Sunday, November 11, 2018

Creamy Slinky

The trouble with my scars that I pick is they are a delight to pick; deeply satisfying.

In order to stop it I put on cream but unless you have something to suplant the urge to pick you don't put the cream on.

So I have a Slinky. Instead of ripping at face flesh I bounce that, bungee jumping the end to the floor again and again. And when I'm not doing that I can finger the inside as it sits next to me.

It's nuts to enjoy picking your bod and then summoning the will to stop. At least I have my Slinky.

Saturday, November 10, 2018

Penal colony

It sounds like a sausage fest.

Thursday, November 08, 2018

Habit discussed; habit engaged

The nastier aspect of having OCPD is picking at the body. I pick at my face, neck and thigh.

I saw the psych and discussed steps to stop it. Then I went home and kept doing it. I had the cream next to me and I would not put it on to stop myself on the first two until early afternoon. Then I had a go at the thigh.

It's nuts to discuss self-harming then go home and self-harm. At least I stopped; that is the win here.


It's a hell of a thing to be lying down and experiencing your body spasming in different places: back of a knee, a little finger, a calf muscle. They remind me I've been wounded and those wounds are unfair.

But I copped most of them in the service of the state and I wouldn't have been me if I hadn't.

So I fall back on that when the spasms ripple; they're the price I pay to be me.


Monday, November 05, 2018

Democrats want aliens to probe you: Trump

"Democrats, or Demon Rats, have taken over transmission stations and invited aliens in person to probe each and every one of you.

"These aliens have your picture and address along with a personal item for their robot bloodhounds to sniff you out, to track you to where you are hiding, pull you out and stick that probe in you.

"Cryin' Schumer will be standing next to the gantry, they all have them, folks, he'll be there with a whip whipping you into the holds of their slave ships where more probing will happen, that I can guarantee you.

"Then the aliens who hate our patriots will probe them worse to find their guns so the aliens can leave you defenseless.

"It will be a mix, folks, a mix of aliens. The greys, we don't like them, do we? Those long skinny brown ones---and the ones that look human except for the antennae. All crowding you seeking to be the first to probe you so they can brag about it in a space bar. Guarantee it.

"They cut a deal with China to close all those beautiful new steel mills, folks, plugging the chimneys, the beautiful smokestacks of freedom, with trees and shrubs that I can tell you.

"The aliens, folks. Democrats invited them, want them to stay with them and take your jobs. Think about it, having to compete with hyper intelligentsia from the dark void whose concept of money has probably evolved away to not needing it since they can create anything they need from the relevant atoms, folks. And they don't need arseholes anymore, done away with them.

"Aliens with no money and no arseholes coming here to take both of yours. Not good, folks, not good at all."

Also see "Full Trumpism" at The Washington Post.

Sunday, November 04, 2018

Soul-killing clangfire

Certain noises are bound to startle; have PTSD and a lot of such sounds in quick succession you'll end up balanced on flight-fight for future noises. 

The first nasty was a five foot drop of a nail varnish bottle onto a varnished wooden floor. The rest were dice that missed the table and hit the same surface. In the end we rolled the dice (five at a time) into a box so they wouldn't shoot away except of course a couple did. The game reached the end without my end being reached but I had to have two Valium post-game to deal with the shredded nerves. 

The worst one was the one I knocked off because I knew the sound was coming and it was my fault—my fucked, work-wounded hands dropping a die. CLATTER-CLATTER-BANG-CLATTER ripping through my skull as it travelled along the wood. 

I loved playing the game but I got stuck in this weird place of "having fun playing a game" and "I am going to be attacked; prepare to defend myself". That's an insane duality to have; to be doing something fun but wreathed in fear-soaked terror that a loud sudden noise is coming and you may dive for the door. 

I yelled loudly "FUCKING (word)" each time it happened and I had to say sorry when the game was done for sounding demented at such innocuous noise—terror Tourette.

That's life with a workplace mental health injury; you're forever stained by what happened to you years on and sudden noises can drag you screaming back. 

Workplace injury blows goats; I am the proof.

Pop goes the boil-o

The ever boil had ballooned and it was popped; lanced with a needle and squeeeeeezed. 

I felt every e.

We had to pause for a breather then we went again, the tissue wad blossomed with boil gunk.


So it's hot water bottle time and pain meds. The site is quivering in aftershock.

The inner thigh boil; it just keeps on giving.

Friday, November 02, 2018

GOP releases ad for 2018 midterms

Trapped in the body of a fat child

It was my birthday recently and I thought of it in the context of childhood and school and how utterly sad I was to be trapped in the body of a fat child; for life. I am stunted in growth, have shorter fingers than I should and my joints are mildly fucked up. 

None of this was my choice; nor was it my choice to become fat—genetics and a womb-deformed body soaked in pain did that for me. It's hard to maintain the thrill of physicality when your physique is against you. 

I have all the attractiveness of a fat child despite being an adult which makes me neutered; if you found me attractive I'd consider your mind unsound. 

But when I got off the bus my son was waiting for me because he loves me and gives a shit about me.

So I won; I won life trapped in this hideous flesh suit and without it I could not have been me and done the things that I did—or created the family that I have. I never felt welcome in the one I was in so I made my fucking own.


Wednesday, October 31, 2018

One tried to eat me

One of the chickens tried to eat me. She jumped up and bit my right middle knuckle, I presume because she thinks I am part food. There are animals who can be partially food such as lizards that can drop their tail but I am not like that. Unless they're into hair and nails then there's nothing else I consider they could have from my person.

If I pass out in the pen then I shudder to think what will be gotten to while I lie defenceless. Will I try to open my eyes and find they're no longer there?

Vicious poultry, just vicious. Anyone can see that except for those without eyes due to chickens.

Tuesday, October 30, 2018

PTSD likes women's clothes

I don't tap online ads save by accident and thanks to PTSD and meds for PTSD my fingers flick open of their own accord. Or stab downwards when surfing with a tablet.

Because I've tapped on that ad twice I now see it populated across other sites in addition to the site I was reading.

They objectively look like nice clothes though as a potato man they'd be no good on me. They're for long slender gals.

My PTSD also likes short shorts; it has eclectic taste.

Paging Dr. Cohen

In almost every tragedy there are moments of hope, that a lesson may get learned from it such as in the Pittsburgh shooting in the reaction of the community affected.

Human caused tragedy oft means a counter force so strong it defies motion. To treat the alleged synagogue shooter with professional compassion shows their best against that man's worst.

Big ups to Pittsburgh and all who sail within.

Saved a mermaid

She fell off a shelf and onto the floor, brushed from her perch by a passer-by. Even though bending is a hassle I bent and got her then put her back.

It mattered fuck all in the scheme of things but it mattered to me that toy mermaid plushie could get wrecked and that whoever got her would be sad at the grime on her body.

I pay a cost to bend; it hurts to do it. But if not me then who?

That's why.

Monday, October 29, 2018

Pwned by grand dame

We were at a gathering when powerhouse host pointed at us and said "now none of your dungeon talk!"

It was only after she said "or your dragons" when we realised she was teasing us for being D&D players for 30+ years of life; for we'd outed that we were players (still) at a previous event and she pwned us by remembering that and using it against us.

I've been playing Baldurs Gate II obsessively so the first thing I said was "I'm a twenty-second level mage."

I was wrong; it turned out I was a dual class level six thief slash twenty-third level mage but in the moment it was a near-truth marred by an error in fact.

That stands in stark contrast to Donald Trump who just bragged that not only did the stock exchange open the next day after 911 so did major league baseball. Except they didn't; they took six days

He was right in spirit but super wrong on fact. It's his truthful hyperbole at play; there's a kind of truth even though it's bullshit in that it feels true, and should be, but it's not and never was. 

The fact they only lost mere daya after such an event is a miracle in of itself. It showed the resilience of New York after a knife to the heart. 

Trump as a realtor got compensated for incurring good will costs hosting displaced people and providing succor to businesses around the city affected by the act. Only he didn't really have any

But this is a man who once walked into an event for a children with AIDS charity, climbed on stage to sit with the VIPs who were being thanked for their support, then did photos and left having not only not donated but not been invited

You can't make that shit up. That someone who did that got to be president.

He's the real life equivalent of a child of Bhaal. 


Sunday, October 28, 2018

Scaring of younger men

Once you've been in the adult world a while the age differences vanish; you can be in your forties and have friends in your thirties even though at school you were just leaving as they were still in kindy.

Time is unkind to us all. Our bodies degrade as they age and things start happening.

Someone was turning forty and the older ones felt the need to share what happens to your balls. 

"They keep dropping," I said, "And they can be sat on or squeezed to the side if you sit wrong."

Another was how your scrotum lengthens and it's more likely to stick to an inner thigh and, as getting out of a vinyl chair in Summer, it makes a nasty noise and does not feel right when you detach. 

I noted that scrotal sag means you can fold up a small toy in it and see the impression of the toy through the stretched out skin. 

These are things that need to be said; that your balls will age in unpleasant ways and that it's not just an aesthetic blow but a serious physical issue.

To sit on or side smash your now saggier balls is not fun; balls hurt when struck and your scrotum and gravity means they end up in the way. Imagine a matador who swaps out his cape for a tablecloth then discovers the bull is more likely to hit it and you get the idea. 

The running of the bulls; people have had injuries to balls from bulls since that tradition gored off. 

If you're hitting your forties then your balls degrade. Accept it and get used to moving them out of the way of animals or small children; they will hit you there. 

Friday, October 26, 2018

Cat's paw into belly button

That's a first for me, a strike to the belly button from a cat, and it hurt. She didn't jab it; she lay on me and a forepaw slipped in and then she pressed down. I felt a nerve fire down and burst out through my groin.

It was unpleasant. Not as unpleasant as a poke from theboy but hurty nonetheless.

Cats, a threat to the BB so B.b. beware.

UPDATE: ... and then she trod on my balls...

Thursday, October 25, 2018

Angry lake ride

I'd just set out to do to the bridge and back but, fuck it, kept going and did the lake. As typical I was angry and lapsed into a rant about crap. Now my knee is sore from doing too much too quickly.

I got angry at being fucked before I drew breath. I recently read a line about nature and nurture, that genetics loads the gun and the environment pulls the trigger. In my case it was pulled in the womb and I came out broken.

I didn't have a fucking chance; I was fucked before I came out. I try to fall back on the fact I am who I am because my flaws make me sing; that it is for the greater good I dwell in a house of pain.

It still gives me the shits though.

But I just yelled, I did not cry. That at least is something.

Wednesday, October 24, 2018


With thanks to The Games of Thrones.

I opened my laptop to look down at that sticker of the huntsman spider that I didn't remember putting there only to realise it was an actual spider that had been squished when I closed the monitor on it. 

I didn't know at the time and because of my womb-robbed fingers I can only two finger type and my finger fall is heavy I use a gaming keyboard that is plugged in because to use a laptop keyboard is an exercise in acute frustration. The spider was not disturbed by use of the laptop, only the distant rattle of fingers on the plugged in one that is an inch away. 

The transition from "I don't remember putting that sticker of a spider there" to "that is not a sticker; it is a spider the depth of a sticker because I squished it" was a bit yuck, I wobbled for a second before I swept it away. 

The poor fucker didn't have a chance. Maybe, like me, it found rhythmic noise relaxing and it curled up asleep near a steady rattle.

So it likely died in its sleep, unaware of its death when the lid came down on its coffin. It's brutal efficiency except I'm not letting it repose as a gruesome sticker, I just used a USB stick to push it off the desk then kick it out of view. The mice can have it, if they choose. 

Spiders, I don't like them. If I am generous I will attempt a catch and release but it's more droning that resettling I confess because I'd rather them dead than released since they will come back. 

In this case I feel a bit like Frank Drebbin and the drug dealers.

Songs to vent through

"Button to Button" by The White Stripes. You can overlay your own verses and spit them out in controlled, musical fury. Or keep to the real ones since like astrology readings they're broadly applicable to everyone—especially anyone who had a shitty childhood.

The White Stripes; helping make stripes stripe since they were stripy.

Creamed self post shower

Because I self harm through gouging at existing scars I at least have the benefit of an all natural approach. Which means I don't start up new locations, I just have at specific spots that exist. So I got up, I had a shower and I creamed the fuck out of the scars. I want to pick them when they are dry; the sensation is robbed if they are moist. The trick is the active application of cream when waking or post showering.

So I've done that; let's see if that holds.

That's the trouble with the ebb and flow of mental injury; you have to wait for the low tide of near normal to do things to prevent your high tide response.

Tuesday, October 23, 2018

Nearly all day

I didn't put cream on my face until after five having left my wounds free to be picked at the whole business day. I was convinced I could tear the puckered scars off and all I did was make it worse. 

I hate being so wounded in the head that I can't stop picking the outside of it. It's not right, it's not normal but it feels right and I am screaming in my head to keep going. 

It's fucked to want to claw at your skin; even worse to feel good in the moment for doing it. Then you see the red, scarred skin among the greying stubble and you shudder. 

Ain't that a kick in the ... well, you know.


Monday, October 22, 2018

This little chicky ate roast beef

There was a left over slice of roast beef swimming in concealed fat and juices. It was okay to eat but off putting. It's not chicken so I fed it to the chickens. After feeding the bigs their share I tipped the last of it---juice, fat and slice---into an empty dustpan and set it down for the rest.

Gone, completely gone. They ate every piece, every white bit of fat and drank all the juice. It seemed to be the best reaction they've had yet in "will they eat this?", the game played by every backyard chicken enthusiast since backyards and chickens have been a thing.

Given the pecks I've had it seems clear that they will also eat people if they get the chance.


Saturday, October 20, 2018

0–100 in 165 minutes

I hate making phone calls; hate it. I hate having to deal with social niceties then intro the topic. I know in this day and age to make a phone call to a stranger to their phone who is not expecting it is treated with wary suspicion by the stranger—if they even take the call at all. 

I threw myself into it. I called and called then called some more. By the end I'd cracked almost half the sheet and done a hundred plus calls, I didn't need the script and I'd honed my patter as warm, engaging and excited. It helped the calls were for something nice not nasty but still for someone who hates phone calls who then has to make a hundred plus in a single sitting it was deliciously awful. I didn't like it, I hate annoying people so getting them past why they were being bothered was a burr I had to rub each time but it didn't go nasty. The first time I ever cold called for a group I got someone at dinner time and they chucked a screaming snit at me leaving me to complete just 10 attempts before giving up.  No one likes being yelled at; in person or via phone.

So I did it. It's just part of the gig and I have to accept the need to talk voice-to-voice. However it went as good as it could go and I had the grim satisfaction of completing, emotionally intact, a difficult task for someone with the added complications of depression, anxiety, PTSD and OCPD. 

The irony is all four—my horsemen of the apocalypse—make me a better someone. 

How's that for a win? Take that, life wake.

UPDATE: I finished the sheet. It took longer and was more stressful. Go figure.

Friday, October 19, 2018

A thin trickle of watery blood

That's what greeted me after checking the toilet post motion. It is decidedly unsettling and deeply unsexy to see a thin trickle of watery blood after going number two but I know at least it's not my arse spouting it but the right thigh ever boil "popping" against the seat.

It's watery because it's not just blood, it's whatever goes into a boil as well. It's gross and does not bear talking about.

The ever boil is a good metaphor for me; I'm leaking from an ever present wound that just will not heal. 

This morning I had to fight the urge to savage at my body and I succeeded. Just. I had a go at the thigh lump for a bit when I realised I had just returned to an out of the way spot I could have at where it's not disfiguring.

It's fucked to be caked in so much damage you get relief from damaging your body but that's just what it is; to have OCPD is to likely have a co-morbidity of picking at your body

You'd think someone born and raised damaged wouldn't damage themselves further but that's what being caked in damage does. 

I didn't choose this body but the rest of the world, parents included, presumed I did. I guess if the world says you're damaged what's one more puckered scar from picking at yourself to seek relief?

Stupid mental injuries—physically skin deep but in the brain all the way to the core.

Thursday, October 18, 2018


With a change in psychs it meant I had to brief the new one on me. I stole half of someone's appointment and ended at ninety-two minutes. I cried near the end after I spoke of what happened and how to deal with the twin injuries of childhood and adult trauma.The hardest was talking 'bout self harming through gouging at my face, thigh and feet. That to pick at your body gives you a weird peace because of damage to brain chemistry and how to break that habit of mutilation.

I'm like the bargain trolley at the gates of hell.

I was jittery after and had a V in the afternoon. My brain wants to revisit what was said and please I just don't want to do that. 

Wednesday, October 17, 2018

Near double stack

There's a path junction that curves up a hill that forces me to dismount unless I go the other direction, turn around, and go up it at speed. I failed half way up and had to jam brakes to stop sliding and the angle meant I tilted and nearly tipped; twice. For I went back twice to try it after the first fail to see if it could be done. Ridden up without dismounting,

Could not do it without the run up from the other direction. It was horrifying on the last tip where I thought I was going to smash sideways then slide down the path and it was luck it didn't happen.

That junction is my trike's baby with the one eyebrow; its nemesis.

I wish it wouldn't drag me into its fights; it's a high conflict machine.

Also my microwave got in a twitter beef with the fridge. Honestly, they should stop stuffing AI into everything.


Sunday, October 14, 2018

Mangled approach

I was too keyed up so I hit up a speaker before photos and had half a minute to make the pitch. I was nervous, stumbled and did a bad job. I caught myself pacing on the fail when I got home; for like a typo in a report that is a forever mistake and I have the fail sads. 

But you can only fail if you try; to not try is to never chance to succeed.

Wheels within wheels, turns within turns.


UPDATE: ... and mangled the follow-up email. I was using webmail and the fucking email was sent two lines in and without the pared back edit of the below text. I had to grit teeth and re-do and accept the fact that happened. To help accept it I had valium; but it's been more than a month since I last some and that's been the longest break so far. Today was applicable use; the technocrat equiv of punching yourself in the balls.

Saturday, October 13, 2018

The cat knocked the skeleton hand from the table

I realised as I said those words—it was a plastic back scratcher skeleton hand—that it was an unusual set of words to say and it sounded a bit like an early reader that went wrong ala "the cat sat on the mat" only in this case body parts instead of furnishings

That would make those readers more interesting and it should be encouraged with other body parts twinned with cat-based antics; "the cat nuzzled the hip bone", "the cat stood on the metatarsal" and "the cat ate the hippocampus; where the fuck did it get that hippocampus?!" 

I think the kids would get more value out of that; plus it's early exposure to anatomy and situational appropriate cursing.

The lost cough

For as long as I can remember honking up goobs on waking has been a thing for me and my unsettled lungs. Sometimes the cough ejects with force and the goob is powered through the air, with two fat ends and a linking middle bit like chain shot, and it lands on something. 

In this case I coughed into my wardrobe and saw "it" fly into the clothes within. I confess to a weary sigh at my Something About Mary lost lung ejaculate but the silver lining was I found it within two seconds; it did not remain undetected hanging off an ear

It was tacky enough I could pick it off with my fingers with the snot hanging between them and I got to a tissue instead of it being wiped off somewhere it should not. 

So the cough was lost but just for a second; I dealt with the unpleasantness in a timely, efficient manner. 

If you do have goobs honking it up in the shower is best; but this snuck out of nowhere and I honked into storage. I like to think that if that had been the Narnia wardrobe it would have crossed worlds and hit the witch queen's sleigh dwarf in the eye and caused him to stack it. 

Take one from a broken Son of Adam!

Friday, October 05, 2018

Technocratic freak gottten on

Technocrats are always on the hunt to make things run better. I found a hole and pitched the patch. I got a call to say it was a potential goer and they'd investigate if it could be done.

It was real time government; they got back to me the same day.

I had to celebrate and my song of success is "Something Good" by Utah Saints.

I cranked it up and belted it out in an empty office whilst lightly quivering with my attempt at dance.

It's yet another reminder that if all that hideous crap had not happened to me I wouldn't be the awesome 'crat that I am.


Wednesday, October 03, 2018

He put the boot in

White House staff: please don't disparage Dr. Ford who GOP senators agree has suffered a traumatic assault even as they cling to the belief she's identified the wrong attacker and not would-be "Justice" Brett Kavanaugh.

President Trump: fuck that shit, I am going to disparage the fuck out of her.

UPDATE: it worked.

Tuesday, October 02, 2018

A gusher

It's lucky the mystery of the bleeding into the toilet was solved—for it was the ever boil popping and leaking ichor out when rubbing on the toilet seat—or today's deluge would have sent me to the emergency room convinced my insides were liquefying and a slurry of organs was sluicing out my arse. 

The blood, and lots of it, was disconcerting. But the relief to wipe the inside of your leg to confirm it's just ordinary boil blood and not rectal blood is insane. Like "withdrawing from a uni subject on the last day you could" insane relief—the walk back to your car from doing that is just magic.

The boil bleed means no riding, warm compresses and later an expert squeeze but that's always preferred to the bum bleed. 

Bleeding; never great but some are way better than others. That's a motto I can get behind. Especially when it's not coming out of my behind.

Friday, September 28, 2018

Sex demand shouted

It was I who shouted it and a stranger---a middle-aged blonde lady---sitting perpendicular to me the one who received it.

I was on the bus and the bus tooted someone in front of us. A bus horn is loud and I was not watching the road so was not expecting the toot.

So I yelled "FUCK ME!" right into that poor woman's ear.

I normally apologise and note I have PTSD but it felt weird so we just sat in silence as fight flight swirled down the drain. She got off before me.

I'm mostly sure she took it as an exclamation of alarm than a genuine bluntly delivered sex demand but it's going to be weird if we meet again.

This has been "Fun with PTSD and sex shouting."

Thursday, September 27, 2018

Mob rule

"I told a number of countries over the last few days, I said listen, you’re a very rich country. We protect you. Without our protection, you would have real problems. You would have real problems."

Donald Trump press conference, Wednesday, 26 September 2018.

Wednesday, September 26, 2018

Boil blood not arse blood

I had to suffer the indignity of someone looking up my arse to see if it was bleeding and it was not. When shown where the blood appeared on the seat or just under it the ever boil was poked and blood shot out. So it was not arse blood; just boil blood. It rubbed on the toilet seat then bled.

It was like a parody Nancy Drew; "... and the case of the toilet blood" where the anus had been set up, framed, by the ever boil with the mystery solved with a final confrontation in a brothel. I know, I didn't think Nancy Drew would have a scene there but this is parody.

What a relief that it was just the ever boil, still not gone after nearly a year. 

The ever boil; the ever un-delight.

UPDATE: not bleeding out of your arse is awesome.

Blood fart

Since the revisit of the bleeding arse each time I've farted I've worried I'm spraying aerated arse blood. It has not happened but when I change I've checked, Dexter style, to see if I Jackson Pollocked my pants (Red Spots Number 12).

It's a worry I've never had that I now add to the list of things to worry about. Aging is balls ... that descend further with age. Is that why a grandfather clock is called that? Because it looks like a sagging old man with low swinging balls?

Probably. That's probably why.

Peeping Heatwave

On advice from my sleep doctor---the profession, not the mattress chain---I've been throwing open the curtain when rising since bright sun will help wake me up. I did that only to sit down on the bed the other day to see the Transformer known as Heatwave---who changes from a fire engine to a member of the Village People--standing on the table outside looking in.

It must have seen me naked a dozen times.

I'd have chalked it up to a misplaced toy except it was smoking a cigarette and touching itself.

What is it with firemen and smoking?

Sunday, September 23, 2018

Arse bleed redux

It happened again—two days running—a drop of blood after a motion. It's bright so it's likely just a tear but to look in a bowl and steel yourself for what is there in addition to the normal unpleasantness is unpleasant.

I take comfort I should be dead a hundred times over and if it's arse bleeding that is my coda then, Universe, take another bow. It's a fine way to go; and most suited to my character. 

Of course this is semi-gallows humour; I should be okay but I'm not riding if it happens because to sit on a trike or exercise bike seat is to spread the area. 

There's none of that needed; no, sir. 

Aging is a shit and in this case semi-literally as in my shits cause bleeding and that's likely from wear and tear.

A cliff; I once nearly fell off a cliff. Near accidents in cars aplenty—and that one time from the scree of rubble from an explosion where the ejected matter tumbled down into the trees where we'd been in alleged safety.

The arse bleed; it's never good though as far as that goes this is the best way to get it. How's that for a silver fucking lining for my rent lining?

Friday, September 21, 2018

The man with his head stuck in a hornets' nest

That happened; not literally—I'm not a psycho—but metaphorically where I had to go through super old hurts and marshal evidence against it. I fucked up—I had to send it twice because I corked a date—but it's away and now I can leave said nest.

It was a horror; sticking your head into a metaphorical hornets' nest, and I had to break from the PC and do a lap of the building to discharge the built up terror that clogged me. 

I was a cog in MoG and my cog got fucked up; I've spent years trying to fix it. I'm close, and that's awesome, but at a cost to my mind and bod.

I had to do a DASS 21 the other day, on intro to my new psych, and it was inflicted after the initial consult so it skewed high.  Which is to be expected, because like that nightmare I once had I'm the only one on the planet keeping the ship hull from imploding because I am blocking the leak. At least, that's how it feels. 

I had a fucked childhood—for someone in the three per cent—where I nearly died hundreds of times or wished I was dead a dozen; a childhood rippled with regret, pain, agony, self-hate and harm on others. It's the latter I loathe the most; I know I hated myself but it gave me no right to slag off others who did me no wrong. Hence my inability to attend a school reunion—I'd have to do that step in the 12 step program where you apologise to the people you hurt. I entered the public school system in year nine—still flush with the concept that if you like someone you were attracted to you negged them—then proceeded to neg the female population of said school. How could I face them doing what I did? I made some of them bawl because of a snarky comment that in no way was deserved. Even now, 27 years on, I shudder with horror at the things I said and did because I presumed girls did not like me and was mean to them first. 

And so it goes. We had a fire to burn corro we hate, that made us sad. We wrote things that we hated and burned them too. I know I had to suffer what I suffered to do what I did—which was the technocrat equiv of "Blaze of Glory"—but I judder at the harm I inflicted along the way. There are women out there to this day for whom I am the greatest of male monsters; that represented the worst of our sex through sheer dint of being a woman I was near.

I am sorry. If that counts then I am sorry,

But I am doing my best to make amends; to look after people I do not know.

Tuesday, September 18, 2018

Gas! Gas! Gas!

I had two strong ciders then blew up with gas an hour later. As in feeling inflated on the inside and ripping forth cider spawned nose horrors.

Cider. It was just cider. And Chinese food.

Stupid body; except it's not, that would imply malice or negligence on its sentient part. It's not its fault.

But it could always be worse; always.

No blood, more ranting

I went twice today with no sign of arse blood. Yesterday must have been a mild now healed tear.

We had a chat about rage fits in the car and it was pointed out rightly that a high emotional state can lead to distraction such as impaired vision from crying or being so lost in the anger you're not concentrating on the road.

I had an across Canberra drive to do that night and on the way a roo darted to the side of the road but did not cross before me. I was watching it intently and on the reverse trip slowed to 60 with the high beams on where applicable lest it or the rest of the mob was around. All in all careful Ozzie driving to factor in large animals that can bounce in front of your car---and kill it, a roo thigh bone can impale a radiator.

Yeah so still angry crying despite it. It was a long drive and the heightened anger from discussing it cooked me off. I managed the duality of heightened emotion with careful driving. You'd think they'd be opposing forces---high emotion for fast, careless driving---but I'm so used to doing it that my driving does not seem impaired. I'm careful and conscious of my speed, handling and what traffic and fauna is doing.

It's still not great; a calm person will be a better driver but it's a weird place to be in when you can anger cry whilst driving at the speed limit, carefully indicating and paying attention to extra dangers like a roo bouncing down a dark hill and right next to or in front of you; "YOU FUCKING FUCKS!" (slows then smoothly transits roundabout whilst scanning for roos).

But it ended well; the drive and fit. The anger bled off before I went via drive-thru and so I didn't sob as I gave my order.

I tried not to car rant; I had the radio on to distract me but it was a question time repeat and that cranked me too.

The car rant; not great to do but I am great at it. But I'm still going to try to curb it. Maybe music next time.

Monday, September 17, 2018

Rectal bleeding

It's bright blood so it's likely a minor tear on the inside but there is nothing quite like seeing blood after a motion, real or attempted. I thought it could be from wee but nothing appears when standing and just doing that. 

It's happened before, the arse bleed, and it went away. If it keeps happening then back to the doc with a new problem.

If my body was a car it'd be a Trabant ... that bleeds out its exhaust pipe.

PTSD and bin liners

The go to moment in movies for depiction of PTSD is to show someone's startle reflex fire off from a trigger event; the infamous helicopter flashback caused by ceiling fan trope.

In reality, while that happens, the everyday result for some is reduced manual dexterity from hand and finger trembling and ability to pick up and stay holding of objects since your fingers can also just spring apart of their own accord.

Or use them to tease apart a bin liner so it can be rolled out into the bin. In Canberra you have to buy plastic bags and the bin we have best works best with a purpose liner anyway since more volume can fit in. But its compacted layers of thin plastic means you have to separate to open.

It was the last bag on the roll---so seemed to have a thicker side---and I spent five minutes standing in the kitchen trying to get my trembling, mind-wound robbed fingers to tease the plastic apart to deploy the first half. So I did a starter cut with a knife to try and pick a edge open that way and ultimately tore the bag.

I yelled heartily at my fucked ability to do normal acts due to injury and meds for that injury then rooted around for the next roll and tried again.

See, that's boring. It's a lot sexier to show an especially physically capable man suffer the flawed hero wound of PTSD who reacts with fear to trigger stimulus a normal person does not suffer. My mundane reality is being a sub par man made more sub par by injury to his hands who spends inordinate amounts of time attempting to manipulate or carry objects.

This has been "Fun with PTSD and waste management."

Sunday, September 16, 2018

Rage fit in car

I talk to myself when driving alone; it's a habit from practicing for talking that blew into emotional release if my steam needed venting. So I boiled off on a four minute drive back from the shops to the point of spittle-flecked shouting as the anger consumed me. 

It was the same record; being saddled with a fucked body and navigating a world who saw fit to monster me for it. Whether it was active or passive, either way it was fucked. I copped it at all stages of life; I will keep copping it.

Then with tears rolling and anger still surging I walked back in and used CBT to mask it.

Maybe I'm an emotional bulimic? I hide my vomiting up self-hate and anger at self-hating's causes. Then put my face on as I come out and do my best to carry on.

But the dreams I cannot control and the leaden sads that coat me on waking are harder to CBT away than a self-induced rage scream.

The dream shadow; a mind fuck that will cloak you with smothering sads. 

But you keep wriggling as best you can to get out of it; to remain smothered is to die.

I didn't choose this body; it was chosen for me. I'm angry and sad and happy and delighted; without it I would not be me and you need irritating grit to become a pearl.


UPDATE: Rage fit on trike with angry crying. Maybe it's just transport related? I do anger cry on buses. Wait, I angry cry during space outs where I don't move for an hour or more. But I've not had one of them for a while. There's the toilet and shower too. I think location and motion are not related; I rage fit or anger cry because I've been traumatised and re-live it.

Friday, September 14, 2018

Tuesday, September 11, 2018

Agony of fast walking

I have reduced mobility with a slow, shuffling gait. But I was working in a place where fast walking is the norm and needed for normal business. So I upped my pace to keep pace with others and then went on assorted missions that involved lots of walking. I got a stitch and nearly threw up multiple times as my wobbly body was put through the ringer. I'm balding and that means bald sweat. It got so bad that it blinded me whilst pushing a trolley and I was using my free hand to stop items falling. I went a dozen metres before I stopped to wipe bald sweat from my eyes lest I crash into a wall.

I got mad for a moment at my shit body that was damaged pre-birth. I stood as pain shot through from fast walking and feeling the nausea of too much exertion. I have a disability permit because I cannot walk far or fast without pain and here I was walking for about three hours in multiple crossings of a vast office terrain.

But without that shitty body I wouldn't be where I was or done what I did. So I limped on as pain ravaged me knowing that crap bod made me awesome.

Physical acceptance for the win.

Circumcision felt

I was circumcised as a baby for no medical reason but for desert warfare. Seriously, my mum looked at me and thought "desert warfare" and "this will keep it clean."

I suppose I should be impressed at her geopolitical foresight to snip the foreskin but due to not turning in the womb my stunted skeleton was in not fit for warfare. Dessert war perhaps; desert war, no way.

As a man who is circumcised you rarely notice it; there is little sensation and no real awareness it's there, though it does help for urinal use 'cos you can grab the fold for ease of through pants extraction.

I had to have a chest scan and a radiocontrast was injected into me. The warmth of the chemical flows through your body and radiates outward and ends at your bits.

And that is when I felt it; the contrast hit the rolled fold of skin and then the head above got it a fraction later. It felt like a flower opening to welcome the sun only it was my junk that, with the rest of me, was about to be thrust into a sensor donut.

The circumcision; pointless but with a weird-as-fuck afterglow if a radiocontrast substance is stuck right into you.

I know radiocontrast is not actually radioactive but I did wonder if incidental erections are a symptom of radiation poisoning. If so it's no wonder the Hulk always keeps his pants on.

Friday, September 07, 2018

If I could turn back tines

Due to a poor grip, PTSD and meds for PTSD I drop things. I dropped a fork into the dishwasher and had to reach through to get it. I flipped it over to get a better grip, tines facing down, then used the arch of the fork as the lock on site, pinching it then wending the fork through the rack.

So it turns out I could turn back tines; I found a way.

Your move, Cher.

Wednesday, September 05, 2018

Dumb moments of acute acceptence

When you live the life of a broken person you get sad at yourself for the absence of acceptance. For example, theboy has a friend who now has to wear glasses and he got hassled for it. I said "It's not like he went 'ERRRGH' and summoned the power of the supernatural to weaken his vision." In that being teased for an acquired disability is most fucked and dumb to hassle someone about given they did not choose it.

The heuristic shorthand became "I'm X; I'm going to weaken my vision!" (ERRRRGH). "Hooray, I did it; I need glasses!"

When you realise that; that your body is not your fault and that people who hung shit on you for it are evil incarnate then you do experience self acceptance.

Accept the body you have; it's the only one you have. If it doesn't work right that is not on you.


UPDATE: Originally this was going to be a link to "I had the time of my life" from Dirty Dancing. It became this instead. I'm not sure what I mean by the duality of two physically perfect people in lust dance as compared to my life path.

In Year 11 I slept in a hole

It wasn't an actual hole, like, in the dirt or anything. It's just that the foam mattress I'd used since I was probably ten had compressed with my more solid form and created a hole. Not through the mattress but a depression that was noticeably foetal short man shaped, 

I pointed this out a number of times; the (w)hole situation. Near the end of the year I got a spring mattress that could take my more adult weight.

The pattern they chose were sailboats. 

I only got to use it a short while for I left home three years later; the mattress was inherited by their first boarder, who was shown around my room and her new digs were explained ... as I was still in bed having just woken up on the mattress with the sailboats. 

They could have woken me before this happened; they chose not to—for added foot-on-neck pleasure.

That's what it is to be born damaged to narcissists; they don't like it and they especially do not like you. And don't worry, they will let you know—there will be no fog of miscommunication. 

But then you crack through the wall they built and look back and you marvel at the power you had to bash through a barrier that thick. My resilience is astounding; I am a fucking hero.


Sunday, September 02, 2018

Shattered glass

I was standing next to a ledge when the small girl's hand pushed the glass—she couldn't see it; she was too low down. I watched the glass vanish from view, thought "shit" and had a moment to brace. It smashed into a seeming thousand shards of a thousand yet more shards each with a ring that rippled through me.

I held firm; I was not shaken. I was the Bell Rock Lighthouse and stood fast against the fiercest storm (1).

If I had not seen it fall I'd have likely screamed "SHIT!" then leaped about a foot in the air, wonky legs not withstanding—then either fallen on landing or dropped into a pose of cat-like readiness versus the four horsemen coming for me in that moment; in public, in front of many people.

This had been "Fun with PTSD and glassware".

(1) In the TV series "Seven Wonders of the Industrial World" about industrial marvels of the nineteenth century the ep about the lighthouse claimed that the rock got its name from the bell monks had placed there to warn ships of impending doom. But it only lasted a year before coming off in a storm and there is a scene of the bell sinking into the depths. According to the wiki it was actually stolen by a Dutch pirate. I like the pirate truth much better than the sinking lie.

Saturday, September 01, 2018

Naked and nails

I was transitioning between the shower and study naked when theboy opened the sliding door. I turned, deeply ashamed, at my hideous body.

I do not feel great naked; I do not look good naked. If a casting director was looking for the titular role for their production "The Toad King" and I stepped into the room they'd shout "CALL OFF THE HUNTWE HAVE OUR TOAD KING!"

I don't feel as bad wearing a shirt and undies; or wearing PJ pants and no shirt. It's like partial attire shields the worst of how I feel about myself. But fully naked; just a grotesquery. 

He wasn't phased, I span around in horror to give him a view of a hairy back and arse instead. I then retreated to the study choking on shame.

After I dressed, and because I'd poked myself in the scrote with over long finger nails, I got the industrial nail clippers and asked him to clip my nails for me; I can't do it as my hands have a fine tremble and propensity to drop things due to PTSD and medication taken for PTSD. 

He'd never done it before, not even for himself, and was worried at first. But by nail four he'd cracked it. I just had to trim here and there for the job to be done. He got a reward for it—and it helped pare away the sting of him seeing me naked and my revulsion at his seeing that. That he couldn't be so revolted—my upsidedown brain said—if he was willing to be bribed to trim my nails. 

I hated seeing my dad naked; hated it. Because he was long and trim with proper fingers, feet and toes. Each time I saw him it reminded me that I was a failure. 

That's how it felt to grow up in a house where I was bullied for my body; and went to school where it happened as well. The only respite I had was when I was alone and I was soaked in self-hate.

I had a anger rant in the car when getting papers then reminded myself again my journey would not have been possible without an unsound body and an unsound mind; that by their twin negatives they'd created a positive in that I was smart as fuck and landed in places where I fixed things at the macro scale. 

In life there are book ends and books. Many people are book ends; not many are books. 

I'm a tome so fucking thick I don't need book ends to stand up.