Saturday, March 31, 2018

Told

"Stop talking about your childhood," he said. He was right, I shouldn't have been. I told him I was proud that he was a better kid than me but added "but then you had better parents" because I pride myself I am in no way like the pair who made me self-hate from his age on.

He walked off down the corridor after saying it and I had a deep anxiety attack where I cried and struggled to articulate because I was ripped to the core. He was right. I should stop talking about my childhood. Because all it does is make me sad and people around me are weary of it.

thewife had to talk normally at me for about five minutes until I could stop crying and interact like a normal person. Then it fired again and I escaped to shed to bleed out here.

"Stop talking about your childhood" is sage advice from a younger me. I'll try. But my anger is so deep at what happened to me that it's hard to see the sun from the bottom of the hole.

Friday, March 30, 2018

Sundae spoon as food projectile delivery system

I don't have any corncobs to feed the chickens with as a treat but we do have tinned corn kernels. 

But just ladling out the kernels is not stimulating for them or for me. With the cob they have to actively engage with the food whilst dealing with other chickens. Just dumping kernels is not. 

I enjoy McDonald's hot fudge sundaes—though I admit to being disconcerted to hearing kitchen chatter of "someone heat up the hot fudge" since in theory it's already hot—and I get them for the freezer for a late-night treat. 

They try to give me spoons. I reject them but sometimes they're in the box and it's too socially awkward to hand them back. I typically have a dozen of these spoons lying around.

That's when it came to me; they would be ideal catapult spoons to fling kernels with force near chickens so it would be fun for them as it was for me.

The first few shots hit the tree and corn rained down from above. Each time I aimed for the bigs' fox proof cage where they live until the chicks are their size I landed kernels on the UV sheeting part of the roof and thus they didn't get any.

So in the end I entered the pen, balanced the tub of kernels on the open door of the chicks' hutch then sat on a eight hole four legged stool and side-flicked kernels at the bigs' cage knowing some would get through the grill to them and others would bounce off into the greater pen for the smalls. 

It was a lot of fun. For me and, as far as I know, for them. 

As a kid I used to lie near an ants nest and draw a square near a hole or around it then blast a water pistol at any ant that entered the square. It was a bit fucked up but mainly on the WHS front because it was on our drive-way and people were fine with me lying on it shooting ants with a water pistol. 

That was not cool; the ants were not killed but the water pistol I used though small had a powerful jet and it could knock an ant backward a few centimetres. They'd be groggy then stagger off.  

So I like to think that making life as fun for my chickens as it can be is some payback for the crap I did to defenceless ants thirty years ago. 

Plus I get to make use of my many, many wonderful McDonald's sundae spoons that I will never use for me because I prefer a metal teaspoon when it comes time to consume said sundaes.

Chickens; they're a lot of fun even though they are, in essence, food consuming poo machines that occasionally produce an egg.

Thursday, March 29, 2018

Zen and the art of throwing off a bicycle chain

There's no art to throwing a bike chain—though being in first gear is always riskier—but in my case it's physics. I am a big person on a big bike frame and over time things get loose and the chain starts coming off.

I had accepted that the outside ride was dead after the chain came off the fourth time and I had enough battery to throttle home. Angry mentally ill Mikey would have had a spack attack at that and ranted about forces working against him. Zen Mikey just went "it's not happening" and back home I went.

Before the ride a loud motorbike had roared past our house and I barely registered it. During the glide back a murder bird—the Australian white cockatoo—swooped down in front of me screeching its death wail (DC15 Will or shaken for 1d6 minutes) and it did not phase me. Even after the whole chain thing.

Thanks to thewife I know the best way to get the chain back on—and that I got it on three times with a minimum of effort (though it's still effort to drop and lift a man trike) was a miracle in itself given my shoddy hands that were fucked in the womb and then outside of it. Though I confess the second time I put it back on it I had shouted "Fuck you, Newton" as if he was the embodiment of physics that I had just defeated but which later fucked me back twice.

My recent psych session was brutal; we went into extra innings and had to figure out the billing code to pay for it. But today I am Zen, or feeling more so, than I have before in the aftermath of a session. I guess though it was a difficult consult it hosed off some of the mental chicken shit that's built up on my mind path.

Here's to the battle for acceptance of things past. It might never be won but it's a battle worth fighting.

WFTW.

Wednesday, March 28, 2018

Pain

I am always in pain; it's the severity that's the issue. But I bear it because I have no choice. It was inflicted on me by someone who should have known better. 

My son knows I have a body that's not sound and I am scared my rotteness passed on to him. But no, mine was gestational and not genetic so he will be okay.

He knows I'm in pain. He knows severity is the issue. He also knows I told him that I accepted what happened to me because then he happened to me.

He asked to show me a song; he chose "Believer". 

I'd never heard it and it came off the back of a brutal extended psych session where I had talked of my doubled over anger at childhood after my surgeon told me my mother did it to me.

He knew I would like it—and he chose the version with lyrics so I could take it in. It fit hand-in-glove—except for the god bit which he asked me to forgive because the rest of it rawked.

That he thought to show me that, knowing my pain but knowing I'd resonate to it because I'd embraced what happened because I got him. 

The song is religious in intent; the pain of life forged them for challenges and made them a believer in both themselves and their insert-spiritual-being-here. For an atheist I'd simply swap out "a believer" with "accept it".

I won. I told my psych my entire ancestral line from both sides wasn't fit to lick my taint then proceeded to tell her what that meant in case she wasn't across the slang. Pain, it made me a believer in myself and that I have the power to accept it because that pain made me consequential. 

The challenge she laid down was finding a path back to acceptance that it happened but without the burning snarl of "but it should not have". 

It's a big challenge. But it's made easier by my son who cares enough that when he finds something that will help me he offers it up.

WFTW.

Tuesday, March 27, 2018

I'm no Rusty Boardman!

There's a lane-way near our house that is bracketed by original wooden fences falling into disrepair. One day, as I was either walking or cycling through it, I saw two of the boards from the right fence had fallen, rusty nail side up—a disease-inducing caltrop in other words. I saw where the boards had fallen from, stopped, bent with pain to get them and then slotted them through the hole, nail side down, so they were against the right fence but on the inside.

As I did it I said "I'm no Rusty Boardman!" because my OCPD can't let things like that go; if I can fix it then I have to fix it. 

Yesterday I did an outside ride. I had to remove three things from the path, the third one I had passed but I stopped, turned, and went back.

Case one was a flattened cardboard box. I maneuvered the bike until I could kick the cardboard off the path and onto the grass that borders a causeway. 

Case two was the most difficult. A cock-spank had smashed a VB glass stubbie bottle on the path with shards big and small of brown glass waiting to hurt someone's feet or tyres. That was the hardest to remove because I cannot bend without extreme discomfort. I spent five minutes side-shuffling the glass to either side of the path with alternating feet, dragging a foot sideways to catch the glass with the sneaker side then scrape my leg across until I got the glass to grass. 

I kept having to meerkat look every two or three seconds to check a bike was not incoming. No one came along while I did it. It wasn't even on a section of path that's on a normal route for me. 

I realised my action had set me five minutes into the past for this timeline onward. I reflected on what might have been if I had not stopped. 

Case three was a nashi—an apple-like fruit—that was sitting in the middle of the path. I was headed downhill and it took about three seconds for the OCPD to kick in and make me turn around to go back and kick it off the path. Canberra is a bike-friendly city and many ride racing bikes and they would have been going down there at speed. That could have potentially stacked them. As I had set the challenge to ride at power setting one—about the same as medium resistance on the exercise bike—that last case of self-inflicted chivalry was harder for going uphill to remove the fruit.

"I'm no Rusty Boardman!" is me; I can't let unsafe shit go if I can fix it there and then—or report it if beyond my means such as a neck-height for cyclists branch poking out across a path.

It's the Not Rusty Boardmans that keep us safe; my OCPD is a net-societal benefit. Even though it costs me time, effort and worry. Besides, it makes me a hero. I forget who said it but "a hero is someone who gives a shit and does something about it."

I've done that my entire life at every level—from macro-state to the state of my local pathways.

(Fist raised for Comrade Not Rusty Boardman).

Monday, March 26, 2018

Stormy Trump

The main interest point from the Stormy Daniels interview is the fact someone accosted her in a car park in 2011 and told her to lay off talking about her affair with the now current POTUS.

It fully reminded me of that bit from The Simpsons when Bart answers the door and takes a punch meant for Homer and the man says "don't write no more letters to Mr. Sinatra."

Maybe that's where the idea came from? The Simpsons is on Fox and he loves Fox.

This is not to take away from the terror she felt; she was monstered. But the cartoonish nature of the accosting is just so ... well ... Trump. If not ordered by him then someone near him took a broad hint to shut this broad up.

She didn't though and kudos to her. Trump had over 3000 lawsuits before he got the top slot with some of those suits occuring from his previous lawyers who he did not pay. He has also somehow escaped perjury charges for rubbery testimony. He had the power and reach to do that to her and someone did it to her. That it wasn't Trump or someone in his circle beggars belief.

You could not make this up; this hurricane of shit that blew in midday 20 January 2017 shows now sign of slowing down.

And when you think of the confected outrage against the sane Obama years with the poo storm that is Trump as POTUS and the seeming lack of concern in the house and senate underlies just how insanely warped the GOP is. It is a system with a feedback loop that removes it from reality to the point that government and governance can be fucked on ideology alone. 

The GOP own this. There are few in the GOP willing to stand up to him like they did when Nixon got tapped to go because Trump owns their base. He won it WWE-style and broke reality of US politics forever. They are stuck to him and to check him is to lose power even as that use of power warps government. Which they had already done pre-Trump such as nakedly stealing a supreme court pick from Obama.

They did it because they could and he does what he does because he can. That this man is in that position is globally toxic.

Probs save us all.

UPDATE: Trump has been involved in over 4000 lawsuits.

Socks as protection

Being home I go bare-footed save that I re-started an old habit of picking the thick skin at the bottom of my paddle-feet---"These are the worst feet I have ever seen" said one podiatrist---likely because I stopped picking my face. I picked at both feet and drew blood. Because it feels weird to have different levels of skin thickness due the depth of my sole skin it is incredibly seductive to someone with OCPD to have a go at.

Solution; I am now wearings socks. If I pull a sock down to have at it my hope is logic Mikey will recognise what is happening and stop me. It also cushions my feet from the pain from walking on wound sites.

I have a plastic slinky to entwine around the picking hand's fingers to keep them occupied.

It's like I'm being run by committee, there's the sane faction and then there's the fuckwit because it seems to be sociological law that a committee will have at least one fuckwit on it. That's my experience at least and I confess it was often me because I gave a shit. 

My feet are covered and legs stretched. I've done all I've can. 

I hurt myself and it's not right. At least logic me is giving sick me less chance to self-maim.

There is comfort in that; that I am doing my best when able to look out for future me.

WFTW.

Sunday, March 25, 2018

Dream ghost exorcism

It was a fucked series of dreams and I woke early. I had a shower and with calm reminded myself ghosts of the past can hurt you but only if you let them.

I'm not going to rev on horror dross. I am not going to re-live the fucked things done to me.

I'm going to read and do joyful things that remind me that I am still here despite the best efforts of others.

I'm still alive; that's a baseline win and everything on top of that is yet more winning.

I got bullied inside then outside of the womb. But I survived them, school and work. In fact I excelled, made possible in part by the very physical and mental dross I was monstered over.

The best revenge is doing well; especially when the universe throat punched you before life began.

I won; I just have to remind myself each time I wake with the screaming anger shits.

Friday, March 23, 2018

Vigorous shunting causes anal exposure

It was the off-week for re-cycling so what's in the bin had to be smooshed down so more would fit. 

On doctor's orders I am wearing short shorts to prevent thigh chafe and boils but if the shorts slide past my waistline then they can drop past my arse if they slip.

I had the recycling box on its side as a compression ram and was shunting it down when my short shorts wobbled past the line, fell and exposed me to the rest of the street.

But it's the middle of a work day and no one is around. That I know of. 

There could have been a person watching through a curtain slit in the dark, the room momentarily lit from the draw of a cigarette, saying in a smoker's croak "Now that's a show."

That would explain the $20 I found later tucked in my restored waistband.

Cooked off in the car

As a person who had to do presentations I'd practice them in the car or in the shower as part of my working life. But I also developed a habit of talking to myself or orating at things, people or situations that had caused me grief.

So on a drive from north-side to south-side of Canberra I worked myself into a foam-at-the-mouth anger fit about childhood bullshit. 

When I got home I had two Valium.

It's cathartic though to have a big snotty cry-yell where no one can hear you unless they're pulled up next to you. More than once I've been in mid-rant and traffic stops such as waiting at lights and it's like I hit a pause button and wait in silence until we're moving again that the vehicle-based ranting resumes.

I have a body that's shit; I'm almost as round as I am tall. But I can talk and I can write and in the former, when in full flight, sometimes what spews forth is sheer fucking magic.

WFTW.

Tuesday, March 20, 2018

Screamed awake

The other day I woke up to the sound of theboy angerscreaming. He gets himself to school in the mornings and I presumed one of the actions he had to do had fucked up and he'd cooked off. With fear I left the room but could not find him. I guessed he'd yell-screamed on his way out the door then tromped off. 

I was worried he was upset, teary and anger-storming to school. I texted to let thewife know what happened just in case he got to school still upset. I awoke at 8:34 when the angerscream happened.

It turned out he'd left the house well before then and he was fine; therefore I had dreamed it.

It was so real and so worrying when I woke to it that it sparked heightened anxiety for the day. When told I dreamed it I got scared and started crying and had to leave the room because my distress was distressing.

I didn't plan to cry, shake and get anxious but it was as real a thing as I have ever heard and I had dreamed it. I felt I'd slipped down the illness slope a few more feet where logic Mikey has to rigorously over watch that mentally ill Mikey isn't fucking shit up again. I don't want lucid dreams of my son angerscreaming—it's the scariest sound my brain reacts to. And I dreamed it happened. 

I had a work dream this morning. I knew it was a dream because I'm no longer in salaried work but it fired anxiety and now I'm going to use YouTube with music that heals. 

I wouldn't have been me if I didn't get injured and I wouldn't take away the injury for the catharsis it gave of self-belief. That I was worthy and true and I had been fuck-bagged by life; I was not a fuck-bag.

But the downside is this; the bad dreaming and how it impacts your waking world. I now have to take steps to fortify my mind lest mentally ill Mikey cooks off again.

Monday, March 19, 2018

Robots with moustaches










Some robots have moustaches; deal with it.

MR. HAPPY V MR. ANGRY

I have on my hutch a MR. HAPPY book still in its plastic wrapper to cover up the remains of an '80s sticker that I had peeled off but I could not remove the final part of—a pair of Village of the Damned eyes staring right at me when I rode my exercise bike.

It wasn't until I used official Blu-Tack with a ball at each corner of the wrapper and pressed long and hard that the MR. HAPPY book remained in place and thus I would no longer be greeted with the mad eyes because the book had fallen off

I have a bunch of shit in the shed to jolt me into active mindfulness such as "today choose happy", "WAKE UP & BE AWESOME" and, of course, MR. HAPPY.

I was riding looking at it and cried because I knew I could never be that; that I was MR. ANGRY and I would stay that way. MR. ANGRY is not from the series, presumably because it would be too unsettling. Why would a kid want to read about the un-sexy adventures of MR. ANGRY where he fumes, rages or imparts cold fury from page to page? It would be a totes bummer. 

Imagine being that; MR. ANGRY.

But, as with Pink, there are cracks in the wall. Today I started off angry and then began laughing because what I was saying was actually positive and self-affirming but I was yelling it like I was upset about it.

The laughter broke the anger spell. 

Maybe I don't have to be one or the other? Maybe I can be both? Maybe I can be MR. HAPPYANGRY because that is the duality of my mind? My anger is woven into my depression and anxiety from failure of duty of care from people who owed it to me. But I get to bliss out on simple shit like being alive, having a normal shower and know that I was a person of consequence—that my life as a bright burned bright indeed, no matter what comes next.

Perhaps I've always been MR. HAPPYANGRY, a yin yang whose pattern is ever churning? 

If so I'm cool with that. Because just being MR. ANGRY is unsustainable and not fit for children's publication.

Sunday, March 18, 2018

Taste the weather

It's a windy day the the nation's capital and like a dickhead I thought I'd risk an outside ride anyway, at power one for penultimate non-assist.

Things I learned.

Squint and close lips when going under a bridge because there will be grit; I can still taste it.

Just because you're over one hundred kilos and your bike is a man trike does not mean you can resist wind; I was nearly blown sideways into a lane divider.

Gum trees drop branches in heavy wind and other trees can lose theirs too. Whilst none dropped as I rode the evidence of branches blown off was gathering with the wind. It became less a case of "I'm enjoying this ride outside" to "I hope a tree does not maim me." That last point meant I gave up on power one and went to max assist to speed home to avoid flying flora.

Australia; even the trees are out to get you.

UPDATE: The ABC article about the dust storm.

Saturday, March 17, 2018

PTSD and noisy motorists

We live off on an arterial road and it means we get traffic noise.

In Oz, and indeed in many places, there appear to be those that re-tool their vehicle so they become louder.

We call them "cock-spanks on patrol" because they drive or ride their vehicles about to inflict noise because it makes them feel better.

Unfortunately to someone whose shed backs onto the road it means I enjoy their presence more than most.

I wasn't even in the shed when the chopped motorbike or de-muffled ute went past but outside having breakfast as they farted their vehicle through the otherwise pleasing ambience. Because my upside down brain has reacted already I had to put on ear protection again in case another CSoP went past.

I didn't get it before I got injured; the need to max the noise of your peacocking choice. But for some peeps they enjoy it. They enjoy the sense of power it gives them and they enjoy fucking over people they don't know. People like me.

Car people and bike people who make their vehicles louder are evil. Not super evil but selfish evil. They know what they do causes annoyance for the normal and distress to the distressed and they get joy from it. It's bullying via vehicle and if you're into that then you're a bully.

Stop tooling your vehicles to make them louder. Unless, that is, you're a cock-spank and you need to patrol the hood to let everyone know what a massive self-pleasuring tool you actually are.

PTSD and fireworks

"I'm out!" (avoids area).

PTSD and pizza

With my not being in a normal, high-stress job means my dairy allergy has passed; I can eat cheese again.

Pizza is a thing I missed since it is basically a cheese-delivery vehicle and therefore I enjoy pizza now.

That is, when I can pick up a slice and transfer it to a plate or my mouth.

My anxiety was up so my PTSD was up and my hand tremours were up.

That's how it came to be I lost a slice of the meat pizza to the kitchen floor. It landed topping-side up but that's a nasty floor so I grunted as I bent—my muscular-skeletal system is dodgy due to prior ownership—and retrieved the slice to bin it. I thought for a second I'd save it for the chickens but that was a "MEAT!" pizza, the one that is covered in meat, and there may be chicken on that.

Pizza is a delicious food. I love it. Its basic slice shape allows for easy retrieval and holding as you consume it. It's not the pizza's fault that it got dropped.

That was the PTSD. So not only does my injury have a monstrous toll on myself and my family it gets in the way of me eating pizza.

The mind melting horror part is the worst of it, don't get me wrong, but dropping a slice of "I CAN EAT THIS?!" also gives me the deep shits.

This morning someone was using a machine to do gardening. I don't know what it was but my mind said "that is a robot being murdered."

How's that for a primeval reaction? Robots didn't even fucking exist but my upside down pre-civ brain is yelling "metal friend hurt; help metal friend!" 

PTSD; it sucks—for the eating of pizza and robot relations both.

UPDATE: My son yelled inside the house. I heard it from the shed. He was angry. I got flooded with fight flight and warily approached the front door to check on things. They turned as I said in a quavering voice "everything okay?" and they nodded and smiled in a Stepford wife fashion to mask their discussion. I said I didn't have ear protection—I couldn't find them—so my son came out later with a pair for me. My system is flooded with adrenaline and I can't do fight or flight. So I'm in the shed letting it bleed off. 

Children being angry and shouting is normal. Utterly, utterly normal. And it made me fear an attack was imminent and I started hunting for weapons and defensive positions. Fortunately, thanks to a show bag bought for me, I have plastic kite shield, a plastic skull-motif sword and a plastic Roman helmet and thus can fight off any imaginary invader.

Vile

I was yelling in a conference room about the horror when I woke. The bed sheet was damp with anger sweat so I got up and had a shower.

I didn't dream just about the horror, there was a mix of personalities and predicaments including, bizarrely, a trip home via Dubbo. That last bit didn't make me mad, though. It was an add on.

My psych said I'd be rubbery for at least a week after I finished with the horror and she was right. Multiple bouts of acute anxiety and dreams infested with horror dross. 

And a road trip via Dubbo, we can't forget that.

I know dreams are the brain's way of storing and dealing with memories. But disturbing dreams being far more likely than good due to injury blows goats; I am proof.

Thursday, March 15, 2018

Mad dreaming

I woke angry from mad dreaming and stomped around ranting until logic Mikey pulled me up and made me do things like let all the chickens out, bigs and smalls, into the garden and throw them chunks of a corn cob.

I sat and used CBT mindfulness to be aware of my present surrounds, my breathing and the sounds of food-blissed clucking.

My mood stabilised. This week off is supposed to be about not thinking about past or future. I didn't mean to lapse; the rip cord was pulled and engine roaring the moment I awoke.

But I took steps to salve that wound and get back to even temperament.

Pre-injury Mikey is never coming back but I don't want him back. My injury set me free from self-hate and even at the height of the deepest of anxiety attacks that bedrock of recognition of worth gained from it cannot be shaken or broke.

I mattered; everything else is gravy.

WFTW.

Outside ride

A BYB ride using the power assist at setting one is about the same as an exercise bike set to medium resistance. It's at "not fun" where your heart pumps hard because your legs do.

I did a horseshoe ride on setting one---around the lake until I reached McDonald's. There I got lunch then went to power setting three to zip home to watch TV while I ate.

I saw some things.

A woman, seated, with casts on her legs feeding the birds at her feet on the path. I rode well clear onto the grass to avoid scattering them.

An old man pushing a normal pushbike up the slope of the path and that a ten dollar bill had dropped from his pocket. I yelled "You dropped some money, mate" and he turned to see. He had no upper teeth, lip crimping gum. He said thanks as I rode away.

A cyclist who has previously suffered a magpie swooping attack. You could tell because they had up thrust cable ties sprouting from their helm like a crown of stalks for a summer fair princess.

The outside ride; it comes with benefits.

Tuesday, March 13, 2018

Subconscious fuses the negative

I had a series of ghastly dreams that fused story lines of childhood and work. I was copping it from both ends. Dream me was frustrated by the stress and real me woke with the after-glow of nightmares. I've lost recall of what it was about but I was revving on the crap my dream used as source material and was muttering in the shower. I nearly went to pick my face until I stopped it with a fresh dressing which I had not put on right away on getting out of the shower. Dumb mistake.

I wanted to yell "what fucking chance have I got?" I may have even done it in the dream before waking. A fixed coalition of childhood and workplace horror in my dreamscape will be hideous for future me. I'm going to have to use CBT to steer my brain from here and to protect it from the next allied attack. I just hope my dream avatar realises he is safe and he cannot be hurt physically by the people who hurt him. That he says "no" in a firm voice then protects his dream self from those arseholes.

A third of my life is spent sleeping. I tire of my mental injuries infesting that space and setting my mood on waking.

Sunday, March 11, 2018

logic Mikey says no plans

logic Mikey—the one who is normally in charge—has to deal with mentally ill Mikey and mentally ill Mikey has to listen to logic Mikey. 

logic Mikey had a bad day yesterday; it should have been glorious but it was a bad, steaming heap of shit. mentally ill Mikey battled logic Mikey for supremacy of being until logic Mikey said "a week". 

"Don't plan anything, presume anything, don't do anything for a week."

I've lived my life like a bellows—contraction, inflation, contraction—and it's taken a toll as time-frames went from months to hours, sometimes minutes. It was mind melting—but I got through to hand off. 

Now logic Mikey has said "turn your brain off for a week; no plans, nothing."

It's hard to do that when you're mentally ill, to tell future you not to think for a week but logic Mikey realises mentally ill Mikey needs a break and has ordered it. No "And now!"; No "I could!" A week off.

I'm thinking of it as a cold re-boot for the brain. The toil has been brain hurty and now to no hurty.

No plans, nothing.

past Mikey earned it. I still can't believe he got through it. 

That past Mikey is something else; I wish I was as strong as him.

Saturday, March 10, 2018

My own stunt double

All the horror got to a point where it left my hands. My body then felt like it was in a bar fight the night before where I got smashed across the legs, head and body.

My anxiety was releasing the yuck now it was safe to do so. That means more sleep which is more disturbed and feeling like I've had a damned good thrashing.

This is my normal; it will happen again. A brain soaked in dread only releases when able and whatever stress reaction is happening is expressed as that.

I live a life of always pain; right now it's flared up. Then it will flare off.

I hope so; feeling beaten is not a good feeling.

Savouring the normal

It's been two weeks since I've had to put a bin bag on my lower left leg to protect a wound site. Getting a bag on was unpleasant; getting the rubber band off a wet thin garbage bag was not fun. Throwing the wet bag in the bin; fun not.

Now I am not doing that. I am having normal showers. I'm still savouring the satisfaction of that experience—and that I live in a place where hot and cold clean running water is the norm.

After every hell event—and during—showers made me feel better. To lose that normality for two weeks of arsing-around fuckery with bags, elastic bands and unusual positioning makes you re-love your showering norm.

Showers; they're just great—and I appreciate the systems that make it all happen.

Government for the win.

Cool water for hot chicks

I returned home mid-afternoon and realised the chickens' water places were hot from the weather. I turned on the tap, let the warm water from the hose run free and when cold mains goodness arrived filled the outside red tub in the garden where the chicks were to roam and the main pen water stations.

The adult chickens, now into the main pen, enjoyed the new water. Of the chicks the Polish scruff was balanced on the rim of the bowl for eager drinking.

That's the benefit of mental illness; I see discomfort then try to fix it; Whether it's at work or at home getting stuff fixed is what I do; I do that because I have depression, anxiety, OCPD and PTSD.

When you've lived a life of self-hate then catharsis through injury it changes your view of things. I had to be this way for all that to happen. It's a gift knowing past pain is a critical part of your whole cloth.

I also get enhanced satisfaction from simple outcomes. It counts for fuck all but I got pleasure from giving chickens pleasure by refreshing their hot and stale water for cold and fresh.

Fixing things is just how I roll.

WFTW. 

Three minutes

I'd gone days without having a go at my face. Upon first waking, sleep-fogged and fresh from a school-set nightmare—which made a nice change—I had a go at the scar ridge. It was three minutes before I caught myself and in spite of being half-asleep forced me to the bathroom to re-apply cream and a dressing.

I returned to bed and woke two hours later. I had a shower and a re-dressed the site.

So it was just three minutes and it was the first fumble in several days. I knew there would be backsliding but I hoped logic Mikey would intervene and he did.

Go logic Mikey. Without him I'd be dead.

WFTW.  

Friday, March 09, 2018

Four plucked from roost; two waved in

I'd forgotten to leave the chicks' hutch open and it was dusk. Four were roosted on the hutch roof and two were in the narrow space between the hutch and shed.

The roof-based ones were sleepy enough for me to pluck them off then put them in. With a long green rod I waved the other two to head in the direction of the open door. It took two minutes with one doing a full 360 of the outside before it finally went in.

It was nice to pick them up and not have them be scared. They were grumpy at being handled but sleepy enough to accept it—except for one. I don't usually get to do that and it felt special.

Herding in the other two, and then the final one, was annoying. 

Chickens; they're an experience.

Cycle of DEATH!

In Oz we have a bunch of dangerous fauna best represented by our spiders, snakes and stingrays. 

As I was riding the exercise bike a small spider crawled across the bike's LCD. It didn't look like a huntsman, big spiders that don't hurt people but a potential white tail spider which does.

I noted its presence but continued riding after it ran around the back before I could fist it.

About five minutes towards the end of the ride it came back out and I fisted it good and hard against the LCD of the bike readout, nearly pushing the screen in from its mounting.

I washed the remnants from my side fist—though I'm sure it's only in the bloodstream that the venom gets you—and finished the ride.

It's funny in Oz how blasé you can get about animals that can kill you. I generally stay the fuck out of their way or, if they're in my way, patiently await a time and place of my choosing to do battle or removal.

Today was a squish job; doing it with my bare fist was pretty dumb though. 

Our tourist tagline should be "Australia; watch the fuck out."

Thursday, March 08, 2018

Backface


It's one of my favourite bits from The Island by Lano and Woodley. I use "Take that into your backface" all the time. 

(hat doffed)

UPDATE: It's the next day and I felt I had to pay tribute again to just how awesome this bit is. Seeing them live after a 12 year break was utter magic. You fucking beautiful pair of fucking fucks (imagines three-way hug with MLW). I also love "Take that all onto ya!" (waves non-firing extinguisher at Lano's body).

OCPD and reality

I have OCPD. It means I view the world through a prism others do not and that means their perception of reality is different to mine.

Except, that it's not. People who are depressed and or have OCPD are all too aware of reality; it's what drives them. It's normal people that are deluded and think things are rosier than they should be.

I also have PTSD from hyper vigilance caused by OCPD. Having OCPD and PTSD at the same time is irksome. It threatens to distort your perception of reality; my PTSD reacts, for example, to potential threats that normal people screen out like a car horn or the air brakes on a bus.

But it doesn't change facts and it doesn't change ideal outcomes. It doesn't change the fact that someone mentally ill tries to fix things that sane people avoid. 

I'm good at what I do; I avoided mistakes or fixed and learned from them because of mental illness. My mental illness was and is a greater good.

I don't have a distorted view of reality; I have an all-too-aware view of reality. But I'm also insane enough to try to fix it.

WFTW.

Wednesday, March 07, 2018

HEL BEL and MOUSE

I'm certain of the first and I think the second is accurate but in the space of two days those were personalised licence plates I saw in Canberra.

If they were ever in a collision then on the accident report where licence plates are recorded would be HEL BEL and MOUSE. 

I wonder who hit who? Was it MOUSE into HEL BEL or HEL BEL into MOUSE?

Either way, it's hell's bells for the mouse.

Tuesday, March 06, 2018

Remains of the tube

I'd come into the shed fresh from showering elsewhere and I'd not put cream on my face and a dressing since getting home.

I saw the remains of the last tube, put in here for moments like this, went to it and doused the fuck out of the area. Then I put a band-aid on.

That was thewife's idea—to have the remains of the old tube here for just in case and it saved me from a possible lapse into facial mutilation where I pick at the scar ridge on my cheek.

Not this time. So it's still zero minutes because I didn't have time to do it; once I saw the tube and realised I was free to have a go at myself I went to the cream and stopped future me from doing so.

Looking out for future me is important because future me is important. 

WFTW.

Social engineering through engineering

Like any city Canberra has to maintain its urban shared spaces such as pavements, paths, parks and signage. Every couple of years they'd replace the sign to our suburb because someone had tagged it. 

Only last time they replaced it they jacked the height of the sign to about that of a basketball backboard.

So unless a tagger could be bothered to organise a step ladder, do the tag, then remove the ladder and lug it home then chances are the sign will not get tagged.

I like it; I like that someone in the Canberra admin system said "let's just put the signs up higher."

Our city is akin to clockwork inter-meshing through bush. Jacking up the sign is like one of the city animations from the GoT opening credits. 

That's great government; effective social engineering through simple engineering.

Reductions of me

I am middle-aged man and was born with a body not quite right. That last bit meant a hip replacement at 39 and a life of difficulty moving without pain.

I am losing bits of me. I am down an adult tooth—yanked instead of saved via root canal because I was too busy—down a hip socket (replaced) and I just felt the leg where my pea-sized scar lump from childhood had been and it's smooth to the touch save for the slight scab of the now stitch-free wound site.

My mother lost two toes, her ability to walk and then her mind to dementia.  Her road to ruin of MS started in her late-40s and she was scooter-bound about ten years after that. Then her genetic-disposition for dementia arrived and her last three years were lost in a fog of madness.

So my losing bits of me and or acquiring new and delicious methods to hurt my existence pale compared to her journey. 

But then I am about to hit my late-forties with a host of horror slithering in my wake. I just hope MS is not hereditary and that I missed the beat on dementia. 

I wouldn't be me if I wasn't warped pre-birth and ended up with a body deformed enough to be short, fat and with reduced agility but not enough for people to go "oh, he's got a fucked body" just "I would never fuck that."

And they'd be right not to.

In the days before science a key ask for parents was if madness was in that family; if there was they'd strongly suggest staying clear of the bloodline.

I am mentally ill, have suffered periods of acute cognitive dissonance and have genetic-and-experience fired depression along with a risk of dementia late in life. 

If I was in the days before science I'd be chased into a windmill that was then set alight.

So hooray for science and reason and for me keepin' on livin'. My body and mind might be unsound but they bound together to create something bigger than me.

You can't ask for a bigger win than that; to have a fucked body and a sad mind yet still limp into the world and try as hard as fuck to make it a better place for everyone.

WFTW.

Monday, March 05, 2018

Half the audience walked out

I was shimmying to KLF's "Doctorin' the Tardis" and on a whim opened the shed door and danced for the chicks. They were all seated, touching feathers, in a v-line in the dust of the pen.

By the end three of them had walked off.

Harsh, man, very harsh.

Trump for life

The PRC has scrapped the two-term limit for president; Trump thinks that's cool.

Of course he would. 

The trouble is when that person needs to go but doesn't want to. What then? In Oz we roll them no sweat. In the US they still face a general election process.

But in states where president for life happens then nothing ever good happens from that.

Divine right of kings does not exist; who was the lion and who was the lamb? 

But Trump sees it as a good because he was president for life of his own shit and that worked for him; it did not work well for anyone he or his companies financially touched.

Now it's the entire world.

Unholy fuck.

Zero minutes

I was able to transit from bed to shower, dress and re-apply cream and band-aid to my face wound without tearing at it.

And that was with the sticking a bag on my lower left leg to protect a healing incision. 

That's a first for a couple of days; waking without playing. It's my one job and so far I'm holding.

Now that's a life contraction: stay home and don't hurt yourself. 

Sunday, March 04, 2018

Full-blown anxiety attack on garden swing

I had to be talked out of it with calm and patience as the dream-sparked ripcord pulled on waking caused the engine to roar into life three hours later. I twisted the index fingers around in the folds of my sleeves to cram my arms to my body as if to contain the swelling hurt. 

It's a nice day and it was a great setting. A garden swing is a good place to do it because you can rock back and forth with your hands wound tight to your body as screaming pain whips around your skull.

So that was a plus. I had a V and am now in a room with sun, the steady thrum of a drier and the sounds of garden tat being assembled outside. Logic Mikey is back but telling the story of what happened to the mad version just before. 

Because it's important when you have a workplace injury to show the impact of what a broken system does to the people who do the actual work.

Lano and Woodley

We saw their second ever show of their reunion tour, "Fly".

As I was carefully climbing the steps into the theatre I had the opening credits song from their TV series in my head and I started to softly sing it. Then I noticed another person doing it only louder with more confidence. I laughed and said I was doing the same.

It's a good opening theme; but it will earworm you.

Five minutes

I faltered again on waking, tore off the band-aid and had at the face scar. But it was just five minutes instead of ten and I fixed it by having a shower. That's harder than it sounds as I have to put a plastic bag on my left leg to protect a wound site. Because I have a womb-wobbled body I can't bend like a normal and braced myself in a doorway as I attempted to stretch a rubber band with my fingers as wide as it could go to get it over the toes then up the leg. I had more than one go at it and my right leg was wobbling from the strain of holding up the rest of me.

I succeeded. I failed because I picked it then un-failed by stopping and taking steps to stop me.

It's still happening but logic Mikey is taking control quicker. 

So it's unwellness but getting less unwell for the win.

UPDATE: I had vile dreams before final waking; screaming, shouting, wounding distress. That spawned the falter. I now also have my happy faced slinky in case my awake mind tries the pick again.