Sunday, September 18, 2016

They came in the morning then again that day

It's rare to have a double-attack day but the first one primed the second and I cooked off. The second time I was crying under a crossroads sign as the rain fell, huddled, pulled into myself like I could retract deep into my being as pain, anger, sadness and loss collapsed into a single miserable singularity. 

Then I snapped out of it, fixed things, then had another attack but this time in a safe place where afterwards I'd feel better.

That's what it is to live with psychological injury. That you can enter moments of juddering insanity and deep, wrenching grief but then you just have to claw the fuck back out of it because people depend on you.

I hate the injury even as it's made me strong as fuck. I loathe these acute moments because I feel useless even though I am extra-useful; it's just I have limitations with things like basic dexterity and coping with a crowded car park on a wet Sunday. 

If I was a GM in a points build game and someone presented me as a character I'd strike me out as too limiting to the action; "This fucknob has to make a fear check every time he's exposed to a sudden and or loud noise? No deal!"

But it's real life and we play the character we get; I'm the true-rolls version of me and I'm the only me I'll be. Unfortunately only me comes with a side order of occasional grief outs (1).

Being me is still fun to play, even with all the disads—and sometimes because of them.


(1) Space outs but with crying and light staggering

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