Tuesday, February 27, 2018

Exam time pumped with wrong leg

Because I'm not allowed to dance or exercise with stitches in I have to sit instead of stand when in the shed. I play music to keep demons at bay.

During exams or tutorials a stress release was a leg would quiver. I had little control once it started. In one tutorial a friend slapped my leg and held it down because it was too distracting. 

Because of "... the horror ... the horror..." I've been dealing with stress. So as I sat my leg started exam-quivering.

Only it was quivering the leg with the wound, the wrong leg. The leg that is supposed to remain still while stitches do their job. 

So I flipped legs and let it wobble 'tiI I wrote this behind glass.

Piano store makes a reach

I spend a fair chunk of days watching YouTube music clips so I see a lot of ads; well, partial. I skip when I can. 

There was one for a piano store offering a "Back to school!" special on upright pianos. 

That did not ting true to your typical back to school tat experience which is usually a backpack and stationery. 

"Have you got your backpack?"

"Yes, Mum."

"Your new pencil case and pencils?"

"Yes, Mum." 

"Upright piano?"

"Yes, Mum."

See? That last bit does not make sense. I imagine the poor fucker on their first day back walk to school having to push it along the footpath.

Cultural reverse

Being the first generation of a long line of British people whose job was to oppress the rights of those in the pink bits of the globe the empire said was theirs I am acutely conscious my ancestors were not morally great. At the time—sure! Ala Blackadder Goes Forth shooting a man in a skirt and nicking his country was all part of the British empire experience.

Part of that experience was having oppressed workers toil for you and because they might not be able to pronounce your last name they'd call you by your title and given name. Captain John is easier to say than Captain McAllistair. It was part of the paternal charm from the "white man's burden" as some white men labelled the stealing parts of the world that have brown people in it and "civilising" their contents.

My new doc is Indian. I cannot pronounce his last name. But his first name is easy to say. So I call him Doctor [given name].

I've heard other patients do the same and he and the staff are cool with it; he's embraced it. He is the Australian equivalent of Doctor John.

I was blessed to have my life saved by his predecessor and when my old doc moved on Doctor John, who already saw me on days my doctor was not there, took me on.

Australia as a first world country is lucky because we get talent coming in like Doctor John. Without Doctor Johns the Australian medical system would strain and buckle.

Immigration is a greater good—critical in fact because our birthrate does not replace us.

That's something to think about for descendants of an empire that once "owned" a quarter of the globe. 

Immigration; without it we'd be bulldogs birthing by caesarean section.

Up, shower, dress wound

Those were the three things I had to do when I woke up. Get up, have a shower, dress my facial ripped-off scar with a band-aid and healing ointment.

Mission accomplished. It's pathetic that my current goal at home is to wake, shower and put a band-aid on but it's either that or wake then pick at my face for an hour blissing out on the line between pleasure and pain. 

I managed to rise, clean myself and not engage in facial mutilation. 

In my truncated life that's a fucking win.

Monday, February 26, 2018

Leg lump not cancer

The doc didn't think it would be but he popped in to confirm my lump as cancer free as the incision site was checked and re-dressed. 

He said he would have called earlier if it had been; this was just him making sure I knew it was okay.

The site is infection free and as I've experienced the un-joy of an infected wound I got the bliss-joy to know it was all okay.

Nasty experiences; they make you savour the normal. 


Took forever to stop

I woke and played with my face. I tore the top off the scar again.

Then I got up, clipped my beard off and over and around the face wound, had a shower, dried off then put on ointment and a band-aid,

I have have to keep my beard clipped back until the site is healed so the band-aid can stick better to short facial hair and skin instead of limply hanging on to long beard hair.

I was lost again, just thinking about movies, picking. It took active application of willpower to stop, to get up, to clip off my beard, shower and re-dress the wound. 

OCPD, PTSD, depression and anxiety—they're literally deforming me.

Sunday, February 25, 2018

Short shorts and a hat

It is still raining, it is night, and I am just in short shorts. I had to go outside and because I am balding I put on a hat. Not for modesty; i just hate being rained on the bald part of my head. You hirsute fuckers with fulsome locks know not the discomfort of rainfall on top skin. It's unpleasant from the touch and the wet does not help.

Balding; is there an upside? I'm being told in hand-to-hand combat it stops attackers gaining an easy grip point. Well, there you go, there is a benefit. When next in melee I shall remember that.

Mud planed on pen muck

It's raining in the nation's capital and the chickens are sheltered—the chicks still locked in the hutch to keep dry.

The adults' fox-proof cage is semi-sheltered with UV plastic roofing but they looked bedraggled and sad so I went to cheer them with sunflower seeds.

I failed to realise what happens to the surface of a pen after a good soak where dirt binds with shit for a slurry that is slippery as fuck.

My croc'ed feet slid for a half foot before I caught on to something and looked at how deep the feet had gone into the muck.

I passed on the seeds then with exceeding care exited the pen lest I slip and go arse over tit in the rain, mud and shit of a sodden chicken pen.

To my surprise I made it. But, lesson learned; people and wet chicken shit do not mix.

Self-harmed for an hour; fought off assistance

I lay on the bed picking at my face, lost in a blissful null space of self-harm where you enjoy the pleasure of the pain and think about not that much. 

I did it for an hour. My wife came in and saw me and I yelled "I'm having a shower!" as if to say "there's no point, it's going to get wet and I'll have to stop" but she creamed me even as I fought her off. 

Not hard, just blocking her invading hand until she landed it on.

Then, with my being unable to do it anymore, I put a plastic bag on my leg to cover my healing excised scar site and had a shower. I creamed myself on exit and my wife checked I'd done so. The nearly-squeezed first tube is now in the shed for when I am here and the fresh tube in the bathroom for after the shower.

I failed. I self-harmed and enjoyed it. I fought off a sane person trying to help me.

My OCPD swelled monstrous after injury—and I'm on a hefty dose of a drug to stop me. But it couldn't, not this morning, and I blissed out on hurting myself.

It's fucked up. I've learned hurting myself gives me calm and that is deeply not right. That's happened because my brain chemistry is strudelled from injury, medication and life.

I hope I stop; that future me will go "no" and gently take me by the hand to cream my face so I can't tear strips from it no more.

Saturday, February 24, 2018

Never been happier

I let the six remaining girl chicks on the lawn and heard their contentment. I remarked upon it.

"It's because they don't have any men in their life," said thewife. 

Gender fully-pwned. And it's a fair call. Since I stopped work I've had time to heal while the rest go to the office or school. I try to keep stuff clean and do what I can but it's not enough though as I'm home alone and I'm conscious of that.

I've been working on eldritch horrors which has meant a wobbly me and that has combined with loss of identity; validation as a working person because no matter where I worked I excelled.

Then I lost it; retired twenty years short. I have to live with the comfort that what I did mattered and it mattered I did it well.

It is eternal validation—born shit but burned bright. I linger like the after-glow of a just turned off light.


Identity loss

I had an identity loss anger attack; it was brutal. It was because I got asked to do my washing during the week because I am home. But I wash clothes habitually on the weekend because that's what working-me does.

And I have not done salaried work in a year. I got angry, sad and cried. I went and got a paper, cried some more, came home and said sorry. 

Then I did a bunch of things to claw myself out of the hole, ending with my email D&D game.

I'm calm; I've not had Valium. I don't want to because I've had it three days running. 

But identity loss, man, it sucks. I had a shitty body but did beautiful things until I had to leave for my health. I grieve for my previous life and hurt my career contracted two decades too soon.

As a broken man I was bigger than me; now I'm just a broken man. 

But I'm a broken man who knows how to jury-rig and patch himself and who keeps getting the fuck back up.


UPDATE: Coffee Club. Happy baby. Two wallet-based Vallium at 13:13. 

Friday, February 23, 2018

Happy cluckers

I split a corn cob three ways, one piece each for the adults and one piece for the little ones. The latter clucked with content as they hoed into it. 

I watched, sipping from a bottle of Diet Coke, and felt calm fall upon me. 

Chickens; a soothing presence for a wounded mind.

Mind melting fail acknowledged; cue happy panic attack

I got contact to say my revisions landed and not to worry, checks would be made.

I then had a full blown happy panic attack. I think it's actually just a panic attack—I'm in it right now—but the relief that my failure has been noted and will be corrected swamped and frightened me. 

That's bizarre. But my brain is so injured that even good news that a fail I made will get fixed causes a severe anxiety attack. 

I blame the Lovecraftian nature of the work; people are not meant to meddle with the Elder Ones and the more I learn the more insane I become. 

Hence a panic attack to someone who succeeds at a repair because they're still so mortified about the need for the repair in the first place.

One day my brain will not do this; it will not suffer an acute reaction

I will now apply a mindfullness exercise to de-clench and to not feel like a fat rolling ball of failure.

As fast as Blobby's scooter with passengers

I went for a ride on the BYB to the local shops only I couldn't actively ride, I had to use the electric-motor and no legs while my leg wound site is healing.

Getting there was fine, but on the way back and with shopping that's when the BYB went from zippy to painfully slow; as slow as Blobby's rascal scooter when all the gang from Hotel Transylvania hop on.

I had to bend over the handlebars to distribute weight better for the motor and nearly didn't make it up the slightest of inclines on the final stretch.

That I have a human-like Blobby form, being nearly as round as I am tall, was not lost on me.

Thursday, February 22, 2018

Fear pizza

Still swamped with the terror of wrong data I was given three pieces of delicious home-made pizza. So I ate them with trepidation on the garden swing, riddled with fright. It is surreal to do normal things and enjoy them whilst coated in a thick layer of failure and dread. 

I look forward to other fear-afflicted food consumption like craven ice-cream eating and the terrified nibbling of cheese. Oh, God, there's crackers too?!

(Dives behind couch)

Mind melting fail

I reviewed a Lovecraftian work but fucked up the data and had to re-do it—twice.

The first time I was so horrified I put a plastic bag on my leg and had it tied off with a rubber band to have a shower to take the anxiety away. The bag was to keep a leg wound dry.

It was in the shower that I realised I'd fucked up a dataset again and again had to re-send. So I stopped my shower, took off the bag and with towel alone delved back in, fixed it, and re-submitted.

I'm glad I caught it but the manner in discovering them then the physical and mental reaction I had to that was hideous. Like crushing existential dread.

I've had two more V and have the shakes. I have to go off and do something nothing to do with Cthulhu Mythos.

Fucking hell. I mean, just, fucking hell.

Dancin' slightly with the other leg

I cannot ride until a potentially-cancerous wound site has fully healed and I'm not supposed to put stress on that leg.

But I still felt the need for some light shaking which approximates dance for someone with a mildly-warped body. So I danced slightly with the other leg.

I only did it for a bit, but it was worth the risk. Sometimes you have to dance like there is no-one watching. I'll have one more shimmy before I stop.

Returns to standing for a short while with an occasional wobble of the good leg.


More food?!

Party pies with their tops missing and a bit of sauce on the still not-eaten beef (equals) yes.

Chickens; what will they get to eat next?!

Wednesday, February 21, 2018

Outside wee went wrong

I was shaking off after an outside wee and a drop landed on top of a foot. By reflex I wiped the foot on the back of the other leg which until recently was always covered as I wore ladies PJ pants during my now not-work life. 

Until recently; on doctor's orders I am wearing short shorts to prevent thigh chafe.

So all I did was wipe wee from the top of my foot to the back of my other leg.

Outside urination; it does come with risk.

The Princess and the Pea but for carpet; am available for tests

Thanks to my womb-deformed body I have flat feet. Not flat as in “fallen”, flat as in utterly flat. My foot print is all foot and toes; there is no side print—I am full print. 

We’ve re-seeded the lawn where the chicks’ hutch sat and the grass seeds stuck to my crocs and transferred into the shed onto the IKEA carpet that saved my life. 

Because of those feet I can feel the slightest imperfection in a surface, like Vimes from Discworld could know what street he was on based on the feel of the cobblestones through his boots, and grass seeds on an IKEA carpet are nasty. Like The Princess and the Pea nasty.

For those not in the know the poor girl was so inbred she needed twenty mattresses to sleep on—if someone stuck a pea under one she’d know it. At some point in history that body fail became a mark of aristocracy because it happened to a lot of them since they were always someone’s cousin.

I vacuumed the carpet—a hard gig for my bod but I had a gin and tonic first—and now the seeds are gone and my lovely head-cushioning carpet is not horrid to walk across.

Let me also add this; stepping on LEGO—think that’s bad for a normal foot? Try a The Princess and the fucking Pea foot and then step on one. 

Outside (Dark): scream comes from house.

I'm not descended from aristocracy; I just didn’t enjoy pre-natal care and was bullied for the result. 

If there are any carpet people that need a lamo like me to stalk their wares for a luxury test then you don’t know where to find me.

Bin bag shower

First up I am checking in for privilege. I am a white male in a Western society with hot and cold clean, disease free water on tap that I can not only drink but cook, shower and garden with. 

That is monstrous privilege. 

Because of my LLL I have to put a plastic bag on my lower left leg to protect the stitch site when showering. We'd tried glad-wrap but there was seep through. 

Today, alone, I went with bin bag tape-sealed at the top. It worked. It was weird to have a bag taped to one-half of a leg and because I had my leg up when I put on the tape the tape stretched on the skin when I lowered it to the floor.

But it worked; the lower leg stayed dry. 

It reminded me, yet again, what a simple pleasure having a shower can be; because this minor annoyance will go and I will be back to the normal glow of hot, running, clean water over my womb-robbed body which will no longer have a bin bag strapped to half a leg. 

Simple pleasures; savour them. Because they could be gone in an instant.

A happy sanity check

I am mentally ill and mentally injured. I have to be reminded this by thewife on occasion when I say things that may not be anchored in reality or attempt things that may seem a reach.

I've been immersed in stressful work and had to confirm it was not for nought. 

It wasn't; it's not. It's not for nought. 

I judder-cried at the response; that it wasn't for nothing. That this delving into dark might bring forth the light.

I had to take Valium for the weird uncertainty of angerhappysad. My right arm cradles my left shoulder when I'm in a deeply anxious state and in a pause of typing up my arm went. 

So it's battle anthem time and an acknowledgement that in an insane world it's the insane that attempt for sanity.


Tuesday, February 20, 2018

An adventure with an everyday object

Tweezers. I picked them up and then my PTSD-afflicted and womb-robbed fingers immediately dropped them. I risked a bend to pick them up.

Then I tweezed out the hair that re-grows from the freckle on my nose. That I succeeded at that is amazing but I had to hold the wrist with the other hand because of the trembles.

I hate dropping things for seeming no reason; but there is one, I was injured and I am forever stained by that injury.

Spree shootin' is manly work

Another mass shooting and mass grieving and again it happened to Florida

And, as the tale of the life of the alleged shooter comes out, those that were not shot have already started acting with those students getting their shit on and taking their pain public.

What grips me are the stories of the people who were shot, often while protecting others and often people they did not know. 

When a spree shooter comes it's humanity at its very worst and at its very best. 

But what I cannot understand is the mindset of someone who thinks that taking a weapon of war that is designed to speedily and accurately kill human beings into a place of defenceless people then shooting at them is fulfilling. 

I cannot understand the people that do up spreadsheets to compare the sprees and dreamily Walter Mitty themselves into the position of the gunman—and it is almost always men; if there are women involved it's because they've been subsumed by the ego of the monster making them do it.

You took a tool designed to kill people then kill people with it. For what purpose? To slake your torment? There are people whose pain is worse than yours who don't do up spreadsheets, accrue arsenals then use them on people without weapons of their own. 

It's as manly as picking up a kitten and dashing it against a wall. Do you then keep a kitten-dashing spreadsheet and dreamily think of other juvenile felines of different breeds and different types of wall to throw them at? "A Burmese against brushed concrete!" "A tabby versus faux-brick!"

It makes as much sense as manly thinkin' 'bout school shootin'. 

The names of these killers are etched in culture and the shadow of their pain casts wide.

But while you're the very worst, a person who gets off on hurting others, there's a hundred not like you who would stand in front of a stranger to take their bullet for them.

Nothing will happen while Trump is president to make these weapons harder to get and hold. But that won't stop the survivors of Marjory Stoneman Douglas stepping on the shoulders of the survivors of Columbine and Sandy Hook trying their fucking best to tell people what it is like to hole up in a room and prepare to die.

Monday, February 19, 2018

Leg lump liquidated

My new doc noticed the raised scar tissue on my left leg and said it was big and angry enough to not risk it and so off it went.

The local injection was the hardest part—it was a prolonged "OWOWOWOWOWOWOW" reaction from me as the needle did its business. 

But then the lump was excised and evidence-bagged for cancer, I was stitched up and off I went.

It means no riding an exercise bike for at least a week and wearing a plastic bag—he recommended Woolies—taped below my knee in the shower to keep the site dry. So a week off riding on doctor's orders.

I haven't been conscious for bits of my being lopped off or probed since I was a teen and had a face lump taken off without warning after my mum took me to the doctor and didn't tell me why we were there. Likely to forestall panic given a fear of needles I got from being constantly needled to the point where mishaps happened like one going into muscle instead of a vein. 

Before puberty kicked in that face lump would grow a fine but long super hair that I would not notice but would wave around with the decorous hint of a spider web caught for a moment in sunlight if people happened to be looking at me. The lump wasn't that big, but the lump's hair was something else. 

I'm being reduced by sleight. I like it.

UPDATE: It is many hours later. It stings. Not too bad but it stings. I look forward to the bag shower later.

Black cat comes to every opening

Every time my leg boil is attended to the black cat investigates. Last time was Valentines Day. She sits on my stomach as thewife squeezes ichor from the site.

Maybe it's simple curiosity; cats are known for investigating things. Or maybe she finds the process of human wound attending especially curious?

But it is annoying to have to push a cat that keeps coming back away because she gets in the way of the boil draining.

It feels like a premiere; there should be red carpet leading to the bed and paps asking questions about who is wearing what. In the cat's case it would be "me wearing me". 

Leg boils, fascinating for the squeezers and cats both.

Sunday, February 18, 2018

Scared so had a break

I endured the crafting of another Lovecraftian email—only one typo this time and I didn't re-send it when found because it almost looked right for the absence of a pair of commas—but then had to step away from the computer lest additional hurt land. 

So I found Game of Thrones, set it up on the laptop, then rode the bike to break the spell. I hate this shit; having to re-live again and again what happened to me, the horror I endured and the ongoing knock-on damage it caused. GoT would zone me out that.

It was an episode where Sam goes back home and his fucking dad hangs shit on him for being a fat failure—Sam having killed a White Walker at this point. And boy did I feel that fat hate lash down upon me. I wasn't disinherited and sent to The Wall for being a fatty failure but I was told and treated as such by all right up until the death of my mother. 

I didn't choose my body; Sam (or the actor) didn't choose his. Yet life has hung shit on us for having the best genes to survive times of low food because right now, in this minute period of time for the existence of people, in the West at least you can basically eat as much as you want. I am blamed for genetic efficiency for when most of humanity lived nomadic from feed to feed and people like me survived because we stored and released fat-based energy the most-effectively. 

It wasn't until the '30s cheap food became available in the West and the poor could, through various means, get fat and still be poor. That's when the rich became obsessed with being skinny. They still ate, just the choicest of foods that only toffs like them could afford. 

We've been a species for about what, 1.6 million years? And for the last 88 years only has cheap, available, constant food supply for the bulk of a society been enabled—and that's just the West; the third world it's still hand to mouth for most.

It's ironic to be punished for having the right stuff to store stuff in times of plenty for when there is not. But that's just how it is in the West; to be fat is to be a failure, and you're ironically more at risk of being fat the poorer you are because of various factors at play in a society with a social welfare net.

It was nice to have that real-life reminder of the way I was treated as I was riding an exercise bike to arrest some of the inexorable growth of my girth. Delicious irony; "like, give me a fucking chance, Universe". 

But as humans we're primed to see patterns. And in fiction when I see a fat person have shit hung on them for being fat I feel it right to my core—even though I didn't cause it to happen but judged all the same I am. 

UPDATE: My ride happened to end just at the point Sam was emasculated by his over-bearing prick of a father. It's the next day and I'm watching the rest now and seeing Sam reclaim his honour by fucking off with his dad's sword. And hearing Gilly be angry at people like his father who treat others with disdain. So I feel better; still angry. But better.

Screen wipe

I have to use a Clearwipe on the laptop screen because splatter from expectorant and other assorted disgust has sullied it to the point where I can't tell if that's punctuation or a bit of yuck.

It's near nine-years-old, this machine, bought when still working and on a discount. It's served me well—and still does 'cos all I use it for now is writing and research.

But it does need a good clean to get the lung-ejected remnants and bodies of insects past from me making mistakes such as missing a period because of spotting.

UPDATE: Two Clearwipes and it's still not fully clean. But I have run out of wipes. 

You win this time, phlegm shards. 

Sex paddock

Two of our nine chicks were confirmed as boys and got taken back to the place from whence they came. They will live out their lives in a paddock protected by an electric fence where they will be called on to have sex with hens.

It's a rich libertine life for male chicken; to not be eaten and to live out your life fucking and rooting around in a paddock.

When I was a kid my parents took our cat "to live on a farm" and my mother stayed committed to that bit until she went full-blown dementia and I could never nail down the truth. The truth was the cat was my cat, it was an outside cat that lived at the house as a semi-feral when we moved in, and even though one leg was crippled she was capable enough to take down birds. So good-bye cat and "off to the farm".

These male chicks went off to the farm but it's fully legit; not a dystopian fallacy where paradise is actually a knife and a drum of hot water to boil off your feathers. The now-over-sized rooster we'd given back before was still there, strutting about the sex paddock and living an Eloi life with no Morlocks to worry about. Now two scruffs will join him.

The sex paddock; the best ending you can get for being a rooster.

Saturday, February 17, 2018

This pen is brought to you by the number nine or the letter g

I just saw in the chicken pen there is a foam or plastic number nine or the letter g.

It's the second weirdest thing found in the pen since that rubber Darth Vader head.

Fright sounds

With thanks to The Beach Boys

Because I have PTSD, if I am also physically vulnerable then my anxiety level is up and my wounded brain interprets some sounds as threats.

Being half-naked on an exercise bike and facing away from the door in a metal shed makes me feel vulnerable. A bunch of metal on metal noises happened outside and I asked for who it was to go away because my brain treated them as scary noises. They did, but then they came back for more activity. Freshly scared I asked again but then they came back one more time.

After the ride and after the shower I explained why but was met with fatigue. I fully get that; putting up with my crap like not making noise near the shed when I am riding is fucked. It's a garden where noise happens, where chickens live. But I could not handle the additional noises of human activity because my brain felt it a threat.

I'm bummed. I'm bummed I had to say it, I'm bummed they have to endure it. I'm bummed because I got injured and may forever have a brain on the cusp of fight flight.

Ugly not-duckling

I was grappling with my past when a karmic moment droppedtheir hate made me beautiful.

I spent a childhood smothered in negativity from my diversion to the norm—that my mother caused—which caused on-set of depression at ten.

It never left; it will never go. My brain is a brain riddled to the core with depression—countered with medication, counselling and cognitive behaviour therapy.  

And occasional moments like this; their hate made me beautiful.

I don't mean in the literal sense; I'm ugly as fuck and would find no ability to work as an extra because my oddity draws focus. But I mean in the output sense, in the "what have you done?" sense. 

Without the fire of childhood, without the twisted journey that led me from there, I wouldn't have done what I did and having depression made me fucking awesome at it. I created and fostered beauty in a place deeply grim.

An ugly artist makes great art is as clichéd as a tortured artist makes great art. But it wasn't art I was doing; it was social engineering. And I was beautiful at it. 

Their hate made me beautiful. That is a profound realisation.

Friday, February 16, 2018


I wasn't this error prone when working but I just did a typical re-read of an email and re-sent it because there was a mistake that needed to be corrected. It was the second re-send.

I know why it is; it's because when I am drafting these emails it's traumatic and my upside-down brain is screaming at me to get it done as quick as possible. Which means I do a brief edit before sending and then my brain makes me re-read it, find mistakes, and send again.

It makes me look like a fuckwit re-sending an email twice for a total of three times. Last time I did it I had an anxiety attack. This time I am just "... sigh..." and have promised myself to cram down that fear and go into the logic alone zone and not let that clawing terror disrupt me from doing a proper edit of a fucking email. 

It's fucked to be terrorised by what happened, to be afflicted years on from injury. To not trust yourself to not fall over. Because I am going to fall over again but it's the getting back up that is the important part.

And that I always do.


UPDATE: I sent an apology email for re-sending emails with corrections. There was a mistake in the apology email. I had to re-send the email apologising for re-sending emails. 

That is a perfect fail.

(bows deeply

Thursday, February 15, 2018

Pwned by free text service

theboy has some sort of deal where he can send me text messages from his iPad and it doesn't cost us anything.

Then he texted a pic of Santa and added "That's my Dad".

I feel like Jerry Seinfeld after The Puffy Shirt; there's no come-back for that.


Today in chicken land the chickens tried and decided:

Granny Smith apple, skin-side-out (equals) no.

Granny Smith apple, inside-facing-out or already skinned (equals) yes.

A missing-leg cockroach who had all its legs until I stepped on it that I then picked it up with my human fingers and threw it into the pen to a Polish scruff (equals) yes. 

theboy does not like the GS type of apple so they're all for the chickens now. And yes, I will peel the skin off before I give it to them because otherwise they won't eat it. And watching them hang out and enjoying treats is my favourite not-face-picking thing to do. 

I sat on the eight-holed four-legged stool and with the hose set to jet ballistic-fired an arc of water to fill up their water bucket that is affixed to their hutch. This indirect fire meant splatter around the water bucket which dampened the earth.

The chicks ran to it, sorted through the wet earth in case something delicious had occurred and furiously scrabbled about to knock the slight scab of mud from the area

Then they had a dust bath, all three bantams, a scruff and a silkie. 

I just sat and watched and it was fucking awesome.


UPDATE: white seedless grapes (equals) yes. It's for people food but I just wanted to see if they'd dig on it. Dig on it they did.

Hid in the shed to pick my face

It was after the shower it got me; the desire to claw at my face. I kept it up right until the others got home. I greeted them then hid in the shed to pick some more until thewife came in and asked what I was doing.

"I am hiding in here so I can pick my face," I said. 

She asked what happened to the cream-plus-bandaid-after-shower plan, after having put a fresh dressing on me in my sleep to stop this sort of shit. I said it failed because that Mikey wanted to pick his face and he picked the shit out of it.

I was ordered in to put cream on and a dressing.

As I hid in the shed to rip it from my face I knew what I was doing was insane but every part of me needed to so it. Until intervention. Once I was ordered to do it I did it and did not take off the band-aid and do it again. 

So far I am holding. 

Un-holy fuck it is surreal to be this fucked up that I ran to the shed so I could keep picking my face until they stopped me.

I wish I was better than this but I am not. Picking my face gives me pleasure and unless a sane person is around to stop me then I will have at it. 

I know the OCPD was monstrously swollen by the injury but I am sad I cannot stop this crap without someone stopping me. That is not normal and that is not well. 

Wednesday, February 14, 2018

Crisis in downtown safe place

My safe place is the shower. It's what I think of when stressed and when stressed it's something I like to do.

I spent the morning backsliding on OCPD picking of my face. I did it knowingly and with malice to my own self. It felt good to do it and I was sane enough to know I should not be.

I felt I could tear the scar tissue from my face again and tried to do that. It was only on her return home that I stopped when my wife asked me how my day was.

I shakily told her, went into the house to put on cream then went and had a shower. In my safe space I suffered acute anxiety wondering if I'd have to be institutionalised to stop it. I cried, deep in shame that my only job at the moment is to get through each day without hurting myself and I failed at that basic task.

thewife talked me down to normal level, reasoning we all backslide on these things, and we'll try putting cream on in the morning when I am asleep so it's moist on waking. That's when I started—on waking. I even did it riding the exercise bike. I did it as my son cleaned the house as a nice thing for mum and gave me updates and I panicked he could see what I was doing to myself and be horrified. I was horrified. I was stuck deep in it, perfectly sane, obtaining brain chemical joy from razoring scar tissue from my fucking face.  

It was in the shower I felt the most fucked up. Because I had failed on that basic one thing to do; not hurt myself. But I got talked back to rationality and we have a plan to stop it being at its most appealing upon waking since she goes to work while I am at home in a null state of work-not-work.

I hate this habit; that my wounded brain finds relief in hurting its shell. It's fucked up, I'm on meds for it and in therapy for it. 

But today I had at it and it was fucking glorious. 

That is deeply messed up.

Turns out a brain injury makes OCPD worse. Who'd have thought that?

UPDATE: I forgot to have my morning pills—the pills that counter OCPD, for fuck's sake. I had another go at the scar before I put cream on and another bandaid and then discovered I'd not taken the morning Mikey helpers. 

I hate having a body I want to hurt. It's been damaged enough already; it doesn't need me having a go at it as well.  


I had the free Medicare scan for a 40+ person and sat with a nurse to hear the results. I got weighed and measured too. 

It was mostly awful—too much bad fat, not enough good and too big in the tummy. I protested I was genetically six foot three but I don't think she believed me. My sugar level is still below six but I had gained four kilos since the last weigh two years before and they said if I kept going I would end up a type two diabetic.

But it turned out I had grown nearly an inch, or was measured at being two centimeters in height higher than last time. Then she read my file of ten plus years and saw my height had been recorded lower than that but at different heights each time. She admitted the wall-mounted tape measure could be sited too high for a proper measurement. 

However as of this moment, according the the latest measurement, I am taller than I have ever been.

I expect now all the favours afforded the tall—more money, sexual partners and less chance of going to jailto come falling down upon me given my literal increase in stature. 

The tall ... and their music...

Skeet Surfin'

My favourite bit is the old lady running.

Monday, February 12, 2018

Now that is nerding

Watching question time on a laptop and playing Talisman on a tablet. 


The old house

In addition to horror dreams a repeat offender is the "we've moved into the old house".

I don't know why. But I'm there, showing theboy where we're putting things or we've been there as a family for a while. 

When we left they renovated it and removed carpet for polished floorboards. In the dream it's the shit carpet we had as renters. Sometimes there's a spooky extra shed that was never there when we were there and is not there now.

Before this house it was the place we'd lived in the most. theboy was months old when we left. But we're all there now having bought it the state it was in when we were there.

I don't dream about this house, just that one. And we've lived here the longest.

Perhaps it's my brain choosing a setting before the injury; that this house is excised in the unconscious because it's where I went insane. 

But I love this house the most even though it's where I lived when I was injured because it's also the place where I got well. 

PTSD without self-loathing beats self-loathing any day.


Sunday, February 11, 2018

Double hosing

I know this sounds sexy but it's super not. I had to wash chicken poo from the patio as we'd let them out for the afternoon. Since it was near dusk I needed to do it now by light of dying day. So with the nozzle on flat setting I draped the hose over my shoulder and down to foot level and swung it back and forth like a censer. 

That got the poo off. 

The chicks were still out though and they'd sully my efforts if they stayed out. I re-set it to shower setting and then with a decent spray herded them around the climbing tree and to near the pen. Only one recalcitrant split off and she was assisted to rejoin by some jet-action until the shower setting could get her and the rest into the enclosure itself.

I did shoot the gray silkie in the bum with the jet nozzle setting applied; it was guiding fire not aimed. The intent was to miss and make her see the stream as a no-go-zone and go the other direction.

But I did feel bad she copped one right in the tush..

Still, they're in and it was via a double hosing; first for poo and then for the poo-makers. 

Safely away in the pen and later I'll make sure they're in the hutch then close the door. By then the gray one will have dried off. 

They had some quality time in the grass; it's just a shame about the watery scare at the end.

ear protection V YouTubers

I wanted to read my paper and eat hot cross buns and it was too hot outside. 

So I put on a pair of my ear protection safety gear items and sat at the dining room table and got to survive the playing of the YouTubers. She screamed again, the British girl, but it was muted; like hearing a Hitchcock film playing in the next room.

It's silly the screams of a British woman can put me on cusp of fight flight but then it would be the same no matter the gender or nationality. Sudden screaming (equals) not good for Mikey.

Hence the ear protection.

So hooray for accomplishing the simple act of brunch, paper reading and PTSD.

Thumb is not food

I was feeding the adult brown hen some seeds from a cupped hand when she tried to eat my thumb. I said "hey" and then she did it twice more. 

She literally was biting the hand that fed her.

Fucking hell, today is a day for clichés.


With PTSD comes the hand trembles, the severity increasing if you're anxious. I had a poor grip before I got whacked with the P stick so that combined with the injury and the meds means tremour and that my fingers will spring open of their own accord. They have a meeting without me, there is a binding vote, and whatever I am holding has been dropped by the hand finger workers soviet.

Sometimes the trembles and finger spring arcs up for no reason. You're not anxious it's just that the autonomous collective of your arm enders are restless and decide to do things you don't want them to do. Like a shutoff the machines sit in protest. 

If I concentrate when I am holding something I can usually hold it. But if I am just manipulating objects like a normal person can, would and should that's when the fingers strike back and just have a wildcat strike.

The smaller the object the more likely it will happen—though I've yet to start a "things that I drop diary" that rates the item, its size and how sproingy I was that day. I wouldn't even know how to set that up to get a decent data set that would have any applicable purpose save to affirm I dislike it when I drop things and cannot do stuff like a normal person such as easily tease apart the pages of a newspaper and that happened to me because of workplace injury.

My new doc summed me up in a sentence"You are someone to who life has been unfair"then announced his job was to make sure I get through it. 

He was right. I know as a first worlder with all my basic needs met that I deeply advantaged. But within that life has been unfair.

But without it I could not have done what I did and what I did mattered. I'm freshly mad at my past because I wasn't looked after and I should have been. But its all part of my tapestry and without those nasty threads or that harsh section it wouldn't be whole.

I mattered and I pushed the world back. For most of my life I felt useless and fucked and it was only until I had a shutdown reboot that I could re-frame that horror by the positives it created. 

The tortured turned artist is a cliché but it's a cliché because it's true.

So when my fingers and hands betray me I have to remember the joy that sprang from there as I literally went insane.

Now to go find that thing I dropped.