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.


No comments:

Post a Comment

No comments needed, really.

Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.