With thanks to Yes Minister.I have PTSD with large motes of depression, anxiety and OCPD, and one of the many wonderful ticks is revving on past hurt. Needing to fill the silence with sound to stop that I went to to stream content to discover that the trial had ended and it was time to nut up and confirm the package. That required a password.I have PTSD.
Articles from Harrangue Man
I have OCPD. One of its quirks is picking at the body. Only I chose my face and thus have a puckered scar patch on my cheek I keep tearing open.I raged at it today, convinced I could tear it free, with hours devoted to tugging at raw skin ridges trying to rip my face off. It is and was deeply fucked up. That I can't stop is also fucked up.Later I cried at past hurt and big tears rolled down my cheek ... and through the wound site.Holy shit that stung like fuck. Like dance around stinging.
For as long as I can remember, until they went away, there were a set of hard cover cartoon books---redolent with stale piss and dust---on the window sill of the toilet cubicle. A couple of them were Peanuts books with one specifically Happiness is a Warm Puppy. It featured the phrase "Happiness is..." on the left page with a Peanut cartoon with accompanying text explaining what the happy was on the right.
Thanks to my dad when I soap myself in the shower I sometimes feel I am a pregnant man. Because I had once driven 10 hours for a visit and he asked when I was expecting.Because I am fat.Oddly that's not what caused the flashback, or flashbacks since it's oft a medley of fraught moments stitched together like the human centipede (have not seen; will never see).I cried as the medley still ran as I got out and dried off.
I have flat feet. For the most part they work like normal feet but they tire after not much and I have to take care when bare on a slippery surface because I will slip.Last night the left one cramped. I'd had fatigue pain before---wearing flat shoes inspires much pain---but this was something else. I couldn't bear weight on it and was forced to hop about on the other not great one. It took an hour of rest 'fore I could stand again. The day after afterglow is not great either.
When you think murder house you think house made for murders like H H Holmes had at the Chicago World Fair. In my case I think of a house being murdered. The other day murder was attempted on my house---construction involving drilling through brick.
When you have PTSD loud, sudden and or sharp noises trip your panic switch. A cat yowl is all three.The ginger cat would not stop, I think it's missing its substitute mum, and I couldn't find the ear protection for hot minutes of terrifying pussy action. Up until I did my panic escalated and I was now frightened. I'm still frightened.A workplace mental injury did that to me and it's a seeming ever wound.
In a small Texan town Murf King and friends voted to make their dale an abortion free zone. It didn't have a clinic so perhaps they were trying to stop drive by terminations.Murf is a fat old white man and so is the rest of the council.
Ever since my surgeon told me my body was not my fault I've been mad. Not angry, mad. The rush of unfairness for a life I missed has left me steaming. I think I could have handled it if I'd been supported but I wasn't. So my unreasonable anger is reasonable. If time heals all wounds then it's going to take a while. Like fallen number eight long.The past; if only you could keep it there.
With chickens and winter I have to trade slippers for crocs when entering the pen, switching out on the patio.