Friday, September 28, 2018

Sex demand shouted

It was I who shouted it and a stranger---a middle-aged blonde lady---sitting perpendicular to me the one who received it.

I was on the bus and the bus tooted someone in front of us. A bus horn is loud and I was not watching the road so was not expecting the toot.

So I yelled "FUCK ME!" right into that poor woman's ear.

I normally apologise and note I have PTSD but it felt weird so we just sat in silence as fight flight swirled down the drain. She got off before me.

I'm mostly sure she took it as an exclamation of alarm than a genuine bluntly delivered sex demand but it's going to be weird if we meet again.

This has been "Fun with PTSD and sex shouting."

Thursday, September 27, 2018

Mob rule

"I told a number of countries over the last few days, I said listen, you’re a very rich country. We protect you. Without our protection, you would have real problems. You would have real problems."

Donald Trump press conference, Wednesday, 26 September 2018.

Wednesday, September 26, 2018

Boil blood not arse blood

I had to suffer the indignity of someone looking up my arse to see if it was bleeding and it was not. When shown where the blood appeared on the seat or just under it the ever boil was poked and blood shot out. So it was not arse blood; just boil blood. It rubbed on the toilet seat then bled.

It was like a parody Nancy Drew; "... and the case of the toilet blood" where the anus had been set up, framed, by the ever boil with the mystery solved with a final confrontation in a brothel. I know, I didn't think Nancy Drew would have a scene there but this is parody.

What a relief that it was just the ever boil, still not gone after nearly a year. 

The ever boil; the ever un-delight.

UPDATE: not bleeding out of your arse is awesome.

Blood fart

Since the revisit of the bleeding arse each time I've farted I've worried I'm spraying aerated arse blood. It has not happened but when I change I've checked, Dexter style, to see if I Jackson Pollocked my pants (Red Spots Number 12).

It's a worry I've never had that I now add to the list of things to worry about. Aging is balls ... that descend further with age. Is that why a grandfather clock is called that? Because it looks like a sagging old man with low swinging balls?

Probably. That's probably why.

Peeping Heatwave

On advice from my sleep doctor---the profession, not the mattress chain---I've been throwing open the curtain when rising since bright sun will help wake me up. I did that only to sit down on the bed the other day to see the Transformer known as Heatwave---who changes from a fire engine to a member of the Village People--standing on the table outside looking in.

It must have seen me naked a dozen times.

I'd have chalked it up to a misplaced toy except it was smoking a cigarette and touching itself.

What is it with firemen and smoking?

Sunday, September 23, 2018

Arse bleed redux

It happened again—two days running—a drop of blood after a motion. It's bright so it's likely just a tear but to look in a bowl and steel yourself for what is there in addition to the normal unpleasantness is unpleasant.

I take comfort I should be dead a hundred times over and if it's arse bleeding that is my coda then, Universe, take another bow. It's a fine way to go; and most suited to my character. 

Of course this is semi-gallows humour; I should be okay but I'm not riding if it happens because to sit on a trike or exercise bike seat is to spread the area. 

There's none of that needed; no, sir. 

Aging is a shit and in this case semi-literally as in my shits cause bleeding and that's likely from wear and tear.

A cliff; I once nearly fell off a cliff. Near accidents in cars aplenty—and that one time from the scree of rubble from an explosion where the ejected matter tumbled down into the trees where we'd been in alleged safety.

The arse bleed; it's never good though as far as that goes this is the best way to get it. How's that for a silver fucking lining for my rent lining?

Friday, September 21, 2018

The man with his head stuck in a hornets' nest

That happened; not literally—I'm not a psycho—but metaphorically where I had to go through super old hurts and marshal evidence against it. I fucked up—I had to send it twice because I corked a date—but it's away and now I can leave said nest.

It was a horror; sticking your head into a metaphorical hornets' nest, and I had to break from the PC and do a lap of the building to discharge the built up terror that clogged me. 

I was a cog in MoG and my cog got fucked up; I've spent years trying to fix it. I'm close, and that's awesome, but at a cost to my mind and bod.

I had to do a DASS 21 the other day, on intro to my new psych, and it was inflicted after the initial consult so it skewed high.  Which is to be expected, because like that nightmare I once had I'm the only one on the planet keeping the ship hull from imploding because I am blocking the leak. At least, that's how it feels. 

I had a fucked childhood—for someone in the three per cent—where I nearly died hundreds of times or wished I was dead a dozen; a childhood rippled with regret, pain, agony, self-hate and harm on others. It's the latter I loathe the most; I know I hated myself but it gave me no right to slag off others who did me no wrong. Hence my inability to attend a school reunion—I'd have to do that step in the 12 step program where you apologise to the people you hurt. I entered the public school system in year nine—still flush with the concept that if you like someone you were attracted to you negged them—then proceeded to neg the female population of said school. How could I face them doing what I did? I made some of them bawl because of a snarky comment that in no way was deserved. Even now, 27 years on, I shudder with horror at the things I said and did because I presumed girls did not like me and was mean to them first. 

And so it goes. We had a fire to burn corro we hate, that made us sad. We wrote things that we hated and burned them too. I know I had to suffer what I suffered to do what I did—which was the technocrat equiv of "Blaze of Glory"—but I judder at the harm I inflicted along the way. There are women out there to this day for whom I am the greatest of male monsters; that represented the worst of our sex through sheer dint of being a woman I was near.

I am sorry. If that counts then I am sorry,

But I am doing my best to make amends; to look after people I do not know.

Tuesday, September 18, 2018

Gas! Gas! Gas!

I had two strong ciders then blew up with gas an hour later. As in feeling inflated on the inside and ripping forth cider spawned nose horrors.

Cider. It was just cider. And Chinese food.

Stupid body; except it's not, that would imply malice or negligence on its sentient part. It's not its fault.

But it could always be worse; always.

No blood, more ranting

I went twice today with no sign of arse blood. Yesterday must have been a mild now healed tear.

We had a chat about rage fits in the car and it was pointed out rightly that a high emotional state can lead to distraction such as impaired vision from crying or being so lost in the anger you're not concentrating on the road.

I had an across Canberra drive to do that night and on the way a roo darted to the side of the road but did not cross before me. I was watching it intently and on the reverse trip slowed to 60 with the high beams on where applicable lest it or the rest of the mob was around. All in all careful Ozzie driving to factor in large animals that can bounce in front of your car---and kill it, a roo thigh bone can impale a radiator.

Yeah so still angry crying despite it. It was a long drive and the heightened anger from discussing it cooked me off. I managed the duality of heightened emotion with careful driving. You'd think they'd be opposing forces---high emotion for fast, careless driving---but I'm so used to doing it that my driving does not seem impaired. I'm careful and conscious of my speed, handling and what traffic and fauna is doing.

It's still not great; a calm person will be a better driver but it's a weird place to be in when you can anger cry whilst driving at the speed limit, carefully indicating and paying attention to extra dangers like a roo bouncing down a dark hill and right next to or in front of you; "YOU FUCKING FUCKS!" (slows then smoothly transits roundabout whilst scanning for roos).

But it ended well; the drive and fit. The anger bled off before I went via drive-thru and so I didn't sob as I gave my order.

I tried not to car rant; I had the radio on to distract me but it was a question time repeat and that cranked me too.

The car rant; not great to do but I am great at it. But I'm still going to try to curb it. Maybe music next time.

Monday, September 17, 2018

Rectal bleeding

It's bright blood so it's likely a minor tear on the inside but there is nothing quite like seeing blood after a motion, real or attempted. I thought it could be from wee but nothing appears when standing and just doing that. 

It's happened before, the arse bleed, and it went away. If it keeps happening then back to the doc with a new problem.

If my body was a car it'd be a Trabant ... that bleeds out its exhaust pipe.

PTSD and bin liners

The go to moment in movies for depiction of PTSD is to show someone's startle reflex fire off from a trigger event; the infamous helicopter flashback caused by ceiling fan trope.

In reality, while that happens, the everyday result for some is reduced manual dexterity from hand and finger trembling and ability to pick up and stay holding of objects since your fingers can also just spring apart of their own accord.

Or use them to tease apart a bin liner so it can be rolled out into the bin. In Canberra you have to buy plastic bags and the bin we have best works best with a purpose liner anyway since more volume can fit in. But its compacted layers of thin plastic means you have to separate to open.

It was the last bag on the roll---so seemed to have a thicker side---and I spent five minutes standing in the kitchen trying to get my trembling, mind-wound robbed fingers to tease the plastic apart to deploy the first half. So I did a starter cut with a knife to try and pick a edge open that way and ultimately tore the bag.

I yelled heartily at my fucked ability to do normal acts due to injury and meds for that injury then rooted around for the next roll and tried again.

See, that's boring. It's a lot sexier to show an especially physically capable man suffer the flawed hero wound of PTSD who reacts with fear to trigger stimulus a normal person does not suffer. My mundane reality is being a sub par man made more sub par by injury to his hands who spends inordinate amounts of time attempting to manipulate or carry objects.

This has been "Fun with PTSD and waste management."

Sunday, September 16, 2018

Rage fit in car

I talk to myself when driving alone; it's a habit from practicing for talking that blew into emotional release if my steam needed venting. So I boiled off on a four minute drive back from the shops to the point of spittle-flecked shouting as the anger consumed me. 

It was the same record; being saddled with a fucked body and navigating a world who saw fit to monster me for it. Whether it was active or passive, either way it was fucked. I copped it at all stages of life; I will keep copping it.

Then with tears rolling and anger still surging I walked back in and used CBT to mask it.

Maybe I'm an emotional bulimic? I hide my vomiting up self-hate and anger at self-hating's causes. Then put my face on as I come out and do my best to carry on.

But the dreams I cannot control and the leaden sads that coat me on waking are harder to CBT away than a self-induced rage scream.

The dream shadow; a mind fuck that will cloak you with smothering sads. 

But you keep wriggling as best you can to get out of it; to remain smothered is to die.

I didn't choose this body; it was chosen for me. I'm angry and sad and happy and delighted; without it I would not be me and you need irritating grit to become a pearl.


UPDATE: Rage fit on trike with angry crying. Maybe it's just transport related? I do anger cry on buses. Wait, I angry cry during space outs where I don't move for an hour or more. But I've not had one of them for a while. There's the toilet and shower too. I think location and motion are not related; I rage fit or anger cry because I've been traumatised and re-live it.

Friday, September 14, 2018

Tuesday, September 11, 2018

Agony of fast walking

I have reduced mobility with a slow, shuffling gait. But I was working in a place where fast walking is the norm and needed for normal business. So I upped my pace to keep pace with others and then went on assorted missions that involved lots of walking. I got a stitch and nearly threw up multiple times as my wobbly body was put through the ringer. I'm balding and that means bald sweat. It got so bad that it blinded me whilst pushing a trolley and I was using my free hand to stop items falling. I went a dozen metres before I stopped to wipe bald sweat from my eyes lest I crash into a wall.

I got mad for a moment at my shit body that was damaged pre-birth. I stood as pain shot through from fast walking and feeling the nausea of too much exertion. I have a disability permit because I cannot walk far or fast without pain and here I was walking for about three hours in multiple crossings of a vast office terrain.

But without that shitty body I wouldn't be where I was or done what I did. So I limped on as pain ravaged me knowing that crap bod made me awesome.

Physical acceptance for the win.

Circumcision felt

I was circumcised as a baby for no medical reason but for desert warfare. Seriously, my mum looked at me and thought "desert warfare" and "this will keep it clean."

I suppose I should be impressed at her geopolitical foresight to snip the foreskin but due to not turning in the womb my stunted skeleton was in not fit for warfare. Dessert war perhaps; desert war, no way.

As a man who is circumcised you rarely notice it; there is little sensation and no real awareness it's there, though it does help for urinal use 'cos you can grab the fold for ease of through pants extraction.

I had to have a chest scan and a radiocontrast was injected into me. The warmth of the chemical flows through your body and radiates outward and ends at your bits.

And that is when I felt it; the contrast hit the rolled fold of skin and then the head above got it a fraction later. It felt like a flower opening to welcome the sun only it was my junk that, with the rest of me, was about to be thrust into a sensor donut.

The circumcision; pointless but with a weird-as-fuck afterglow if a radiocontrast substance is stuck right into you.

I know radiocontrast is not actually radioactive but I did wonder if incidental erections are a symptom of radiation poisoning. If so it's no wonder the Hulk always keeps his pants on.

Friday, September 07, 2018

If I could turn back tines

Due to a poor grip, PTSD and meds for PTSD I drop things. I dropped a fork into the dishwasher and had to reach through to get it. I flipped it over to get a better grip, tines facing down, then used the arch of the fork as the lock on site, pinching it then wending the fork through the rack.

So it turns out I could turn back tines; I found a way.

Your move, Cher.

Wednesday, September 05, 2018

Dumb moments of acute acceptence

When you live the life of a broken person you get sad at yourself for the absence of acceptance. For example, theboy has a friend who now has to wear glasses and he got hassled for it. I said "It's not like he went 'ERRRGH' and summoned the power of the supernatural to weaken his vision." In that being teased for an acquired disability is most fucked and dumb to hassle someone about given they did not choose it.

The heuristic shorthand became "I'm X; I'm going to weaken my vision!" (ERRRRGH). "Hooray, I did it; I need glasses!"

When you realise that; that your body is not your fault and that people who hung shit on you for it are evil incarnate then you do experience self acceptance.

Accept the body you have; it's the only one you have. If it doesn't work right that is not on you.


UPDATE: Originally this was going to be a link to "I had the time of my life" from Dirty Dancing. It became this instead. I'm not sure what I mean by the duality of two physically perfect people in lust dance as compared to my life path.

In Year 11 I slept in a hole

It wasn't an actual hole, like, in the dirt or anything. It's just that the foam mattress I'd used since I was probably ten had compressed with my more solid form and created a hole. Not through the mattress but a depression that was noticeably foetal short man shaped, 

I pointed this out a number of times; the (w)hole situation. Near the end of the year I got a spring mattress that could take my more adult weight.

The pattern they chose were sailboats. 

I only got to use it a short while for I left home three years later; the mattress was inherited by their first boarder, who was shown around my room and her new digs were explained ... as I was still in bed having just woken up on the mattress with the sailboats. 

They could have woken me before this happened; they chose not to—for added foot-on-neck pleasure.

That's what it is to be born damaged to narcissists; they don't like it and they especially do not like you. And don't worry, they will let you know—there will be no fog of miscommunication. 

But then you crack through the wall they built and look back and you marvel at the power you had to bash through a barrier that thick. My resilience is astounding; I am a fucking hero.


Sunday, September 02, 2018

Shattered glass

I was standing next to a ledge when the small girl's hand pushed the glass—she couldn't see it; she was too low down. I watched the glass vanish from view, thought "shit" and had a moment to brace. It smashed into a seeming thousand shards of a thousand yet more shards each with a ring that rippled through me.

I held firm; I was not shaken. I was the Bell Rock Lighthouse and stood fast against the fiercest storm (1).

If I had not seen it fall I'd have likely screamed "SHIT!" then leaped about a foot in the air, wonky legs not withstanding—then either fallen on landing or dropped into a pose of cat-like readiness versus the four horsemen coming for me in that moment; in public, in front of many people.

This had been "Fun with PTSD and glassware".

(1) In the TV series "Seven Wonders of the Industrial World" about industrial marvels of the nineteenth century the ep about the lighthouse claimed that the rock got its name from the bell monks had placed there to warn ships of impending doom. But it only lasted a year before coming off in a storm and there is a scene of the bell sinking into the depths. According to the wiki it was actually stolen by a Dutch pirate. I like the pirate truth much better than the sinking lie.

Saturday, September 01, 2018

Naked and nails

I was transitioning between the shower and study naked when theboy opened the sliding door. I turned, deeply ashamed, at my hideous body.

I do not feel great naked; I do not look good naked. If a casting director was looking for the titular role for their production "The Toad King" and I stepped into the room they'd shout "CALL OFF THE HUNTWE HAVE OUR TOAD KING!"

I don't feel as bad wearing a shirt and undies; or wearing PJ pants and no shirt. It's like partial attire shields the worst of how I feel about myself. But fully naked; just a grotesquery. 

He wasn't phased, I span around in horror to give him a view of a hairy back and arse instead. I then retreated to the study choking on shame.

After I dressed, and because I'd poked myself in the scrote with over long finger nails, I got the industrial nail clippers and asked him to clip my nails for me; I can't do it as my hands have a fine tremble and propensity to drop things due to PTSD and medication taken for PTSD. 

He'd never done it before, not even for himself, and was worried at first. But by nail four he'd cracked it. I just had to trim here and there for the job to be done. He got a reward for it—and it helped pare away the sting of him seeing me naked and my revulsion at his seeing that. That he couldn't be so revolted—my upsidedown brain said—if he was willing to be bribed to trim my nails. 

I hated seeing my dad naked; hated it. Because he was long and trim with proper fingers, feet and toes. Each time I saw him it reminded me that I was a failure. 

That's how it felt to grow up in a house where I was bullied for my body; and went to school where it happened as well. The only respite I had was when I was alone and I was soaked in self-hate.

I had a anger rant in the car when getting papers then reminded myself again my journey would not have been possible without an unsound body and an unsound mind; that by their twin negatives they'd created a positive in that I was smart as fuck and landed in places where I fixed things at the macro scale. 

In life there are book ends and books. Many people are book ends; not many are books. 

I'm a tome so fucking thick I don't need book ends to stand up.