I've put in for some jobs but the idea is anxiety-inducing; I got jittery at the thought and though my head knew all was fine my under brain did not; the dreads and susceptibility to fight flight kicked in.
theboy was in his room crying, his keening wail cutting through glass and the shed, and I was atop the exercise bike so I couldn't flee without ruining the ride. So I put on my industrial strength ear muffs and tried to watch what I was watching with reduced noise.
Later that night I had Vallium for the first time this year.
It's to be expected; the idea of working for someone new is like changing schools. It's a bit terrifying to normal peeps let alone those baked in depression and PTSD.
It still doesn't make it easier.
That's what it is to live with a psychological injury; normal stress becomes acute and you can't comfort your child because their crying induces terror.
Each day I wake up and delve into the latest government atrocity committed by the Trump administration and read the stupefying nonsense babbled by the orange one himself and I struggle to understand why the GOP are not doing anything about it. The Republicans created this situation by their actions in opposition that were antithetical to government, with a purely political focus of obstruction with no merit, and by fostering the cloud of unbelief and myth that soaked into their support base. They stood and stand against science, for fuck's sake. So Trump is on them; they made his rise inevitable. And now they have government they're intent on destructing it because ... experts; what do they know? I've answered my own question. They are not stopping Trump because they do not want to; they are Trump, all of them, in their own fragmented way. It's just appalling. It feels like the backend of a bloodless coup and the entire world is suffering. Probs save us all.
As noted I like to feed our chickens Pringles; they like them and I like how they like them. I tried to frisbee throw a Pringle to near the scruff, for her feathers cloud her eyes making it difficult to see Pringles further away, but my lame throw, wind and the design of the Pringle all led to the Pringle getting stuck in a tree.
It would likely come down from the wind in a short time but I wouldn't have had the enjoyment of seeing them go for it.
So I got a rake and knocked the Pringle from the tree.
I am pretty sure that is a life first—I can't recall any other time I've knocked a Pringle from a tree with a rake or, indeed, any potato-based snackery from any foliage with any form of gardening implement.
Plus I got to see the chickens go for the Pringle.
The scruff, alas, missed out. Her vision is clouded and her agility low. The browns, on the other hand, move like, and have the temperament of, velociraptors. If they were bigger I'd fear for my junk.
Chicken ownership; I don't do any of the hard work so it's all just enjoyment.
And they afford me the pleasure of occasional life firsts such as pronging a Pringle from an overhead tree.
It's outside but stopped for now. A blower or mower? It was a horrid noise but I did not bolt. I handled it. TV helped. I'm not under operational stress so I am not as close to the PTSD tipping point on foul sounds; of my under brain yelling at me to run. It will be interesting to see how I go with such sounds when operational stress comes again. That's life with a psychological injury; you're in a forever experiment on resilience which, by law, could never be ethically inflicted.
Heavy rain Being balding means I lack protection for the top of my head that hair typically affords. And if something touches the top of my dome I feel it because non-feeling hair is not there to cushion the blow. One benefit though is shower fall; the steady thrum of water on top of your balding head is pleasant, reassuring. Heavy rain, however, is neither. Great fat drops of cold sky water slashing against your naked crest is most unpleasant. I was trapped outside trying to get a door open in such rain and yelped to distract myself from the hideous sensation of god tears on my bare head. Editor's note: God does not exist. Editor editor's note: the above comment is the author's opinion and does not reflect the views of the publication. Less hair at rest I hate haircuts---loathe them. My mother did my hair until I was about 17---she just hacked it back---using this home kit that had a stripping razor comb that dulled with age. The result was the pulling of hair out by the root along with the hair that it cut and made for many an ouch. I also hate the sensation of shards of hair down the back which itch like a m'fo. So I tend to shag up between visits by putting a haircut off. My bed hair defaults to a Tintin point---the right and left sides peak together at the front. Only now I have not much hair the fucking point looks like the framework of a cone-shaped tent. The only truly acceptable haircut for a balding man is a number four or less. I'd clipper it myself if non-god hadn't blessed me with short arms in addition to short legs because I cannot reach the back of my head and have enough room to manuever. Short and bald is one way to approach life---makes it more challenging. I'm also fat. That's a "no thanks" sexy trifecta right there. Thanks, non-god. This is just vindictive behaviour for your non-existence.
I haven't slept for 28 hours. It wasn't planned; it just happened. I'm sitting on the brown couch in black sleepwear with the black cat nestled between my legs. When I look down all I see is yellow eyes, floating in black, staring up at me. I think it knows something. I slept fine previously, and I had the right pills at the right time, so it's weird to have missed a night's sleep for no real reason. I just could not sleep. I did doze a bit for a couple of hours, well lay there drifting between awake and not quite awake, but I have to try and stay up until normal bedtime so I don't suddenly have a reverse sleep pattern to everyone else. Sleep, I miss you. Come back soon.
It's Skyfire here in the nation's capital, the annual firework extravaganza that cracks off over Lake Burley Griffin. I'm not sure if I have ever been—I have a vague memory of going once—but as for 2017 that's an industrial strength Neddy No.
I have PTSD and for me noise and crowds are a problem; add fireworks to that and I'd be like a scared toy dog unsecured in a porous backyard—I'd bolt to anywhere not near that and be found later across the border at the RSPCA compound in Queanbeyan.
Toy dogs have much sense; evolution has made them for beauty and fight avoidance.
That's not to say all people with PTSD are like me. Some people, especially those who had intensive exposure treatment, overcome the triggers of noise and crowds and lead normal firework-loving lifestyles with PTSD under firm lock and key.
That might be me someday. Apart from the cockatoo—and it was only a light sudden panic moment when it sprayed me with a sonic attack—I've gotten better at handling sudden and unpleasant noise. I handled walking past a lead blower, for fucks sake. But a fireworks night with all of that is, for now, a Mikey sound bridge too far. I suppose I can go out when they go off, to see if I can see them from 10 kays away. If I do I'll have to give a commensurate-sized vocal response of "ooh" and likely "ahh".
Chicken noise The chickens are noisy cluckers. I was trying to watch TV on a laptop whilst riding and their cluckery impeded comprehension. I yelled "SHUT UP, CHICKENS!"
To my surprise, they did. Perhaps it's because of my Pringles?
Pringle money storm I got a stack of Pringles and flicked them one by one from the stack like a money storm from movies and or music videos featuring musical rhyming and ostentatious display of sudden wealth. The chickens reacted with delight, dashing into to pick the middle of a Pringle to shatter it, take the biggest chunk, then fuck off from the big chicken so they actually get to eat it. Big chicken and Don Music run the yard The big chicken and the scruff, AKA Don Music, rule the roost together. The big chicken chases off the browns, as does scruff, and then they peck at the Pringle shards in the dust as the browns watch on. I feel sorry for the browns. Mind you it is pretty funny to see the above peck, grab and dash that at least gets them something. Big chicken and Don Music are also literally on top of the pecking order—they roost on the roof of the hutch instead of inside with the browns. I wonder if that's a dominance move? Probably. Ancient stone unearthed Because the chicks dig shallow holes—they like to then sit inside the depression—they've unearthed old concrete steps from a yard path of twenty years past as well as the round entry point to a utility service. The most beloved of all cats, O—, is buried in their pen, so I am awaiting the inevitable unearthing of a cat skeleton.
Knowing big chicken she'll wear its skull like a hat.
What is the noise vomit bird? The cockatoo. Sure, they look handsome but holy shit is their screech unsettling and loud. I presume it's some sort of benefit to do it; maybe it's to put other birds off being around because the cockatoo is the equivalent of someone on a rage bender drunkenly cursing the street? I have PTSD. One was about three metres from me in a tree when it cooked off and its unpleasant screech pulsed through my body and head. Hilariously some people enjoy the cockatoo. So do I---as a concept. I just hate them in real life being anywhere near me. It may too be a Canberra thing. In our third house we had a roost of them in a power pole junction and they'd raise unholy hell against us at dawn and again at dusk. Cockatoos; they're history's greatest monster.