Monday, March 30, 2015

Trigger not pulled

I have a number of anxiety trigger thanks to my previous insanity but it's down to circumstances as to whether the trigger is pulled. There are some triggers that are hair-trigger sensitive and others that are quite hard to pull such as seeing work from long ago.

Recently I encountered a hair-trigger, a trigger that would have pulled a year ago at first contact. Then several more times following that until the magazine was empty (ClickClickClickClick). 

I remained composed. I simply left, returned to my desk and kept working. When I went on a lunch walk instead of lunch I didn't think about the hair-trigger. I thought about newwork as I muddled through a tricky piece of report building. 

That's not even bounce back. That's just not moving.

I made sure to let my pit crew peeps know that I'd had a possible moment but that possible moment didn't lead into "a moment". No emoting, not even a grimace.


Friday, March 27, 2015

Don't mention the sushi!

I'd had an awesome mates date lunch and barreled in from the bus to announce it.

"I had an awesome lunch—sushi!"

"Ergh," yelled theBoy. 

It turned out just three minutes before I walked in the door he'd tried sushi for the first time and promptly thrown up on the kitchen floor. 

It had only just been cleaned up. 

Probs wept. 

Later I mentioned it again—"It was squid and chicken!"—and that prompted another chorus of ixnay on the ushisay. 

What a hilarious coda for a working week. 

Bounce back

I've bounce back from anxiety quickly now, able to return to a state of calm from extreme panic and even able now to discuss the past rationally and without crying. 

Perhaps it's from all the experience I've had.


Thursday, March 26, 2015

Now it's morphed into couch towel

In addition to post-bath drying himself on my clothed body if I am foolish enough to lie on the big bed, he's also taken to sitting on me to get dressed.

He now calls me "couch towel". 

Sometimes, before he does it, he'll sing out "Get ready, couch towel!"


UPDATE: It happened again. There was much glee. 


A fart.

Near cartoon hole in the wall to almost calm

I had a bad day recently. A rehab meeting, but not the good kind of "looking forward" ones. I was already in a state of anxiety when I arrived at work, my IBS raging as evidenced by the malodorous offenses as caused against two disabled toilets (1), but I'd managed to keep working through once I'd dealt with an unpleasant chore.

I'd just tackled a large lump of work and was feeling better for having accomplished something when I found out about the meeting. I had enough time for a walk–cry–walk outside then return to my desk. I was in a near fight / flight state imagining all the fears I could imagine when I got a call from the lobby.

It was my support person. One of my bosses organised for him to be here for before–during–after. 

Thank fuck he turned up. At that point I was near ready to throw myself through the wall and charge off in the wilderness to blindly seek some sort of nook or concealed cranny I could curl up in until the panic ebbed. He sat me down, got me to control my breathing and tethered me to reality. This was but a moment, a horrid one, but concentrate on realistically what is likely to happen.

The meeting went okay. It was hard, but I didn't cry, and I got to thank people for their support and their work on my behalf. Then my support person and I went off to talk about how it went and my plan for my awesome work future.

I also said how I fully realised how lucky was I. I fell down but I got helped back up and now I'm being helped again.


(1) My floor ... then at a different floor.

Wednesday, March 25, 2015

Ye gawds indeed

I've spent the past few days enjoying the heady rush of severe abdominal discomfort with toilet business I won't go into. 

Plus the toilet light isn't working so I've had to use a torch at night. And I look ... I always look. 

The added menace of checking motions by torch light following painful discharge of that motion does indeed serve to heighten the uncomfortable nature of the entire proceedings with a soupcon of supernatural menace. Like my ablution is going to animate and attempt to throat punch me into submission.

Hooray for dodgy plumbing and the adventure with that it brings.

Tuesday, March 24, 2015

(cue Marvin voice) Ghastly, isn't it?

With thanks to Douglas Adams.

Ted Cruz is running for President. 

I watched his announcement at Liberty University—for the first nine years of its life not even an accredited institution—from 23 March and it was just ghastly. He spent several minutes imagining a future of a super president (he) doin' a bunch of stuff like ensuring every child had a great education no matter their methodology of learning (e.g. Christian school, public school, home school) yet demands an end to places like the Department of Education which would provide oversight to ensure that every child got a decent education no matter their methodology. He praised Reagan as the hero that lowered the top tax rate and destroyed the USSR despite the fact Reagan had to re-raise taxes and still blew out the deficit and the USSR more imploded more from internal system failure than anything the US did. Cruz imagined a flat tax future, where everyone pays the same rate and there is no Internal Revenue Service needed to administer taxes when flat taxes are regressive whose burden falls most on those that can bear it the least and a flat tax would carve a massive slice off government revenue.

He's a horrid preacher man foisting a nasty individuality-over-community ideology on people primed to take things on faith. I am just hoping he flames out and flames out but good. Though I suspect what will happen is Cruz will become a VP pick for the eventual Republican nominee which will likely be Jeb Bush. 

Bush 'n' Cruz '16. I fear that bumper sticker. Though it also makes a dandy good ole boy type pairing on first names of Jeb 'n' Ted.  

Fun fact about Jeb Bush is that Jeb means his first and given name and his last name as an acronym. Jeb Bush is in fact J.E.B, or "John Ellis Bush" Bush.

That's double Bush.

Double Bush 'n' Cruz?! Probs save us all.

Liquid paper—the fillet 'o' fish of the stationery world?

I've been raiding dollar shops of late, hunting for a cheap set of magnets to lo buy for my shed, the interior of which is festooned with good memories tat from high school, uni and my working life such as old transcripts, comedy posters, and photocopies of various office items we made as bored mail-room people in the late '90s like that of a staple remover pre-shredder and a staple remover, post. 

As I acquire evidence of fun times had I magnetically-adhere the evidence to the shed wall such as a ticket to a recent work event and its matching ribbon or the stub from a comedy show I saw with a friend along with a inscribed description and the date of the event and when I made that inscription. 

I hit the fifth dollar shop for magnets and got maximum success of packets of six strong magnets for two dollars—exactly what I needed. 

They were near the stationery aisle. And I saw in that aisle liquid paper and corrective tape as used in typewriters. The stock looked fresh, recent. 

Who the fuck is still using liquid paper and/or corrective tape? Is it a meth precursor? Has it replaced ephedrine as base for speed? I could not see why it was still stocked or why people still needed it—much like the the fillet 'o' fishunless it was somehow related to the good time trade of homemade narcoticary.

Presuming it is drug-related I imagine now all these bikies (1), like that over loud arsehole that lives in our suburb, going through check out with nine tubes a go and mumbling excuses about poor cursive and how they're really getting to grips now with the s and the weird stylized number three, or 3, for the z that some people do. . 

Because if there's anything bikies appreciate more than good penmanship I'd like to know what that is.After-all, their commitment to fine inking is well-known, especially if it's committed cursive to skin.

(1) Yes, in Oz we call "bikers", "bikies". Like "tradesmen" because "tradies". That's just the Australian way.

Garden bling

We have a small yard, private and festooned with garden bling. We have solar lights wreathed around struts and poles and through branches of trees that come on at dusk and stay glowing 'til early morn along with various outside metal statues of a spring-based and quirky nature seeded through garden.

Recently we added some cows and a toucan. The toucan is in the hiding tree.

It has yet to be found.

UPDATE: He found it. Aw, awesome.

Did ... did you shart?!

Yes, yes I did. We were out and about when it happened but at the time I didn't think I had so then I risk managed—i.e. did nothing—and kept on with incidental shopping on the way back to the car. It was only when I got home I discovered the full horror down below. 

Yee gawds. That's the price you pay for having a disability—in this case IBS flare likely caused by fibro worsened by anxiety—and doing things that normal people don't do. I had to have a shower.

I know, it fully sounds like a mad adventure. But, when you think about it, all truly great heroes are those who suffered before their assumption of heroism, or they are those heroes that are heroic because they endured suffering and it transformed their character. 

And that's my journey. I am a man with multiple disabilities and none of which are visible on first sight. Because of my disabilities I understand suffering and when I see suffering or potential causes for harm then I must act to prevent them. That's why I keep stepping up again and again for my colleagues and my public both, not in spite of my disabilities but because of them.

(Mikey stands, stripped to the waist, an imaginary cape lightly blowing in the hero wind). 

Yes, that's right, in full costume mode I am pajama pants, no top and a cape—likely a red flag with gold hammer and sickle only 'cos my awesome friend brought it back for me from Asia and it's the only readily-turned-into-a cape-like object in the house. And when I step out of my orgone machine, especially after the daily cycle and sweat has slicked my form, I like to stand in hero pose with hands on hips and let the air kiss me cool.

Though I do have to admit having IBS as a disability somewhat undercuts the heroic visage, especially if you shart mid-battle. Even if you don't suffer full seep it's going to likely be noisy and noisome. 

That's when you must deflect.

(points at villain during a fight-pause-for-dialogue moment)

"It was you."

Sunday, March 22, 2015

Then three became two

The boy chicken is with us no more. For he'd matured enough to achieve the natural desire of the rooster which is to make fuckloads of noise for no purpose than to irritate those that hear it and it was time for him to leave the show.

Off he went, having one last look out the back window as he was driven off to a farm to live out his days in an idyllic paradise for chickens. An actual proper farm for actual proper better life quality and not a covering lie like my mother told me about the similar sounding fate of my then cat after it killed one too many birds. 

So now we just have two chickens, both girls, girls who have yet to lay. We'd wondered why they'd not laid eggs and on consult with the nice person we handed the boy to it turns out it's seasonal. They don't lay again until Spring. I'd not realised that, and I presume barn chickens are tricked into laying all year via lighting and some such. If that is the case then I wonder how free range producers account for the change in seasons without being able to resort to controlled lighting and cooping. Electrolysis? Peristalsis? Bees? Vacuumed-bees

The chicken's fenced-off section of the yard is now the chicken equivalent of the Wall from Game of Thrones, with the fence now roof level instead of waist-high due the to chickens' ability to flap that high and bypass that height. Okay, so maybe the new fence is not "Wall" high but still double the height of the last iteration and now fully effective Vs their ability to bypass it. They look more like prisoners through the mesh of bamboo and old screen doors that make up the wall. They certainly glare it seems with more menace and upset. Plus I think I saw one of them with a sharpened toothbrush strapped to a talon.

So we have about six months of looking after two chickens with no prospect of eggage. That's cool, the grand chicken experience has thus far been fun and without the horrors that I experienced of chickens from my childhood that included incidents such as what happened to nine-year-old me when I was once swarmed and bitten by some nasty chicken-dwelling insects and resulted in me abandoning the egg collecting expedition, screaming and pulling at my clothes as I ran across the dusty earth for the back of the farm station's laundry so I could get under water to drown the fuckers. 

Nothing bonds a family like a grand chicken experiment that, touch dust, does not yet involve the swarming of parasites. 

I think there's something in that for all of us. 

UPDATE: We got back from seeing a movie and saw that the "Wall" had partially collapsed in our absence—still up, but slanted in the middle and a wide, flappable, gap twixt it and the side of the house. The chickens, now conditioned coop chickens, remained in their coop. Good chickens, sweet chickens, stay in your home. I know, swap "chicken" for "victim" and that all sounds like the mad rantings of a dungeon dad.

Stupid hands!

I have a poor grip and, thanks to fibromyalgia and the return of anxiety, my hands have a slight tremble and my fingers have a tendency to spring open of their own accord.

When transporting objects in said hands then it means I drop stuff a lot. It's incredibly irritating. And in classic MyLastName fashion I shout out at them "stupid hands!" when it happens. A MyLastName tradition that I share with my Dad of to immediately declare whatever annoyance just happened to be "stupid" then name the thing that vexed us most in that moment (1).

It's still delightful at dusk here in the nation's capital, despite the encroach of early-Autumn, and we've been having barbequed meats made cooked in the outside gas barbecue. theWife got these delightful soft, plump white rolls to go with said meats and this morning there were three buns left over.

I decided to crisp one for breakie—into the combo oven on convection at 180 for 16. 

After the machine went ping I went to retrieve the bun halves. As I pulled the them out my left fine-trembling hand popped open.

The bun half fell. 

Now the three second rule (2) is a furphy, your object lands in an area with bacteria on it and if you retrieve and eat that object you will also eat some of that bacteria. It's not like a clarion call goes out across one square metre of flooring to the rest of the bacteria in the area and they then en-swarm that dropped object but only, and only if, that object is the for at least three human seconds (about 46 quailtoons to bacteria),

But I'm one of those risk management people that goes "well, it doesn't seem dirty" and because I can't see the swarms of germage that's now on my intended edible I likely proceed to eating that edible. 

This time I couldn't. For the bun half ... landed ... upside down ... in the cats' water bowl. 

The only way that could have landed anywhere worse is the cats' litter tray and if that had happened you'd have to ask yourselves why we'd sited the cats' litter tray in our kitchen beneath our convection oven. That would imply we're the sort of lost poor broken people that end up on Today Tonight with their mental illness made fun of for the rest of the world because we're hopeless and we just can't look after ourselves and we need some perfectly formed and coiffed field reporter to ask us questions about our hopelessness then do concerned noddies to the camera all the while they hope that job with CNN Asia comes through and they can finally work out of Honkers.

I'll risk manage tile or linoleum floor, even if that space is geographically prone to the transit of cats, but I'll not risk partial sog from cat water. 

Stupid hands! (3).

UPDATE: As I got a drink from the bottom of the fridge I knocked a sealed tub of beetroot which rolled onto the floor. I cursed at myself—"stupid trembley-hand man"—as I groped to pick it up. 

"No," said theBoy, defending me from myself, "you're not stupid. Don't say that."

Aw, that made my day. He cares so much about me. 

(1) More than once during my recent stay then evacuation with Dad following the death of my mum I heard him yell "Stupid X!" with X = computer, oven, legs, stereo, radio, dog, pancreas et al more than once. 
(2) Also known as the five second rule to Americans. 
(3) Technically, it was just Lefty that opened. Righty held on to its bun half. In retrospect I should have just yelled "stupid hand!" or, indeed,, "stupid left hand", but our MyLastName muscle memory for immediate response of "Stupid X!" doesn't allow for fine editing on the fly.

Friday, March 20, 2015

There and back again

I walked to theBoy's school for assembly. I haven't done that in ages. It was an awesome event—his school is most excellent—and then I walked home. As I walked there, and as I walked back, I felt great. I reflected on how much I've healed in the past months and how much better I feel now. All that pain and anger of the past is being let go and instead of fixating on pain I simply got to enjoy walking outside with no time pressure.