Saturday, July 06, 2019

Murder house

When you think murder house you think house made for murders like H H Holmes had at the Chicago World's Fair. In my case I think of a house being murdered. 

The other day murder was attempted on my house---construction involving drilling through brick. I stayed around so I could provide access to the builders to the toilet but after some hours and increasing loss of tolerance to a drill that my PTSD-afflicted brain said was coming through the wall to strike me like an ice pick through the ear I had to bail. I informed thewife I was going, told the builders I had to leave due to bureaucratic PTSD then drove off. 

I got maybe a hundred metres when I lost it, swallowed by heaving terror as I wailed inconsolable from my loss of normalcy; that I had been driven from my home by noise combined with injury and that I had failed as a man. For to be rendered to the state of a terrified child that knows there are monsters in the dark whilst in the flesh drape of a purported man leaves you useless and bereft.

It was the worse attack of industrial noise I'd ever suffered.

The next day my guts were roiled and and accentuated by a shart so fulsome I had to clutch my arse cheeks together to stop shit dripping down my leg and walk with a catoonish twinkle-toes gait to clean up myself without having to clean the floor as well.

It has been over five years since I got injured and the fucking injury is with me for life.

I had already failed as "a man" through dint of height lack and a fat form so to lose mental control and whatever manly stoicism I once had was the icing on the "have a penis; that's it" cake of masculine countenance.

I read the other day that gender expression is a performance; that we are culturally indoctrinated in how to meet a gender "ideal" for the benefit of those around us who we seek to impress. That to fail to play in that role is to draw aggro for not displaying what our brains consider to be a manly or femmine ideal.

I never had the bod to carry it off and then my manly mind was stolen by injury. 

I do take solace that I boiled for hours before I cooked off and days before I had been in a car with a wailing baby without issue due to CBT technique applied on contact.

But I'll not tempt fate another time. If there be construction again then I'll not be there to hear it; I'll fuck off to the library instead. Which is exactly what I did when they came back the next day.

The library; protecting not men from manly noise since they existed. Except, perhaps, for an audio library of manly noises.

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