Wednesday, July 11, 2018

PTSD and Nailed It!

The Netflix baking show Nailed It! has a panic button and scream sound. I knew that it had one but I was not watching when it was pressed and the baking show screamed at me.

I yelled "Ahhhhh!" in a counter melody.

Baking shows can come with hazards for the PTSD peeps---such as a bright red panic button that when triggered will cause that viewer to also panic.

Just for a moment; I didn't trigger and cry at cake-based scaring. But I got a jolt.

This has been "Fun with PTSD" meets family viewing.

Tuesday, July 10, 2018

Excised shed tat

I have a bunch of fun stuff pinned to the walls of my shed with magnets, such as my hilarious trail of documents of meaning and worth combined with certificates from day long courses I attended as a white collar worker. There's newspaper clippings I've been sent or have kept and artwork I did that I found when rooting amid the remains of my working life pre-injury. It's all joyful stuff. Until, of course, it is not.

There are holes on the walls now where stuff used to be but which I took off because they were reminders of a re-framed childhood—where due to not-great pregnancy care I'd been plucked from the body of a to-be-tall man and thrown into that of a broken puppet. Photos had to go, news clippings too. 

But I didn't destroy them, I just dropped them down the side or to the bottom to sit curling in a shed frame outcrop or lie tangled on old spider web.

Some day they may even go up again. But, for now, I had to blank them from sight because their sight caused distress. 

It's a bit like Soviet Russia where former beloved figures were literally photo scrubbed from history when later presented as false comrades who merely fell as part of party politics V a sociopath supreme

I have in view when I ride the exercise bike a Blue Tak'ed copy of MR. HAPPY so if I blankly stare ahead at least I am staring at that. 

Also in view is a stuffed Angry Bird the size of a tennis ball and sitting on a roll of duct tape.  

The MR. HAPPY was put there to blot out a pair of mad eyes from a sticker I couldn't get off and to remind me to be happy. The Angry Bird was from theboy and the duct tape was its plinth. 

One day as I rode I realised that is the duality of me; I am MR. HAPPY and I am the Angry Bird—the glowering red original (1).

Happy and angry is okay—they balance like yin and yang. I have now put the bird and its plinth next to the book for I iz MR. HAB.


(1) That's the main one.

Abruptly woken from nightmare

It was high school—or uni. There was an exam the next day and I had not done any of the coursework. I was panicked and other students were offering what would be on the test when I was abruptly woken, drenched in "I HAVE FUCKED UP" fear and asked if we could buy a TV series on iTunes. 

I said yes and dropped back down but sleep was stolen and the flood of terror was still through me. I have lingering anxiety–exacerbated by IT issues later—and my body and animal brain is telling me things are wrong and I am right to be distressed. 

My logic brain knows I just had a nightmare that I was woken in the middle of and the upsidedown brain is sorting that shit out on the down low. 

But I have PTSD, OCPD, depression and anxiety so that sorting out is going to take a fucking long time. I just have to use CBT to remind myself nothing is wrong, 

I am not in trouble, there is no exam and no enemies are coming to get me.

This has been "Fun with mental injuries and dreaming".

Monday, July 09, 2018

Let's mingle!

In Oz our pool balls are known as "Bigs" and "Smalls" with "Bigs" being the striped ball and "Smalls" the one without the stripe. 

In our chickens we have the same; the "Bigs"—the survivors of the fox attack—and the "Smalls" who are adult-sized Bantams, Silkies and a Polish Scruff but which are physically smaller than the surviving adults.

Today I let them mingle. There was some chasing but by and large it was all cool.

But when I tried to share communal treats the "Bigs" stalked the area where the treats were and chased off the interlopers. 

Alas the big brown took exceptional exception to the brown Silkie and in a hidden area of the yard I heard much distress then saw the brown girl come back with a beak full of Silkie feathers. 

Here endeth the mingle. I lured brown back with sunflower seeds then quickly shut the pen only I shut it on the big grey chicken and she got a big fright. 

The mingle; I tried again and I failed. It will likely always be this way; the "Bigs" segregated in their smaller fox proof pen from the smaller "Smalls". 

Sounds of a chicken in distress are not pleasant; I imagine being a livestock farmer with PTSD would be next to impossible unless you had your ear drums removed.

Left on a high note

I made theboy laugh by making fun of a TV show that had failed on basic reality and I compared it to them doing a show about his school but where there was a year eight kid in class smoking and one of theboy's mates down the back inexplicably with his shirt off.

He was in hysterics so I said "I've been Mikey; have a great day" then left through the sliding door and walked off. I only stopped when he said "... but I want to keep talking about the funny TV show ..."

I went back and explained what a high note was and that I was mandated by comedy law to walk off at that moment. I referenced George's attempts on Seinfeld where he nails a joke at a meeting table then gets up and leaves while the laughter is still cooking.

The high note; you'll know it when you hear it and then you just have to go.

PTSD and SpongeBob

I wasn't paying attention to the YT-through-the-TV show theboy was watching about animation so didn't understand what was happening when he span around in place then yelled "BAAAAAAAAAAA" at me like a demented sheep.

I got spooked and said not to do that again then he explained it wasn't a mad sheep but a happy sponge in pants of square and he was trying to do the voice.

Later he warned me before trying again and now I could hear the SpongeBob in it and also it was fired towards the TV and not right at me.

It did scare me in the moment, the first one. I was prepped for the second. But, Jesus wept, never do SpongeBob at person with fight flight unless you prep them first because they will cook the fuck off. 

This has been "Fun with PTSD" meets beloved cartoon characters.

SpongeBob Squarepants is masterful, btw. We got into it before theboy was even here.

Isolated V Typical

When it comes to assessing motivation for behaviour you reflect on examples. I nutted these through with my psych and she said the issue is for what you see as stand out examples of typical actions the other sees them as isolated, unconnected events that do not typify them.

Like the adage a lawyer who represents himself has a fool for a client if you're the one being assessed then you're going to be blinkered. You will see your acts as isolated, not typical, and resist anyone suggesting otherwise. If you're an all-time arsehole with glimpses of nice you'll see the glimpses as you and not the arsehole you are all the time.

I was lucky; I got woke early to the damage I could do with things that I said. I was an arsehole because I thought insult comedy was funny and it deflected from the fact I looked like a hairy Humpty Dumpty. I was mean to people and there are those out there who knew me for that time for who I stand out as a monster because each time I was with them I did shtick at their expense. 

But I learned. I learned that my acts made others sad and I curbed it. I accepted I'd been an arsehole and just because my life wasn't great in no way gave me the right to cruel others out. 

My typical became isolated; but not for some. There are people that loathe that version of me and they are fair to have that opinion because my behaviour gave them nothing else to go on.

I'm still not fully there but I am constantly aware and try my best to make the arsehole in me isolated and not typical.

Not everyone gets to have that journey and they go to their grave an arsehole through and through but convinced the world sees them otherwise though they gave them no reason to think that.

I guess being a not-man helped; to be a short, fat nonathletic male is to be effectively not male. You don't get treated as manly because you cannot possibly be.

Plus I have trouble opening jars.

I was a typical arsehole and now I've isolated it to moments that I instantly regret. That's deep progress but at deep cost; to me and those I damaged. I hope I'm not a tale of someone's horror but I accept there is a good chance that I am.

All I can do is what I do now; try never to do it and if I do to apologise profusely.

Arseholes; we all have one but we don't have to be one.

Sunday, July 08, 2018

Fun with OCPD

OCPD is not fun, though it makes me a better person. In addition to obsessive compulsion to do what I must I also pick my feet. 

Today I ripped a hole into the side and the bottom of my left foot. I pierced into blood and when my heavyset body pressed through my very flat foot it very, very hurt. 

After the shower then it was Band-Aids to both points; the compression stopped the sting and the padding absorbed the hurt of walking on that foot.

Hooray for Band-Aids; aiding the injured since they were made.

Of course the red plastic box the Band-Aids are kept in is littered with empty packets where the BAs once were and I have to root among the desiccated corpses to find a live one.

I could go through the box and remove them now, leaving only BAs yet to be used but that is effort and such and I like the challenge of balancing on one foot as I root among the box for an actual Band-Aid and not the shroud of a once was.

This has been "Fun with OCPD".

Saturday, July 07, 2018

Things as said by me III

"Oh balls deep in a salad."

As said when my trembling finger tips could not tease apart newspaper pages.

PTSD; I'll give it this, it is great material.

In other scaredy news I was at the bus stop and was twice spooked by air brake hissing. But I didn't cry on the ride home so that's a win.

This has been "Fun with PTSD".

Some rooms are magical

The locker room; a staple of childhood and school, though in Oz they are change rooms as there are no lockers, they are a scene in everyone's head who had a growing body and had to reveal it to others. What's it like to be a frozen, muddy boy then shower as a group? Hideous. I only did that the once before my body was ruled ineligible for such sport.

The locker room is now apparently magical because if you discuss sexual predation with authority figures in that room then it does not count; it's locker room talk, y'know?

I wish I had known a locker room was a magical place where you can complain about being preyed upon but the coaching staff will not act upon it. Phew! It's now a safe place where you can kvetch about someone pawing at your junk but you don't have to worry about someone trying to stop it.

So people should understand that argument as put forward by former assistant wrestling coach now GOP luminary Jim Jordan; that locker rooms are magical places where you can be nude, have your junk fondled and discuss the junk fondling but where nothing will happen to stop that. Because it was said in a locker room.

Trump had a locker room moment on an Access Hollywood bus while he was wearing a suit and surrounded by crew. He was fully clothed when he bragged about the casual assault of women by him and his defence was it was locker room talk.

I look forward to impeachment when Trump argues the Oval Office is also a locker room and so he can do anything he likes there like telling Russians secrets and bragging about sacking the head of the FBI to said Russians.

Men; we are fucked up. And the fucking up happens in places like locker rooms where acts and words foster toxic masculinity and young men are preyed upon but nothing will happen to stop it because it is a magical room separate from the rest of reality.

Go wrestling.

UPDATE: My subconscious has now reacted to the topic above---though I was molested by a psychologist and not a wrestling team doctor. My PTSD hand tremble is up and I look forward to dropping things and not being able to pick them up. 

That's the trouble with being abused; you're reminded of it when you read stories of abuse. And the greater the narrative of failure to stop it the angrier you get.

There are now millions of people being triggered by this story; where institutional failure is so acute it preys upon its shining stars to dim them ever more.

Thursday, July 05, 2018

Things said by me II

As said after the hairdresser noted for a balding man I had a lot of neck hair.

"I know; it's like my hair slipped from my head and cascaded down my back in a frozen hairy waterfall."

It's true---and funny. I'm glad I said it; fuck you for doubting me.

Wednesday, July 04, 2018

Gentle re-steer

I got a gentle re-steer that was deftly given—good idea / let's do it this way / less is more. I'd been so used to working one way that I'd not considered the new.

I appreciated the gentility. I called in to apologise for jumping the gun and ended with an efficient re-do that met the need. I got feedback and acted. I was scared when I called but soothed straight away.

When you spent a life being negged by people above you steel for the worst; be prepared to be told that you're shit. 

But I wasn't; I got a gentle re-steer. My idea was solid; it just needed a re-do.

I've forgotten what it is to work with those who care about you and want you to do well. I've had it less often than not but they stand out as beacons—those who valued what you did and who taught you what they knew.


Slapped own bum silly

When I ride an exercise bike my arse will eventually go numb. I don't know if that happens to other people but it does for me. It sometimes gets so numb all I can sense is my rectum and what it is brewing. It's not a pleasant feeling, the numb arse, and the way to bring it back to life is to rise in the saddle and let blood flow.

If you're impatient you can also rub or slap it to help relieve the numbing.

I was in a hurry, in a small pause and wanted to drop back down and keep riding. So without thinking I slapped my arse a half-dozen times with some force. 

It hurt. My arse awoke during the slapping and started hurting from slaps instead of the numb but my brain had fired the message to slap and I slapped myself beyond awake and it was like I'd received a vigorous punitive smacking.

I said "What the fuck?" and "Ouch" then sat back down. When I rose again to restore circulation I instead massaged my arse with a splayed hand that employed no smacking at all. It took a little longer for the same result of awakening but without my feeling I'd been assaulted ... by me.

Another lesson learned; numb bum then rub it to life---do not smack it awake. Because you may wake it up midway through the revivification with your brain having ordered three slaps too many.

Rub the bum; do not hurt it.

This has been "Fun with exercise biking".

Monday, July 02, 2018

Gave birth to a sock

I was pushing my right leg into the tracksuit pants when out of the bottom leg hole dropped a sock. It must have static-clung to the insides when in the dryer and remained bonded to the pants until it got birthed out by my leg.

It's a nice sock too, with purple trim around its own hole.

I did think though the doula, the scented candles and the paddling pool was a bit much but the pants insisted.

Sunday, July 01, 2018

Banana bus scare

It was a frosty arvo in the nation's capital as I achingly strode back from a mission when a passing banana bus, the double bus with an accordion-like midsection, triggered its air brakes.

The piercing whoosh caught me broadside but at a distance, not up close, so the startle response of my PTSD only kicked in for the moment it happened and ebbed in seconds leaving an energy boost after glow from the adrenaline hit.

When it happened I yelled "JESUS FUCK" and hopped into the air about a foot before landing safely another foot in a random direction opposite the noise.

I waited the seconds following conscious my subconscious was responding before heading off with fear-tingled charge to my painful gait.

Had I been closer the fright would have full triggered where you know nothing is wrong but you're crying and cradling yourself or an object and softly oooohing as you exhale.

Today is a winter garden clean and the mower and mulcher are going. I have my ear protector muffs on against the ambient sounds of robot murder.

That's life with a workplace psychological injury; years on your still healing brain is still fucking healing.

This has been "Fun with PTSD".