Wednesday, September 26, 2018

Boil blood not arse blood

I had to suffer the indignity of someone looking up my arse to see if it was bleeding and it was not. When shown where the blood appeared on the seat or just under it the ever boil was poked and blood shot out. So it was not arse blood; just boil blood. It rubbed on the toilet seat then bled.

It was like a parody Nancy Drew; "... and the case of the toilet blood" where the anus had been set up, framed, by the ever boil with the mystery solved with a final confrontation in a brothel. I know, I didn't think Nancy Drew would have a scene there but this is parody.

What a relief that it was just the ever boil, still not gone after nearly a year. 

The ever boil; the ever un-delight.

UPDATE: not bleeding out of your arse is awesome.

Blood fart

Since the revisit of the bleeding arse each time I've farted I've worried I'm spraying aerated arse blood. It has not happened but when I change I've checked, Dexter style, to see if I Jackson Pollocked my pants (Red Spots Number 12).

It's a worry I've never had that I now add to the list of things to worry about. Aging is balls ... that descend further with age. Is that why a grandfather clock is called that? Because it looks like a sagging old man with low swinging balls?

Probably. That's probably why.

Peeping Heatwave

On advice from my sleep doctor---the profession, not the mattress chain---I've been throwing open the curtain when rising since bright sun will help wake me up. I did that only to sit down on the bed the other day to see the Transformer known as Heatwave---who changes from a fire engine to a member of the Village People--standing on the table outside looking in.

It must have seen me naked a dozen times.

I'd have chalked it up to a misplaced toy except it was smoking a cigarette and touching itself.

What is it with firemen and smoking?

Sunday, September 23, 2018

Arse bleed redux

It happened again—two days running—a drop of blood after a motion. It's bright so it's likely just a tear but to look in a bowl and steel yourself for what is there in addition to the normal unpleasantness is unpleasant.

I take comfort I should be dead a hundred times over and if it's arse bleeding that is my coda then, Universe, take another bow. It's a fine way to go; and most suited to my character. 

Of course this is semi-gallows humour; I should be okay but I'm not riding if it happens because to sit on a trike or exercise bike seat is to spread the area. 

There's none of that needed; no, sir. 

Aging is a shit and in this case semi-literally as in my shits cause bleeding and that's likely from wear and tear.

A cliff; I once nearly fell off a cliff. Near accidents in cars aplenty—and that one time from the scree of rubble from an explosion where the ejected matter tumbled down into the trees where we'd been in alleged safety.

The arse bleed; it's never good though as far as that goes this is the best way to get it. How's that for a silver fucking lining for my rent lining?

Friday, September 21, 2018

The man with his head stuck in a hornets' nest

That happened; not literally—I'm not a psycho—but metaphorically where I had to go through super old hurts and marshal evidence against it. I fucked up—I had to send it twice because I corked a date—but it's away and now I can leave said nest.

It was a horror; sticking your head into a metaphorical hornets' nest, and I had to break from the PC and do a lap of the building to discharge the built up terror that clogged me. 

I was a cog in MoG and my cog got fucked up; I've spent years trying to fix it. I'm close, and that's awesome, but at a cost to my mind and bod.

I had to do a DASS 21 the other day, on intro to my new psych, and it was inflicted after the initial consult so it skewed high.  Which is to be expected, because like that nightmare I once had I'm the only one on the planet keeping the ship hull from imploding because I am blocking the leak. At least, that's how it feels. 

I had a fucked childhood—for someone in the three per cent—where I nearly died hundreds of times or wished I was dead a dozen; a childhood rippled with regret, pain, agony, self-hate and harm on others. It's the latter I loathe the most; I know I hated myself but it gave me no right to slag off others who did me no wrong. Hence my inability to attend a school reunion—I'd have to do that step in the 12 step program where you apologise to the people you hurt. I entered the public school system in year nine—still flush with the concept that if you like someone you were attracted to you negged them—then proceeded to neg the female population of said school. How could I face them doing what I did? I made some of them bawl because of a snarky comment that in no way was deserved. Even now, 27 years on, I shudder with horror at the things I said and did because I presumed girls did not like me and was mean to them first. 

And so it goes. We had a fire to burn corro we hate, that made us sad. We wrote things that we hated and burned them too. I know I had to suffer what I suffered to do what I did—which was the technocrat equiv of "Blaze of Glory"—but I judder at the harm I inflicted along the way. There are women out there to this day for whom I am the greatest of male monsters; that represented the worst of our sex through sheer dint of being a woman I was near.

I am sorry. If that counts then I am sorry,

But I am doing my best to make amends; to look after people I do not know.

Tuesday, September 18, 2018

Gas! Gas! Gas!

I had two strong ciders then blew up with gas an hour later. As in feeling inflated on the inside and ripping forth cider spawned nose horrors.

Cider. It was just cider. And Chinese food.

Stupid body; except it's not, that would imply malice or negligence on its sentient part. It's not its fault.

But it could always be worse; always.

No blood, more ranting

I went twice today with no sign of arse blood. Yesterday must have been a mild now healed tear.

We had a chat about rage fits in the car and it was pointed out rightly that a high emotional state can lead to distraction such as impaired vision from crying or being so lost in the anger you're not concentrating on the road.

I had an across Canberra drive to do that night and on the way a roo darted to the side of the road but did not cross before me. I was watching it intently and on the reverse trip slowed to 60 with the high beams on where applicable lest it or the rest of the mob was around. All in all careful Ozzie driving to factor in large animals that can bounce in front of your car---and kill it, a roo thigh bone can impale a radiator.

Yeah so still angry crying despite it. It was a long drive and the heightened anger from discussing it cooked me off. I managed the duality of heightened emotion with careful driving. You'd think they'd be opposing forces---high emotion for fast, careless driving---but I'm so used to doing it that my driving does not seem impaired. I'm careful and conscious of my speed, handling and what traffic and fauna is doing.

It's still not great; a calm person will be a better driver but it's a weird place to be in when you can anger cry whilst driving at the speed limit, carefully indicating and paying attention to extra dangers like a roo bouncing down a dark hill and right next to or in front of you; "YOU FUCKING FUCKS!" (slows then smoothly transits roundabout whilst scanning for roos).

But it ended well; the drive and fit. The anger bled off before I went via drive-thru and so I didn't sob as I gave my order.

I tried not to car rant; I had the radio on to distract me but it was a question time repeat and that cranked me too.

The car rant; not great to do but I am great at it. But I'm still going to try to curb it. Maybe music next time.

Monday, September 17, 2018

Rectal bleeding

It's bright blood so it's likely a minor tear on the inside but there is nothing quite like seeing blood after a motion, real or attempted. I thought it could be from wee but nothing appears when standing and just doing that. 

It's happened before, the arse bleed, and it went away. If it keeps happening then back to the doc with a new problem.

If my body was a car it'd be a Trabant ... that bleeds out its exhaust pipe.

PTSD and bin liners

The go to moment in movies for depiction of PTSD is to show someone's startle reflex fire off from a trigger event; the infamous helicopter flashback caused by ceiling fan trope.

In reality, while that happens, the everyday result for some is reduced manual dexterity from hand and finger trembling and ability to pick up and stay holding of objects since your fingers can also just spring apart of their own accord.

Or use them to tease apart a bin liner so it can be rolled out into the bin. In Canberra you have to buy plastic bags and the bin we have best works best with a purpose liner anyway since more volume can fit in. But its compacted layers of thin plastic means you have to separate to open.

It was the last bag on the roll---so seemed to have a thicker side---and I spent five minutes standing in the kitchen trying to get my trembling, mind-wound robbed fingers to tease the plastic apart to deploy the first half. So I did a starter cut with a knife to try and pick a edge open that way and ultimately tore the bag.

I yelled heartily at my fucked ability to do normal acts due to injury and meds for that injury then rooted around for the next roll and tried again.

See, that's boring. It's a lot sexier to show an especially physically capable man suffer the flawed hero wound of PTSD who reacts with fear to trigger stimulus a normal person does not suffer. My mundane reality is being a sub par man made more sub par by injury to his hands who spends inordinate amounts of time attempting to manipulate or carry objects.

This has been "Fun with PTSD and waste management."

Sunday, September 16, 2018

Rage fit in car

I talk to myself when driving alone; it's a habit from practicing for talking that blew into emotional release if my steam needed venting. So I boiled off on a four minute drive back from the shops to the point of spittle-flecked shouting as the anger consumed me. 

It was the same record; being saddled with a fucked body and navigating a world who saw fit to monster me for it. Whether it was active or passive, either way it was fucked. I copped it at all stages of life; I will keep copping it.

Then with tears rolling and anger still surging I walked back in and used CBT to mask it.

Maybe I'm an emotional bulimic? I hide my vomiting up self-hate and anger at self-hating's causes. Then put my face on as I come out and do my best to carry on.

But the dreams I cannot control and the leaden sads that coat me on waking are harder to CBT away than a self-induced rage scream.

The dream shadow; a mind fuck that will cloak you with smothering sads. 

But you keep wriggling as best you can to get out of it; to remain smothered is to die.

I didn't choose this body; it was chosen for me. I'm angry and sad and happy and delighted; without it I would not be me and you need irritating grit to become a pearl.

WFTW.

UPDATE: Rage fit on trike with angry crying. Maybe it's just transport related? I do anger cry on buses. Wait, I angry cry during space outs where I don't move for an hour or more. But I've not had one of them for a while. There's the toilet and shower too. I think location and motion are not related; I rage fit or anger cry because I've been traumatised and re-live it.

Friday, September 14, 2018