Sunday, December 31, 2017

How was your Christmas?

It's a common enough ask in the aftermath of divine uterine expulsion day but I confess I was not expecting it to be asked that of me. It came from behind me and I thought it said to another until he came around to where I could see him. It was the owner of one of the open every day local places that stocks a bunch of treats I like.

I have this habit of robust truth and confessed that my Christmas was rubbery and that I had a PTSD attack on the morning.

"If you have PTSD then Christmas is probably a day that you're going to get an attack," I explained.

In my case it was theboy being mad and thewife upset and me repairing the breech leaden with sorrow because I hadn't been able to buy a present for my own wife. I should have nutted one out before we left but then presumed I'd get something while we were there. Then there was the leg boil and I could not move after we got there so failed to get something kewl. I felt I had failed them all, as I fail them all always.

He went in to soothe things with her and I excused myself and went out of view from their cabin but on the road, barefoot on the smoothest tar I could find given my super flat feet. 

There I had a massive, juddering silent screaming anxiety attack twinned with dread and stood curled in on myself on the road silent crying because I didn't want to alarm anyone with my agony. It took about 10 minutes to pull it together before I could get the fuck off the road and get something to help the attack then rejoin the mended festivities. 

I didn't tell the owner any of that but that was what happened. It was horrible and horrifying. But I got through it—and the day—and also avoided later unpleasantness that made everything turn to shit for about 90 minutes until thewife fixed that new horror. 

Then I had to remember it but also remember how I fixed my attack with CBT, talked myself off the road and into our cabin to take some Valium then back over to the other place to rejoin the crew. 

I'm getting better at coping with my condition but I'll have to stop auto truth mode. I mean he didn't need to hear that and I should have jollied back with a "great and how was yours?"

But I didn't because I couldn't. Because to do so would not be true and would deny what happened to me and keeps happening to me. 

I get through it, I always do. But now he knows me as short beardy bike helmet man with the PTSD instead of just short beardy bike helmet man.

It's a tough gig playing me. But hey, no small parts—just small actors.

That's prepared

We had eight crackers for four on Xmas day and one of my cracker items was a moustache comb.

So I slotted it in the inside of my iPhone cover for those facial lip grooming emergencies. It's yet to happen but I have the satisfaction of being prepared.

And to think I got kicked out of Scouts; dib, dib, dib, sob, sob sob.

UPDATE: I used it. Only thanks to my jittery hands I had a hell of a time getting the moustache comb out of the clear plastic pocket on the inside of the cover. I even ripped the back lining getting it out. I used it then slotted it in the sliver pocket above the clear plastic one. Typical; I prepare for a situation only to then make it extra tricky given my fucked-up coordination. It's like I set a trap for future me; "Fool! You've food in your moustache and someone important comes?! Try getting it out now!"

Not cool, past Mikey, not cool. 

A ride of reflection—with plenty of bell action!

Sunday is a popular day to be out and about walking by a lake so my lawfully mandated bell got the workout when I zipped past clusters of normal bodies doing normal walking.

I had the ball kick burning on my mind and I knew a ride would help me mull over what to do. 

By the time I got back I hunted for relevant documentation, found it where past Mikey had thoughtfully collected it, then sent it off to those affected. At the very least it will make for an uncomfortable conversation. 

So I got back up; balls bruised, then thought out a way ahead then went ahead. I have the relaxed glow of guilt re-lifted.

I'm a low echelon super competent made more scary; I'm on the outside now. 

WFTW.

Nightmares

After a massive kick to the mind nuts your wounded brain thinks about it; day and night. 

So I had nightmares. At one point there was an exam—so a school memory joined forces—and for some reason I had to leave the exam to do some important work thing knowing it would cause me to fail.

How I go in a day is oft determined by bad dreams before waking. If it's a nasty one my active brain goes back to the territory where the dream spawned from and I'm lost in the hurt, dark and sads of what happened to me. 

Sometimes they just flit away with no impact; a gossamer thread on the wind.

My frequency and severity of bad dreaming will be up, likely for weeks, as I process my hurt, failure and rejection. It's the mind's way of sorting crap out, compartmentalizing it. 

I put on my wall, in eye view, "It happened, I accept that". It's meant to stand for all the things that have happened to me and my attempt to accept those happenings. It's part of active brain work against primeval sads that inflict your upside down brain.

I've found it comforting but now occasionally irritating because it keeps happening and I keep having to accept it.  

There are entire schools of thought that revolve around life, how to live it and accept that it must end. There are people that embrace these thoughts and live serene, peaceful lives. 

I am not one of them; my life was never serene or peaceful. It's been a fight from the beginning; a bruising, dragging knock down fight where again and again I am dropped to the mat and there seems little purpose to get back up and continue.

But I'll keep on getting up because getting the fuck back up is what I do.

WFTW.

Saturday, December 30, 2017

Children screaming

The sound of children screaming is a fight flight trigger for me. Today, thanks to a paddle pool play date, there was a lot of it.

I sat with the door open in my spot in the lounge room, left corner of the couch next to the lamp and table, and took it all in as I absorbed myself in whatever it was I was using on the tablet. It was exposure therapy; putting myself near evil noise to better get used to it.

But it went dark, too dark for me, and I ended up in the end room with my fingers in my ears after an epic cook off cooked off and theboy had to get my ear protection then slide them into place as I removed my fingers. I headed for the shed, fortified against distant screams with YouTube clips by The White Stripes and wrote to distract myself until was safe to come out.

At no point did I panic. I did move myself when the cook off happened outside but then it went into the house to where I'd removed myself. But I was calm with my fingers in my ears and calm when I asked theboy to get my ear protection then to put it on.

It was a smooth daddy extraction from a tricky noise issue but the great thing was not having the fear of panicking. It's dumb to have it; to be frightened of being frightened but that's the risk when a trigger threatens to pull. But I didn't have it; I simply deftly removed myself.

I went for a ride later and thought about the biggest kick to the mental nads I've taken of late. I've only had three or four anxiety events since it happened and I responded the best way I could, with positivity, to thank those who had given me their time.

I feel small, fragile, like in a rowboat without oars on a storm-loomed ocean. 

But I can see the light and it's not far. I just have to paddle with a makeshift oar.

(rips up second seat to use as paddle and starts paddling). 

WFTW.

Friday, December 29, 2017

Bullshit fatigue

I'm tired of the bullshit; everyone is. I am draining all around me because it's "what bullshit is it this time?" If it's not a leg boil then it's PTSD. If it's not that then it's my failing once again to fix things that got broken—which triggers anxiety and PTSD. I'm a leech sucking joy with my bullshit. 

And just when you think one turd is done and dusted there's yet more bullshit.

I would hate to be in my life; to deal with my bullshit. You have joy, things are going well and then it's "what bullshit is it this time?"

Fucking hell. Just fucking hell.

I took myself away to give respite. I rode in the rain without battery. It was gruelling. A chest pounder to go up the slightest of slopes in the lowest of gears. I didn't have to walk it at any point but I came close. So it was an unexpected bonus; extra exercise to take some of the smell away. 

I think it helped. Now I just have to shut the fuck up, not inflict bullshit and basically give people a break from the bullshit. 

Bullshit; it never ends. Unless you're a divine being and you divert a water course through the bullshit all that happens is just more bullshit. 

Here's wishing I was Hercules; in addition to the most def powers there's that natty lion skin and club.

Finger lock

British men or men raised by British men have a tendency to walk with their hands clasped behind their back, typically displayed when surveying a part of the world that wasn't theirs but they took anyway. If you watch old movies with British officers you'll see they all do it.

The men in my family—save for me—are tall. They're so tall they don't clasp their hands behind their back; they grip one wrist with the other hand. That's how long their arms are—great for reach and impressing girls who enjoy things tall men can do like easily changing light bulbs and inspiring genital wetness.

I am short—prenatally shrunk—but I still have a habit of wanting to clasp my hands behind my back. I've discovered I've gone the finger lock method—right index finger looping around a curled left middle finger. It's not too onerous on my short arms to do and I get the satisfaction of imperious hands behind the back walking.

I don't have a British accent—nor do I have broad Australian accent. I have a weird melange of both, depending on the words used and the company said to. 

I'm still royally pissed off I wasn't tall. I know I wouldn't be me without my crippled body and bruised mind—with lack of height and non-lack of weight a constant social cost I wore; a cost compounded by negging girls because I presumed they didn't like me. 

What a dickhead. 

But I learned not to do that and I'm a better person for it. I'd still choose to be me, finger lock instead of manly wrist grab, if it meant a different life of meaningless en. If I had to be me to do the things I did then me it is and in all its short, fat, warped glory. 

(Shaky fist raised for Comrade Mikey

WFTW

Practice makes perfect

Next door is having a jam session. They're all men, middle-aged and up, and congregate normally on a Sunday; but with the Canberra Xmas-NY shutdown it means they're free to rock it on a Friday.

And rock it they are. Thanks to walls and the air gap all that comes through though is the muted bass.

It means I hear only that and only that happens a few times over.

I feel like the neighbour from The Onion article about his appreciation of his fellow tenant finally nailing "Jumpin' Jack Flash".

It's not loud enough to be irritating but it has fully earwormed me. Though they've stopped playing for now the riff is on replay in my head.

Dunt dunt dunt ... dunt dunt dunt ... dunt dunt dunt...

Rinse and repeat.

Thursday, December 28, 2017

Toe nail is not food

I have what one podiatrist described as "the worst feet ever seen". It's not like I set out to do it—it happened due to pre-natal neglect—but my feet are flat, splayed and with toe nails sunk deep into the bed.

They're hideous. But I'm fat so I rarely see them unless sitting down bare footed with my feet out.

I was seated and had opened up the lower door of the hutch where the nine maturing chicks live so they could dart out and have some grass time.

One of them, then another, came over and had a go at the big right toe nail.

I don't blame them—the nail is thick, twice that of a normal nail, but sunk deep in the bed like the dead sea with hills of toe flesh surrounding it. Because I have OCPD I pick at them and rip off chunks leaving an uneven surface of broken, healing nail that looks akin to breaking pack ice.

To a chick the tip of an upthrust nail chunk looked like food. It was not. Its friend tried it as well. 

That's the challenge of me; to live in a body destined to die in infancy but thwarted by medicine and luck (for me). I'm mobile—I can walk, it just hurts to do it—and while short with hands and fingers afflicted by bone fail, medication and injury I can pick stuff up and do everything a normal person can. I just do it in pain and with discomfort and use a blend of techniques to cope; I put my socks on whilst braced in a doorway. I'm not sure how I'd manage it if I lived in a non-doorway place like a cave or tent.

That challenge is made harder with the mental dross of PTSD, anxiety, depression, OCPD and some other shit I can't be fucked to rattle off; needless to say the filling out of a new patient form at a clinic can take a while. 

But I'm still here, shakily mobile and wobbly in the head and tum, and with feet, that to a chicken, look like a treat. 

The lesson learned here is "wear protection". 

Life is basically a series of accidents where you try to deal with those accidents and avoid future ones. For me it's to recognise my hideous feet while repellent to humans are delicious to chickens and that footwear is needed for next time.

The last thing I need is to go into ER with an infected foot then lamely say a chicken ate it.

UPDATE: Three days later. The hutch was opened to let them roam. I did not have crocs on. They came for the right toe nail once again. That's a shame on me for not crocing up before the gate was opened. Even after past me warned now me this would happen if I didn't. Stupid recent then me.

UPDATE2: It's New Year's Eve. I got some food stuck in my hour glass joint spot of my tummy—the hour glass shape caused by my deactivated lapband   As I stood with my head hung near the back tap with care one of the roving chicks had a go at my fucking toenails. I ended up balancing on one foot like a crane to keep one foot away from them as I upchucked my dinner. What's the bet they eat the upchuck?

Anger shock

The first 72 hours after a groin kicking knock are the hardest. You're in a heightened state of unreality because the universe does not make sense.

It's an intense sublimated bafflement that grips you body and mind.

It happened on my ride and I got home in an eerie state of calm on the edge of yawning unreason.

I fell back on CBT to talk my way through it by narrating what I was doing in a calm way in order to be calm. It is weird to describe what you are doing as you move through a house and do things but the only other option is to crack it and have a full beyond reason fit of wounded loss.

I've had two Valium and a shower and narrated myself to the shed and bedroom without collapsing. That raw agony that built is safely leeching, not cooked off in a fear maddened yell state with tunnel vision, hysterics and hugging or holding on to something because grief ate my legs.

It may come again; it probably will. 

But this time I got through it without tripping into the abyss of overwhelming loss and failure.

WFTW.

UPDATE: On taking my night pills I found I had not taken the morning ones; the ones that keep the sads demons at bay.

If you're going to suffer an acute psychological shock then the onus is on you to take the daily morning medication that helps you through such moments when they occur and help prevent their occurring in the first place. 

I feel bad for afternoon me. I took them with the night ones; the wigs had kicked in and I did not like it. I thought the dizziness was low blood pressure and tested it to find it was fine. Then it turned out I just hadn't taken the pills I need to keep the howl of wounding from claiming my soul.

Good one. 

Tuesday, December 26, 2017

Huddled by the pool

We went to the coast for Christmas but as luck would have it I flared another leg boil and could not move for three days properly before Xmas then had the boil "opened" Xmas morning in order to relieve it—an exquisite pain response where I had to bite into a towel lest I wake the park with a yowl at seven am.

So I couldn't go to the pools and I couldn't walk; I was stuck in the cabin again.

The worst moment was one day two when theboy hurt himself on a bathroom tap and yelled in pain and agony. I immediately babbled "ohfuckohfuckohfuck" because my PTSD-afflicted brain triggered.

Then he got mad at me for responding that way; angry and yelling I shouldn't have done that.

And he was right; I shouldn't have done that—and I would not have were it not for the monstrous injury I took from my workplace. I had to summon thewife from the next door unit where her mother was, brief her theboy was injured, then with full blown fright and in the rain ended up huddled by the pool fence. I was moaning, hands held over arms as the screaming failure and loss of parental function washed over me.

thewife had to find me; she had a cup of water and three Valium. 

My PTSD and anxiety spiked a few more times that week.

Then when I got home there was corro telling me to fuck off. I should have expected it but I confess I thought I'd receive a thanks. That I thought that says a lot about just how idealistic I am; that ideas should matter and empirical evidence should as well. 

But it didn't and it doesn't.

I had a hideous anxiety attack on reading it and even now two hours on I shudder at its impact. 

So the end of 2017 will be as it started; in pain and distress. But I will get back up and keep plodding on; getting the fuck back up is what I do.

WFTW.

Monday, December 18, 2017

Joker sends acid vat Christmas card

Gotham City, DC comics United States: Insane clown-themed criminal "The Joker" sent the vat of acid that caused his hideous transformation a Christmas card, Arkham Insane Asylum sources report.

The Joker's card expressed fond seasonal wishes to the vat and wished that it and its family all the best for the coming holiday season.

"It's not unusual for our prisoners to send cards to inanimate objects. 'The Riddler' sends a card to a cracker company—to be read to the first-off-the-assembly-line cracker only—and 'The Penguin' sends fan mail to an igloo in Greenland.

"Given 'The Joker's' transformation from a normal human being into a hideous panoply of the twin tensions of acting of drama and comedy played across the same grotesque features as well as a deeply psychotic personality you'd think 'The Joker' would be upset at the acid vat; not thanking it in the festive season," said the employee who spoke under condition of anonymity so his family would not be gruesomely murdered the next time there is a break out from the facility.  

"But 'The Joker' says without the acid vat then he'd have been a middling nobody; a nothing. And as Oscar Wilde said the only thing worse than being talked about is falling face first into a vat of acid and having your physical and psychological features twisted beyond recognition," said the source. 

"Unless, that is, you're 'The Joker'."

The Joker's acid vat fall was ultimately caused by The Batman, the caped crusader having pursued the pre-malformed Joker along a gantry that was atop giant open-faced vats of psychotic-criminal-causing acid. 

"I'd actually be a tad cranky at the company for not having sealed vats," said the source. 

"I mean it would have cost three fifths of fuck all to do the right job and prevent harm to people by doing basic things like getting up and not sitting on your arse in the one position to allow that accident that was ready to happen at a moment's notice to anyone, let alone a small time criminal running away from a menacing fusion of bat and man who then fell over that clearly not high enough railing.

"It could have been Ted from accounting up there doing an audit and next thing you know 'SPLOOSH' we have an insane accountant on our hands who afflicts the world through accounting themed weaponry like exploding ledgers and hypnotic double-entry bookkeeping.

"If it was Eric, whose passion is dressing up in a furry costume at night to have anonymous group sex with like-minded strangers, then perhaps he'd come out as impotent with a desire to make all of us furry on the outside like him—the acid caused the costume to melt onto his skin forever clothing him in his fur-based outfit—by tampering with the water supply such as doing a shit in it.

"They're insane; I didn't say they were all rendered more criminally capable. I mean if it was Eric we're talking about a dude with an acid melted costume, severe burns, laughing that he's turning everyone furry by squatting over a stream that is part of the Gotham City water catchment basin. 

"Obviously water purification would deal with that, even if he produced some weird chemical that came out his arse to make us all furry because of the sheer level of water compared to that one insane poo would dilute it to insignificance."

The acid vat was surprised to receive the card, according to factory sources, who had been unaware until now the vat had sentience as a result of its encounter with The Joker and indicated through a once bubble for yes and twice bubble for no that it was proud it had received the recognition it deserved for its acid-birthed monstrosity.

"It then bubbled several times which we took as a sign for us to feed one of the lowly ones to our new vat master overlord," concluded one of the sources, adding they chose Stewart, the janitor, who gained spider-like powers to cling to surfaces and an acid spray that efficiently cleaned, but did not affect, most non-organic surfaces.

"Unfortunately if you're organic, like people or wooden doors people hide behind, you get dissolved and if you're in a lot of pain from your vat-deformed body you tend to be upset and take it out on people or the doors 'protecting' them," added the source who said he was hiding in a metal locker in the break room until Stewart scuttled off the premises satisfied it revenged itself on those that failed it by not having a lid on an acid vat or throwing him to the now sentient vat to appease it once it gained cognition.

"People talk about that brain in the vat," whispered the source, scared Stewart could still be nearby, referring to the old age philosophical conundrum of is our existence truly what we are experiencing, "they never say what to do if it's the vat that gets a brain as well." 

Sunday, December 17, 2017

Adventure backed by "Yakety Sax"

With thanks to YouTube.

I have a womb-deformed skeleton that left me with short fingers, double-jointed little fingers and a poor grasp. Combining that with injury, medication and PTSD means I'm left with a normative state of fingers with a fine tremble and difficulty manipulating objects.

I was sitting in the semi-dark of my room attempting to open a Christmas card envelope when theboy, playing a side-scrolling game, clicked the formerly mobile toy Xmas tree that blares out "Yakety Sax". The tree used to run around but it had an accident—it owed theboy money I think—and its leg got broken. An attempted fix restored the leg but not the ability to run. So it just threshes about on its face or back as the music sallies forth.

So thus begun my "adventure with an everyday object"—Can he? Will he? Won't he?—where I attempt to do something a normal person can do with ease but turns into an adventure for me. Only this time it was backed with the theme to The Benny Hill Show.  

It was funny; I laughed in the dim of the room as I fumbled at the seams and tried to land a nail edge on a flap lip to do a starter tear for the full rip open. 

I got the envelope open by the time the tree stopped bleating—it plays two runs of the song's core—but I don't think I got the card out in time as well. 

If I had then I'd be up there with someone who's assisted by another in a spangly costume. 

That's an SNL sketch I'd like to see; a magician with PTSD still grimly attempting the trade but fails because of loud noises, trembling hands and a laughing kid that cooks him off at the end of the bit. 

Fucking hilarious; watch this man's dignity disappear...

Saturday, December 16, 2017

Home not alone

With the traditional Ozzer cultural downtime for the Christmas and New Year combined with Summer school holidays it means my home alone time has come to an end. I had 2017 off and spent almost all my time—apart from going to therapy—home alone. 

So during the day I was free to be me and that included angry singing.

I was angry singing to "Sabotage" when theboy opened the door of the shed and looked in, worry writ across his face.

He thought I'd cooked off into an angry emotional PTSD-fuelled state and was doing shed-based ranting because that's what it sounded like outside as my voice was louder and the music muted; it just sounded like furious speechifying. 

I'd tripped him into a pre-flight fight response which my family has because of my condition; if I am in a "outside reason" state then it's frightening and distressing to see. 

I told him what I was doing but he still walked away worried because his brain and body had been put into a trigger state by what appeared to be daddy having one of his attacks. He would then have either tried to calm me or get his phone and call mum for help.

I'm no longer home alone so I have to curb that habit; angry singing may make me feel good in the moment but it heightens my emotions for a potential trigger latter that day and now it impacts on others. I feel great when I do it; it sounds scary as fuck to them when I do.

This year was a blessing; just being at home and in treatment. But I baked in some bad habits—I had an angry shout ride on the BYB yesterday—in the time away and now I'm not home alone I have to actively stop them

To see the look of frightened worry etched deep into your child's face because they fear you've gone over to the dark side of angry non-reason is deeply confronting. PTSD is contagious; the people around you the most know your triggers and they go into a heightened state when one happens because they're worried you're going to cook off.

And even when you're not, if you sound like you are then they rightly think you are as well. 

I'm not home alone and the merry season is upon us. In the spirit of the season I'll go positive. Because I'm in company now, the company I most love, and it's a horror seeing your son open your door to check to see if  you've gone insane so he can then deal with the getting his father through it if he has.

Friday, December 15, 2017

Talisman won by toad

I'd used The Highlands teleport helmet in the inner zone but landed in the valley before the crown. The Wizard was there and I toaded the fucker with the toadify spell.

It was a Race to the Crown result and then he simply hopped onto the crown space in all his toady glory to win.

Beaten by a toad; that's a fail.

Thursday, December 14, 2017

Opening credits



Possibly the best opening credits I've seen to date; just glorious. 

It's not a battle anthem; I just play it 'cos it makes me happy.

Wednesday, December 13, 2017

Adios, cowboy

It seems at time of writing Roy Moore lost the senate race in Alabama to Doug Jones from the Democratic party. Moore, accused of serial annoyance of hot girls at the mall and worse, wore a cowboy outfit at most public engagements and pulled out his weapon of choice a number of times to show off his love for "number two" and that "number one" only applied to Christians and then only when they said so (gays, slaves, burying talents etc.).

I believe Jones got 56 per cent of all women and the black turnout was big, with the Mighty O coming out to support Jones in his race to not be a child molester in the senate. And I know Al Franken rightly fell on his sword for less but let's not forget the whole Dennis Hastert business who was after retirement as Speaker of the House was outed as having molested boys whilst a wrestling coach; a cliched molestation if there ever is one—one of many grown men manipulating young bodies who manipulated their way into the education system in order to manipulate those bodies. 

I had a big talk with theboy about my experience of being physically assaulted by teachers and molested by that school's recommended psychologist; that that sort of crap would never happen to him because of the sea change in how we teach children since I was in school. 

But I added that the horror of X led to the happy of Y (such as him) and that I wouldn't change my life, my body, even if I could if that meant no him. Then he wished I could port my consciousness into a proper healthy body that was the height it should have been; one with proper feet, proper manly knees and hips and masculine fingers which had to be long and ideally calloused from years of hard yakka.

My hands have fingers that are short and that have trouble grasping objects, made worse by injury and medication, are lily white and there are no manly callouses at all. Even at the tips of my writing fingersme being a relatively fast (though error prone) two-finger typer with a loud finger fall that sounds like I am angry at my keyboard or whatever I am writing about—remain callous free.

That happens, the angry writing, but it sounds the same as normal writing—the only real difference is that when typing angry I look like I am doing a stressful poo.

Anyway it's a good result; and a decent rebuke to Trump. Especially given the US is a voluntary voting system with conditions ideal for turnout if you are middle-class or higher and white and can take time from your job or retirement to go out on a work day to do that; they don't even make it a public holiday. 

If they did then more poor people and people of colour would vote because they're the ones in the shittiest of the jobs where taking up to six hours to vote means loss of critical income. 

I'm glad Moore got bounced; he ws the most Trumpy candidate the GOP could vomit up that's not already named Trump and he got bounced from a senate seat that until he was the runner was considered a "never lose" for the GOP. 

But that he got that close at all shows the partisan divide and the willingness of the right wing in the US to suspend norms of government solely to get their own way as they did with the Gorsuch Supreme Court seat. 

The US is a deeply complicated place; it threw up Trump into office, a man whose only experience of government was in usurping, bending and twisting it in his effort to stay rich and live in his palace of gold. It did that because of its arguably archaic Electoral College system skewed white through flyover country. 

It's similar here in Oz—the smaller States have 12 Senators the same as the large whilst the Territories just have two each—despite populations comparable to Tasmania with the full 12. It was part of the deal for Federation that bound the colonies together so a big state couldn't swamp a little one in the house of review. It's given us our fair share of eccentrics, many of which could compete with Moore in the crazy stakes (though as of now none are suspected offenders against children). 

I don't like it but then I live in Canberra and suffer from the disparity of power. We're the ones who know government best but we're literally dudded in terms of our input into government. 

The US got a reprieve and more GOP will be willing to front Trump from now on because he has shown himself for what he is; a predator who tried to help a like-minded villain ascend to an office of power and influence and who openly derided the plausible and well-researched stories of those women, once girls, who experienced the Moore in the privacy of his own lechery and predation. 

But then he had no other choice; if he'd agreed with people like his daughter then he'd be saying the women with the plausible and well-researched stories of their own pawing at the hands of himself should be weighted with the same dignity. 

History is catching up with Trump; all the chicanery he's pulled within limit of statutes will be unearthed by the Justice League team assembled by the ex-head of the FBI, many of whom dropped six or seven figure salaries to return to government once last time. In order, I suspect, to fix the mistake that ultimately led to Trump's election with the former Director's 2016 investigating playing merry hell on Hillary Clinton's chances after early polls had opened. 

I do hope that in this world actual justice will happen; that he will be at last held accountable for his life of being a gilded turd with bad hair plugs.

No arse blood!

It seemed the bleeding arse incident was a one off and healed itself. I had to check pre-wipe and no blood.

I now have the soft, relaxing feeling of not bleeding out of my arse to be a new thing for us to deal with. I say us because the impact of my wounded mind and under cooked body falls on everyone around me because they have to help me and, for now, I can't contribute.

But as GoT famously opined "Some people will always need help. It doesn't mean they're not worth helping."

I need help and I have it. I'm just sad that, for now, I need lots of help and that burden falls on my family.

The BYB is back online and I will away for an EMDR session soon. The cycle there and back is cathartic in that the physicality of the ride helps dampen the pre and post session angst. I'll likely cry---and shout---but it's part of it; bitter mind medicine that makes you well but doesn't feel great when you're having it. 

It's part of the regeneration of me. I can't do what I used to but I can try other things. I accidentally fell into government then brutwally exited it near twenty years later. I feel like the shop owners in that Seinfeld bit about those shop sites that churn through owners and business types and that perhaps they were abducted then returned to Earth like in Close Encounters and as they're staggering down the ramp they're still trying to make sense of it; "there was good sidewalk traffic!"

But that's for the future to worry about. Right now I'm celebrating the fact I am not bleeding out of my arse. 

You know, it's those little things like the absence of rectal bleeding that make your day just that little bit sweeter.

WFTW.

Sneezed wryly

I sneezed twice but each time I actually said the word "Achoo" they both came across as wry, even mocking.

It was a weird delivery of a double sneeze, to sound as if I am insulting someone with a wry cliched sneeze except the only one here is me.

What's next? A sneering clearing of the throat? A sarcastic ball scratch? These are normal reactions; I don't want to set a pattern of body response twinned with aggrandisement. That's just making the challenge of being me that much harder.

(Peeved bum jiggle)

Tuesday, December 12, 2017

Bleeding arse and a snot bubble

I had a scare this morning after I saw a streak of blood in the toilet following a motion. Knowing thewife has a better head for such things I texted to ask if I should get an exam but she said if the blood was bright it indicated an internal tear which happens sometimes to her. I went again later with no blood appearing.

But after I saw the blood I feared another health contraction, where your world shrinks to just dealing with a health crisis and the rest of normality fades to background. A world of examinations, chemo and a fair chance at early death.

In that gulf between the bleeding and the prognosis of likely normal bottom business suffering a mild inner failure my immediate thought was "fuck, I've dodged death so many times; if this is it I'm lucky I've had the time I've had and got to do what I did."

Later, in the shed, my nose blocked up and, unbidden, out from the left nostril rose an enormous snot bubble. When I made into the house to get a tissue I looked in the mirror to see the grim balloon had grown so big it was now rising up the rim of my glasses.

It was quite the body show from me, the reverse Rumpelstiltskin.

I've been grappling with the facts of my childhood; that my body failure was caused by pre-natal neglect and that I was bullied by the ones who did it to me. That not only did they steal a foot in height but left me with lifelong pain from a malformed skeleton which still had the appetite of a big person and who grew into the shape he was always going to have; short, broad and fat. I look like a LOTR dwarf hobbit combo, for fuck's sake.

Heroes are both born and made; they have qualities that enable them to shine when circumstances call for their rise. But those qualities they draw on are oft caused by pain, loss and struggle. 

I had a fucked body but because of it ended up in a place where I gave my thirties to the nation state and literally went insane fighting for people I did not know because I was the right person in the right place at the right time. 

I spent my childhood in my head, reading fantasy and sci-fi to escape reality. I read about heroes doing heroic deeds and stories of humble people made heroes through tragedy and loss.

Then it happened to me; and it would not have were it not for the baptism of fire that was a crap childhood with a body that should be dead a hundred times over.

There is comfort in that. Yes, X happened but Y was the result.

And in that brief moment of presuming "now I have arse cancer" my reflexive thought was how lucky I was to have mattered and made it this far at all.

WFTW.

Friday, December 08, 2017

Finally

It's official, people of the same sex can marry in Oz. We're the 28th country to do so and the last of the eyes to do it. 

But it came at a cost---I read reports of harassment and abuse doubled for LGBTIQ people during the plebiscite, the last gasp of the bigoted who cannot comprehend that such people exist. Indeed they were all but un people for most of history and forced to suppress their selves and worst of all hate themselves because of something they had no decision over and because society slandered them.

I still remember my mum telling me it was okay if I was gay; I gently explained I was not, that being short and stout repelled women as opposed to me not liking them and then she remembered she had two other tall and not fat sons she looked after in the womb and out of it and lost interest in the subject.

Anyway, enough of that grim crap; this is a cause to celebrate the blowing away of bigotry and hate and a giant fuck you to them for making people hate themselves who never ever had cause to.

Wellness for LGBTIQ people for the win.

Thursday, November 30, 2017

That's a major red flag

With thanks to SNL.

For the first time in seeming forever I put in for a job that I'd be keen to do. Only it was after I sent it that I realised I had misspelled the name of the point of contact. Not just their first name but their surname too. The latter was because of a broken embedded email address where that address had forgotten a letter in the contact name. The former was me spelling the name incorrectly because I'd used a common variant for that name but that was the wrong one.

The letter in both cases was the letter H. 

I had to grit teeth and send an apology. 

Getting the name right is the first thing they teach you and I failed. 

But, what's done is done. If I get punted on first contact because of adding an H to the first name and subtracting it for the second then that's the price I pay for that fail.

It was brutal doing the job application. I put way too much detail in and I had to discuss work I did that later resulted in a severe nervous breakdown. It was about three hours all up of writing about me then editing then trying to send it to a broken email address, working out why it was broken then sending to the correct address but forgetting to make the same correction in the surname of the intro—which had been based on the surname in the faulty embedded email. 

What a fail. 

If I get to interview then they let that pass and I thank them. But it's the first thing I'll say when I go into the room because I will feel the need to apologise again at the start of a meeting where I am supposed to present my best face forward.

Owning a mistake is part of the process and I owned it sending an immediate apology with a correction applied. I learned that in the workplace early; if you fuck up then tell someone who needs to know and offer a correction where possible. It is the only practical solution to a fuck up because anything less is making the mistake worse.

That's why the cover up is worse than the lie. Because you know you made a mistake but to deny it or conceal it through inaction is to have it burr at you and make you worse at your job. 

There were times in my past career that I made career-ending mistakes. Except each time I made the mistake I copped to it and offered a solution to fix it. I also learned from those mistakes and did my best not to repeat them. And because I was dobbing myself in then I got a pass on the possible worst outcome for a fail that bad.

But to get a first name then a second name wrong on a "please hire me" letter is an instant kill and if it is so then it is deserved—and it's another reminder of the need to do the basics of the craft and check before you send that you got the fucking name/s right. 

(sigh)

Wednesday, November 29, 2017

What it is to be a person

I've been reflecting of late on my childhood and the manly aspects of it where I was sent to a place that triumphed its ability to turn boys into men. Fortunately that institution is now co-ed but I expect it still suffers from its own idea of what a man should be and what they should not.

Should have: body that works, be average height or better with an athletic build.

Should be taught: boys who are not that are scum and not manly. 

Now imagine the first is X and they are taught that Y is bad. Then imagine being that Y in an institution built for X.

Their idea was warped at the beginning; that there are characteristics of being a man that exist because of your genitals which include the ability to throw, run, bully and a paternalistic notion of manners towards ladies that implied they were less capable just because they had tits and no cock.

In fact it was a crock---the whole mess of it and their idea of manliness. They should have taught what it means to be a person not a man. That you treat others with respect and you don't sneer down on people or hang shit on those whose bodies are not like yours.

To be a Y in a place that worshiped X did a number on my head. And it took until 40 to realise that X was not important; that it's how you treat people irrespective of what they are, what shape they have and the gender and sexual identity they possess.

I was taught X was good and Y was bad and as a Y I was held up to the X as an example of not to be a Y.

Private all boys schools are warped environments that teach crippling ideas. Specifically that if you packed a penis then it was your fault if you were not an X and as such you were fit for abuse.

I didn't choose my body; my mother did. Then the both of them hung shit on me for being a Y and then sent me to a place where Y was held up as a metric for X so they didn't become the dreaded Y.

What a fucked up bunch of fuckheads and their school for creating the next generation of fuckheads who think being a man means X when they forget that first and foremost they are a person and that means you treat people as a person---even if they are a Y and or have genitals not the same as yours. 

If you send your child to such a place then know this; they are being damaged even if they are an X because they are taught to be cruel and that this cruelty is deserved.

Monday, November 27, 2017

Under brain floods; clings to buoy

I missed a call from theboy asking for me to get him with the trike; he was walking home. I didn't realise because I didn't have my phone on me and the last news was he'd be at an after school thing until pick up. I found out when he walked through the gate.

He was fine with it; my not getting his text and call and walked home all the same. I said sorry, that I didn't have my phone, that I would have come and got him the moment he asked if I had realised because I never wanted him to feel abandoned.

Then my under brain flooded and I had to excuse myself because fight flight kicked in, extreme distress washed over and I ended up clinging to the stand up boxing bag as if it was younger me telling him I was here and we were okay. My legs got rubbery so I held tighter like the bag was a buoy as the tears flowed as screaming into my mind were all the times my parents had abandoned me or threatened to do so.

It wasn't often but they were searing moments of childhood pain; a dagger to the heart of feeling safe, valued and loved which I never gained again until I had a family of my own.

Life is full of horror and my childhood was blessed with prosperity even as my head was in a prison of malformed flesh that drew rebuke and ridicule from parents and peers alike. 

You can have all your physical needs met yet still feel like a sick, useless fuck that should have done the world a favour and actually drowned all those times they thought I had. That's especially enhanced when you're sent into an environment where you are destined to fail then be held up as a failure by the rest when that certain failure occurs.

My child is fine; he was okay with my missing that call. But there were times when I walked home instead of taking the bus to avoid being exposed to chronic bullying from the Catholic high school kids who got the backseat because they got picked up first. But often I'd tire and go to the house of a family from our church and phoned home to ask to be picked up. My mother would come, eventually, but pissed at me for forcing her to something she didn't want to do. So I got to enjoy the passive or active hostility that came with having asked them for help when she picked me up.

That stayed with me for life; that expectation that my parents would be pissed off at me if I asked for help. They made me feel shit about money, assistance with moving furniture to student housing and even use of computer discs—I once took one from the presumed-for-family use box of discs only to have my mother shriek I was a thief and emasculate me in front of my friend. Before every term exams they threatened to no longer fund uni if I failed a single course even though they could have signed the paperwork for financial emancipation where I could have then got the exact same amount of money from Austudy—the then scheme that funded students—but without the threat of withholding it or destroying my future on whim if I dared fail a single course. How's that for fucking motivation?

The chemistry has passed, torment has eased. Writing this helped—it always does. But I hope to get to a point soon where I don't relive a horror memory that is tangentially related to what my son experiences then suffer an acute chemical reaction where I cry and have to cling to something lest I fall down with grief.