the first time round. You may have to do a re-read; make another roll to research it right. 

Then take a whack to your Sanity percentage. Once you're at zero per cent your player character is now a non-player character which the game master will decide to use as they wish.

I had to deep dive in to correct some things then found another set of books under a shelf I missed and cracked those open. 

It wasn't quite "Open the Ark of the Covenant" scary—no Gestapo-face melting for me. But I was two hours in before I got out and had to leave the shed where I worked because I was so worked up.

I took two V and went on an outside ride with a saggy chain that came off seven times. I had to walk the trike more than once when the electric motor could not carry me alone. At one point I was scooting with the tips of my crocs with just enough power for a slow walk. 

That ended with me getting off and pushing it. 

So tomes re-opened and some more found. Two hours in then I fucked off for a ride knowing that my chain would come off and accepting that would be true. 

Seven times. I counted. 

I didn't have a fit or chunk a mental about it; thanks to CBT, pre-acceptance and the letter V (x2). My return home was semi-amusing, difficulty of the end part and all. I arrived home on the thinnest of power left. It felt like a quest and I had kicked snot.

The beauty of the day stole my mind from the horror and my worries about travel took over from any thoughts of research re-researched. So happy and annoyed is not a bad result after being in the mental health equivalent of an MRAP that took a copper-headed IED which hits at three kilometres a second. I'm rattled but not mega-rattled. 

The MRAP's fucked, though. They typically are. But they do their job which is to keep a crew alive when someone tries to kill them that way. CBT is my MRAP and it saved me again.

WFTW.

Saturday, May 19, 2018

The finger test

This morning I held my hand up and watched to see what it do. Within seconds it happened, my index finger twitched. It kicked up just enough that if I was holding something but not gripping with intent then I would have dropped it. I waited to see if it would happen again and there was another after thirty seconds.

Close up observed finger betrayal. If we were a guerrilla movement my index finger would cop one in the back of the middle knuckle for being a government spy. 

Then I got up and moved on with my life. I'm still alive and I should not be. If the price to pay are occasional bursts of fight flight and random onset of momentary finger failure I'm okay with that.

It's amazing how satisfying a wonky life is when you've nearly lost it so many times.

WFTW.

Screed read

I was reading about the alt-right, a bubble of white who think they are a race by dint of the presence of all colours, and decided to plough through Elliot Rodger's "manifesto". ER was a 22-year-old who shot some people and ran them down with a car in 2014 because of his feelings about the world and what it owed to him.

It was a dense read and took a few hours but there were some take-aways from it.

First sorry to his victims and all the hurt for my reading his tome. I hate that his success at terrorism means it exists and that I read it.

Second, there were surprisingly few typos. 

Third, if I didn't know it was real I'd have sworn it was parody; Poe's law in action.

He was a deeply sad person but deeply, profoundly narcissistic. His entire worldview centred on self and that the rest of the world existed for his presence. And when his greatness didn't fire, which including attempts at bending the universe to his will by winning the lottery through psychic concentration, then he started down the path to "the Day". In his final section he laid out his intent on who to kill which included his younger half brother because he had likely touched a girl where ER last had friendly female contact in about year seven where he got to hold a girl as they danced. Then cue the megasads because girls did not like him even though he dyed his hair, learned to skateboard and had fine clothing.

He had a complex about his height and it was a fair complaint since short people get the shaft---in a masculine-focussed worldview your physical stature matters. But apart from that his body worked, he was not unattractive, it's just that he had a crippling mental disorder combined with a toxic body-centric fixation and an incapacity to relate to women as people. His sense of grandiosity was in no way belighed by skill or talent---a fact he noted more than once. How could he, meant for great things, not have sexy time with gurls?

The biggest stand out---apart from a severe strain of racism---was the expectation he put on his mother that she had failed him by not getting the wealthy men she dated to marry her. More than once he notes he told her that she needed to marry a rich man to improve his ability to get willing acceptance of ladies to have at his virgin junk.

And yes I empathised with him, which is what a terrorist wants, because his failure to have girls like him was my journey too--only he didn't have the added difficulty of a shit body. 

He was messianic, fucked-up person whose self-sads grew so toxic that he wanted a Columbine-style ending. And he failed; he set a big target number of victims and was convinced his now bound-for-glory ending would result in wiping out a frat house of the hottest of girls who didn't know he existed but was defeated in his quest by their not answering their door for the few minutes he knocked before giving up and shooting randos outside instead and then running down a bunch of other people who had done nothing to him.

It should also be noted he gave serious thought to obtaining dictator status and having a big tower he could sit in while watching mass torture with the height of his structure affording a greater field of view of the proceedings.

He doesn't call himself a "supreme gentlemen" in his screed, he called himself that in the accompanying YouTube video he uploaded just before his special day kicked off.

His delusion that his admitted behviour in said screed afforded him the right to say that again underlines the crippling narcissism that destroyed his life, the lives of his family and the lives of the families who lost people and the people he wounded but did not kill.

At no point did he consider what if he had been born a woman and had to navigate a world where he existed as a her; he thought of them as aliens whose motivations were always shallow.

It wasn't a waste of time to read; I got a better hook on his mindset and how it translated to committing an act of terror. But that there are sad men out there who hate that girls don't like them that look to him as an exemplar is fucked up. Women don't exist for our benefit and if we were them then we would want full autonomy of being as well.

You don't choose your body, your brain, your parents, your gender identity or your sexual orientation. But to expect that people you want to fuck owe it to you is delusion. To hate them for not giving it to you is self-defeating. I had a body that was not great and I loathed that girls did not find me appealing. Hell, I was mad at the universe from 10 onward because the normal world did not like me and I presumed most people found my being not wanted.

But I never presumed I was owed anything; that my sheer presence on the planet was the reason for its being.

Elliot Rodger did. And if you read his screed and think he was right then, mate, you're not. Because all you have to do is this; ask yourself "What if I were a woman?"

The key test

All I had to do to leave for the night was to lock the shed door. I picked up the key, walked three steps then my fingers opened and the key dropped.

I spent the next 20 minutes looking for it, crying as I did because my injury stole my hands from me. It was 20 minutes that ended with me asking for assistance to find it having moved all the furniture aside and fruitlessly dragging an envelope opener between the slab and shed wall because that seemed to be the only place it could have gone.

It had fallen into the overhanging fold of plastic bag that lined the bin, a bin I moved after checking it wasn't in there. 

Between the asking for assist and the find I was sent to get a Valium and kept apologising for my inability to hold an object unless I concentrate.

My fine motor skills were stolen from me by my injury. I predicted a cook off and it happened and it happened because I dropped something.

As noted workplace mental injury blows goats; I just proved it by crying for dropping a fucking key and for the not being able to find it.

Friday, May 18, 2018

The paper test

I have a day calendar in the shed that is A6 in size, about that of a hand.

A mental health nurse friend told me one of their diagnostics was the paper test where you drape a sheet of paper over a hand and watch it to determine if the person has hand tremours. 

I put yesterday's calendar page on my right hand and willed my hand to still.

I could not. Though it didn't fall the page lightly danced atop my quivering hand.

It's fucked having your body betray you. It's not its fault---it's from meds and injury---but that you cannot do some things---or will be doing something then inexplicably stop doing it such as be holding something and just dropping it because your fingers sprang open of their own seeming will---is maddening.

I had a poor grip before injury, but I could pick an item up and know it would stay held. Now unless I actively concentrate on holding it I know not.

But I can't will the tremours away and five years on from copping one in the neck for Oz it's likely my forever.

Workplace mental injury blows goats; I am proof.

Post psych shakes

It's common to have an uptick in symptoms the day after a psych chat, especially when you have to talk horrors like the recent deep delve and a side convo about childhood molestation ... at the hands of a psychologist.

I had to do a DASS again, the 42 one, and it was mostly a result of "1" where you sometimes experience the symptom. There was one "3" which is always which is hand tremour. It's always there, even on good days. I'm not flailing about as though the hands were shot up with novocaine but there's a fine tremble or quiver. Even with total concentration I cannot stop them from doing it. It's worse today, because of the psych visit, and I suspect my startle reflex is up and if something startles me I may have a full on illogical anxiety attack. One where my lizard brain is shrieking at me to run even though all that has happened may have been a one off sudden noise like a wooden door closing with wind assist.

I know I am safe. I know I am well. But I have the dreads and my tremble is trembling.

That's what it is to live with a workplace mental injury; it's with you for fucking ever after.

The childhood molestation part didn't help either. Typical, the first time anyone wants to touch my junk and it was a middle-aged short fat man with a beard.

Thanks, Universe, and well played.

UPDATE: I stupidly agreed to play Carcassonne with someone with the flu. Their coughing and sniffling kept firing my lizard brain and in the end we had to quit. He tried his best to dampen the noise but he was sick and could not. And because I was fresh off the raw brutality of the psych session I was over reacting. Well, not "I", as in conscious me; it was the lizard brain. 

I suspected it would happen—my startle reflex would fire up—and boy howdy did it fire the fuck up.  And all it took was being next to someone with the fucking flu. 

Hooray for a workplace mental injury—it's the gift that keeps on giving. 

Thursday, May 17, 2018

I just want to say...

It was at the end of the meeting when I stood up intending to thank people for all their efforts.

I wear my pants high, above my waist, and it was an elasticated waist band. As I stood and spoke I could feel them slip. 

So I announced to the room "I just want to say ... my pants are falling down" as I then clutched them before they dropped then pulled them back up past my waist. 

Everyone laughed, as well they should, and I still got to thank the people I wanted to thank. But it was a classic Mikey moment; to stand up then, begin a short speech by letting everyone know I was suffering a wardrobe malfunction in real time.

(bows deeply).