Wednesday, November 15, 2017

It's a yes

Ozzers in the postal survey said yes to same sex marriage in every State and Territory.

Will this now mean our LGBTIQ comrades now get to marry the person they love? 

We'll find out...

UPDATE: Sucked in, bigots.

UPDATE2: It wasn't okay to say no. It was their right to say no but it still didn't make it morally right. And if your very old book can't handle how gender and sexuality works in reality then maybe it is time to re examine your sticking with that motel drawer stocking stuffer.

UPDATE3: I was watching interviews with LGBTIQ people in the aftermath and one reaction was that it was horrifying but yay for today and another woman said "we should be celebrating after a yes vote in parliament"; i.e. LGBTIQ people were put to stress and distress for no purpose given it will be a free vote in parliament that could and should have been held without the need for this process.

So it's a qualified celebration because it caused distress that was not needed. I'm so sorry they had to go through this to get a right that I enjoy solely because I am male and heterosexual.

I deleted the ! from the title of this piece because it is joy writ with pain.

Monday, November 13, 2017

Injury manifests

I'm worried I'll be the one who has to tell theboy about the chickens and it triggered an attack; just the idea of his distress tripped me into this state. I'm not frightened, not yet at least, but crying and distressed because of his soon-to-be-distress.

That's what it is to take an injury to the mind; that you have moments like these where your fear of normal parenting trips you into an attack.

I know I got my PTSD is a self-determined heroic manner—I copped one in the service of the state—but it's at moments like these that I hate the injury and the failure that caused it. I'm reacting in advance of an unknown but likely distressing reaction. I know logically I am fine—a cat and or fox attack on an urban chicken brood is a normal risk you take—but he loved those chickens and I loved them and they were taken from him and taken from me.

The universe; it's mostly crap. There's some good bits but there are times when it's mostly crap. Having an anxiety attack about a likely anxious response is not normal and should not be normal. And a child shouldn't have to come home to a parent that can't do basic shit like this because they got wounded in the brain. All of that is mostly crap.

I have an hour to pull it together if thewife can't do the intercept. So it's time to arrest the quivering hands, the tears and heightened raw emotion with logic, coffee and Valium. 

UPDATE: Have just realised that "a cat and or fox attack" implies the possibility that a cat has teamed up with a fox. It wouldn't be the first time a like duo has spawned...

UPDATE2: He was both sanguine and sangfroid; he started designing fox traps.

Less eggs; leg and chicken

The right leg egg popped during ministration and after a mass of it drained there was padding applied to soak the rest. I'll risk a shower soon and see how it went in the night.

But before shower and egg check I went outside and found three of the chickens murdered in the night; not eaten or carried off—just killed. 

Two of the chickens survived; a brown and the big gray one. In fact judging by the feathers spread around the yard and over the fence that belonged to the big, gray chicken it seems big chicken fought the murderer off.

I gathered the three slain for the plastic bag and thewife check and tried to rake the feathers from the murder sites but the plastic rake, sun-worn made brittle, quickly snapped. I used a kid-sized metal rake but that was too much bending and had to give up.

The survivors won't come out of their zone at the back of the fence near the window. I left them some Pringles in easy reach to make them feel better.

From now on we'll have to lock them away at night instead of leaving them to perch on the old hutch lest their enemy come back.

I loved those chickens, and I loved the scruff who looked like Don Music from Sesame Street. They're now in a bag, ready for the bin.

That's the perils of urban chicken ownership; the occasional loss of 60 per cent of your brood to a spree killer.

I suspect it's a cat that should be locked up at night—but not the usual interloper that torments our house-bound cats by sitting on the mat outside the screen door so they'll charge it with a metallic clang and freak me out that someone is breaking into the house. That cat would have had a go at them by now.

RIB, chickens, RIB (Rest In Bag).

UPDATE: I moved some water near their chosen spot and spread out some grain. They both came out and let me stroke them and check them. Then the brown went into the hutch. So they appear to be okay save for the fact they lost three sisters in the night. I don't know how a chicken deals with trauma. Well I know how the gray one dealt with it---fierce pecks, flapping wings and clawed feet; she's got five natural weapon attacks!

Saturday, November 11, 2017

Left leg, right leg, deflating egg, inflating egg

With thanks to Dr. Seuss ... who was not named Seuss and was not a doctor.

The left egg dent is still oozing but the flow is slow and while it's back to gauze to soak it up it just means more time to heal but heal it will.

Enter, stage right, the next egg. It's been in my leg for years, rising then falling. But I could feel the mass move near the surface so it's being attacked now to defeat it instead of it going back down.

The heated magnaplasm on the gauze was the hard part—people who wax have my fist raised in solidarity—and the padding and pain means the stance of the gun slinger is back, feet spaced apart with deliberate steps up a dusty street then draw!

Well, in this case we're drawing out whatever that lump is that has lived in my leg for so, so long. 

My body is missing bits and is part artificial because I got dudded in the womb. On top of that there's this shit to deal with.

But it's not as bad as lefty was at its worst and the fresh memory of that elicits a blissful sigh that righty merely stings when the left was brain melting.

Hooray for the re-frame; because it could always be worse.

WFTW.

Friday, November 10, 2017

Leggus Eggus Horribilis

The worst leg egg of my life blossomed on my left thigh and when it reached its zenith it presented as a golf ball sized lump of fluid atop a volcano of inflamed flesh that felt like hard rubber.

I’ve spent all of November off from riding as I waited for it to take its course. I had to give up all notions of modesty—and I feel vulnerable when naked because I am ugly—and let my wife tend to it with efficient ministration.

There was no active penetration; we used a blister-popping agent to with padding to cook it off then absorb the disgusting mix of pus and blood that seeped from within. I could feel it oozing out after the first shower post-pop as I soaked in falling water, the ooze viscous, seeming alive.

It’s taken three days to drain and now I just have a bandaid. But I still can’t ride until it’s completely healed lest I open it up.

At the height of it, because of my aging balls, I had to walk like a gun slinger in a showdown, legs apart with deliberate strides, so my balls didn’t hit the lump or I braced the lump within a fold of PJ pants then took micro steps, the lump facing forward and walking with severe discomfort instead of insane.

It’s amazing how quickly your life contracts when you’re in agony and dealing with a health crisis; you’re just focused on getting through it.

I used to sneer at the phrase “at least you’ve got your health” because I never had it but now I’ve got a re-frame; an experience so much worse than usual that I can now say “at least I don’t have a lump of infected fluid bulging out my leg the slightest touch on which is utter agony”.

So it’s a positive for that. I liken it to the time we owned that duck. It was a nasty chicken rapist and we’re glad to be rid of it. But I got to experience owning a nasty duck and re-framed the experience as “at least we don’t have that sociopathic duck anymore.”

Because it could always be worse than it is—so, for right now, at least I’ve got my health.

WFTW.

Sunday, November 05, 2017

Demon defeated by D&D

I had to drive across the ACT and back and in doing so had an anger attack about childhood. When I got home I announced I was rubbery in a quavery voice, went to the shed and cried.

Then my son came in and asked if I wanted to play D&D. I've been running him through solo adventures starting at level one. He was midway to a ruin to explore it when we last we left it having critical killed with a scorching ray a dire badger before it even got out of its den mouth. 

I said no initially, that I was too rubbery. But as my wife pointed out I needed to do something to get me out of the anger grief cycle I was spinning in.

So I changed it to a yes and we spent a couple of hours outside under the patio as he took on a skeleton infested tower as a lone dwarven wizard and we ended the session with him having been tracked by a ghoul then dashing its skull in with his club when it climbed up the tree after him. 

My parents mostly gave me grief for being a pen and paper gamer. My mum supported it—even got me gaming products as presents—but my dad disapproved and made it clear with his snooty derision that a proper boy should be playing cricket, rugby and doing nightly exercises as per that Canadian Air Force manual for fitness he gave me that displayed perfect men doing physical movements that I either could not do or could only do with pain and distress.

I had a body that did not work where I got bullied when I walked out the door to school and bullied when I came in at home from a pair of over bearing people whose egos got in the way of normative parenting. My only place of safety was inside my head and AD&D, which I then played, was a tool of safety and welcome; respite from a reality that judged me warped and weak. 

It was more than delicious that I broke away from having relived the memory of my father chasing me through the house with the intent of ripping my arms off and re-experienced that trauma to be in a state of acute tear-filled anger to then go play a game that gave me wellness to escape an environment that was toxic to my identity and mental wellbeing. Within minutes the terror-rage had abated and I was in GM (or DM) mode running theboy through his game. 

We make our own lives but we live with damage, damage, damage done to us through scorn or seeming love. The trick is not inflicting that damage on others—to break that cycle—and use the things that give and gave you joy to bond with a child that loves you back.

The best revenge is doing well and I got to play D&D with my son.

Suck shit, horror childhood and the monsters that lurk there still, I win again.

Thursday, November 02, 2017

"the fuck"

My psych asked for my middle name and after giving the real one added that sometimes it's "the fuck". 

As in 'I'm Mikey "the fuck" X!' and it's typically yelled after a space out when I've flipped from sitting and crying to anger and oratory.

I do have tickets on myself—but then I'm a stellar performer. It's hard not to kiss your own arse, non-physically speaking, when you realise you're a golden snitch and worth the most fucking points.

Hooray for validation through trauma; not recommended but it's a good outcome for a person who self-hated—even with the PTSD and the rubbery bits. 

WFTW.

Tuesday, October 31, 2017

Chat chair presents as testicular hazard

My chat chair is an old wooden blue number with the backing long torn away that I've taken with me from childhood. It used to be in the bathroom but an IKEA seat with towel rail replaced it. 

So into the shed it came and has become a fixture.

Except for the fact it presents a hazard to aging balls. It seems no matter the pants—tracksuit or PJ—twixt undies because I've aged then sitting on my balls has become a thing now.

And it's a hard wooden chair. 

Several times I've just plopped on and winged my sack on the edge because I don't have the tight scrote of the lad I once was.

I know, it's all part of getting older; it's just that I got fucked at the start.

I will now take care when mounting the chat chair lest I plop them against the edge again.

Balls; sometimes it's balls.

UPDATE: I sat on them again almost straight away. Sigh, or rather, Yelp!

Boiled mad so sent a positive ping

Since exposure to memories past—and I'm about to go through it again with my psych—I've suffered a recurrence of boiling mad space outs where I sit angry and crying. 

I was in the middle of one when I realised the best way to defeat it was doing something positive. So I nutted out a policy pitch plus speech and pinged it off. 

Naturally I had to re-send it when I noticed some typos but that positive exercise of going "we can fix X by Y" then sending it off gave me purpose and it took away the blistering anger-sads of the space out. I was Zen as I wrote and even Zen having to do a re-send.

Fixing things is how I cope with feeling broken. Because it reminds me I'm not broken and that I never was.

WFTW.

BYB on just battery

I decided on a mission on the BYB and I accepted the risk that the chain would come off. It was off before I started so I practiced getting it on by having to get it on. I used advice from thewife and with that got it back on after one or two cracks.

The chain came off twice before it snapped all together and just as I'd started the stretch that is all hill. 

Fuck it. I retrieved the broken chain—it was a FOD risk—then lowered myself over the bars to reduce wind resistance and hit the throttle to max.

It nearly didn't make it past the yellow house—I was going the speed of Blobby's mobility scooter when the entire Hotel Transylvanian crew are stacked on. But the hill stretch was done and it survived the return journey. 

You can't have your hand on the brake when it's thumbing on the throttle—and you have to keep the throttle down to move it unless gravity and kinetic power is assisting. So it's a little dangerous but it's almost all level bike path to the psych's office and there's only one bit I think I'll need to walk it because construction has removed access to the lower-level bridge.

It was nice once the chain had snapped and I no longer had to worry about it. I got to enjoy the trip back because it was mostly down hill, feel the sun and air on my face and hear birds tweeting sexy talk to other birds (mobiles extra) knowing I had enough juice to get the BYB home.

Will it make it to the psych and back? I'll find out. But I won't be aggro if doesn't work out because I am accepting that risk before the mission starts.

WFTW.

UPDATE: The BYB made it there and back. I took the re-charger with me but only lost a bar coming in so presumably it could make that run on the single charge. I had to get up and push on the steep approaches to the higher bridge but apart from that I did not need to dismount. And because I didn't have to worry about the chain coming off I just got to enjoy the "ride".

Hooray for mobility—when the weather holds—for even when a part of your motion is broken. I may not be able to ride places until the chain is fixed but I can glide on battery alone. I am only limited if it rains because of the small risk of electrocution.  

I accepted the risk of the fail but succeeded nonetheless. That's pretty sweet.  

Mikey, he's a man of missions.

Extra WFTW.  

Friday, October 27, 2017

Twenty minutes of squatting

The chain has loosened with use of the BYB and we need to loosen the bolts to lengthen the frame to make it tight again.

In the meantime if you use it you'll experience the chain coming off more often than not. On one adventure it came off twice. The first time took 15 minutes to get it back on and on the second just five. 

But I cannot bend or squat without pain and to put the chain back on I had to do that multiple times as well as lift and lower the trike to its side to access the chain.

An exercise hampered by jittery hands caused by injury, PTSD and meds.

I yelled more than once and I wanted very badly to break it for being stupid and requiring basic maintenance and care.

It's absurd to hate an object for failing you but at the 12 minute mark I was in such raging discomfort from squatting and bending that I was in danger of hurting myself by kicking an object that in no way is improved by kicking it and was big and yellow and would hurt me just on contact.

Also, if the AI take over they may ask the trike computer about what happened and I want to remain on the good side of our future 0101 master overlords.

My body was not formed in a way that allows for a normal existence which, combined with a deep injury to the mind, makes me embittered in times like that where I'm in agony while attempting a dexterous task.

But then I would never have been me without all of that and there is deeper comfort knowing you won life when the deck was stacked against you.

WFTW.

Two Valium, two thousand words

After the success of the face-to-face sorry—a deathbed regret put to bed ahead of death—I had to say sorry to others I failed.

I knew it would be distressing so I munged two V before, waited until I felt Zen, then proceeded to write.

It took an hour to shape the 2000 words—a lot for an email but there was a lot to apologise for.

I have OCPD—the good kind where you give a shit and the knowledge that if you have the ability to act to correct a fail then you must act.

That chivalry of service stood me well in times of light, then dark then beyond dark.Then it dropped me and I crawled away to heal. Then with grit set forth to fix what got broken.

I got to the end, did a last edit to catch the howlers, but I likely committed more than one typo and grammatical whoopsie. But the mission was to get it done then get it out; so done and out.

Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder is a pain to have—and it’s on top of and in part caused by physical and mental pain. My psych said my fibromyalgia and PTSD were triggered by hyper vigilance from being in an unsafe place.

But your torment can lead to getting stuff done. The downside is when you’re finally swept at the knees all you can do is crawl away to heal until a point where you can fix what broke.

Part of that is saying sorry, an OCPD-fuelled regret at my failure to act, and hoping the apology leads to fixing what was broken.

I didn’t cry, I have not triggered.

The day is young and it may come. If it does at least it’s from clearing deathbed regrets well ahead of death.

WFTW.

Thursday, October 26, 2017

Nut punched self with NO ENTRY sign

Before I ride the exercise bike I hang up my number plate style pre-weathered NO ENTRY sign on the shed door. I'm easily startled and with PTSD and the bike facing away from the door I can potentially trigger if someone comes in behind me whilst making the unpleasant sound of the door opening.

The sign, however, flaps in the wind and makes nasty noises when it clatters against the door. To over come that I've added a brace of magnets that keep it stuck to the metal and not batter about. 

It was on detaching the sign that it happened, the self nut punch, because the wind caught it and it went edge-side up and into my balls.

Now it wasn't a kinetic-empowered blow but any wing to that area causes distress and I got a "Gosh!" message from down there which quickly added "don't let that happen again."

Typical; my private parts intimately invaded by my very own NO ENTRY sign.

The universe is a delicious place.

Wednesday, October 25, 2017

Lowest low, highest high

I started the day in a deep anger panic attack about childhood trauma where I was crying and using music and CBT to drive the demon away.

Later I had three Valium and lay on my bed to de-tox. Then I got an awesome call that was positive and affirming. 

So it was bizarre. Bizarre to (re)experience trauma to the point of momentary incapacity then a phone call that told me I am noble and true.

I liken it to expecting to be shot in the head but getting knee-capped instead. 

What a surreal day; just fucking surreal.

Monday, October 23, 2017

Bliss out triggers attack

I had a bliss out reaction to a success and it triggered an anxiety attack—I cried for about three minutes then had three Valium. 

They seem to have kicked in. When you live in an anxious state even good news can fire if it's related to trauma.

But, if you are going to have an attack, it is the best way to get one; a "death by snu-snu" moment.

WFTW.

UPDATE: I was at a supermarket self-serve and there was a crying toddler in a shopping trolley next to me. Now I know I munged three V before it happened but I didn't hover on the cusp of fight (slash) flight and children crying is my biggest trigger. 

That and the basking in the after-glow of a success.

So it's double secret probation WFTW!

Thursday, October 19, 2017

Vagaries

An ill-attempted mission
Freshly re-introduced to the love of dairy, having discovered my intolerance lifted, after a psych appointment to debrief on the super sorry I furtled to McDonald's and got sundaes and shakes. 

Yeah ... so there was nothing in the basket to put them in and keep them from sliding about in their tray. Until, that is, I stopped and found a stick and wedged the trays against the side of the basket so they wouldn't shift.

I discovered I'd lost the lid of the vanilla shake just before the cottonwood trees stretch where bits of fluffy dander drift across the path as you ride and present a choking hazard unless you keep your mouth shut. I also didn't want them to land in my shake.

I'm not proud of this but at one point I took off my right glove and tried to stick it over the mouth of the exposed shake but it didn't fit and it of course got milky stuff on the cloth insides. And had I tried to ride with it then that glove would have been milked bad.

So I used the paper bag, which did not fit the trays and had been used as padding, as a shield lid and rode again. 

When I got home the vanilla shake had tipped over and there was goo all through the basket but the strawberry shake made it. The sundaes were put in the freezer but were crystalized on eating and not as nice. 

The next day, with grim purpose to just get sundaes and protect them, I rode to the nearer McD with a lunch fridge bag, got six, slotted them in and rode them home.

That part worked great. The part that didn't work great was discovering my brakes were out and I screamed at a knot of school girls as I came shrieking down the hilly path "NO BRAKES, NO BRAKES!"

The chain fell off the sprocket and so it was back on battery and using grass to slow myself when needed then save up for a dash across the last intersection before getting home.

Fucking hell, no brakes and I was doing about 50 when I went down that hill towards the mob of startled, scattering children.

But the sundaes survived. That's the main thing.

Reflecting
I'm not obsessing on the sorry—I had worried I would. But it feels a cloak of guilt is shed and I can then move it on in a logical, careful fashion. There's been no pacing, no angry yelling. The songs I play are battle anthems but they're not tripping me into an anger fit.

Of course this is now. It will be different and high emotions will come but right now it's now. And it's a nice now to be in. I feel like I'm on holiday.

Teased phlegm from the laptop keyboard again
This time it was the number pad, and it landed between the 741 and the 852. I think I got most of it.

Waving Jesus loves "Seven Nation Army"
I added SNA to my anthems and the solar powered plastic Jesus statue, now ennobled by the sun, waves with enthusiasm to mentions of Wichita.

I didn't think the rapture would start there but, well, it is plastic Jesus.

Floyded the exercise
I listened to Wish You Were Here then Dark Side of the Moon with headphones and a sweatband used as a blindfold as I rode my exercise bike. It was Zen. They were stereo headphones so I experienced those pieces for the first time as they were meant to be heard. The music drilled in from above, then slithered in the left ear and the right all doing their thing to gift a transcendent experience.

Hat doffed to the Floyd.

Monday, October 16, 2017

Got to say sorry

I got to say sorry to someone I harmed through inaction. It weighed on me for years but I got to say face-to-face that I had fucked up and that it should not have happened.

There's some cartharsis and the clawing guilt has receeded. It was one of those deathbed regrets put to bed well ahead of death. 

That is a win in anyone's book.

Sunday, October 15, 2017

Lightweights

I'm reading about the history of magical thinking in US culture and how many preachers had gotten into the game because they survived a disaster and that therefore God had saved them for the purpose to preach.

Fuck that shit with a red hot fork. Try nearly dying a hundred times; there's no divine providence, just dumb luck you didn't die.

What a bunch of lightweights. First near death and they're convinced it was the divine at work because they're just that important.

I'm an atheist who has dodged death a hundred times---and was important in actuality of reality as opposed to provident theocracy. 

Death; it comes to us all. But it is true that to brush against it makes you love life more; theist or not.

I know I do; and fighting to improve living is what I do.

WFTW.

Got angry at the wall above my bed

I wasn't whisper shouting at the wall itself but what lay beyond it, another time and place that is past and future both.

Bug-eyed with measured quiet outrage I lanced at the wall with angry talk.

Then realised what I was doing and got back into bed.

I'm a dramatic person; even in my own room and with a wall as subject and audience.

Saturday, October 14, 2017

A dodgem car once tried to kill me

It was at the end of the first episode of The IT Crowd that prompted this recall when the lads of the IT department are in a series of photographs of them at the fair where they're in extreme excitement in the company of middle-aged and bored dutch prostitutes. 

This is the photo from the dodgem cars:



















Now dodgem cars and I have a rough history. I'm forever getting stuck in that nest of not-used cars and a carnie leaps on and steers me out but without my consent. 

It's undignified to not get yourself out of it on your own and it's like having training wheels on your bike when your mates have leveled up to two wheels. 

I am now on three wheels since I have a man-trike.

The dodgem car that tried to kill me wasn't in fact the genesis of what happened but rather it was the vehicle we were in when we smashed into the wall. 

I was around five and I believe my dad was driving. 

Now for some reason this particular arena of rubber-bounded gladiatorial car combat was bounded by grass which, for reasons which become clear, proved to be my salvation.

We hit the side at speed—full speed from my recall—and I had not been belted in. I launched from the car, crested the boundary of the arena and flew about three more feet before landing and rolling to a stop on the kinetic absorbing soil and plant cover. 

I had forgotten about that until just then and it's yet another one of the hilarious ways the universe has conspired against me.

That and '70s parenting.

Forever young—fuck that

I had "Forever Young" stuck in my head and it is a song I find irritating because to be "forever young" is to die young but, in theory, having lived the best of your years on earth which, allegedly, is your tweens to the end of your twenties.

It's also the age category when we lost prime manhood to the predation of industrial warfare V dickheads who didn't understand industrial warfare.

That "forever young" phase of my life was a boil of sadness, pain and self-hate foisted on my by the vast bulk of people in my life—except from the people I chose to be with such as my friends and my brother. 

That "forever young" phase included me being short and fat and therefore a double whammy as far as desire went. "Forever young" saw me doomed to the sideline of life watching the fit and beautiful enjoy their Logan's Run of heady, youthful physical exuberance and slapping each others privates against the other. 

I didn't hit 40 until I understood what happened. That my "forever young" was not my bag; that normality of body, appearance and physical capability and all that comes with that was not my experience but that those experiences of not having that caused me to stagger down a path of heroism within government. In that I had committed belief in the power to change things in spite of my low level because my anti "forever young" body created a phat brain that saw danger, danger everywhere coupled with OCPD and therefore the obligation to fix it. 

I didn't get "forever young" but I got something better. It took a physical and mental breakdown to see it but once I saw it I forever knew that I had pierced a layer of reality that normal people do not; I was hands deep in the machinery of state and among the deftest social surgeons government had produced.

And it was thanks to being short and fat and wracked with pain then accidentally falling into government like the gang in the starting credits of The IT Crowd

So fuck you, "forever young" and my parents, I win. You treated me shabby for my height, weight, pain, disability and personality but I rose against you and surpassed you by a factor of 10.

WFTW.

Friday, October 13, 2017

Mower and GoT Monopoly

I endured some big sounds today. The first was next door’s mower firing off through the shed wall right level with my left ear. Because I was nerding with my email D&D game I had a focus on something and endured it; it became background noise. 

Game of Thrones Monopoly was harder—and I went full ear muffs for that one and the midway mark because it’s an exciting game and there was a lot of noise. My main triggers are screaming, distress and sudden, penetrating noise (like, for example, the slam of a pool gate into its lock position). 

Industrial noise I’m getting better at. My psychologist moved from her scary third floor position—bad for people afeared of heights—to ground level but across the road from a construction site (bad for people who suffer from noise). It was a nice day and the screen door was open. A cacophony of machine music littered the aural scape but it didn’t trouble me. The session did—exploring the trouble is the therapy—but the noise outside didn’t lift my level before I went in.

I didn’t mean to take so long away from the workplace but my brain and body needed it. My IBS is fading and while the physicality of PTSD is still there—such as hand tremour and inability to hold objects without concentration—and my triggers exist they're less likely to pull and hurt less when they do.

Onward and trending fucking upward for the win.


UPDATE: Within a minute I knocked something over and it spilled everywhere. Curse you, hands!

UPDATE2: We were working out who won when theboy threw his money on mine for put away when I was still counting and there was no way to tell whose had been what. I got annoyed because I was close to having been the winner but my being annoyed---even though calmly delivered---sucked the joy out of him. I should have just copped it and kept my gob shut because it was just a game and I ruined the experience for him. 

I loathe that I did that and I will remember for next time it's a game of fun not of who won and getting the irrits. I will be better than that.

Thursday, October 12, 2017

EMDR

I had two days of EMDR treatment for PTSD and it helped change the memory of recent attacks from initially recalling the terror I felt to the Zen of recognising and dealing with the attack. The memory had been re-framed as a positive; that I had an attack but I had got through it.

We talked about where next and I have another session soon. It's not as intense as exposure therapy which sounds challenging but it is still emotionally draining. There's a lot of high emotion and angry tears.

She said I'm a survivor and my issue is safety; I feel unsafe and if others are unsafe I have to care for them too. I cannot walk past something I can fix.

I have a life mission; I didn't choose it, it just happened.

But it's a mission well worth fighting for.

WFTW.

UPDATE: So far the only enhanced effect to my utility belt of a failed body is increased hand tremour and difficulty holding objects. I didn't have to have valium and I'm not spacing out. I wonder what tomorrow will bring? Will this still be here or gone or now with friends like hair-trigger fight flight? At least I am in the safest of places and surrounded with love. That will help keep the worst of it at bay.

Teasing phlegm from a false beard

So that happened. I coughed and a great goob honked out of my mouth and right onto the false beard I "won" from a carnie at a country show in my hometown in the '80s.

Much like teasing it from a keyboard it had to be done carefully lest a chunk is left behind and crusting occurs and a cone of hair appears from the beard from the dried up honk-spittle.

Within the beard's mouth hole I have the puck-sized mirror designed for side mirrors on cars so you could see what was in your blind spot but which I used for my workplace. My computer faced a window and I couldn't see who was coming behind me and I wanted the flash of body against mirror to warn me there was someone coming so I could turn and greet them and not get startled by a tap on the shoulder or a sudden burst of my name in my ear.

The main reason being there was this lovely lady at my work who would usually wait to get my attention before saying my name but I would not know she was there because she had the stealth characteristics of a fucking ninja. Because every time she silently approached she'd automatically stand in my blind spot where I would not notice her and then get startled when she said my name. 

Plus she had those two-toed boots and a katana.

So a distorted me looked back through the beard mouth as I tended to the phlegm fail I just honked. 

Apologies to mirror me.

Tuesday, October 10, 2017

Chat chair

My old blue chair, which came with me to Canberra and is from a bedroom set I had in the '70s, has become my chat chair. While I sort out my blood pressure levels—my fall the other day was likely the low blood pressure which dropped me to the mat and left me unconscious for a few moments—I can't risk standing for long stretches which is my norm if I'm practicing future conversations. 

So it's a chat chair; I chat in even tones for those conversations at an imagined audience.

I've yet to have a rant from the chair; I don't think it's possible to have a rant sitting down when your body yells stand but then people have to sit and regulate high emotion every day on progs like Q&A—sit across from people they don't agree with and fight emotion as they speak of what has hurt them and the people they know.

I will have to practice for that, for when those moments come, to try to do it seated and bring the intensity from eye-popping shouting to cold, steel purpose. After-all that's how meeting rooms work; there's a table and chairs and not much room for pacing and lectern pounding. 

In fact I don't think I've ever seen a lectern in a meeting room because it doesn't become a meeting room if there's a giant fuck-off wooden "I'm talking here" box for the main one to spout off from.

It's funny this old blue chair from my childhood—its wooden backing lost before its move to Canberra—is still with me after 40 plus years but it's ideal for my height and the legs can even support my weight if I was to stand on it. 

In other words it's like me; a seeming dilapidated structure but robust and still giving.

WFTW. 

Sunday, October 08, 2017

Battle anthem interrupted by mystery fall

I've added "Survivor" to my list of battle anthems and it had just started to play when I felt a little dizzy and rested my arms on the chair. 

Then I find myself lying on the floor having fallen backwards but my head protected from smacking concrete by the IKEA rug. I was again in an unknown state of damage but my right knee was quivering like a mother-fuck and the cracked heater base suggested I stepped on the base, my knee twisted and I fell bringing the heater, the cylinder fan and the old wooden chair down with me. 

The chorus was blaring and the ladies were in the arena by the time I got to my feet using the old wooden chair along with the fortuitously just placed old blue chair to lever myself up.

I know MS is not hereditary, so it is thought from last what I knew, but mystery falls were the precursor to my mother's transition from walking to hoists, scooters and catheters. 

The universe has conspired against me from birth—which as a privileged white male got to survive—but, like Destiny's Child, I am a survivor and I do like the fact I got back up before the ladies exited the island stone stage for the helo. 

There will be no ride today—the right knee twisting has put paid to that. But I am blessed with canes and grabber sticks and reduced mobility is already my bag. It's just been reduced a bit more is all until it heals. Then, if it is the scooter path then I'll get a bitched out pimpmobile of one with racing stripes and ironic false advertising—"Try Soylent—its for people!".

But, non-holy shit, I hope it's not MS; not that too.  

UPDATE: It was likely low blood pressure; I got moved into bed with my feet up until I normalised. I'll stop taking the high blood pressure meds then monitor what changes. Yay for having the home machine to record the data.
 
I cannot reiterate how scary it is to find yourself on the floor in pain with a spasming right knee quivering in shock at having given way beneath you in the fall. It's the second time I've fallen and again I dodged death by inches because my head landed on a safe spot instead of a skullcracker. 

UPDATE2: I had to reclaim the song that was playing when I fell so I wouldn't hate that song. So I played it, I sang to it (accurately, for the chorus), I did not get dizzy and did not fall. 

I hated the idea I had added that anthem to my roster only to lose it to animal fear about further mental or physical degradation on a body not processed properly and unable to survive much past birth without intervention.

But, I'm still here, and as the ladies attest, I will both survive and also keep on survivin'.