Thursday, March 01, 2018

CBT with chickens

As a mentally inured person I have to take steps to control inner torment people without depression, anxiety and PTSD can never know. Part of that control is savouring simple things.

In a mad, late-night dash to get a cable I got the chickens three corn cobs. 

This morning, to keep the sads at bay, I split a cob into three and gave it to them.

I sat in the shade on an IKEA stool and watched and listened to them eating contently as cool air played about my body.

It was Zen. I didn't space out about horror or failure; I lived in the moment of chicken bliss.

This morning I re-dressed my face wound without touching it. Later I clipped-back the site, showered and dressed the wound again.

As I sat watching the chickens normal me would have been picking at his face. Today me had a bamboo stick that he twizzled so hands his were ocupado. 

The taut band-aid placates the sensation my upside-down brain has to deform itself so keeping hair short there has worked physically and mentally. I then did something simple and joyful, feeding happy animals.

I'm reduced to the home and my one job is not to hurt myself. So far so good.

WFTW.

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