Saturday, March 17, 2018

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.

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