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.


Friday, August 31, 2018

Technocratic freediving

Freediving is the dangerous art of swimming deep as you can on one breath then coming back. It's insanely scary to me—but if you can do it then, wow, what a rush that must be.

I got my technocrat freak on in a freedive into the depths of MoG, finding and shaping a narrative and way ahead. I was lost in it, reveling in it as I saw what needed to be done. 

Then I got to fuck off for the bus. Freedivers don't have that; they have to arse about with towels, goggles and being resuscitated. Me? On the fucking bus in fifteen flat. 


Tuesday, August 28, 2018

Lost a tooth chunk

It fell out as I ate a sundae. I thought it was from my meal then saw it was a tooth piece and frantically tongued about until I found where it once was. 

I put the shard on a chopping board then lost it when I picked up the board and it rattled off it onto the counter and off that to under the fridge.

I'd just come back from a psych consult where I discussed early onset of aging on wonky joints only for a chunk of tooth to just fall out of me when I got home like in a fucked comedy movie. 

Seriously. I sit down, post chat about a decaying body then shed part of a tooth.

Universe, take a bow.

UPDATE: It was a filling and resin lump that had fallen out. Lump re-set. The needle barely hurt. He was most deft.

Monday, August 27, 2018

Took his sword off him

I'm playing Talisman on the tablet and my Sorceress was attacked by the Knight---who begins the game with armour and a sword.

I won the battle and took his sword off him.

His alignment is good and I am evil. Yet I did nothing to bring on that aggro. It is a nice sword though. He's lost some fights and is two lives from death. Let's see what I to make that happen.

UPDATE: I got killed by the Grim Reaper—and I lost the sword that would not have helped.

Knee ache

The lake ride I did was too much after too long away from daily exercise biking. My left knee is screaming at me for doing something it used to do an hour a day no worries. I need to ease back in then lift back up. 

I'm older and can't do what limited things I could do as well I did them—my joints are failing early because they were never formed correctly. To know and experience early degradation of your body is fucked. I never had a proper body to begin with and this fucked one is breaking half way.

I feel like the shit box loaner car at a dodgy off-the-book mechanics. I shudder to think what's inside the glove box or boot. 

If it's gloves and boots I'm a lot worse off than I realised. 

Skull hiss

Gas just crackled out the base of my skull; I heard it and felt it. There's no implants, it's just my dodgy-as-fuck un-turned body venting.

As I rode back from the lake yesterday my knees hurt and the already replaced hip ached. All of this, the gas hissing from joints and that my joints are fucked up, the result of not great preg care by the carrier.

It probably would have been okay for a sense of self as a being entitled to care if I had got it but I didn't so now middle-aged me is choked by anger at what was done to him in childhood, made worse for early joint failure and daily discomfort at use of lower and upper limbs. I have a broken puppet body only I'm alive and can feel it.

I got angry on that ride back but fell back on the fact without it I would not be me. And a skull hissing broken puppet body is a greater win because I give a sustained and impactful fuck about people I do not know.

Heroes are never chosen; they are made. And the best of them are riddled with flaws because it makes them human and that much more fucking heroic.


Sunday, August 26, 2018

Barf berries

I made him laugh so hard he vomited up his blueberries.

Comedy win.

UPDATE: He had to have a blast of Ventolin

Friday, August 24, 2018

Fifteen hours

I haven't done a 15 hour day in seeming forever but I got to see things happen and chat with great peeps. A grueler but a grinner.

I even had an outside mission on a stunning day and got assisted at the back of a queue by a roving customer officer.  

There were flashbacks to the shit but each time they came they ebbed off because what I was doing made it all worth it.

I don't have self doubt; I am one with myself. How lucky am I to obtain self worth?

Also there was a change of Prime Minister. Australia; we know how to roll 'em.

Thursday, August 23, 2018

Things that hurt

Me; like, all the time.

A pebble in my shoe when running for a bus; yes, I ran—on this body. The pebble entered as I dashed across gravel. I missed the bus.

Rimming my belly button on the edge of a chair. 

Loud noises like low flying aircraft, a cutlery rattle-drop or a scooter dropped within a bus. 

Memories, the having thereof, not the song; otherwise that would be "Memories" and how could that hurt you? Unless it was part of auditory enhanced interrogation. 

Your knees and hips after running for a just missed bus and you're pissed because those headlights were on you as you were waving it down and it ignored the universal signal for "can you please stop; I wish to use you." Grr. It was all because I had to have a safety wee before leaving. But then I got a taxi and the ride was interesting for the goss. I later texted about my getting a taco because auto-correct. 

And a bunch of shit I'm too arsed to remember. 

But, still here and kicking and that is a big, fat WFTW.

Sunday, August 19, 2018

Back fart

Last night as I was headed off to bed I farted and hurt my back.

The fart wasn't that powerful but as it happened something went "werch" in my lower back like I'd been compressed head downward. 

I had to take nurofen. I had to take more the next day. It still hurts. I get that I once wrenched my back coughing but all I did here was a normal fart, nothing super farty, and my body rebelled and hurt itself.

For fuck's sake, seriously, for fuck's sake.

Friday, August 17, 2018

My two visitors

The first was an old man who was seeking help; the second was younger and needed help. I could help the first but not the second.

You can lead a horse to water but don't engage in its views of tower seven and 911.

Fucking horses.

Thursday, August 16, 2018

A night to remember

There are nights that represent a moment, a key into a lock and turn where you know something special has happened. I don't get out much---always sore dampens desire to be social---but I accepted the offer and went. Then the key turned with a soft, welcoming click.

I have a shit body and a sad mind but that led to nights like this. How lucky I am to be cursed as I was; yin within yang within yin.


Wednesday, August 15, 2018

Valium sleep

I rarely take Valium but it's needs based usage which means sometimes there's a cluster of use.

I had a monster chat about childhood yuck and I cried for a bit. It came two days after a scare where I'd had two afterward. After they left the churn from the talk rizzled within and I took two again. I filled a hot water bottle then went to bed, sleeping it off

It's not good sleep. It's not blissy. You just don't feel as intense and you get tired and listless. So I slept a chunk of the day away and when I woke I forced myself to go for a ride. When I got back I got hugged hello and it reminded me that all that bullshit led to okay outcomes.

I'm in constant pain and afflicted by trauma; a recollection can give me the jits and I have to medicate and sleep.

But then you have a moment like that and in that moment of it is all okay.

Acceptance for the win.

Tuesday, August 14, 2018

Toilet pen II

This time the pen was dropped within a near pristine male toilet environment and it fell onto tiles under the sinks which were many feet from the urinal. "Still, don't chew that," I thought, reflecting on the last pen dropped on a toilet floor and which remained unchewed by me and then disposed of.

Yeah, I chewed it. I remembered not to chew it after 40 minutes of chewing. So the ship well sailed on avoiding masticating something from a toilet floor---but I did stop chewing when I remembered.

Just sensational effort.

Well played, pen.

Monday, August 13, 2018

PTSD and buses (interior)

We've covered PTSD and buses in the mechanical sense from the number of posts about when I've had my startle reflex fired by air brakes discharging; they're a constant menace.

But now we move into the inside where the people are because they can be a problem. Buses are supposed to be like libraries or the elevator. People stay quiet and mind their own business. People are not supposed to yell.

The drunk dude behind me, who later revealed he didn't know the day or time, on a mid-arvo ride got frustrated by the large number of passengers so shouted "JESUS CHRIST OF NAVARONE!", which may be a reference to the thriller The Guns of Navarone or something to do with Jesus Christ Superstar, but either way he was sitting right behind me when he yelled it at the top of his voice.

After being told in response to his later shouted question that it was Monday and mid-afternoon he bellowed something about him not even being supposed to be there.

He also sneezed twice with no effort to cover and his drunkenness exacerbated the delivery.

After his first yell and fight flight loomed I put fingers in my ears while I mentally prepared myself for more yelling before taking them away and enduring the queries about the day and time, his ironic presence and the sneezing. At the stop where most of us got off he joked to no one "TICKETS PLEASE!" then smugly stated that this is what bus conductors say.

I felt bad for him. He was disheveled and old before his time and his day drunk seemed likely to be his every day and that is mad sad. I hope he gets help.

But for fuck's sake you don't have to carry on in a bus packed with people whose only fault was using public transport. 

I should have moved but it was jammed with people standing. I'm big so I'd have gut-brushed people in any slow effort to distance myself from Captain DrunkYell.

The CBT helped and it was only a 15 minute trip. But it was a long 15 minutes.

This has been "Fun with PTSD and mass transit".

Saturday, August 11, 2018

Sotto ranting in the dark

I'd lapsed into a sotto rant---quiet because it's night and people are in bed but with the same intensity of yelling and boiled up anger. I hissed and spat as my right hand flexed for an object to fight with. I'd had a lapse back into childhood hurt at being a whipping boy for narcissists and had to ebb off the rage. 

So I stopped, aware I was pacing in the dim red of the single shrouded lamp lit in the front end of the house and the boiling fury was not helping. Then I kvetched here where it's healthy to do so since one is dead and the other may as well be.

It's fucked having a life wracked by a fucked, twisted wreck of a body that was effectively neutered by its potato shape and like-agility who was judged for being that way on purpose---because I self-deformed in utero with my magical powers.

I'm halfway dead and still smarting from the first level.

Then I remember without all of that I couldn't have done what I did and what I did was monstrously important; my tuber body and sad mind did that and couldn't have without it.

But a hunchback doesn't thank the hunch even if it gives them cred because to be hunched is fucked and painful.

I do have a disability parking permit though so that's something.

Soft ranting in the dark; let's hear a pop song about that. 

Old school

It was in an hardcopy newspaper, no algorithm found me, that I saw an ad for a private all boys school and thought "lucky that wasn't my old school" then turned the pages only to see an even bigger ad for my old school.

What the actual fuck.

UPDATE: ... and I just saw the online ad again.

Movie maligned

"Oh fried balls sandwich at the Whistle Stop Cafe!"

As used after a fail move in a game.

Sorry, ladies.

Deep dive in a terror pond

The trouble with a workplace mental health injury is how often you're reminded of it even if you're in another workplace. In my case I had to put on the mental health equivalent of scuba gear and light mesh chainmail and plunge into a fetid pond and grope about to find objects therein. 

I surfaced with the job achieved and with surprisingly little damage because the swim was about making the pond clear---or setting it up so nature would keep it clean once toxic waste stopped being dumped into it.

After the dive I went on and did other things; I didn't trigger from distress. It was as if Beowulf had just killed Grendel then shrugged and went across the road to get a Diet Coke then do some light office work.

That's life with a workplace psychological injury; you're forever diving into foul ponds of your wounded mind's making.

Friday, August 10, 2018

Who stole me lucky charm?

Talisman and I am the Leprechaun. I just happened to also have the lucky charm magic object that when used allows you to determine the result of a six-sided dice.

Even if I had used it the Dwarf who stole it would have won the battle, the fucker. Better it takes me charm though instead of a life.

Fucking dwarves; wee folk are supposed to stick together!

Always after me lucky charms...

UPDATE: I caught up to him in a fields square and beat the snot out of him; he had already used me charm. Bastard.

Fifteen minutes

I'm an educated, work-experienced cat from the world of the white collar. 

I spent 15 minutes attempting to turn a flat-packed archive box into a normal archive box.

The instructions were clear, I just didn't understand them—or failed to translate their pics into concrete boxed action.

Fifteen minutes.

I felt epic stupid. 

I did succeed—and I didn't chuck a snit.

Later I had to do cutting, lots of it. I was getting up and down so got a head sweat going and I'm balding. 

I risked bald sweat dripping on the contents I was cutting. 

So by the end of the mission there was a pyramid of soaked paper towels of daubed up bald sweat—a moist mountain of translucent salt watered balls.

It was not a good look.

The box was for recycling; the head sweat towels went in the bin.

Area man stymied by a box; what a fail.

Wednesday, August 08, 2018

Fear cake

The other day I was in a fear cake; caked in fear. It was like I was baked into it and I could not move it was that paralyzing. I had to go through a long list of titles to make sure something was not there. I had to read every one with the expectation it could be and it freaked me the fuck out; tunnel vision, acute dreads, quickened shallow breathing, frozen but with the need to run the fuck off with my low ambulatory speed only to be taken down by whatever normative faster thing is chasing me. 

It was hideous. I got to the end of it with no sight then sent an email to confirm their absence. I got that a couple of days later. 

I was back in it; severe anxiety and overwhelming dread. 

But I got through it and even if I kark it at least I've protected the future or given a red hot Mikey go at it. 

Red hot Mikey goes; that sounds like a laxative for masochists.

Slept it off

I had a psych visit where I was angry and I cried. When we got home I crawled into bed and slept the grief off. I felt better for it. It was better than being awake and fixating on what was said. 

Hooray for a shut down reboot; sometimes you really do have to turn it off and on again.

Tuesday, August 07, 2018


I rode up an embankment of concreted rock. I didn't mean to, I didn't use both brakes is all. 

On another ride I rode into a hedge; well, through it. My arm dragged through thorny greenery for a few seconds until I could wobble away. Stupid hedge. Stupid me for riding through it.

We have some; most are terrified. They look up with a mute scream. And so it came to be that as I snuck an outside wee I looked down to only see a frightened meerkat look back at me. 

Later on another outing I saw a plastic blue jaybird looking on. 

I had crippling IBS and woke to mung meds and get a hot water bottle then float back to sleep once the codeine kicked in. Upon waking I was able to unleash the beast and had post-movement spasms for a bit. Now I feel great. 

It's amazing what doing a normal thing with your body can feel when you don't get to do it as often. It turns out you appreciate life more when you're not churning agony.

I got wins that will lead to bigger wins. Plus I got to use a computer with two monitors again; technocratic bliss. My hands danced that day; they fucking danced. I should name my hands like fighting people name their fists. There, I've decided, they're Taxi and Haggis.

A favourite deep thought from Jack Handy
If you saw two guys named Hambone and Flippy, which one would you think liked dolphins the most? I'd say Flippy, wouldn't you? You'd be wrong, though. It's Hambone.

Friday, August 03, 2018

Aquaplaning then a kangaroo

It was pissing buckets in the nation's capital and about a half dozen times the car aquaplaned for what felt like a heartbeat or two. You had to grip the wheel and keep the accelerator down without cruise control to maintain control and go slower---I wonder if you can get an un-speed camera ticket because I passed one at 70 in a 100 zone.

I used to joke with overseas visitors that, no, they were unlikely to see kangaroos just hopping about in Canberra. We're not that cliched.

It had stopped raining when I came down a hill in the dark and a roo crossed the road in front of me. I was driving carefully, going about 50, and so I only had to tap the brakes for a second before it bounced onto a wet sporting oval. If I'd not being paying attention I'd have hit it or hard swerved on instinct. Either way it would have been bad. 

So hooray for methodical driving in poor conditions; I kept a car on the road when it skipped across water and I avoided a skippy.

It felt almost too Oz; nation's capital at night in the wet and nearly clipping one of the two animals from the Coat of arms.

I bet if I had his emu mate would have come looking for me...

Monday, July 30, 2018

PTSD and random tasks

There was a broken basket that needed duct tape in all the right places and I decided to have a go. I have PTSD with hand tremours one of the effects and those tremours could be caused by the meds that I take for PTSD. If the price to pay for not living caked in fear is tremble fingers then so be it. 

It means random tasks like duct tape and scissors become an exciting challenge especially with scissors that are not great for duct tape. I nearly dropped the scissors, I could not do clean cuts without extreme care and I had to with quivering fingers put that tape on.

I succeeded and I celebrated with a fun outside ride. On the trike; not in the basket. 

That's life with a workplace mental health injury; random tasks get more random and you contemplate sitting in a basket in your yard making vroom, vroom noises.

And hooray for not dropping scissors into my foot.

Feedback sought

I sent feedback on a product and got a follow up question the same day. 

I don't think that's happened before.

I feel unsettled. I'm so inured to shouting into the dark without response to get a shout back is weird and not normal.

(Looks around warily)

Sunday, July 29, 2018

New trike

I've got a new trike. It's smaller than the old one but a purpose electric-mechanical model with seven gears instead of an experimental three gear electric on a single gear trike.

I've had some moments.

I miss the throttle. You could when you felt sore just thumb down the throttle and glide forth on electricity alone. There is no throttle on this one; you have to hold down the power assist mode button and you will go at a tepid six kph and only on level ground. 

I nearly rode into a bridge. It was scary. I didn't turn enough and had to adjust in a flash before I smeared concrete. 

It made an unholy sound of robot murder mid-way around a lake. I stopped at the two thirds mark because the sound was so ghastly and saw a bolt with a spring sticking out. I wound it back in by hand and the sound went away. 

I went over some building scree and something got caught between the mud guard and tyre. Again, a hideous noise of mechanoid slaughter. I jiggled both flaps and the noise went away. 

I had to pass a couple walking a dog. She got off the path but they stayed on. I dinged the bell—a twist bell that looks like one of the saw-bladed one-man saucers from The Incredibles—and then said "to your right" as I went past him with just one tyre on path and he said "there's enough fuckin' room". I'm not sure he realised I was a fat man on a tricycle who takes up about the width of the path we were on. 

I miss the throttle. 

This one has greater endurance—I could do the lake ride without risk of power end before the ride did and leading to a laborious no electic-assist coda for home.

Riding at night was scary but it's because I had not set the light properly; it was skewed to the right and I rode off the path following the light instead of the actual concrete for riding on and that introduced me to a fresh hint of verge with trees. 

That bridge thing was scary, man. Seriously nearly wiped myself out on a bridge. Like Icona Pop only without the benefit of a vehicle and air bag and caring very much about what was happening. 

Seven gears that work is better that three that are clunky. Only you can't change gear at the start so you have to remember to end a ride in third gear so you can start off the ride without fuss because a cold start on the highest gear means rising in the saddle on knees that feel they will snap at any second. 

It's a better trike. While I miss the throttle the throttle led to many unsexy adventures like the trike taking off of its own accord or me being off the trike but my stomach throttling the throttle as I was trapped between the handle bars and the saddle whilst standing and the trike would spin wheels as it throbbed about me. Unsexy adventures with tricycles are where something goes wrong with you, the trike or both because of you, the trike or both. 

You need to be at least in third gear at cold start crossing a road or you will take ten seconds to cross instead of five or three.

That bridge incident was a wake-up call to always take care downhill and turning. It's important when riding a trike otherwise you could paste into a bridge. 

It's not the first time that's happened; a near bridge-pasting. 

If you're an attractive woman in a car that is not your own and you crash into a bridge with safety then it could be an awesome experience; nearly pasting into a bridge on a tricycle as a fat man would have led to a headline like"Fat man rides into a bridge on a tricycle and dies; police suspect the man, the trike or both" would not be. 

The new trike; it's better than the old one. I just have to get used to its feel.

New vehicle for the win.

UPDATE: There was construction across the path and the detour was on a grassy slope. I nearly stacked it on the angle and had to throw myself to the left to avoid toppling over. It would have hurt and it would have happened in front of people. 

I took a different way home.

Thursday, July 26, 2018

Atomic wedgie with foot

I tried to get my splayed paddle foot down the trouser of the short shorts but the foot caught crossways in the hole as I pulled them up and I ripped the waistband off. There was a tearing sound and everything. 

Short shorts into the bin.

Getting short shorts on is a hassle. You either roll up the hole so you don't catch it but then awkwardly stand to put your foot in or just dangle it and stick your foot through and hope it does not catch.

It caught and adios short shorts.

I cant bend like a normal person and I use doorways to brace in to get dressed thanks to my skeletal oddities—which are internal and the world simply sees me as a short fat man; not one with mobility and agility impairment. It's almost as if you wish you could wear your disability parking sticker like rapper bling so people don't presume you're lazy because of your height and weight. I find it weird that laziness is indicated by a short stature for some people, who are mostly tall, but there you go.

The world wasn't built for short fat men but for their tall not fat oppressors. Down with the heightened normal build patriarchy!

(Fist raised for comrades short and fat).

Sunday, July 22, 2018

Thanks, Internet

I was reading a US news site when an ad slot was populated with an ad for the now co-ed but then all boys private school I was forced to attend because I let my parents down with a body they caused. It was at this school I was taught that people with a disability are fucked and should be bullied because they set a bad example. A school where I was beaten by prefects and monstered by peers and teachers alike. It was where I experienced onset of depression and the school recommended psychologist took advantage of me by touching me up during hypnotherapy.

I don't know how the ad algorithms found me, I never named the school or the town where I lived. It may be a coincidence. But if it appeared because somehow data has been collected and analyzed showing that link then that is fucked; I just got re-victimised by Minority Report style niche targeting.

I hate that place and all that it stood for. It doesn't matter it's now co-ed, it will still have the taint of sport import and other manly stuff being the best a boy can be. It will still have the same rooted ideology that crushes the spirit of those it finds lacking. It will still be the place that said I was broken and then tried to break me.

I do hope they've better screened their support people though; it would be a win at least if they no longer sent kids to be molested when depression strikes because of their systemic institutional failure that caused then exacerbated it.

UPDATE: It's the next morning and I had nightmares. I've re-done my hot water bottle and will try to get back to sleep. Here's hoping I can return to sleep without returning to that.

UPDATE2: I had made the mistake of clicking on the ad and now it's fucking appearing on other sites. How the fuck am I supposed to deal with this!? Fucking ad technology.

UPDATE3: It's tied to my Google account. I have to log out not to see them. I've emailed to ask if there's a way to screen out those ads in the future so I can stay logged in without risk of a trigger because there's an ad for the school that did its best to take me out.

UPDATE4: Still happening. It must be tied to my IP address. Sigh.

UPDATE5: Cleared cache and cookies and purged saved sites. It seems to have worked.

Door Gentleman

I was on the door as greeter and opener. It had been a cold night and people made the effort to come out so I made sure to introduce myself and thank them for rocking up. 

I stood near the door enjoying the satisfaction of a job well done; that it had been worth it.

I didn't have eats or drink, just did the door then chatted with my chair-using chum.

I felt home.