Tuesday, November 25, 2014

Compliment received!

Recently I helped organise a work do at the building I worked in after I returned following my epic collapse then recovery. At the event I got talking with my old foxpod neighbour, V—, who I shared many a convo with over the months I was in that workplace.

"You know, Mikey," she said, "you look better each time I see you."

And it's true. When I first met her I was on half hours recovering from severe anxiety—and do you ever fully recover from it once you've had it?—and was a physical and mental basket-case. 

But that pain and stress ebbed as I got used to being in a new job and far from the horrors of my old workplace, and I felt better about my organisation as a whole because I got to sit with kind, caring people like V—, and because I got excellent support in the aftermath of my collapse and separation.

I had to MC the work do, introduce the topic then throw to the speaker. My head spouted sweat as I spoke but I was okay as I talked because I know my power and ability to communicate. I talked about the import of the issue and even spoke after the event's speaker to plea for people to scope out a similar issue on our website. I felt okay about speaking, even relished it. 

Every day is a win for me now. I'm in my bonus round and loving every minute of it.

Wellness for the win.

Friday, November 21, 2014

A Mikey mondegreen

All this time I thought in "Kiss from a Rose" that the line "A light hits the gloom on the gray" was "a light hits the bloom on the grave".

The correct version makes much more sense.

Curse you impassioned-yet-wrongly-sung lyric!

Current fave rendition of said song is from Community, season three, episode seven.

UPDATE: Pierce's rap rejoinder Vs Vaughn is also most-good

UPDATE2: "Going Crazy" by the Paparazzi Kids from S01E16 likewise rawks. 

Wednesday, November 19, 2014

Because it's stolen it's even more delish

I paused my SoTPC ride to get another drink.

(Slurps Pepsi Max)

Oh yeah.

Tuesday, November 18, 2014

Poison running through my veins

With thanks to Alice Cooper.

Well, Mikey managed to go and wound himself—and as irony would have it from playing with an existing wound.

I have a raised scar weal on my cheek—though it can't really be seen through my beard—but it's so puckered and "rich" that I can't help worrying the weal with my little finger nail. The face wound received during recovery from severe anxiety when two boil scars became one as I picked away as I considered the darkness I dwelt in.

Because I used the little finger nail of my left hand it meant I rested my elbow on my desk and the hard surface of the desk abraded elbow skin. The hole that was made got infected and I got poisoned as a result. I am now on a fuck-load of antibiotics. 

So well done, Mikey, for allowing oldwork to still impact on you by revisiting again and again physical wound sites acquired in the aftermath of your (my) collapse. 

My elbow was in flaming agony when I awoke yesterday morning and as I walked to the doctor I had to keep my left hand in the neck of my shirt as I was in much pain if my arm straightened. 

I looked like a bearded Napoleon in mufti. 

I spent today in a fever haze, slight delirium from my above average bodily temperature as a result of the infection. I'd forgotten just how unpleasant delirium is. Your head swims, you feel hot then cold, you need a boiling shower to arrest the incontinent chatter of your teeth. 

But, the experience hasn't been all awful. The walk to to doctor's and back was delightful—a warm Spring day complete with bird song and a gaggle of cyclists from my son's nearby school passing me by. My doctor, the first one I've really had that went to the mat for me, is awesome and we got to chat US health policy as he filled out my scripts. Today, though I had multiple fever-laced sleeps, I still got to read on my tablet and I even managed to clamber aboard the SoTPC for my daily ride.

I may have been in agony from the poisoned elbow but it didn't stop my from sucking the marrow from my surrounds or my companion/s of the moment. 

That's wellness for the win, right there. Not even a poisoned limb can put a downer on the Mikester.  

Friday, October 10, 2014

Reverse frying pan

For most of my life I've felt pretty shit about myself. This low appraisal of self made possible with the additional support of parents, peers and prick-arsed teachers—the shit ones who enjoyed inflicting pain because it gave them the jollies and some perverted sense of self for calling me out as an example of a not-man. 

I shed that feeling of shitness when I healed from my severe nervous breakdown of '13, having been able for the first time to look back on my en-rule thus far, the dash between dates of years of birth and eventual death, and realise I'd actually won. I'd won my life. And that my abilities and the circumstances that led me to do awesome work for the people of the fine land of Oz were forged in the crucible of crap, that all that fucked-up shit I copped as a kid paid off in the end because it led me to what I did and led me to survive what then happened to me. 

Being short, fat and afflicted with pain gave me a razor-sharp mind and a keen understanding of suffering. I could see pain because I lived in pain. And that made me better able to help others.

My fibromyalgia is almost background, though the odd flare still happens. My IBS is bad at the moment but I know that's cyclical and already the peak is tapering away. I know that newwork values my skill-set and that my co-workers, many I'd used to work with years before, like me and appreciate what I do.

I no longer work for people who don't believe in what they do. And I know my organisation is healing from years of illness and sads and I am part of the extra healing that's about to commence.

So I won. I won in the end over all of them. Over the shitty people who did shitty shit to me at school through to horrible people doing horrible things to me as an adult.

Fuck me it is true—the best revenge is doing well.

Wellness for the win.

Go, C—!

Go my friend C— who got her book published. 

It's a cracking read and at the end I wanted to read more. 

Now that's a life win. 

Hat (equals sign) doffed

Monday, August 25, 2014

And they shall be known as Barrington-Smythe

With thanks to Dune.

 I have this endearingly irritating habit of giving names to clothes, in the manner of Jerry from Seinfeld, who named his favourite tee as Golden Boy! (1) Of my own wardrobe there’s “Stainy McStain” a three-tree-rings ago somewhat tightish green and white t-shirt I wear as a PJ top during a typical wash-cycle. So named because on the white part there’s a brownish stain that’s never shifted despite repeated attempts, thus, a stain. A kind of living Mikey “shroud of Turin” imprint that is perhaps from a fluid from me or, more likely, from a meal of a long-time ago. When I wear it I yell in a sing-song voice “I’m wearing Stainy McStain!”, like anyone within distance gives a shit. 

That’s okay for me to do that, the naming of clothes, but my habit then inflicted on loved ones around me. theWife had a top in her rotation once, a blue affair with some gold embroidery. I immediately and enthusiastically labelled it “Sergeant Pepper!” because it was so wonderfully reminiscent of the clobber as worn by The Beatles on the album as known by that abbreviated name. 

Then she stopped wearing the shirt. And, when I asked why she didn’t wear it any more, she labelled me as the cause.

“You ruined it,” she said, her finger pointing in accusation, “ruiner.”

And so I had. 

The other night theBoy was wearing a UFO-themed onsie. Without knowing why I declared the pyjamas had a name. “Barrington-Smythe!” I said. And that this was its name from henceforth. 

I then immediately lied that theBoy had told me that’s what its name was earlier, all while he was in earshot, which elicited a wail at the accusation.

“HE LIES!” he almost certainly said.

For the rest of the night I called them “Barrington-Smythe”whenever possible and continued to do so upon next morn until he shed them as he dressed for the day.

Barrington-Smythe; UFO pyjamas.

What’s not to love about that?

(1) Which tragically did not survive a wash-cycle, its place taken by Baby Blue. 

Tuesday, July 29, 2014

Furtling along...

theBoy and I share a word—furtle, or furtling—which means to swivel your eyeballs in a suspicious manner. It now has a larger meaning of tucking your head down to just eyeballs above the rim level and sneakily zooming along. 

I am officially in a new position and oldwork has forever lost their hold. My newwork is awesome and I get to do fun things as I furtle along, tweaking things here, suggesting things there. An insidious influence by sheer dint of competence. 

Yes, my self-esteem is still that high. As I scored in black pen on the bookshelf hutch in the shed a year ago—I will never feel shit about myself again.

I am still sore. My stomach still suffers the occasional IBS yuckfest, but it's nowhere near as often. The old ladies, my fibromyalgia, still flare now and then, but it's not at five minute intervals of my body self destructing as it was in the days leading up to my collapse. I still suffer occasional anxiety flares, and a loud or sudden noise can send me screaming into fight (slash) flight, but that reaction happens less, and the aftermath is not as bad—and I have a six-year-old!

I used to have a mantra of self-dislike, critiquing flaws such as my body or a wincing recall of a past regret. That's forever gone, replaced with words of courage and defiance: "I cannot be hurt", "I cannot be harmed", "I cannot be beaten" or "I cannot be defeated". 

Even as pain fires as I walk, in my head I'm okay. It's the burden I bear to be awesome.

Wellness for the win.