Wednesday, December 10, 2014

Three steps forward, two steps back

I recently decided to launch my response to oldwork's bullying me from my job back in March 2013 after one of the principle offenders thought they'd be a smart arse and smugly insist they could email me in group-sent emails without my having to be weeded out of the distribution list. 

They were told, many times, they could never contact me again.

With International Disability Day in the offing I decided that was serendipity and went them for what they did to me that caused me to go—leaving me a sick person made far sicker and nearly dead. 

That redress process is running. My new boss asked I was going with it all, as she's worried I'll lapse back into an anxious pain-wracked state, and I said it was "three steps forward, two steps back". I'm glad I launched the process, it will lead to eventual catharsis and, dare I say it, closure for my brutal exit from a job I was most-awesome at. But it has caused memories of pain to return and it takes effort to drive them away—like my 30 minute fast-walk today when I strode off the anxiety that was working in my system, returning to the office in ache and sweat. 

But it is worth it and I am glad I am doing it. They cannot hurt me any more than they did and I will have my riposte.

Wellness for the win.

ThundertheBoy is go!

With thanks to The Thunderbirds.

It's been raining of late here in the nation's capital, with much downpour of oft-cold water.

We recently got chickens—chicks, actually—and they were outside in their coop when the rain came bucketing down. They were there on a try-out to see how they went in the coop, the chickens still spending nights inside with us as they were too young for outside nights.

Given the torrent of water dashing through their coop and, with theWife at the shops, it was up to theBoy and I to save the day.

I held the umbrella up to shield him as he, theBoy, slid into the coop on his tummy like a were-penguin and started upchucking chicks to me as I caught then dropped them in the re-purposed liquor box we used to shuttle them between their new coop and the inside of the house.

In order to shield him, theBoy from the rain pouring down I held the brolly out from myself, my lower back and arse hanging outside the brolly zone of protection and exposed to the storm with sheets of cold water, fat drops laced with triumph, smacking into my body then streaming into one torrent down the wet crack of my PJ-bottom-covered arse. 

The operation was over in less time than a Bin Laden put down—which took like 38 minutes ... all within in gunshot distance of the Pakistani Military Academy—and we were back in the house shortly after our frantic panicked rain-rescue dash of the chicklets. Once the chicks were safely deposited under the warmth of a lamp to dry their damp, tissue-box-pushing feathery little bodies, theBoy and I took turns showering away the muck and the cold of the rain that had so grievously assaulted us.

It was a nice moment. 

Parenting milestone

theBoy and I throwing the dead toaster into the trash-pack. He got it in on his third attempt!

Thursday, December 04, 2014

Self-fist raised in the air

In the spirit of International Day of People with Disability (IDPwD) I decided enough was enough and I rolled my biggest boulder which I'd saved for last—a giant IDPwD "Fuck You!" to bastards in my wake.

And it's a doozy (1).

 Wellness for the win. 

(1) With thanks to Community

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