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. 

WFTW.

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.

EFTW.

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.

WFTW.

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.

WFTW.