Sunday, February 11, 2018


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.

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