Wednesday, November 28, 2018

Ears

The startle reflex is the most shit outcome of PTSD—where if you're triggered you go into "Cartoon hole in the wall" phase where, if you could, you would punch through a wall to escape leaving a silhouette void where brick once was. 

I had an hearing test to see if my startle reflex was more acute because I have greater hearing sensitivity and it turned I both did and did not—a Schrodinger's cat reaction. My hearing is poorer because one ear drum has a saggy hole in it from age and abuse but my hearing is more sensitive because my wounded brain listens for threats and if I hear something likely to trigger flight fight my mind devotes resources to listening for tiny noises in case it's a sabre-tooth tiger headed for my cave. 

It is deeply fucked up. It is deeply fucked up to be scared by a fart which happened the other day. It was a pair of connected rooms, I did not hear the person enter the other room and when they farted I screamed "JESUS FUCKING FUCK!"

What does this mean? Well more therapy, exposure therapy no less, getting used to loud and unpleasant noises and breaking them from the visceral lizard brain reaction to grab a weapon and get ready to run. It's disconcerting to see your hand spasm for want of something to hurt something with; it's like you have fucking alien hand syndrome

I cooked off after the test and had to sate with pills, vodka and Diet Coke and CBT to against the dark eating my head. 

There is a benefit of PTSD; but mostly it's "Fuck, PTSD sucks; how can I make that suck less for other people with PTSD?"

My angry son once threatened to clap at me. He holds the power to cause me ill just by making noise. Do you know how hard it is to parent when your kid can destroy you with mere volume? It's like if Superman had a super Kryptonite-immune son who had a necklace of Kryptonite. 

Sounds, the bad kind, are my Kryptonite. Perhaps the therapy will make it less so. 

Here's hoping; living in a world where normal sound can scare you is not living—it's existing between scary sounds.

Sunday, November 18, 2018

Ha-ha at a-ha

YouTube selected "Take On Me" by a-ha and I laughed at the ending where the cartoon hot dude with the nice hair rents space-time to become real to be with the reality lady hero where they've only had a dance, a fight and universe hopping in a short space of temporal time and that's nothing you can build a long-term relationship on. Plus the scientists will want to dissect nice hair to see if they can also hop between a two dimensional cartoon 'verse and this reality because you could live forever in 'toon verse and presumably no longer have to eat or shit. 

Think it through, a-ha.

Saturday, November 17, 2018

A swooping and government soil

I've dropped the habit of hardcore daily exercise and am struggling to get back into it. Since it was nice out I forced myself out to ride outside.

And it was nice but I got swooped near a church school and stuck one hand up as antlers to scare them off 'til I caught sight of the shadow of that and stopped: I looked like a pregnant human cross moose (1).

As I approached an overpass I looked across trees and grass to see a man stealing government soil. He'd backed his car and trailer up and heaping his ill-gotten dirt at speed. He stopped shoveling as I stared at him and he at me until I left. After shopping I went to get plate deets but he'd fucked off by the time I got back. Which is good; I didn't want the aggro---but I'd placed my phone with photo ready in the basket for a quick snap then getaway.

Cheeky fucker.

(1) Female moose do not have antlers.

Three to go

It's fucked to decay in mid-life. I've one hip done and knees and the other hip need doing and I don't want to do them. The first was brutal—three more is yuck.

I read a birth defect is like getting a joker if jokers are bad—a chaotic impost at the start of life.

Well chaos brings light so burn bright as the dark chokes you.

That should be in a fortune cookie. Along with "Face the fierce tiger with your chair but know that the chair is you ... as is the tiger."

That would make a nice change. Just slip it in. Esoteric malign fortunes. And name people like Derek or Phil so if Derek or Phil gets one they're like "What the actual fuck?" as the fortune then says they will die at the stroke of the next night's falling. 

Suck it, Derek (or Phil).

My door has a moustache

It's on the inside of my bedroom door and it's not real—nor fake, I haven't stuck a falsie on it. It's a coat hanger where the hanger part is black plastic and against the white of the door it makes it seem it has a moustache. 

I smile when I get a towel that the moustache keeps hooked on the peg.

I think more portals should experiment with facial hair. An archway with a Van Dyke? A sliding door with sideburns? A side hatch with the full Vultan?

The combinations are endless—though I do like the minimalist approach of the bald mouse hole.

Sunday, November 11, 2018

Creamy Slinky

The trouble with my scars that I pick is they are a delight to pick; deeply satisfying.

In order to stop it I put on cream but unless you have something to suplant the urge to pick you don't put the cream on.

So I have a Slinky. Instead of ripping at face flesh I bounce that, bungee jumping the end to the floor again and again. And when I'm not doing that I can finger the inside as it sits next to me.

It's nuts to enjoy picking your bod and then summoning the will to stop. At least I have my Slinky.

Saturday, November 10, 2018

Penal colony

It sounds like a sausage fest.

Thursday, November 08, 2018

Habit discussed; habit engaged

The nastier aspect of having OCPD is picking at the body. I pick at my face, neck and thigh.

I saw the psych and discussed steps to stop it. Then I went home and kept doing it. I had the cream next to me and I would not put it on to stop myself on the first two until early afternoon. Then I had a go at the thigh.

It's nuts to discuss self-harming then go home and self-harm. At least I stopped; that is the win here.

Spasms

It's a hell of a thing to be lying down and experiencing your body spasming in different places: back of a knee, a little finger, a calf muscle. They remind me I've been wounded and those wounds are unfair.

But I copped most of them in the service of the state and I wouldn't have been me if I hadn't.

So I fall back on that when the spasms ripple; they're the price I pay to be me.

WFTW.

Monday, November 05, 2018

Democrats want aliens to probe you: Trump

"Democrats, or Demon Rats, have taken over transmission stations and invited aliens in person to probe each and every one of you.

"These aliens have your picture and address along with a personal item for their robot bloodhounds to sniff you out, to track you to where you are hiding, pull you out and stick that probe in you.

"Cryin' Schumer will be standing next to the gantry, they all have them, folks, he'll be there with a whip whipping you into the holds of their slave ships where more probing will happen, that I can guarantee you.

"Then the aliens who hate our patriots will probe them worse to find their guns so the aliens can leave you defenseless.

"It will be a mix, folks, a mix of aliens. The greys, we don't like them, do we? Those long skinny brown ones---and the ones that look human except for the antennae. All crowding you seeking to be the first to probe you so they can brag about it in a space bar. Guarantee it.

"They cut a deal with China to close all those beautiful new steel mills, folks, plugging the chimneys, the beautiful smokestacks of freedom, with trees and shrubs that I can tell you.

"The aliens, folks. Democrats invited them, want them to stay with them and take your jobs. Think about it, having to compete with hyper intelligentsia from the dark void whose concept of money has probably evolved away to not needing it since they can create anything they need from the relevant atoms, folks. And they don't need arseholes anymore, done away with them.

"Aliens with no money and no arseholes coming here to take both of yours. Not good, folks, not good at all."

Also see "Full Trumpism" at The Washington Post.

Sunday, November 04, 2018

Soul-killing clangfire

Certain noises are bound to startle; have PTSD and a lot of such sounds in quick succession you'll end up balanced on flight-fight for future noises. 

The first nasty was a five foot drop of a nail varnish bottle onto a varnished wooden floor. The rest were dice that missed the table and hit the same surface. In the end we rolled the dice (five at a time) into a box so they wouldn't shoot away except of course a couple did. The game reached the end without my end being reached but I had to have two Valium post-game to deal with the shredded nerves. 

The worst one was the one I knocked off because I knew the sound was coming and it was my fault—my fucked, work-wounded hands dropping a die. CLATTER-CLATTER-BANG-CLATTER ripping through my skull as it travelled along the wood. 

I loved playing the game but I got stuck in this weird place of "having fun playing a game" and "I am going to be attacked; prepare to defend myself". That's an insane duality to have; to be doing something fun but wreathed in fear-soaked terror that a loud sudden noise is coming and you may dive for the door. 

I yelled loudly "FUCKING (word)" each time it happened and I had to say sorry when the game was done for sounding demented at such innocuous noise—terror Tourette.

That's life with a workplace mental health injury; you're forever stained by what happened to you years on and sudden noises can drag you screaming back. 

Workplace injury blows goats; I am the proof.

Pop goes the boil-o

The ever boil had ballooned and it was popped; lanced with a needle and squeeeeeezed. 

I felt every e.

We had to pause for a breather then we went again, the tissue wad blossomed with boil gunk.

Agonising. 

So it's hot water bottle time and pain meds. The site is quivering in aftershock.

The inner thigh boil; it just keeps on giving.

Friday, November 02, 2018

GOP releases ad for 2018 midterms

Trapped in the body of a fat child

It was my birthday recently and I thought of it in the context of childhood and school and how utterly sad I was to be trapped in the body of a fat child; for life. I am stunted in growth, have shorter fingers than I should and my joints are mildly fucked up. 

None of this was my choice; nor was it my choice to become fat—genetics and a womb-deformed body soaked in pain did that for me. It's hard to maintain the thrill of physicality when your physique is against you. 

I have all the attractiveness of a fat child despite being an adult which makes me neutered; if you found me attractive I'd consider your mind unsound. 

But when I got off the bus my son was waiting for me because he loves me and gives a shit about me.

So I won; I won life trapped in this hideous flesh suit and without it I could not have been me and done the things that I did—or created the family that I have. I never felt welcome in the one I was in so I made my fucking own.

WFTW.