Friday, February 12, 2016

Made the day

I made the day without crying before, during or after work.

This morning I had to get in and send nasty emails away to thewife. I got a burr of anxiety from the re-read, scanning unbidden until I forced myself to stop, then decided to explore the outside of my new workplace to combat the anxiety of the action.

It was a brisk walk, and I sweated beneath my hat, but I found paths that wound around and one that went around the end of the building. 

On return I delved into the new project, losing myself in the laborious checking of site architecture ahead of a refurb. 

I didn't get angry, I didn't get sad. I just got on with my new work.

That I can reach this place of relative calm is down to experience and support. I've been through it before, I'll get through it again—and I've had help from people who love and care for me.


Thursday, February 11, 2016

It happened again

Another cry, first a small one, then a big. All in the car on the way to the psychologist for trauma therapy.

Then, after pick up, I got told a bunch of more bad news. thewife handled the delivery of it so well—she delivers bad news for a living—that I am back in a state of befuddled wonderment instead of sceaming as I kick-shred the bark off a tree. 

Modern society; we make it so complex. So sometimes we experience things that modern society throws at us and we just ask ourselves "am I wrong, or is this just fucking nuts?!"

Befuddled wonderment—it's the eye of the rage storm.

Wednesday, February 10, 2016

It wasn't today but it will be soon

There's not been a day since I returned to work that I have not cried—before, during or after. It's part of the journey of return after psychological injury. 

I had one outside cry after an anxiety spike, having escaped the building before the tears came. It was a nice day for it and eventually thewife talked me down to nearly normal and I returned to battle.

One day there will be a day where I do not cry—that's also part of the journey—and that day will come soon.

thewife made me up stamp-sized notes of positivity for my last job. I ringed my monitor with them, affixed with bluetack. But I packed them away when I packed up my desk.

I told D— about them and he ordered that I reclaim them and ensconce the notes on the new monitor at the new desk, a bulwark against the dark waves for when the dark waves come.


Stupid reflective laptop monitor

There's a skylight above me and it affects the laptop monitor allowing me to see what is reflected in the screen. So if it's on the black desktop then it's a dim mirrored version of me staring back. 

Only depending on the angle I can be staring at my balding head, with headband, or at where my pecs and gut meet as that's where my typing hands hover at. 

It'd be okay if there was something decent being reflected back but there's not—just various parts of a bearded, balding, heavyset half-naked man wearing a head band.

Oh well, as P— a co-worker once said, it'd be a boring old world if we all looked alike. And I get the added benefit of theatre since I am basically in a costume of Caucasian would-be sumo wrestler.

Now I have to wrestle with exercise; boo.

Tuesday, February 09, 2016

Could have done without the death rattle

It's been a year since my mother died, my father and I with her in her last moments. Her last hour was ghastly with ragged spaced-out breaths with the yellow of death spreading from her mouth as each intake grew further and further apart.

Though it was a merciful release, I was in the throes of returned anxiety and her last moments were caked in pain and distress, made worse for her being unable to speak as she died from sepsis over five days. 

If you can avoid being with a person who is dying and in acute distress I recommend it, especially if baked in returned anxiety.

As I rode the SoTPC I was test watching a new show and, like all good shows, it was introducing characters and their motivations in the first ep. And what better motivation is there for a character being forced to take to the road after the passing of their mother.

Mercifully, her death rattle was just thirty seconds of screen time against the last hour of my mother. Like with squeamish scenes in movies, I held my hand out so I couldn't see it and shout-spoke over the top until that bit was over.  

it was an unpleasant reel life and real life intersection.

My mother is literally in a better place—dead—her last three years huddled in a destroyed mind, her last hour pure agony.

But what a fun way to have been reminded of all of that; thanks, Universe.

A Simpsons moment—Krusty records his voice

I think it's the tyres squealing followed by the technician's confusion that makes it work for me.

The Simpsons; quality fucking TV since birth.

Monday, February 08, 2016

Space out self-thwarted

After multiple panic events over several days thewife has had to go into immediate anxiety control, asking me questions to distract me from a space out or a sudden panicked state. She uses a calm voice and strokes my arm of the webbing of my thumb and forefinger. Sometimes she'll ask about current events knowing I love to talk about stuff like that and it takes away introspection on the morning drive in.

The future my focus but it's hard to focus on that. I found myself alone and slipping in and out of now and then. I recognised what had happened then semi-shouted as if thewife was there; "What are you going to do to take your mind off it? Listen to NPR and play Freecell!" 

She helps even when she's not here because if I cannot be me in that moment I can be her telling me what to do to get through this.

She's having quiet time with theboy, reading her kindle as he gets phone time. I didn't want to disturb that.

So I will get back up. I always do, I always will. And I keep moving forward.


She got right on up in there

Earlier I saw the black cat paws deep in a croc—the shoe. Then she stuck her olfactory bulb right on in and took a big whiff.

What's the deal with that cat and theboy's blue croc?



I awoke to a nightmare and couldn't return to sleep. It spawned deep, painful introspection that lay upon me right up until I was dropped off. I tried to get to my desk without obviously crying but I couldn't stop the tears.

I knew I had to get outside to let it out and thus I began the trek to the lifts, but I had to pass D—'s workstation.

I actually stopped outside an office before walking past to collect myself because I didn't want him to see my distress and have to drop tools to help me. I tried, but failed. He saw me, took one look at my tear and horror stricken visage, took me into an office and spent 90 minutes calming me and asking me what my three, six and 12 month goals were. That I need to focus on those and not that if I am going to win and get well.

D— took me from a state of near total mental collapse to one of office normality and I was able to return, sort out admin and have a productive day. I left not wanting to run away but to come back and work hard.

Thank fuck for D— and all the other people who have helped me recover then prosper; to be an even better me than I was before. Soon I start therapy and eventually this anguished dross will burn away.

All that will be left will be steel.


UPDATE: Just one angry cry atop SoTPC. Recovery is improving.

UPDATE2: The recurrant lethargy and fibro I could do without.

UPDATE3: Or the fucking hand tremours. 

Sunday, February 07, 2016

Space outs are insidious

I'm listening to NPR and playing Freecell but I've noticed myself more than once autonomically pausing the radio because I am in a space out. It's like my semi-active brain goes "shh, radio, thinking" and I start thinking about things I can't think about and either keep playing Freecell but trapped in past pain or I stop playing completely and just sit there in a full space out.

Then I snap out of it, press play then keep going. 

In the future my robotic butler exo-skeleton will be programmed to prompt me if I fall into such a state. Perhaps with a polite cough? Something with a bit of class, with diamonds and glitter and shit.

In fact I can see blinging one's robot butler exo-skeleton will become a thing. 

Come on, Google, or Alphabet or whatever the fuck your name is now, get onto it—robot butler exo-skeletons.

Back to the radio and the game.

A 19th century explorer's breakfast

This morning I had free range eggs—from our yard destroying chickens—and lashings of bacon and toast, including one piece with honey as the dessert portion of breakfast.

Now I'm going to try and ride the exercise bike for an hour.

I imagined my breakfast was the sort of meal a late-19th century dilettante explorer would have had before setting out for the day, feasting greedily on protein for his exertion whose exploration was totally borne on the backs of the underpaid local labourers making that exploration—and breakfast—possible. There's probably one poor fucker whose only job—due to sheer dint of size—is to carry the gramophone.

It's an old wives tale that you can't swim for an hour after eating, but riding an exercise bike less than an hour after eating a first world feast can't be good either. But I keep having space outs—I awoke on a Sunday before 8 am and had to start reading to avoid one—and I'm in a high anxious state. I need to exercise so at least if I do have a space out the physicality of the exercise thwarts the physicality of anxiety—and drenched in a fear state is no way to be. 

So I set off on today's journey. We have many miles to cover before camp and legend tells of a jungle cat, which hunts at night, so fierce it fears fire nor bullet. I thank the Lord's providence for this hearty meal of eggs, bacon, toast and honey as my one hundred and nine bearers had their two spoonfuls of their local mush. After some Beethoven's Fifth and four shots of my brandy-laudanum mix I am ready to be carried aloft on my jungle pole chair. Off, Off!!

Saturday, February 06, 2016

Area screaming drives man from park

It was a fine night. We'd had junk food at a park picnic table and the kids were playing as were other kids.

There was one very happy kid; he screamed every time he was filled with joy.

He was filled with a lot of joy.

The end result was my having an acute anxiety reaction, shaking, swearing, re-living epic, mind-shafting disappointment and having to be escorted to the car and taken home. I've taken two vallium and now I'll lie in the dark with my tablet.

Probs probbing probs—my atheistic go to for Jesus Christing Christ—that was horrifying. Once again I've been driven to a panicked, animal state due to psychological injury. 

It's lucky I'm so resilient. This will all be a story some day and what a story it is that will be told.

Actually, it's not luck. It's genetics, medicine, therapy and support—especially from thewife. I'll get through this, I'll get back up and I will be strong.


From well over 30 years ago

For my eighth birthday my mother made a cake in the shape of an eight (i.e. 8), using two donut moulds. She decorated the top with black and white toy spacemen.

One of the white spacemen is sitting on top of the shed bookshelf in front of me. For some reason I have affixed a stretched-out twist tie to its head with a blob of blue tack. Perhaps it's an antennae? 

I'm surrounded by positive detritus as I type or ride, maximising the wellness of this space. 

Positivity rulez!