Friday, September 15, 2017

Conditioning chickens

I love feeding the chickens Pringles but I like to make it interesting for them—making it fun gives them pride of effort. Of late I've been throwing them onto the gray roof of the projected section of the old hutch—within an easy hop but out of immediate view. 

With my jittery hands and the wind I get about one in three Pringles to land. 

Initially I clicked my fingers and chanted "up!" in an excited manner and that seemed to work until it didn't work at all. It didn't work later after one of them had been up there eating them then hopped down without realising two were left. They were there for ages.

Today it worked not at all; there were three on the roof but none of them paid attention to it or my clicking.

I was in the shed an hour and that spot is sheltered from the wind. When I came out the Pringles were gone.

So I may have conditioned a chicken—or more—to go to the roof after a Pringle dash. But I haven't seen them do it.

Next time I'll throw them stand back to watch; no intervention—just see. 

Conditioning chickens—I used to nudge people and now I nudge them. 

It's funny that in a shrunken world we still try do what we do best.


Is the blade of grass the black cat's bowl of petunias?

In the infamously awesome Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy series there is a bowl of petunias which was initially a nuclear missile but was turned into a bowl by the starship Heart of Gold using its probability field and the bowl's only thought as it plunged to the planet's surface is "oh no, not again".  

Later the line is explained by the fact that the spirit or soul of whatever it was in the bowl ends up in the bodies of creatures that have been killed by Arthur Dent—who activated the ship's defence's—across time and space.

Whenever the black cat gets out of the laundry door she immediately runs for the one long blade of grass on the left-side of the vegetable patch and then attempts to swallow it. Not chew it off, just jams it down her throat. It's usually in mid-blowie of the blade that you can catch her and return her to the house.

The cat has it in for that one blade of grass. Therefore it could be, if souls exist, the black cat's bowl of petunias. Except for the fact the cat has yet to kill it.

Maybe it's just toying with its linked souls bowl? Cats are generally harmless but this is something they like to do.

Whatever it is it's irritating. I can't bend without pain and use grabber sticks to pick things up. But you have to go hands and the lunge for an escaped cat and it's fucked on a body that couldn't survive long past birth without science-based intervention.

All hail the science!

Wednesday, September 13, 2017

Adventures with everyday objects

Thanks to my jittery hands—from injury and PTSD and meds V the effects of each—and fingers that spring open of their own accord I have difficulty with handling objects; the smaller and more fiddly the greater the difficulty. Sometimes my son will chuck a challenge at me like a peeling the wrapper from a Chuba Chub. 

I call these moments "adventures with everyday objects" in that I get to have these adventures with everyday objects: will he pick it up it? can he even hold it? are his fingers going to spring open and drop it? That sort of shit. 

I was near the back of the assembly at school and because I didn't have elastic (slash) rubber bands on my wrists to stop me picking at my face I picked at the wall instead, teasing out lumps of Blu-Tack that had clung to the bricks from posters past.

As we left I had a pea-sized lump of the good stuff stuck disc-style to my thumbnail. 

I forgot about it until I was in the shed then plucked it off and restored it to pea-size and shape. I had a poster that needed Blu-Tack so I reached with the other hand for it whilst holding the pea between thumb and finger-fore.

That's when the fuckers sprung open and I lost my pea of Blu-Tack to a shedfold—the gap between the concrete slab and the outside where the shed wall meets the floor and the outer rib of the shed metal allows objects to drop beyond the boundary of the slab.. 

There are at least 16 shedfolds where it could have gone. I gave up after poking at three after having lowered myself to the floor in the vain hope of finding it.

Then there was the two minute journey back to my feet of levering myself to my knees then shuffling to a position where I could push up because my gestational malformed skeleton cries havock if I try to use my legs—even though they're muscly as fuck for a man with bones that don't work quite right. 

So that was my adventure with an everyday object; a pre-loved pea of Blu-Tack I'd reclaimed from a wall then lost to the dark innards of a shedfold.

Jittery hands are balls [if you don't like balls].

Trigger warnings are appreciated by people who have triggers

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, or PTSD, has two states—constant and acute. The first is anxiety with physical expression such as hand tremour or a mental state of agitation. The acute is the severe anxiety attack with tunnel vision, panic along with crying and overwhelming dread.

One aspect common to sufferers is the sudden and or unpleasant noise scenario—which afflicts both states; it makes the constant worse and the likelihood of an acute moment triggering higher. I've been handling that better of late—the neighbour had a leaf mulcher going yesterday—but a child's cry is still a trigger easily pulled and the world is full of children. 

I went to an assembly with all the attendant risk of discordant noise for someone with PTSD knowing that I was risking exposure to triggers and I had two. The first t was a baby crying unable to be soothed (the mum had another kid in a stroller; she did the best she could). The other was a special needs kid who was chucking a toy metal car at a plastic seat over and over until his aide took him outside.  

The first one sent me out of the room and into the corridor on the cusp of fight flight with the reaction spreading and tears coming but with some deep breaths I got back to a stable place and re-entered. The second one was just unpleasant because it was irregular and felt like an attack sound.

I got through the assembly but I spent much of it hovering at the back in case I had to run for it.

Now people mock the idea of "trigger warnings" as being too coddling of society or precious people within it that need special protection. 

But some people need those warnings. When you have PTSD, yes the whole world is a trigger, but a veteran with it appreciates people who don't let off fireworks near their house. In the US they put up signs outside their house around firework-afflicted holidays to let neighbours know to do it elsewhere.

For those who suffered trauma from molestation then it's appreciated when someone in a room says "we''re going to talk about child abuse" ahead of discussing it so you can leave if you're worried about that trigger pulling—especially if twinned with PTSD.

You don't know what it's like to have PTSD or be in a state of acute anxiety until you've have it or you've been in one.

I for one appreciate trigger warnings—such as for loud noises and child abuseand I'm not a fucking snowflake for appreciating them. They give me a chance to assess how I am coping, think of strategies to cope or whether I have to leave the space all together.

Trigger warnings are valued by the people who have fucking triggers; if you don't have one then shut the fuck up about people providing them for those that do.

Tuesday, September 12, 2017

A backing battle anthem

"MMMBop" by Hanson.

The other day I was playing happy music and accidentally lapsed into angry oratory in the middle of "MMMBop".

And it didn't sound half-bad, either, with the song neatly backing the yelling.

If I can rage orate to "MMMBop" then I can probably do that to any form of music. 

Anyway, "MMMBop". If you're angry give a try at screaming into the teeth of that song and see how you feel.

Sushi bands V self-mutilation

I've put elastic bands from a sushi boxes on my wrists. I always know they're there because the sensation is not pleasant (but not painful).

But it takes my mind off picking at my face and if I feel the need to do something at my body I can rub the bands against my stomach. All that is at risk are wrist hairs and I can take bare wrists over a gouged face any day.

So far this technique is holding—it's been a day since I had a go at my face. 

I cried on the weekend as I confessed my failure as my wife gently trimmed my nails back then cleaned them so I wouldn't as much traction when I picked. She told me to forgive myself. 

A psych once suggested the elastic band thing—but to have it there to snap against your wrist if you had a bad thought to snap you out of that moment. So I've modified the advice to constant presence of light discomfort combined with gentle uncomfortable rubbing instead of an instant instance of deeper self-mortification.

I feel like I'm in Opus Dei but without the religion and magical box at the end of it (1). 

(1) Seriously, heaven is a thousand miles across box. It's in Revelations, people!

Monday, September 11, 2017

A sundering battle anthem

"Hey Hey Bad News" by Bad News.

Fun memory—listening to this on CD in my room as an adult (i.e. 18) with my older brother, therefore also an adult, and having my dad burst in screaming non-profanity laced invective at our fouling his house with such foul music and my brother having to talk him down from his anger attack by explaining the principles of musical satire. 

My brother was studying musicology at the time—hence the technical talk—but given he was the same height as my dad that was what soothed his ire. If it had just been me alone when he burst in he'd likely have throttled me. Yet another moment where my older brother had to physically step in to stop me being thugged over.

So, not a fun memory; a fucked one. They mostly are. When you get to be a parent that's when you go "what the fuck was that all about?!" when you rethink your childhood.

I guess we take what works from what they did and fuck what didn't right in its ear hole.

Ooh, that's just nasty.

Splayed leg V leg egg

Yesterday I rode the exercise bike for the first time since my mystery fall—which may have been due to low blood pressure if my new meds had "corrected" too far the other way—risking contact with my slightly receded leg egg as I peddled.

Because when I ride my legs are splayed, with my right leg even further more splayed than the average peep due to the shoddy gestational nature of my lower limbs (cowboy builders!), I was able to do it without rubbing against the egg.

It's one of those rare occasions a disability gives you a win—in addition to the parking benefits.

Sunday, September 10, 2017

Near death

I've lost count of NDEs but this time I tripped and fell forward and barely caught the arm rest instead of dashing my skull against the radiator and bleeding out on the carpet. 

That or suffering brain damage; yay, the only part of me that works in a "shine on you crazy diamond" kind of way. 

So I dodged yet another near death; and as a confirmed "bright"—those of us confirmed we are here for one life and with blaze with as much intensity while can—that would be a shitty way to have gone. 

I talked to theboy about steles—the giant "selfo" monuments rulers of Egypt hoisted about the place to declare "I was fucking here and here's all the awesome shit I did". 

We were playing with magic sand—the sand with oil combo that allows the sand to retain a shape for a short while—and I told him of these things as I made a pillar of magic sand and etched it with a plastic blade.

I said I deserved one; a stele. It was monstrously arrogant, to say I deserve a pillar of stone as a testament to my greatness—but it was true nonetheless and I "stele" feel that way.

That's comedy gold; a recognition of disabling ego and with a pun as a closer. 


Saturday, September 09, 2017

Frosted balls

I've got a massive leg egg, where tissue swells on the inside of your thigh creating a subcutaneous lump that feels solid and is tender to the touch and agony to walk with.

Out of desperation I found a cold chemical based pain spray for sport injuries and sprayed the fuck out of the leg egg.

Only I didn't screen my balls when I sprayed and the cold mist caught them in the back blast.

I have a hot water bottle between my legs to keep the egg from pressing against my other leg and as an immediate counter to the ball frosting.

Frosted my own balls in a self-treatment fail.

(takes a bow).

Deeply hopeless.


I woke after bad dreams, read for a while and slept again, bad dreams stealing back.

When I woke again I found I'd sweated through the top sheet from bad dream writhing.

The dreams were a fusion of old family and new and old work; blended in a horror smoothie---or sweatie in this case. The plot fled on waking but it spawned a few loopers during the day. Not where I cried as I talked; just lost in frosted silence.

But then shards of joy pierced the sombre and I instead got lost in something special.

I can't control what I dream but I can try to steer its impact on waking; to avoid reflections in a dark pool.

So if I can see myself darkly staring back, trapped in a loop, I will recognise it, I will choose a direction, fire and move.


Friday, September 08, 2017

Looped; did game

I got caught in an angry crying loop about (insert here) and only broke out of it when I sat down to do my move in my play by email D&D game. It's a sphere outside of trauma where I have joy.

I told myself a number of times I was looping and needed to break out of it but then went off on a new tangent.

Next time I will try to remember to treat a loop like an ambush; recognise I'm in one, pick a direction and fire and move through it. 


Thursday, September 07, 2017

Civil right via the post

That we have to go through this postal ballot farce that ends with a parliamentary vote anyway is bonkers. The vote could happen now instead of by post then vote. 

Well since it's a go for the post then vote I look forward to ticking yes and sending it back. 

Then, at Xmas, I can remind my dad that gays now have that word too.

Wednesday, September 06, 2017

New cushion

thewife saw my sad melange of newspaper, a sheet of A4 paper and stained cushion and got me a new cushion for the seat in the shed. 

I have tried a bathmat as the protective cover but I had to double it up and its leathery tendrils drill uncomfortably into my bum. 

So I'll try a towel.

It was a bit sad seeing that sight of seating bedlam but I just wasn't that fussed. Though I confess when removing the layer cake of seating I saw upon the newspaper a dab of "the brown" and it both repelled me and confirmed the wisdom of papering over against the risk of future that happening again. 

Which it did. 

I had a doctor's meeting where I had to confirm that IBS is limiting a factor in my life. But at least I have a new cushion and I will swap out this bathmat of not comfort for a towel of comfort yes.


UPDATE: I found a plain tea-towel with a weird blue stain like it had been used to mop up a smurf. So it's battle-damaged already and thus can be my protective sheathe against the occasional "adult" accident. 

I put "adult" in scare quotes to sound tough but I'm not; I'm a cuddly softie—and I do like to giggle  

Sunday, September 03, 2017


I got a card for Fathers Day. theboy wrote he loves me even when he's mad at me.

That meant a lot. I had a bruising childhood where I was made to feel useless and broken. 

He will never feel that way about himself. He won't get a swelled head---we'll make sure of that---but he will never feel unloved or that he is worth less than others. 

The best revenge is doing well; so fuck you, universe, I win.

Friday, September 01, 2017

Chicken wrangling

The gate to the pen was open enough for the chickens to get out; I discovered this when having a coffee and looking out the window and saw two of the browns pecking their way through the green of the garden.

All five were out and when they saw me coming they clustered under the lower limbs of the hiding tree where I could not reach them.

The broom could though and I waved it about under the tree to goose them loose and direct them into the fenced off area near the washing line.

I can't bend with ease and I am still recovering from the mystery fall that bunged my right knee. I'm also heavyset. So the only successful way to grab them was a semi-squat like a sumo wrestler to get my tum out of the way. There was a lot of awkward movement and my body was bearing my weight on my knees as I tried to lock on.

I think it was about two minutes of bending and puffery and I was knackered and pain-wracked afterward. But I got them all back in.

Naturally they shat over the brick and concrete paths; but if you had a choice to shit somewhere different wouldn't you?

Thursday, August 31, 2017

It stings

I had another go at my facial scar ridge for most of the day. At 3 pm I put the cream on.

I can't stop having a go at it and I'm usually spacing out while doing it, trapped in a dark cloud of memory.

I'll try better tomorrow. It's gratifying to have at even though it stings for the eight hours of pick, pick, pick.

Fucking OCPD twixt PTSD---plus there's only one vowel and there's one tile too many. 

Wednesday, August 30, 2017


I heard a faint clitter-clatter on the floor---and thanks to years of handling and dropping pills knew it was one of the night time head pills that had fallen.

The thing was that I'd taken the night mass of pills minutes earlier which meant one of the two yellow head meds---I'm on a doubled dose in my heightened state---had clung to my palm all that time after failing to enter my mouth when I chucked the rest in my gob.

It's yet another oddity I now have to deal with and so after every pill meal I'll now have to check my hand is empty and I've actually got all of them in.

I don't know what it would have done to a cat had I not noticed---probably just zonk them and they'd sleep 90 per cent of their day away instead of the usual 80.

Thanks, pill-clinging palm, for adding another ill-ability to my set of sad skills.

I'd make a lousy captured spy; "Fools, I'll never talk!" (attempts insertion) "hang on, chaps" (has another go and presumes success) "for I have taken this pill and----wait" (licks hand) "did it go in? It's small, you see, and I couldn't tell."

Tuesday, August 29, 2017


I was talking to myself into pinging the ping-back and yelled "it's an oblitunity!"—for I had mangled saying either obligation or opportunity then created a portmanteau from both.

The word exists—if you Google for it—and the peeps that coined it give the word the same meaning; something that is both an obligation and an opportunity; i.e. if you see an opportunity to act then you have an obligation to act. 

I saw the oblitunity and I took it. After-all luck is sometimes coined as "preparation meets opportunity"; I had something prepared so the oblitunity presented itself. 

We all have moral agency within the limits of our world; if we see a problem that needs fixing and we have the power to fix it then it's an obligation on us to try.

I attempted figuratively insane "we can fix this" things in the workplace in the spirit of oblitunity—things others would or could not try because they could not see the need, urgency or because they feared the response.

Twice now when biking on the trike I've encountered obstacles that I could pass but would impair others. The first was a pair of old planks rusty nail side up that had fallen across the between-houses path. I got off and carefully inserted them through the gap in fence of one of those houses where previous fallen boards had been stacked. 

Then, on a glide home, I found a rock had tumbled onto the path. I am middle-aged and cannot bend without pain—and the rock was the size of a basketball and had fallen from its previous position up near a fence up a one foot slope.

I could have left it but I had the oblitunity so I got off and with effort rolled the fucking rock back into place. 

Because if not me then who? That's oblitunity talkin'!

Monday, August 28, 2017


I have mobility issues and trip easily. And so it came to pass I found my nose mashed up against the seat of my exercise bike.

I recoiled the way you do in moments such as these and hoped the stain I saw on the way back was from my habit of balancing a coffee mug there now and then.

The self-snedge. It was not nice and I nearly broke my nose doing it. Of course that was due to accidental and forceful non-wanted snedging; I presume those that do it for reals take appropriate safety measures when applying nose to seat.

The annoying thing is that it happened again like two days later.

My body; every day a body fail results in a new adventure. 

Sunday, August 27, 2017


I keep thinking back to yesterday's fall and how if my head had landed a different way I'd be dead. And of the aftermath of finding myself lying in agony and in an unknown state of damage. It was terrifying; fear, pain and helplessness all in the one un-great moment.

Probs, I feel for those that live alone and are frail; my muscled legs likely saved me from a limb break and I had a partner who could get me up or get help.

I didn't lose time---the song I was playing was the same one on when I found myself on the ground ... and YouTube went into the next song in its chosen list as I feebly called for help. All up it was about 10 minutes before I got heard; alone, frail and old I'd be dead---from the fall or the not being able to get back up.

I've spent today hobbling, my right knee wrenched and my left knee stinging. 

I survived, again. But I wish the universe would stop chucking these fucking moments at me.

Saturday, August 26, 2017

I fell and could not get up

I was in the shed playing joyful songs when I found myself on the floor, legs akimbo, under the old wooden chair and with my head in a potting tray.

I had to call for help; I was worried I’d broken my thigh and or knees. thewife responded to my feeble cries then spent five minutes getting me into a position to try to get up.

Nothing broken but my legs feel like they belong to someone who didn't pay a gambling debt and was given a lesson in the joys of prompt repayment.

I have no memory of falling; just lying on the floor in agony with wrenched legs and fear of broken limbs. I may have tripped and fallen backwards but only before me knows the truth.

My mum's MS kicked in about now. It's not hereditary but it still scares me. She walked for as long as she could before being scooter bound but a sudden fall was one of the signs.

Well, that would be the icing on the cake; but as I was reminded I did ride nearly two hours on a body that does not normally do that and it was probably a muscle spasm that dropped me.

The last time I had a "why am I on the ground?" moment was when I got concussed by a football and was apparently out for half a minute. 

Sudden falls; yet another risk for the risk-attracting Mikey.

Talisman—an odd friendship ruined by a mule-obsessed dwarf

We played Talisman, fourth edition and I lost. 

theboy won—after having to re-spawn as the dwarf after his wizard bit the dust in a battle with a dragon. 

When a character dies all their stuff goes on the square along with the monster that killed them. To get the stuff you need to kill the monster. 

We were all low-Strength and Craft at that point. And that's how it came to pass that for most of the game, in the woods, there lived a dragon with its mule friend and bag of gold. 

Given mules are sterile I imagine the dragon and mule got along like this emu and dog rather than dragon and Donkey from Shrek; a platonic friendship in the forest.

A friendship ruined when the dwarf turned up, killed the dragon, and claimed its gold and the mule.

theboy ended the game with every mule that had gone into circulation during play—four of them with him at the Crown of Command. He kept attacking characters with mules solely to steal that mule and add their mule to his collection. Then he led them all, laden with phat loot, to the Crown of Command from where he killed me—lied about the number of lives I had left so as to extend the game and my torment—only for me to lose my last life dicing with death during the journey to the Crown to try and kill him.

It could have been a dragged out fight; we were both packing a natural 12 Strength before follower and item boosts. 

I wonder what the four mules were thinking when the dwarf was sitting on that throne with the ring round his head and grunting savagely. Probably "why the fuck are we still packed with stuff while that dwarf is sitting there and pushing out a nasty?"

Friday, August 25, 2017

Double ping back

It's never happened before---a double ping back. I lost count of the pings sent and then two back in the one day.

I got to celebrate the returned pings with YouTube-delivered anthem goodness.

Now a ping back doesn't mean anything unless it leads to something; but the something won't happen without that crucial ping pinging back.

And I got two.


UPDATE: I put the cape back on and went bare-chested. I saw myself in the window and I looked glorious—as if bitten by a radioactive potato. Then I took the cape off and hung it back up lest true mania kick in and I start once again zooming round the house whilst making hero noises. 

Tuesday, August 22, 2017

Eurythmics medley comedified

I love this Eurythmics medley from the SNL 25 Year reunion show which features "Here Comes The Rain Again", "Ball and Chain" and "Sweet Dreams".  I love everything about it; the costumes, the music instrument change over and Annie rocking it out in true Annie style.

Only when it came to the line "... I want to talk like lovers do..." I instinctively shrieked "Shane, can you please move over?! I don't want to sit in your wet spot."

I was so immediately pleased with the result I had to pause the video and write it down so I didn't forget it happened.

That's comedy gold.

Sixty-five minutes

Today's raging grief out only lasted 65 minutes—and I was mobile the whole time, not trapped in the shed like yesterday.

It started in the shower and I noticed the grief out tends to start there so on return following exercise I banned myself from ranting or thinking in the shower and demanded joyful music bellow forth instead.

I think I sang about the possum that lives in the three-foot enclave between our house and the one next door and how I probably shouldn't scare it by rage screaming into the shower wall given it lives on the other side. 

So it wasn't quite what I planned but it was musical. And, so far, holding steady.

I got a mission list of wellness to do and I did all of them save one and I'll go do that now. 

In a shrunken world you still have to do things; keep moving; don't sit still. 

Because you'll stew in your own rich juices. 

And I don't think anyone wants anyone else to experience their juices delivered in such a fashion—rich or otherwise.

Monday, August 21, 2017

Couldn't get out of a one room building

I got trapped in a raging grief out in the shed but couldn't leave through the door. It was right there and I could see it but I was paralysed, rooted to the spot, with my arms drawn across my body and I was screaming.

In the end I talked myself out; "We are leaving the shed; we are walking to the house; we are opening the house door".

My wife had to come home and sort me out with care and reason. She had several goes before she got there.

That was the worst one yet; I talked myself into screaming paralysis. 

I promised to look forward not back; to recognise when in a bad churn and break out of it. 

And I did get out of the one room building. It was about ten minutes to get across the three feet and open the door. But it did happen.

Next time I'll try doing it in five.

PTSD is balls.

Friday, August 18, 2017

Trump (heart) hate art

Donald Trump has doubled down on appeasing his base by declaring statues of Confederate heroes to be totes beaut and should remain in public. That to destroy these statues, or displace them, is to deny them to those who love them and to deny history.

Won't someone think of the hate statues?!

Of course art's beauty is in the eye of the beholder. When Trump redeveloped a building in the '80s he promised to take out and preserve the art deco within but recanted and destroyed them because they stood in his way of a fast reno.

So art is important to Donald, but only if it's in the form of a Versailles fart cloud or three dimensional representations of white men who fought to own not-white people.

Trump is Louis XIV meets Robert E Lee because of course he is. 

What's the bet he gets an air horn installed in "The Beast", the presidential limo, that plays Dixie like from The Dukes of Hazzard?

And he paints the car gold.

Wednesday, August 16, 2017

Pringles?! (tap, tap)

I was in the shed when the insistent tapping began on the shed wall, like a woodpecker on a tree only chicken on metal. 

It was one of the browns. She cocked an eye and looked at me. I knew what she wanted, what they all wanted, which was their delicious semi-daily Pringle dash where I lob a cluster of five or six Pringles in a stack into the pen to have them land under the tree—for there was light rain and I didn't want them to experience a soggy Pringle. 

Rocky, literally the head of the pecking order being the biggest and fieriest, defended the largest shards of chip remnant but I was pleased to see a brown dart in, grab a bit big enough to project out the sides of her beak but without breaking it run to a safe spot to them crunch down and peck up the treasure.

They tried it again—the pecking on the shed wall—but I yelled "you've had your daily ration now beat it" and they did. 

The chickens have learned to summon me for Pringles by tap, tap, tapping on my shed wall. 

Quoth the chickens; "GIVE US MORE FUCKING PRINGLES!'

Tuesday, August 15, 2017

Word use drop off when mad

"Because you're a fucking head fuck!"

My words just failed me whilst solo-raging. I'm usually more erudite. I tried looking in the mirror when doing it---a suggestion from a doctor to try to stop these moments---but I looked awesome in angry oratory mode so clearly objectivity while mad drops off as well.

Emotion; it clouds the logic but it's part of being human. 

Monday, August 14, 2017

Extended grief out

As long noted the path to mental health recovery is more like a dance than a linear journey given there are steps you take back even as you aim to dance forward. 

I've been down this path a few times now since the injury where I'll be coping, even thriving, then suddenly—WHAM!—straight back into a moment or moments that wrenched my core being.

There's one technique where you write a letter about how you feel. But the initial impulse to write was driven by the a maddened rage after I punched my bedroom door and widened the hole from where I head-butted it years before.

The wrenching anger boiled out of me as I typed, screaming each word as I typed it; tears clawed; the world spun. 

I didn't send it; that's not the aim of the exercise. All that would do is cause more grief and hurt. But as it frothed forth into e-form in a Word doc I felt unwordly, not human, something possessed. 

I'm now in the post grief out fatigue phase where I'll listlessly plod crying through the house. I tried singing it away but the crying made it too difficult to get the words out in a decent musical fashion. My body hurts like I've been thrown to the ground. 

I get that I have an origin story—all heroes do—but most of them start in a shit state then do their best to claw upward.

I guess that's what makes them heroes. 

I no longer have the worry about what people think but I still worry about telling people what I think. I can flense a man's soul with a few chosen words but I consciously suppress that impulse because though I have the ability I choose not to use it.

I guess that makes me a better person somehow. 


Sunday, August 13, 2017

The party

All the classic elements of a rager were there---a mega spew that got hosed off the patio, someone sitting on the neighbour's roof because they could and a delighted screamed demand for "a third moustache!". As an added bonus in spite of the party fuel there was no violence like last year when someone copped a punch to the gut.

Fuck I love children's birthday parties.

Saturday, August 12, 2017

Fisted a fig tree

We got adult-sized boxing gloves for the stand-up punching bag. I wanted to see if I could topple the bag with a punch.

I could---the punching bag fell over and on to the fig tree. The tree snapped. 

It got revenge in death---the snapped-off trunk stabbed a hole in the bag.

Suffice to say no one was impressed, least of all the tree's owner who "only had it for seven years."

That's a tree-laced relationship fail.

Played himself out with the Baha Men

theboy had to get dressed but before leaving the room opened his musical birthday card that blares the chorus from "Who let the dogs out?" and took it with him as he receded into the depths of the house.

So he played himself out of the room. When I return to the workforce then perhaps I'll do the same.

"Well, all, that was a great meeting and I'll see you next time!" 

(cue music) "Who let the dogs out? Who? Who? Who? Who?" (door slams).

Friday, August 11, 2017

Angry ride; did something nice for the chickens

I went on an outside ride but got trapped in angry-cry-yell cycle for the entire cycle. Nearing the end and wanting to do something positive to counter the negative state I put myself in I bought the chickens some Pringles. I did a Pringle dash when I got home. They loved it.

It was a win against the anger still in me.

I have to resist the rise of negative emotion; it's too easy fall into and it impairs logic and reason. 

Of course it's not very logical to buy chickens Pringles but I'm a complicated man.

Thursday, August 10, 2017

Told off

I got caught picking at my face by my son and he told me off. So I left the room and hid near the wardrobe to pick there. It took a manifest summoning of will to stop, get the cream and put it on. 

After I had a shower, as soon as the wound was dry, I doused it with cream. 

I can go a few hours without touching then I'm at it again. I hate it and I hate that my brain is yelling at me to rip the interloper from my face even though it's part of me.

It's yet another expression of my many qualities that make me somewhat not as normal.

That's a good thing; the things I've done as a not-normal I could not have done otherwise.

(Fist raised for the not-normal).

I could just do with less of the facial self-savaging.

Did not ache with the ache of a thousand aches

Exercise is typically hard for me. It's okay on an actual bicycle riding outside; on a stationary bike it's not much fun. It's a grind. 

Today was not as grindy as usual—and a nul state is better than a negative state.

So it's evenness for the win I suppose in that it wasn't shit like it usually is. 

I'll take real sea level over dead sea level any day.


Shit cushion II

I had a friend into the shed and his bum was sore for sitting on the little red chair. So we swapped places.

He removed the newspaper covering the shit cushion before sitting down. He did not see the stain before seating.

I didn't have the heart to tell him why the newspaper was there but then he's a nurse so I am sure he would understand if I had. 

Perhaps it's time to just get a new cushion—and try not to taint it with my taint.

Netflix thinks I am a brony

It's not me that's watching it, it's him. He's using my profile instead of his own.

That's rat cunning that is.

Wednesday, August 09, 2017

I didn't scare cats

I was lost in an event, but more upset than angry, and I saw the cats were fine. One was asleep on the couch backrest and the other curled by the heater.

They were not fussed by my fuss; maybe they've adapted to seeing a crying angry me so often. It's good to know.  I hate these moments. I only broke it by physically leaving the house still ranting on the BYB until the exercise and vallium kicked in.

It's draining being me. But I'll charge back up; I always do.


Sunday, August 06, 2017

Fingered a dragon

It was Viconia who cast the finger of death spell on the shadow dragon—though I doubt it would have worked were it not for the Bhaalspawn's assist with lowering magic resistance—but still it immediately pleased me that not only did it work but that I had fingered a dragon to death.

Yay, Baldur's Gate II: Enhanced Edition; even better than the original (even with the pro-bugs cleaned up).

Balloon popped

It was right at ear level—outside for decorative purposes—when the balloon blew and right into the left of my head.

I froze with surprise but did not trip into a panic state.

That's pretty sweet; a balloon pop in the ear for someone with issues about loud and sudden sound with PTSD not to cause me to scream "INCOMING" and hit the ground—though my PTSD is of the white collar kind—is a fucking miracle. 

Hooray for secular positive happenstances! Sure beats the shit out of the reverse.

Hardest wound yet to leave alone

I've a body littered with scars of dozens of wounds—because of my OCPD and my habit of picking at a scab as it is healing and therefore leaving a scar.

The scar ridge on my cheek is the hardest wound yet to leave alone. When dried it's a lump of dried skin I know I could cut from my face (or pull it off) and it's a delight to pick. Unless that is I slather the fucker with the steroid cream my horrified back-up doc prescribed me when he saw what I had done.

The greatest danger is on waking up because it's there, ready to be haved at. I have to get up and go and get the cream and rub a thick spread on it to prevent those puckered ridges forming which my OCPD-afflicted brain delights at tearing. I even tried putting the cream by my bedside to put it on before getting up but that didn't stop me.

I've slathered it now and unless I wash it off, then dry it for the sole purpose of having another go at it then in theory I'll now leave it alone. The cream robs the site of its "tingle", that message to your head there's an invader on your body and you can take it off if you diligently razor your face with a sharp finger nail. 

OCPD is not a fun thing to live with—and it's a co-morbidity with depression, anxiety and PTSD. That's just the mind—my body is a whole other temple to oddity and the perturbing strange.

It's all part of the Mikey experience; the game played by just the one person and who inadvertently set the difficulty at fucked.

But I wouldn't be me without all of that and that's still a game worth playing.

Friday, August 04, 2017

I scare cats

I don't mean to---and they haven't done anything wrong---but my habit of falling into angry oratory V fuckwits in my life-wake causes them stress. They're typically in a lovely cat spot for an extended lie then I come in ranting and they perk up with worry in case they think I'm angry with them. Sometimes I'll catch myself and I'll turn mid-sentence from all caps shrieking to "... oh not you, sweetheart. I'm not mad at you."

Which undercuts the oratory. 

I know I shouldn’t do it anyway because I can shout myself into a full-blown anger anxiety attack and all the dross that comes with it.

I'll try less cat scaring self talk and go to library mode. Not speak unless I need to.

Now to find a beanbag and read Asterix books.

Thursday, August 03, 2017

BYB back on no battery

It was raining when I left the movies having seen Dunkirk---an unwise decision for someone with PTSD but I stuck it out with hands over ears for the loud bits---and so had to ride the BYB without electric-assist. For in the wet you have to turn it all off due to the system not being waterproof and electric.

It was a thigh-busting ride in a decent spray of rain, a brutal laboured slog with more than one pause to catch a breather. The bike is so fucking heavy and with a heavy man on top but I have muscled legs in spite of a gut and there were no points I had to get off and push. But I did go down to the easiest gear on the slightest of hills to max my chance of success.

I was stiff-legged when I made it home and tomorrow my upper legs will whine with afterglow of uber exertion.

In my smaller world I set myself daily missions. The first was to leave the house and go see a movie. The second turned out to be staying through the movie given the high def sound of heavy machine gun fire. The third was getting the bike home without battery assist.

The first spawned the others but it was mission accomplished all round. But I will not make a habit of riding outside on rainy days because holy snapping duckshit that was epic hard on a not fun body.

The Mikey experience; if I was a game I'd be rated one star.

Blue poles

I’ve had a few rubbery moments of acute distress and I’ve noticed a new Mikey-response to overwhelming grief and that’s my need to hug something. The first time it happened—I was worried I’d made a mistake in an important career-defining email (I had)—I found myself hugging the wall between the corridor and the bathroom. I was hanging onto it because I was so overwhelmed in that moment I felt like I’d fall off a mountain and hugging the wall between corridor and room would prevent it.

On an angry cry tricycle ride it happened again—the impulse to hug something when in acute distress—and I nearly hopped off the bike to embrace a pine tree trunk. But I fought it and kept riding and cry-yelling up the bike path.

Last night it was inflicted on the new stand-up punching bag which has a circumference similar to a skinny human. I hugged long and held it tight as grief ate my feet, tripping me to vertigo.

I realised it was a reverse Temple Grandin hug machine—her machine hugs you—and I was seeking a physical anchor against the impact of deep grief for when energy is sucked from your limbs or when you’re so overwhelmed it throws off your sense of balance and you collapse.

Well, whatever gets you through the moment I suppose. And if it's hugging random pole-like vertical bodies to avoid becoming a grief puddle then I say grip on. 

I look forward to the variety of things I may future hug when limb-robbing grief comes calling.

Tuesday, August 01, 2017

Anger storms

A delicious part of trauma is the reliving of it; you get sucked back to that moment with all its attendant joy.

Another yummy part are the anger storms that sweep across as you recall an incident and all the failure that led to it. 

Then there are the deep, raging storms fuelled by childhood torment caused by the institutional failures that cruelled the younger you.

They rage the longest because you were an innocent; whatever you did back then you were a child and if you fucked up that status should have been recognised. Unless that is you dwelt in an environment where your failure became fodder for the abusers.

I get sucked back into as a child and cannot comprehend the choices made for my good, the cruelty those choices inflicted and the utter absence of contrition by the ones that did it.

The world is full of monsters. I guess the only truth I can cling to is that I am not a monster and I will spend my life fighting them.

Who better to hunt for monsters than a person who was monstered.


Monday, July 31, 2017

Shit cushion

In the shed for laptop seating I use a battered wooden chair—the last survivor of a second hand heavy duty wooden dining set bought some decades before. Only its solid woodeness means a sore arse after about 20 minutes.

I had a cushion for the seat but due to IBS and thin ladies PJ pants I had seared one side of it with taint from my taint. 

So I turned the cushion over.

But you can only do that once and it happened again. So I went without the cushion and put up with a sore arse.

Finally I accepted the cushion needed to be used, soiled though it was, so I solved that by using an old News Review from a weekend SMH as a one-sided slip cover.

It was unsettling seating at first but I've now gotten used to the weird melange of newspaper and cushion.

Circumstance makes for strange bedfellows. 

Sunday, July 30, 2017

Managed out of IKEA

My son convinced me to take the internal way to the exit instead of going out the entrance to walk back to the car but even with internal shortcuts it's a hell of a long walk from the front to the back of IKEA—especially for someone who struggles to walk.

At one point, in pain and now unable to find the exit, I semi-lost my shit and yelled "I JUST WANT TO GET THE FUCK OUT OF IKEA!".

My son, who is less than 10, had to admonish me to lower my voice. He then had to lead me to the exit all the while dealing with me being bug-eyed and agitated. I could see the stress of my distress eating at him as we weaved our way through.

So we know better for next time not to go the internal way. But he was subdued in the car because he'd had to factor in the angry distress of a middle-aged man with work-inflicted PTSD. 

I cried, as quietly as I could, on the drive home at the childhood that has been robbed from him. He shouldn't have the burden of managing my symptoms but he does—and has to—because he's my son.

It is what it is—and many days it's just shitty.

Thursday, July 27, 2017

TARDIS shower curtain

It made my penis bigger on the inside!

Tuesday, July 18, 2017

Waffle and kvetch

Rubbery confession
I'm back in treatment for recurring bouts of distress. When I have these moments I've been forgetting where I am and what is happening to me—nor caring if I do not stop. 

I have OCPD which means picking at my body. I chose a part of my face and it got nasty. I cried to my doctor and he upped my head dose and prescribed a cream. So far the cream is holding against the urge to pick it but I had one last crack at ripping the scar from my face before applying. 

Last night I dreamed I tore a hole my face—like I'd taken a crossbow bolt through the cheek. 

I told him how I used to just have at my feet—limping to work in bloodied socks—but I got too big and old to reach them. I've had to go to meetings with band-aids on my face. 

If I was a dog they'd make me wear the cone. 

Manhole taken at speed
I was riding the BYB downhill towards a manhole—the concrete circle jutting with alarm up from the path.

I've always slowed for it but I was sucked into a "fuck it" and took it at speed. I yelled, loud and proud "YEE-HAA" like I was in a chase movie and I'd taken an out bridge at max acceleration to clear a river.

In the glide   I considered the gendered use of manhole and its possible reverse—but a ladyhole taken at speed with a trilling yell is just not nice, for the hole or the lady.

Stacked it and cracked it
Again with the turning and forgetting I've three wheels and not two. It was at a usual suspect, a crossroads with two steep bits. I circled left then turned to go right but the slope felled me to the grass. 

The fall scraped my leg and the Kirk-shoulder roll I effected left me rattled and battered.

The throttle control split and I thought the bits lost—they'd slid down to the base of the handle and the throttle turned on with a hint of provocation. 

I parked the bike on a different slope and dismounted to look for the parts I then thought lost.

That's when the bike took off—at full speed with no passenger to hold it. It circled round me like a bull then whizzed up the slope for parts unknown I grabbed the basket and held it as the front wheel lathed a gouge in the grass. 

This pulled the basket off its brackets and the front of the basket is where the eight kilo battery lives. 

So it came to be that I counter-weighted with what I could find and in a t-shirt on a chilly Canberra afternoon I held a basket up with one hand as I throttled home with the other.

It's a reminder—thanks, physics and biology both—that tricycles are for paths that are level, not not-paths that are not. Each time I've stacked a slope's been the cause of my fate. 

Sausages used to be my Sideshow Bob rake but now it's any form of non-level thoroughfare. 

theWife did her magic to jury-rig it together again so I'll see how I go when I next give it a go. 

I earned the next day off for impact of the impact, my back a solid mass of ouch and regret. 

I was tasked with getting some frozen veg. "I was sent on a mission to give peas a chance," I said, pushing the packet across to the young counter girl, "... that's all I'm saying."

(... crickets...)

Illness and injury afflict relationships
I've had depression since ten then copped an injury at age but while the former was managed the latter made it sicker and afflicted those I live with. 

theboy was angry and wanted to be alone but I couldn't leave him without him knowing he was loved and I made it worse. My judgement is clouded when conditions are high. I added to his acute distress.

The worst is the managing. He manages me—he sees a look on my face and backs off with concern at stressing me out. It kills me he does it but I love that he does; because he worries about me. 

PTSD is contagion. The people who love you cop the crap of your sick; they react to sudden noise like you because they fear your response—your trigger, their trigger, PTSD inflicts PTSD.

Then I remember the injury would not have happened were I not ill. My OCPD makes me give a shit; I worry about others as I worry at my face. 

Balance, karma, the yin and the yang—my illness makes me strong as it cripples me weak. 

Getting up
Getting up from the stacked bike was easy; getting up from the relapse is hard. 

But I keep getting up because getting the fuck up is what the fuck I do.