Monday, August 22, 2016


I was atop the SoTPC when I entered an extended stretch of bliss out where your body, breathing and pedaling are all in sync as music fills your head. It lasted most of the album I listed to—"The Fauves" by The Fauves.

To be fair I have those moments because I am exercising—it's not an inverse reaction to trauma—but if you had said to me ten years ago you are going to do daily exercise and occasionally bliss out on it I'd have brayed pizza at you in mocking laughter.

But moderate to intensive exercise is the best anti-sads defence there is and it keeps the wobble moments at bay. It's a "must do" not a "want to do" but how glorious that amid the grinding toil of a "must do" that I can just bliss the fuck out.


Friday, August 19, 2016

Fancy shoes went on a trek

I decided to wear my fancy new dress shoes for my sixth ping chat but it proved a dodgy choice—we ended up trekking up a hill, including along a well-worn "made by people" path through bare earth and foliage, to reach the cafĂ© for the meet

Plus, being narrow and new, the shoes compressed the sides of my broad feet and they ached like a m'fo.

Hilariously the cat I was meeting with appeared to be wearing the exact brand of black with pink piping sneakers I normally wear.

Gold; I dressed up for a dressed down chat.

Still, better have fancy shoes and not need them than need them and not have them. I still remember that many-ministers-and-VIPs function I went to whilst wearing cargo pants and being acutely conscious my lower limbed clothing did not match the majesty of the event or surrounds. 

Anyway, sixth ping; it led to a chat and that chat has been had. 


Wednesday, August 17, 2016

Dropped my dinner—again

One of the effects of medication and psychological injury is dropping things; my fingers spring open of their own accord and whatever I am holding falls.

I just dropped my dinner. Sure, it was just toast but it dropped onto the kitchen floor and, well, that toast is toast.

That's the bullshit I have to put up with for being injured. Dropping things or not not being able to do things that require fine hand-eye coordination because of trembling fingers—another manifestation of wound and medication.

It is what it is. I wouldn't change what happened but, fuck me, I am so sick of dropping food because of it—or the dropping of anything else I am holding. 


(shakes trembling fist at imagined amorphous black smoke cloud representing injury enhanced by medication).

Tuesday, August 16, 2016

Lost it ... but then got it back

I didn't blow my horn but I did lose my cool. I had a in-the-car rant, a wobbly moment as promised by my psych, and then I got confused and angered by road works while trying to get a park. It took 30 minutes to find a spot. I ended up finding a park, presuming it a staff-only spot, but too broken to give a shit and left.

Panicked, heaving, total composure lost. Rage and fright consumed me as I cooked off, in the car and out. Then I got lost in a maze of corridors and my anxiety built. By the time I found where I needed to be I was of no help and had to take myself away to calm down.

My psych said it would happen, that these moments would come and to deal with it when it did. But I didn't deal with it; I was just scream-crying "why?", "I want this to end" and "please, I just want to park and end it". 

I loathe that it happened and while I shouldn't admonish myself for expressing my injury it's different when it's mental injury and not physical. You do feel like it's lack of will, that you should be able to snap out of a panicked or angered state and become insta-calm even though sometimes your brain has taken you on a ride to a destination you know not where.

When I'm in that state I radiate distress, anger or both and I don't want anyone to be around it. If I am trapped I turn and face the wall or window so angry tears cannot be seen. Today's was especially hard to get over.

But I got over and I'll get over the next one—and the one after that as well.


Sunday, August 14, 2016

Old laptop; new email

I got the laptop synced with our email so I don't have to port thumb drives to and from. Email on the laptop hasn't worked since 2011.

As part of phase two I'm going to "get busy" in this here shed and the laptop currently is faster than our ancient PC (to be refreshed).

Multiple devices all in sync to support Mikey in the GLF. 

I feel enhanced; like tingling all over. The tingling could just be that I shaved back my beard then had a shower but I feel like I'm about to embark on something remarkable.


Surrounded by love—in and out

I had a farewell from the team that hosted me on my return to work. They surrounded me with love when I came in shattered and crying and surrounded me with love on the way out. I had an awesome last day and enjoyed tear-inducing thanks and deep recognition. It was the greatest goodbye I have ever received and I got to leave knowing I'd done an awesome job.

Now that's a fucking career coda.

GLF phase one is complete; bring on phase two.



It's an amazing thing to enjoy self-actualisation and anxiety. That you can recognise your worth in spite of afflicted brain chemistry and physiological reaction to mental injury.

So I have these wobbles, like yesterday's juddering horror, but once I am through them I am back to my heroic, actualised self. It's like Superman encountering kryptonite—he's momentarily weakened in the K-laced encounter but as soon as the K is neutralised he's back to his super self and ready to pound with super fist. 

And you don't want to be super fisted by Superman.

I may not wear a cape or have actual super powers but I have the bizarre literary (comic) combination of super abilities and vulnerabilities that all make for an interesting life.

I didn't choose it; it happened to me . But once I was in then I happened to it—and I did more to it than it ever did to me.


Saturday, August 13, 2016

A fun time to manifest

A three-year-old started screaming outside the lift at a shop and I was just outside. There was a ramp to the ground but it led past the screaming child or there was the steep stair. The screaming triggered an anxiety attack.

My knees are failing, sometimes they feel they'll snap at any second, and so going up and down stairs is a painful challenge. Made all the more challenging for having to do it with my fingers in my ears and without benefit of the railing. I braced myself against the side as I stepped carefully one step at a time, using CBT to block out the screaming I could still hear.

I ended up at the exit of the shop car park to wait for the others, fingers still pressed to ears. A pair of fuckwits in a car exiting the park added to the stress by honking their horn twice right next to me—clever joke, cock-spanks, to frighten an ashen-faced man with fingers in his ears.

The anxiety bled off on the trip home, tears rolling as once again my injury had imprinted on us all.

I had two Vallium and slept the afternoon, leaden with fatigue from the attack and the medication.

Now I have to try and ride. It will help but I don't want to do it.

I hate that a screaming child can trigger me so badly. It was an absolute shocker. Whilst I had a layer of logic over the escapegently reminding myself it wouldn't be long until I was safely down the stairs and then away from the unholy sound of terror spawn—I had to contend with the reaction of panic and dread.

That's what it is to live with an injury to the mind. 

I hated the parent in that moment, because in the brief seconds I looked to see what was happening he appeared to be doing nothing, but no parent chooses when their kid is going to cook off—especially a toddler. 

I hate that I vocalised too. I yelled as I slowly went down the stairs—though I don't know what I said—and I yelled at the departing car of horn-tooting cock-spanks that had deliberately given me a fright. 

But that was then and now is now. And now I ride.

Thursday, August 11, 2016

Teased for faux swearing

My habit of swearing in a G-rated fashion copped some gentle teasing after I dropped a "biscuits!" and R— said "Woah, what's with all the crusty talk?!"

But I am a professional and I try not to drop anything more than a "shit" unless I am describing something heinous—and I'll forewarn that some adult language will be coming if that is the case.

Once the GLF begins I'll have to further retard any salty sea talk until I find my sea legs on whatever ship takes me. At least until I work out what's considered acceptable onboard. 

After-all, in some workplaces the seven no-no words are used in common discourse—as evidenced by any time you read a transcript of a police-to-police conversation where it's "c—" this and "f—" that.

I'm going to miss my team; they got me through some nasty despair and wrenching bitterness. 

Onward and fucking upward.