Monday, November 30, 2015

Up the mountain I climb

thewife managed to get the wireless printer to work and so the last three forms for printing, physical signing, then scanning have been printed and signed. With those scanned, and the rest of the docs, that's me up the mountain.

So I am having a pause, admiring the view, and have that climber's anticipation of a precipice in sight. 

(climb, climb, climb)

e-paperwork denied

I was bundling e-paperwork together for submission when I found I'd burned the blank templates to disc instead of the filled in ones.

I have to admit I had an angry cry (slash) shakes fist at the Gods moment when I discovered it.

I had a Valium and applied some CBT. I worked out the best way ahead and it just means a delay, not a re-do.

In the moment I was overwhelmed; angry, juddering tears at the bureaucracy mountain I have to climb.

But I will keep climbing; the only alternative is to fall.


Sunday, November 29, 2015

Twenty five years

It's been 25 years since I finished year 12.

If you'd said then that any of the stuff that happened to me would happen to me I would not have believed you.

Life; what a crazy, fun ride. 

We had our "schoolies" at Coffs Harbour in NSW. It was fun. Except I didn't have dress shoes so could not go to the night clubs. So I stayed back at the motel and read Commando comics bought from the local book exchange instead. 

Now that is me.

Saturday, November 28, 2015

The surprise was thinking there'd be no impact

There was a half-eaten Santa-themed Kinder Surprise (1) on the partial wall that surrounds the kitchen.

It was after midnight and I was peckish.

So I ate it.

This morning I realised I needed to go when still at the shops getting morning papers so made haste for home. When I got to go—and it was a close call—it was massaman all over again. And I blame the Kinder Surprise—the milkiest of all milky chocolate.

Actually I blame me. I shouldn't have eaten it. I mean why contribute to already disquieted IBS?

I'll tell you why. Because I am weak and because I honestly thought that such a little amount couldn't possibly have an impact.

How wrong I was—because that resulted in a three flusher. I already knew it would be a twofer—I flushed twice—but I didn't hang around to check. That's how bad it was, that it needed a third go, and I found out when a hotly theboy demanded to know who left it there.

Curse you, Kinder Surprises.  

(1) It was theboy's. He cranked up when he found out I stole it. So for him the entire experience was a twofer—denied chocolate then saw toilet chocolate; horrid, horrid, toilet chocolate. 

Wednesday, November 25, 2015

Bull; horns; grappled

As a person with multiple disabilities I have to do a fair amount of paperwork—lots of form filling—though much of it can be done online.

But even e-paperwork bites the wang.

Alas the e-paperwork must be grappled with and today I took a chunk of it by the horns. Naturally at step six of the online submission the router spaced out and I was in danger of having to start again. I rebooted the router and waited with trepidation and amused annoyance—because of course the router would space out at that moment, the moment a chunk of stressful paperwork was to be submitted. 

It came good and the submission was confirmed—and I knocked it over before one o'clock.

Earlier I met with my psychologist. 

It was cathartic. I wasn't angry and I didn't cry. I told her of my animal brain's woes but how I was using the CBT her colleague taught me to cope with moments of acute anxiety and how I am not actively anxious—just reactive. That I am calm even when soaked in fear because calm me tells fear me that fear me will calm.

I left, caught the bus home, knocked over the task, and now ... now I ride. 


(Mikey mounts SoTPC which rears as Mikey draws his sabre and then the dual of man and exercise bike thunders towards the opposition)

Tuesday, November 24, 2015

Not worried about the US elections in 2016

I'm not that worried. Barack Obama will campaign for the Democratic nominee and the nominee, if it's any of the three running, will be buoyed from that support—and deserve it too. People forget Obama's power at getting out people to vote; Romney didn't even have a condolence speech prepared he was so sure Obama's machine would fail. Obama is the emperor of modern US presidential campaigning—and like Clinton (and, yes, G W), joined the two terms undefeated club.

Still, it's going to be an interesting election with just under a year to go. Whilst I admire the comedic chops of Trevor Noah I do miss Jon Stewart—the sheer wealth of material that he would have gloried with. I expect someone is going to offer Jon Stewart a Dick Cavett or Larry King style talk show where he has full creative control. That, or to run CNN.

Anyway, the US elections. Pretty much the most awesome elections evah—and you couldn't make this shit up. Seriously. An editor would say "19 characters is too many; this isn't Game of Thrones"—and that is (slash) was just the GOP side.

It's just glorious; pass the popcorn.

Voided self; saw doctor

I was on my way to the doctor and just passed the mall's toilets when I felt the urge. I dashed into the disabled cubicle, gingerly lowered then voided—it was like I'd taken massaman beef sauce and thrown it from the door in the vague direction of the bowl.

It was beyond hideous. I cleaned up, checked in and with still roiling guts and waited. I had my appointment, got my assorted paperwork then headed home. The afterglow of the reverse PAG still ripples with fierce pride around my midsection. 

I got through the appointment without crying and without anger—and was able to talk calmly about my latest grapple with active anxiety and it's because of experience and acceptance.

It's empowering to know when you're mentally and physically ill that you're mentally and physically ill—it's not a failure of will, it's a psychological and physiological reaction due to injury and susceptibility (1). To know what you're experiencing—because you've experienced it before—makes the process bearable. I can step out of a shaking, guts-exploded animal fear-soaked self and realise this is normal, this has happened before, and we will get through it (2).

I wear my depression and anxiety like armour—out and proud. They make me a better person. 

The shitty side of it, however, is they literally give me the shits.

(double flushes massaman beef).

(1) theWife has to remind me that I am mentally ill. That there are some things beyond me and I have to think with logic.
(2) "we" because there's two of me in that scenario; Hyde me and Jekyll me. Though if you'd ask me which is the more evil sounding name I would have said Jekyll. When you think about it Jekyll is the true monster because he knowingly turns himself into Hyde and Hyde is cchemically-induced animal psyche run amok

Monday, November 23, 2015

Tablet back, back to normal

My trusty Acer tablet suffered a glitch a while back but fortunately it was under warranty. I had to nail the date and total amount of purchase to prove I got it from where I got it and that it was less than 12 months old to get it accepted but once it was I got it back inside two weeks. I've been making do with theboy's mini-iPad and my iPhone5 but it's been irritating—especially with the return of hand tremours that makes navigating small screens difficult.

So I got the tablet out of the box and got to work setting it up. One reset of a password and much swearing later I was back online. I even managed to put Kindle back on and sign into my account without too much hassle—although the cloud had forgotten where I was up to in the ebook I was kindling when the tablet crashed. 

It's nice to have that weight back in my hand and to have a screen that big to navigate and read with.

There you have it—a successful warranty-activated adventure. However, I accept the chance there is the chance, ala Logan's Run (1), that there may be a self-destruct bit of code in there that's set to blow not long after when the warranty expires and which will nudge me to get a new machine. 

No ... that's too evil.

Or is it?

UPDATE: The fucker crapped out with the same error not less than four days later. Mendoza!

UPDATE2: Officeworks gave a full refund. They said if a repaired item fails once more, that's it, you get your money back. I have to hand it to Officeworks. They honoured the purchase, they sent it for repair and, when that repair failed, they refunded us. I do love decent treatment by big stores.  

(1) There's this scene in the movie where the protagonist activates a random sexual encounter teleporter that basically teleports in a woman who wishes to have sex. It's a bit like one of those apps for hooking up only with less transmission and reassembly of living matter. Yes, their society invented a teleporter—an incredible leap of technological science—and they basically just used it to get it on with randos. Good one, Logan.

Bending hard; vomit to clean

theboy is sick with something that makes him vomit. He threw up in the corridor on the polished wood floor. 

I can't bend without pain and distress.

In the end I braced my legs against the walls of the intersection where it happened and gripped the corner of the wall as I lowered myself enough to clean it. 

I got there in the end then managed to lever myself back to standing with a sopping paper towel of sick held within the grasp of a half-towel of mopped up sick. 

And I have my legs. I could have if I needed to got on the floor with pain and discomfort but that's better than people who can't even do that. 

I realise I am blessed with ill health.


Sunday, November 22, 2015

From two years past and just as true

From where I sit in the shed with the laptop when I look up I see a tranche of statements of worth along with the date.

One of them is "I'm the wizard of Oz" from two years ago.

And it's still true. 

I get to walk the earth knowing I mattered. Not many people get to do that—and I achieved it not in spite of disabilities but because of them.

Having super un-powers is the trade for super powers but it's a trade worth making; I got to be the change we see in the world.


UPDATE: The leaf blower was on and we have a small house with a swampie air conditioner which means the windows need to be open a crack to refresh the air. I thought I was okay with the noise then rapidly became not okay. I frantically searched for ear plugs, found none, grabbed the car keys, ran outside, wrenched open the door bending back a little finger nail, couldn't find the car set of plugs, abandoned the car and run-flopped up the street in my new brown slippers as fast as I could safely go.

Panicked running in slippers is not recommended. I had to run-flop until I couldn't perceive the drone of the blower and ended up opposite the new house that replaced the one that burned down two years before. 

I paced and waited and tore off the damaged nail and paced and waited then eventually risked a return. 

I now know where the ear plugs are with one set in the kitchen and a set in a small plastic tub in the shed. I think I'll invest in some sort of industrial strength ear protection as well, like big fuck-off ear muffs they wear on construction sites.

So please let me stress the super un-powers do bite the wang. Even if they're worth it.

Saturday, November 21, 2015

Bronzed myself with man sweat

I loathe exercise. Some days I loathe it less. Lately, it's more than less.

But I still got on the SoTPC and started the ride.

Being late-spring the shed where I ride got hot, hot yoga hot, with the fan not yet deployed because it can aggravate my fibro and I turn it on as a last resort.

The sweat beaded forth. Unconsciously, I found myself bronzing my chest up with sweat, sopping it around my gut and pecs so I glistened with a layer of Mikey meniscus.

I stopped at the 10.5 mark and turned on the fan. Fortunately the fibro only shot out of my left index finger and occasionally my right knee, along with the general malaise of anxiety back pain I'm enjoying. 

I'm not back to my level of resistance, my NordicTrack bike's resistance setting slips and right now it's at a harder setting than it should be, but I am riding back at an hour plus in time. The upper arse muscle pain now transferred back to the normative always-ache around your coccyx when you ride an exercise bike every day. Yet I ride on, ever still but ever forward.

As I dismounted I realised the bronzing and the olfactory delights of the shed combined to make me smell like the potting mix section at Bunnings. 

What a noisome note to end it on.


Thursday, November 19, 2015

Angry, snotty shed cry

I was due for one. It's a normative part of having an anxiety spike. I'm not frightened, I'm just sad and angry. And as I often did during my recovery I had an angry, snotty shed cry.

So it's out and I feel better for it, though drained. Fortunately I'd just replaced the dead tissue box with a new one and was able to sponge out the tear-snot that runnelled into my thick moustache. 

But I will counter that with music that I love then a ride atop SoTPC. I also added another reminder to my shed door of my courage and fortitude—a Memento-style statement of worth I write within the shed where I spend much of my recovery time. When I get trapped in a cycle of hurt I look out and see something past-me wrote to remind now-me I am worthy and I am strong.

That's powerful wellness, powerful.


Books won't fit back in my Game of Thrones box

Game of Thrones is the best fantasy adaptation in the history of television—and the books rawk too.

I bought the boxed set when it was on sale, having bought the first three but lost or lent them away. I am reading up to where the TV series is so I don't spoil it for myself—though the plot has diverged and some characters differ or have merged

But the books won't fit back in the box. Why? Because I abuse books. I don't mean to, it's just that the way I have to read lying in bed means I bend the cover back, and I always bookmark by turning a page. So the covers get buckled and puckered and that means they won't snuggly slide into the box.

It was on trying to slide the books in I discovered there was a map of Westeros in the box. So I put the map up in the toilet, blue-tacked over the top of a laminated "what's that dinosaur?" poster, so I can gaze with wonderment at the map whilst I am on the shitter.

I did that today—taking in the map as I birthed yet another anxiety puddle, a side-effect from the recent spike of the past few weeks. 

As a child trapped in an all boy's private school and unable to do sport due to a fucked-up body which appeared to be a lazy fatty to the unobservant eye I spent most of my free time in the library. My favourite reference book was an encyclopaedia of fantasy lands from across literature complete with maps of cities or countries within. 

It was magical and transported me into another place where things like an inability to throw a ball or run were not held against you. I sure as fuck I'd be a wizard in just such a place because I am smart, I read books and then I could magic missile that fuckwit gym teacher I had who modelled his facial hair after tennis legend John Newcombe. 

So fantasy maps transport back into that safe place I lived in as a child, wondering at worlds of fantasy and wishing I was part of it.

And I wouldn't have found the map were it not for my buckled books.

Take that, former librarian who called me "the manipulator".

Wednesday, November 18, 2015

Toe bursts; seriously?!

I am now getting arthritic (slash) fibro stress pain shooting out of my right index toe—my toe!

Of all the places for pain to blare forth.

Oh well, it's better than somewhere else. So in addition to the existing upper arse muscles (still sore) that's my back, right shoulder, thigh and, weirdly specifically, my right index toe firing off pain reports.

(Shocked, whispered anger) And I don't even know if index toe is a thing. 

Fucking hell. 

Who emits stress pain from a toe? I mean, honestly. 

UPDATE: My right index finger is firing off now. Thanks, anxiety!

Tuesday, November 17, 2015

Santa sadness

theboy worked it out—and he's only eight.

He's crying. And what was the only thing I could do? Leave the house with my hands over my ears because his crying sets off my fight-flight.

That's living with the damage of anxiety for you. That's what it's like to have a psychological injury, to not be able to do normal things like console your crying child because your animal brain trips into fear and you have to flee. 

I'll have to cower a good ten minutes before risking re-entry. My knee is blaring in arthritic sympathy. 

Super un-powers bite the wang.

UPDATE: Old ladies are firing. Hooray for a spike!

UPDATE2: A cat was in the yard and one of mine started yowling at it through the screen door, a horrid yowl that set my nerves jangling. I had to dash out of the shed and shoo the interloper the fuck off. Argh, the yowl is imprinted on me. Fucking anxiety.  

Monday, November 16, 2015

Fuck the grumpkins

I'm tired of belly aching. Here's some awesome stuff.

The black cat curled on my tummy as I read one of my new Knights of the Dinner Table comics. I've saved up the last seven issues for a mass read when I needed it and, well, I needed it. I'm up to #221.

I was lying on my side so she nestled in the dip twixt my hip and shoulders. It took my mind off the yuck.

I did a ride on the SoTPC and it wasn't too bad. I hurt and ache but no more than I did before so I am riding at a decent level for time and resistance without causing damage.

I had a range of goat cheeses bought for my no A1 protein cheese person. I get to sample them—cheeses!

When my guts are less crippled, of course. But, wow, how cool!? Worth the interrobang, I say.

I had an interesting bus ride. I had to bus from work to a Canberra bus node point and was on a 42 minute journey. A 90-year-old woman just started talking to me about a third of the way in so I accepted the offer, introduced myself, and sat next to her. She took my mind out of my my ache and told me stories of loss, redemption, horror and love. Not bad for a 25 minute chat. And she's 90, travels by herself during the week and is mentally and physically engaged—even though she lives in a retirement home. She's probably the nicest old lady I've talked to since Veda on the morning of my escape from hospital following my hip replacement (1).

So I had a stressful day, setting up support mechanisms and admin arrangements, but I had a nice bus ride and a lovely chat with an old lady. She remarked as we got off that people chided her for the habit of starting bus conversations with randos but said "What harm is there? They either talk back or they don't. Besides, I'll be dead soon."

She was kewl; Mrs A she said her name was—she actually said "Mrs A—." (2)

I may be afflicted with hideous discomfort and unpleasant flashes of fibro, four visits from the RHS fibro fairy today alone, but I am supported and I am looked after—and I am actively looking to improve my health. Not only that I got to read KODT, got given an array of cheeses and had a nice chat on the bus.

I may not have "my health", but I am fighting for it.


(1) theWife and I were watching a movie in the patients' lounge and awaiting the doctor to say I could go when Veda turned up to wait for her intake person to come collect forms. theWife and I started chatting with her about her operation to get her first hip replacement replaced at the age of 85. Veda told us hip replacement war stories from the '70s. They were a happening time, man. 
(2) The — was implied.  

Across the shoulders and down the back

My body is awash in IBS and fibro pain—the latter flaring out across my shoulders, then down my back with a light spray with that accompanied by the occasional pop-in-visit from the right-shoulder-sharp-fibro-pain-twinge fairy.

I hate that fairy—and I am in no way adverse to fairies; I've taken the boy to see Tinkerbell flicks on the big screen (1).

My arse is feeling better but my innards are worse, roiling, nasty, ripping pain in intensity from low to high but always there. 

So I've taken steps to heal thyself. Here's hoping I can bring it all off. 


(1) The girl fairies do, however, remind me of aloof hot girls from uni and school.

Saturday, November 14, 2015

Went a halfie

I clambered back aboard the SoTPC but set myself an initial limit of five kays. Eventually I committed to maxing at 10.5 and actually followed through by stopping when it came up. I had one stop, at the three kay mark, because fucking iTunes upgrade software popped up and blocked the screen of what I was watching.

So I did half a usual session and my arse did not scream in Lovecraftian terror following the ride. It's actually bearable torment.

A halfie I can do without further hurting from whence I poo. That has to be a good result all around—especially for the still mending cough-spasm-caused blown out upper arse muscles.

It's honestly just such an unpleasant place to have muscles blow out in. 

My fibro and guts are still playing merry havoc, though not dogs of war levels, and I'm getting arthritic burrs and flashes of wincing pain shoot out knuckles and a knee. 

But here I am, still here, and still here I will still be.


Paperus Interruptus Reload

theboy has always attempted to interrupt paper reading time—where I stretch out on the floor with the weekend SMH and The Saturday Paper—and uses a variety of means to do so. Most commonly it's him leaping out and onto the paper then dancing on top of it as I lie there.

It's extremely irritating. 

Today, as I lay on the floor with my paper, he crab walked over my head, grinding his arse across my balding dome and then at the midpoint squeezed one out. It burped atop my head and floated its noisome ill around me. 

You have to hand it to him. For a sequel to tap dancing on my paper, toes flailing five cm from my nose, a ground-out-on-a-head fart is a good one. 

Thursday, November 12, 2015

Tough, but I'm tougher

It was a tough day. I had to hear some brutal feedback, honest-and-firmly delivered, and that all followed a morning dental visit which including a needle and the still-feel-it-shudder that is the drilling out of a wounded tooth.

I didn't have a proper lunch break—I crammed down a pink donut from a cafè in about three minutes, eating it right out of the paper sack like from the nose bag on a horse—and just kept working, trying to catch up on all the work that built in my week away. 

Pain still ripples in my gut and from my fibro from a sub-conscious that is grappling with the latest excitement down at the mental health ranch. 

So it's a dark day, literally as it's raining as I type, water slashing against the tin roof of the shed. 

But how about this. In spite of my blown out upper arse muscles I am going to try and ride the SoTPC. I may not crack an hour, I'll probably just 10 minutes. It's the longest break I've had since hip surgery—I haven't ridden all month due to injury. 

I am ever surprised at my capacity to bear pain. 

I guess it's from all the experience I've had.


UPDATE: I did an hour and 13 minutes. Fuck pain. 

UPDATE2: I awoke in upper-arse-muscles torment. I over did it and set back recovery. Oh, Mikey, sometimes you just have to man up and not man up. 

Wednesday, November 11, 2015

Fibro tagged in

I awoke a bit better in the gut but my body riddled with fibro pain sheeting across my back—all in addition to the still injury of blown out upper arse muscles. 

It's deeply horrid. 

But I did get to read a Game of Thrones book as I played Warlords on theboy's mini-ipad so it wasn't all bad. 

It felt like though I was in a wrestling match, with my anxiety having spawned a fighting duo of fibro and IBS, their letters sprayed across their manotards and that IBS tagged out with fibro who then did one of those pushing back on the rings deals to run over and slam onto my body as I lay gasping face down on the mat. 

It was nice though at one point when the black cat curled up on my agony-riddled back and went to sleep, her warm body a heat pack against the pain.

What a good egg—and to think they say black cats are unlucky (1).

(1) I put the superstition down to a black cat at night darting out because it would have been hard to see before it started moving and therefore, especially in times without lighting, it would have been a warm, furry trip hazard (equals) face-plant on a cobble stoned street. 

Tuesday, November 10, 2015

Road rage in a tin cage

Being riven with a host of life-enriching disabilities means I get to enjoy things like mental torment. It's okay, it's not a fail—in truth it's a dark blessing. But a dark blessing when times are good, when bad it's just dark.

So I was due for a car yell. Maybe it's primal scream therapy or something but I just start talking and talking then yelling until my throat's sore. The emotion bleed is acute—you're drained and sag bag in your seat. 

Talking alone in the car is something I've always done. Whenever I'd have to do public speaking or had an upcoming interview I'd practice on drives to and from work. Or if I was angry I'd talk it out. 

I guess it's kind of akin to a steam whistle trilling off pressure

I had my throat-scorching yell then feebly reached for the one third full water bottle from a weekend McLarge something slotted in the side passenger door with my Tyrion-esque arms and failed. 

I drove in silence for a bit, played some music, paused, talked, music, talked and felt better by the time I got home. 

Super powers come with super un-powers. Sure, it's a dark patch now, but there's always light ahead.


Marc V Lorne

Am listening to the podcast now; Marc Maron talks to Lorne Michaels.

At the start they go to the heart of the issue—Marc's failed audition in '95.

Hilariously Lorne Michaels is the inspiration for the voice of Dr Evil ... so it gets weird.

Awesome sauce.

... and soil and trouble

In spite of the jitters, fibro and raging IBS I made it into work.

At lunchtime I sharted. 

Fortunately past-Mikey came to the rescue with a spare pair of undies he'd cached in a plastic bag some three years before.

Past-Mikey, always thinking ahead. Well, in this case, about his bum.

I feel a bit like Jekyll and Hyde, in that my logic brain is fine but my animal brain is not.

I made it home, cleaned up, had a Valium then wrote in the shed under the beating rain. My guts are still a quiver and yet to realise that all is well.

I will get there—I always do.


UPDATE: I idly checked blog stats and found this post had recently been accessed. I read it and I laughed. Go Past-Mikey! Of course, I cleaned up some errors. That's just how Now-Mikey rolls. 

UPDATE2: It happened again—and I'd only just moved the new plastic bag plus fresh pair into the bottom drawer.  

Monday, November 09, 2015

Double puddle toil and trouble

With thanks to The Scottish Play (1).

The other day I had to do a chunk of stressful work. At the end of it, when I got home, I munged two Valium to take care of the jitters—heightened anxiety, hypervigilance and hand tremours.

As I woke the next morning my arse exploded, the innards not the outer still-blown out arse muscles, twice—two puddles. I even crested the rim; of the of the seat, no less.

Two Valium and two mud puddles. It may just be correlation but I am assuming rapid diarrhoea is a known side effect.

Let's see... nope, super squirts not listed.

I guess I'll put my "chunk of minced stool" down to "chunk of stressful work". 

Hooray for Wikipedia! Hooray for Jimmy Wales and Brandon Harris!

Keep up the great work, lads. 

(1) Yet another reason why I love Wikipedia (1a)
(1a) The wiki entry for Edwin Forrest, a protagonist from the above wiki, is also most awesome. Especially for this bit of the 19th century actor's start at age 14: 
After Forrest’s father died in 1819 he attempted, in short procession, to apprentice with a printer, a cooper and finally a ship chandler. When attending a lecture early the following year he volunteered to participate in an experiment on the effects of nitrous oxide. While under the influence of the gas Forrest broke into a soliloquy from Shakespeare’s Richard III that so impressed John Swift, an eminent Philadelphia lawyer, he arranged an audition at the Walnut Street Theatre that led to Forrest's formal stage début on November 27, 1820 as Young Norval in John Home’s Douglas.