Friday, March 31, 2017

Still here

I saw in 5 am from no sleep and as I tried to drift away my pre-sleep thoughts were of events past; common when you have PTSD. As I did a quiet note of pride played for all past-Mikey both went through and did. 

past-Mikey is incredible; and now-Mikey struggles to understand how he endured it. 

He's still here; I'm still here. I should be dead a hundred times over and I'm still here.

I know it's magical thinking to think there's something outside normal space and time at play but it still gives me a shiver when I stack up all the burdens and near-deaths I've enjoyed and marvel at my continued existence.

I should be dead but I'm still here.

WFTW.

Thursday, March 30, 2017

Chicken fairness

As much as the sight of a brown chicken running at speed with a Pringle shard in its mouth delights me I realised the current Pringle distribution system was unfair since the scruff chicken always missed out.

So, being the good technocrat I am, I redesigned distribution. Instead I crumble the Pringles in my hand and spread them in a line in front of the fence on their side. The scruff, whose plumage obscures her vision, is able to see the multiple yellow shards against the dark brown yard and actually get in there and get some. 

Of course the big chicken still repels interlopers from Pringle crumbs when the crumb level drops low. I can't change that without actively suppressing big chicken so my system is not foolproof.

But at least the Pringle crumb wealth is mostly fairly distributed and they all get some. 

Some, however, get more than others. 

I guess that's regulated capitalism for you; there's always going to be a bigger winner.

The important part is that it's regulated; natural instinct channeled for the greater good.

A Step Brothers battle anthem



Getting the gig for the Catalina Wine Mixer from Step Brothers.

Big yellow bike

I got a big yellow bike. It had to be big to take my ample frame. It means I now have transport to the shops and people's houses nearby where before I had to walk (too painful) or catch the bus (irritating).

I had to get help with the controls and I half expected her to hang on to the side with a lit cig dangling and control it for me.

It has electo-mechanical assist which is a good fit for me since I am part machine. We are technically sympatico.

I can't ride it yet. The helmet we got (large) was too small for my head (extra large) and knowing my propensity to fall over or drop things wearing a helmet when wielding an extra hundred kilos of rubber and steel is a safety must.

Hooray for mobility regained. I look forward to excursions and pleasure rides.

WFTW.

Old men

theboy and I saw in sunset pretending to be old men reminiscing about events that happened that day or the day before; "I remember that glass of milk I done drunk..."

He was in his spinning ball and I was on a chair with my feet up. I celebrated the pink of the day's end with a pink drink.

Old men talking as the sun dies away. A pleasant way to end a day.

Wednesday, March 29, 2017

Trump's delusions are frightening

Trump did a bunch of executive action bizness for bizness to stand against climate change realist bullies who have hurt the miners. He held his "let's kill the air!" celebration at the EPA.

This is my fave part:

“We’re going to have clean coal. Really clean coal,” Trump added. “Together we will create millions of good American jobs, also so many energy jobs, and really lead to unbelievable prosperity.”


Millions of jobs ... unbelievable prosperity.

There are about 80 000 coal miners in the US (174k jobs in total including transport and power plants) and clean energy manufacture has a workforce of four million and more and its tech enhances prosperity.

The only way you could consider coal as the go to energy security source for the US, with all the damage it does and its minuscule workforce compared to the benefits of clean energy, is if you were a fuckwit.

That he worshiped coal in the EPA, whose remit is to retard pollution in all its forms, is just magnificent---like yelling "God is dead!" In St Peter's basilica.

Trump's delusions crimp the world; he is literally reducing quality and quantity of life and lives with his fuckwittery.

Probs save us all.

Tuesday, March 28, 2017

Anxiety blues

I've put in for some jobs but the idea is anxiety-inducing; I got jittery at the thought and though my head knew all was fine my under brain did not; the dreads and susceptibility to fight flight kicked in. 

theboy was in his room crying, his keening wail cutting through glass and the shed, and I was atop the exercise bike so I couldn't flee without ruining the ride. So I put on my industrial strength ear muffs and tried to watch what I was watching with reduced noise.

Later that night I had Vallium for the first time this year. 

It's to be expected; the idea of working for someone new is like changing schools. It's a bit terrifying to normal peeps let alone those baked in depression and PTSD.

It still doesn't make it easier.

That's what it is to live with a psychological injury; normal stress becomes acute and you can't comfort your child because their crying induces terror.

Friday, March 24, 2017

The GOP are gutless monsters

Each day I wake up and delve into the latest government atrocity committed by the Trump administration and read the stupefying nonsense babbled by the orange one himself and I struggle to understand why the GOP are not doing anything about it.

The Republicans created this situation by their actions in opposition that were antithetical to government, with a purely political focus of obstruction with no merit, and by fostering the cloud of unbelief and myth that soaked into their support base. They stood and stand against science, for fuck's sake.

So Trump is on them; they made his rise inevitable. And now they have government they're intent on destructing it because ... experts; what do they know?

I've answered my own question. They are not stopping Trump because they do not want to; they are Trump, all of them, in their own fragmented way.

It's just appalling. It feels like the backend of a bloodless coup and the entire world is suffering.

Probs save us all.

Thursday, March 23, 2017

Chickens—a life first

As noted I like to feed our chickens Pringles; they like them and I like how they like them.

I tried to frisbee throw a Pringle to near the scruff, for her feathers cloud her eyes making it difficult to see Pringles further away, but my lame throw, wind and the design of the Pringle all led to the Pringle getting stuck in a tree.

It would likely come down from the wind in a short time but I wouldn't have had the enjoyment of seeing them go for it. 

So I got a rake and knocked the Pringle from the tree.

I am pretty sure that is a life first—I can't recall any other time I've knocked a Pringle from a tree with a rake or, indeed, any potato-based snackery from any foliage with any form of gardening implement. 

Plus I got to see the chickens go for the Pringle.

The scruff, alas, missed out. Her vision is clouded and her agility low. The browns, on the other hand, move like, and have the temperament of, velociraptors. If they were bigger I'd fear for my junk.

Chicken ownership; I don't do any of the hard work so it's all just enjoyment. 

And they afford me the pleasure of occasional life firsts such as pronging a Pringle from an overhead tree. 

Wednesday, March 22, 2017

A machine screaming

It's outside but stopped for now. A blower or mower? It was a horrid noise but I did not bolt. I handled it. TV helped.

I'm not under operational stress so I am not as close to the PTSD tipping point on foul sounds; of my under brain yelling at me to run. It will be interesting to see how I go with such sounds when operational stress comes again.

That's life with a psychological injury; you're in a forever experiment on resilience which, by law, could never be ethically inflicted.

Balding and other flaws

Heavy rain
Being balding means I lack protection for the top of my head that hair typically affords. And if something touches the top of my dome I feel it because non-feeling hair is not there to cushion the blow.

One benefit though is shower fall; the steady thrum of water on top of your balding head is pleasant, reassuring.

Heavy rain, however, is neither. Great fat drops of cold sky water slashing against your naked crest is most unpleasant. I was trapped outside trying to get a door open in such rain and yelped to distract myself from the hideous sensation of god tears on my bare head.

Editor's note: God does not exist.

Editor editor's note: the above comment is the author's opinion and does not reflect the views of the publication.

Less hair at rest
I hate haircuts---loathe them. My mother did my hair until I was about 17---she just hacked it back---using this home kit that had a stripping razor comb that dulled with age. The result was the pulling of hair out by the root along with the hair that it cut and made for many an ouch. I also hate the sensation of shards of hair down the back which itch like a m'fo.

So I tend to shag up between visits by putting a haircut off.

My bed hair defaults to a Tintin point---the right and left sides peak together at the front. Only now I have not much hair the fucking point looks like the framework of a cone-shaped tent. 

The only truly acceptable haircut for a balding man is a number four or less.

I'd clipper it myself if non-god hadn't blessed me with short arms in addition to short legs because I cannot reach the back of my head and have enough room to manuever.

Short and bald is one way to approach life---makes it more challenging.

I'm also fat.

That's a "no thanks" sexy trifecta right there.

Thanks, non-god. This is just vindictive behaviour for your non-existence.

Tuesday, March 21, 2017

Does the cat know something?

I haven't slept for 28 hours. It wasn't planned; it just happened.

I'm sitting on the brown couch in black sleepwear with the black cat nestled between my legs. When I look down all I see is yellow eyes, floating in black, staring up at me. I think it knows something.

I slept fine previously, and I had the right pills at the right time, so it's weird to have missed a night's sleep for no real reason. I just could not sleep.

I did doze a bit for a couple of hours, well lay there drifting between awake and not quite awake, but I have to try and stay up until normal bedtime so I don't suddenly have a reverse sleep pattern to everyone else.

Sleep, I miss you. Come back soon.

Saturday, March 18, 2017

Chicken business

Chicken noise
The chickens are noisy cluckers. I was trying to watch TV on a laptop whilst riding and their cluckery impeded comprehension. I yelled "SHUT UP, CHICKENS!"

To my surprise, they did. Perhaps it's because of my Pringles?

Pringle money storm
I got a stack of Pringles and flicked them one by one from the stack like a money storm from movies and or music videos featuring musical rhyming and ostentatious display of sudden wealth.

The chickens reacted with delight, dashing into to pick the middle of a Pringle to shatter it, take the biggest chunk, then fuck off from the big chicken so they actually get to eat it.

Big chicken and Don Music run the yard
The big chicken and the scruff, AKA Don Music, rule the roost together. The big chicken chases off the browns, as does scruff, and then they peck at the Pringle shards in the dust as the browns watch on. 

I feel sorry for the browns. Mind you it is pretty funny to see the above peck, grab and dash that at least gets them something. 

Big chicken and Don Music are also literally on top of the pecking order—they roost on the roof of the hutch instead of inside with the browns. I wonder if that's a dominance move? Probably.

Ancient stone unearthed

Because the chicks dig shallow holes—they like to then sit inside the depression—they've unearthed old concrete steps from a yard path of twenty years past as well as the round entry point to a utility service. 

The most beloved of all cats, O—, is buried in their pen, so I am awaiting the inevitable unearthing of a cat skeleton. 

Knowing big chicken she'll wear its skull like a hat.

Skyfire (equals) no fire

It's Skyfire here in the nation's capital, the annual firework extravaganza that cracks off over Lake Burley Griffin. I'm not sure if I have ever been—I have a vague memory of going  once—but as for 2017 that's an industrial strength Neddy No. 

I have PTSD and for me noise and crowds are a problem; add fireworks to that and I'd be like a scared toy dog unsecured in a porous backyard—I'd bolt to anywhere not near that and be found later across the border at the RSPCA compound in Queanbeyan.

Toy dogs have much sense; evolution has made them for beauty and fight avoidance. 

That's not to say all people with PTSD are like me. Some people, especially those who had intensive exposure treatment, overcome the triggers of noise and crowds and lead normal firework-loving lifestyles with PTSD under firm lock and key. 

That might be me someday. Apart from the cockatoo—and it was only a light sudden panic moment when it sprayed me with a sonic attack—I've gotten better at handling sudden and unpleasant noise. I handled walking past a lead blower, for fucks sake.

But a fireworks night with all of that is, for now, a Mikey sound bridge too far.

I suppose I can go out when they go off, to see if I can see them from 10 kays away. If I do I'll have to give a commensurate-sized vocal response of "ooh" and likely  "ahh".

Wednesday, March 15, 2017

The Australian noise vomit bird

What is the noise vomit bird? The cockatoo. Sure, they look handsome but holy shit is their screech unsettling and loud. I presume it's some sort of benefit to do it; maybe it's to put other birds off being around because the cockatoo is the equivalent of someone on a rage bender drunkenly cursing the street?

I have PTSD. One was about three metres from me in a tree when it cooked off and its unpleasant screech pulsed through my body and head.

Hilariously some people enjoy the cockatoo. So do I---as a concept. I just hate them in real life being anywhere near me.

It may too be a Canberra thing. In our third house we had a roost of them in a power pole junction and they'd raise unholy hell against us at dawn and again at dusk.

Cockatoos; they're history's greatest monster.

Tuesday, March 14, 2017

Gas! Gas! Gas!

I farted so much I hurt my back.

Stupid Hitler bloat.

Sunday, March 12, 2017

Ice Ice Maybe

Our new fridge freezer is awesome---and it comes with a double ice tray and catcher which I love.

But fuck me is it frustrating to use when you have PTSD and hand jitters because to get more ice you have to fill both trays that are held in a plastic frame then you have to with trembling hands take the tray frame and bend down to slot the fucker back in. The darkened iced up rails don't naturally guide you in and you can end up with one side of the frame under a rail and you slosh water into the freezer and onto the floor. It's maddening. 

It's yet another challenge of psychological injury; the not sloshing liquids over the floor when carrying tricky containers.

Pain fug pillow swipe

Being in a welter of pain and discomfort---I felt as I often do that the previous day someone had set to me with a baseball bat---even though I slept 12 hours with disturbing dreams I had to go off and have another sleep. 

I slept for an hour, even dreaming, and when I woke I was still foggy in the head.

That's when I tried to swipe open my pillow thinking it was a tablet PC. If that pillow had been a tablet it would not be working anyway because in addition to the swipe I had drooled and left a wet patch.

I resolved that by dragging the pillow over so as to start a new patch.

That's life with a psychological injury; your body goes through the wringer and your sleep does too.

Saturday, March 11, 2017

An ode to the things that I drop

Well, it's not really an ode but more of a list. Because of my PTSD and my meds I have jittery hands whose fingers have a poor grip. Which means unless I am concentrating I may drop what I am holding.

Things I have dropped include: pens, keys, thumb drives, scissors, remote controls, pills, ice cubes, cutlery, glass mugs, lids, my phone, phone cables, computer cables and, most of all, bottle caps. The latter are light and with jittery hands they are hard to get back onto the bottle and then thread them down correctly. That's when the cap is at most risk of being dropped, or even springing into the air, to careen across the floor then shoot under the fridge. There's a herd of them under there now, likely led by the cap from a ginger ale bottle.

I can't get those back without getting into the floor with a long probing device to flick them out. So I just go to the recycling, find a cap from a discard, wash it and have another go. Sometimes those attempts fail as well and it's back to the recyc for another cap and another attempt.

That's life with a psychological injury; your hands are at war with very small things.

Hitler bloat and leg egg

I'm still enduring IBS and gas pain, a situation I've decided to call "Hitler bloat" since that nasty little git suffered the same as me. It's funny since it means he was both figuratively and literally full of shit. I've also got a leg egg, a swollen lump of trapped fluid on my thigh that I get now and then and which suffers on contact with the rub of undies against lump when I move.

What a double burst of joy; swollen in gut and in thigh.

But whenever this body yuck strikes and I gripe then ego defence kicks in, laughing, and reminds me I should be dead from my dozens of near mortal moments.

Both Hitler and Saddam thought they were divine; literally beyond normal man because of their close calls and astonishing success and presumed a higher power assured their safety and rise. 

I am bereft of megalomania and belief in the supernaturalbut even I am spooked by my still here-ism in spite of attempts otherwise.

Better Hitler bloat and leg egg than dead.

Now that's a disturbing motto; I can't see it appearing on a tea towel any time soon.

Anyway, Hitler bloat and leg egg; what will my body think of next?

Thursday, March 09, 2017

Well hello, 5 am...

I'm afflicted with IBS and my guts are bloated with stolen wind. I saw in 5 am before sleep came. 

As luck would have it I was reading a book that detailed Hitler's health and found myself sharing and living his trait of bloating and IBS---for him exacerbated by a blend of drugs and witchery injected daily into his nasty weird body.

It continued on post-waking with sleep busted at five hours with discomfort preventing a return to zzzz.

It won't be long until an implant comes available to turn pain level from horror to merely hmmm; becoming just a background note with you living life instead of swollen in hurt.

I wish the super nerds at Calico would get the fuck onto that. I'm sure they are. If they need a script to juice the idea along for realsies they know how to find me.

(Small driverless car turns up in drive and digitally summons Mikey forth).

Wednesday, March 08, 2017

Big chicken did a dick duck move

The duck when it lived here would grub about in the muddy dirt he'd moistened with water splashed out from the big tub we'd put in the pen for his use.

He'd then walk around with a mud mustache for the day in a display of authoritarian machismo.

I noticed the big chicken recently tooling around with a dirt moustache and glaring about having adopted the look of the previous ruler.

That chicken scares me---and the other chickens.

I better make sure it doesn't try to re-annex the washing line.

Chicken break

The other day theboy rage quit the pen door when he bumped his head and knocked a hole in the mesh next to the gate frame—a hole big enough for even the big chicken.

Later he realised the chickens were out and furiously attacking the greenery.

So we had to herd the chickens which is difficult because I can only bend if I take care and effort and squatting involves extreme discomfort. That and there were places to run that were difficult to extract them from like between the vegie patch and the fence. 

I got theboy to block that path off then convinced the chickens to exit from under the hiding (slash) climbing tree whose lower branches threatened to coat hanger my neck or stab me through the glasses and into my eye, and, one-by-one, drove them into the washing line area dog leg where even me with my anti-ninja body can groan and slow dart to grab.

Then I bent the gate mesh back enough to reduce the hole below chicken size to prevent the future escapes. 

I feel for theboy and fully understand his lashing out after he bumped his head on the gate crossbar. I did that as a child, experienced deep anger at sudden pain, and it is something I still struggle with. He was sad he'd over reacted but he's less than 10. His grip on his emotions and ability to recover are in far excess of me at his age—and now, because I have PTSD and occasionally experience crippling anxiety attacks.

The best thing we can do as parents is to keep what is good and discard what is bad from our childhood. Standing over my son and over reacting to an over reaction is never good; I loathed experiencing it when it was (and is) inflicted on me. So I didn't get mad, I understood and together we got the chickens back in.

WFTW.

Tuesday, March 07, 2017

Nipple work

Exhibit A
The black cat sits upon my raised knee when I'm on the couch. From her seated position sometimes she tries to lick my nipple. I'm guessing it is because I wear thin shirts and my nipple protrudes enough to draw the eye ... and tongue. It is genuinely unsettling.

Exhibit B
I was taking a plate to the kitchen when I bumped into the fridge and the plate jammed into my nipple---like right into it. It fucking hurt.

Exhibit C
I told theboy about Exhibit A and so he immediately tried to do it too. Deeply unsettling. The blame is on me for saying it and not recognizing how he'd receive that through the lens of his evil sense of humour. It's like that time I told him about when he jabbed me in the belly button with his finger and he near instantly recreated that scene by jabbing me in the belly button with his finger.

Monday, March 06, 2017

As said in Minecraft

"I'm watching TV in the ruins of my house!"

Sunday, March 05, 2017

Back in black

Ladies PJ pants; black.

Long-sleeved collarless black shirt.

Black bandaid across second stress scar on face. 

About to ride a black bike.

Black; it's the go to for absence of colour and light for 2017.

Friday, March 03, 2017

Government

Trump and Co. attempting to govern is like 16-year-old me learning to drive in the front paddock in the mini and my nearly driving it into the dam. My father's angry panicked reaction putting me off ever wanting to learn to drive with him again---and ditto for him.

I had a look at a righty's blog the other night---all filled with ad hominem anti-Obama attacks. Like no complaints on the substance of what he did but just vague, ill-defined hate and which indicated a lack of concept about how government works.

You see it with Trump himself and his beyond witless statement that nobody knew how complicated health care could be. A statement only possible if you'd had your head stuck up your arse for the entire run of Obama's presidency.

Government is the hardest thing to do right because everybody's life depends on it. All the markers for human happiness and prosperity are dependent on the quality of the institutions that bedrock civilisation.

So when a grasping man baby steps over the body of an accomplished technocrat then declares "it's complicated" on first brush with actual responsibility for others it is somewhat gobsmacking.

But then I spent my adult life deep within the machinery of state so I have the experience and ability to know how government does and should work.

Trump spent his life ruling as a king and the only engagement he had with government was in his family's attempts to suborn it. Now he is the government.

Probs save us all.

Thursday, March 02, 2017

Chicken check

I hadn't seen the scruff—who looks like Don Music—all morning so I entered the chicken pen to find her thinking her dead and perhaps needing to remove her corpse.

As I went in I slipped straight into hyper vigilance—a common trait of PTSD—because of the duck who is no longer here. As I moved through the yard I maintained active wariness scanning left and right to ensure it wasn't hiding in my blind spot and ready to attack.

I couldn't shake the sense of impending menace. That perhaps it had escaped the new family and come back seeking revenge—because it was just that evil. Bearing in mind of course it couldn't fly and as far as I am aware cannot likely use Apple Maps if it gets a hold of an iPhone. 

The scruff was okay—in the new hutch in lay mode—and she clucked annoyance as I let the sun bright in. 

Then I left the pen unmolested, not even by the big chicken with the bare bum who rules the roost now the duck is gone. 

That duck was mean, man. It once chased me into my shed—all around us, man, game over.