It's bright blood so it's likely a minor tear on the inside but there is nothing quite like seeing blood after a motion, real or attempted. I thought it could be from wee but nothing appears when standing and just doing that. It's happened before, the arse bleed, and it went away. If it keeps happening then back to the doc with a new problem.If my body was a car it'd be a Trabant ... that bleeds out its exhaust pipe.
Articles from Harrangue Man
The go to moment in movies for depiction of PTSD is to show someones startle reflex fire off from a trigger event; the infamous helicopter flashback caused by ceiling fan trope.In reality, while that happens, the everyday result for some is reduced manual dexterity and ability to pick up and stay holding of objects.Or tease apart a bin liner so it can be rolled out into the bin.
I talk to myself when driving alone; it's a habit from practicing for talking that blew into emotional release if my steam needed venting. So I boiled off on a four minute drive back from the shops to the point of spittle-flecked shouting as the anger consumed me. It was the same record; being saddled with a fucked body and navigating a world who saw fit to monster me for it. Whether it was active or passive, either way it was fucked.
That's a good name.
I have reduced mobility with a slow, shuffling gait. But I was working in a place where fast walking is the norm and needed for normal business. So I upped my pace to keep pace with others and then went on assorted missions that involved lots of walking. I got a stitch and nearly threw up multiple times as my wobbly body was put through the ringer. I'm balding and that means bald sweat.
I was circumcised as a baby for no medical reason but for desert warfare. Seriously, my mum looked at me and thought "desert warfare" and "this will keep it clean."I suppose I should be impressed at her geopolitical foresight to snip the foreskin but due to not turning in the womb my stunted skeleton was in no way fit for warfare.
Due to a poor grip, PTSD and meds for PTSD I drop things. I dropped a fork into the dishwasher and had to reach through to get it. I flipped it over to get a better grip, tines facing down, then used the arch of the fork as the lock on site, pinching it then wending the fork through the rack.So it turns out I could turn back tines; I found a way.Your move, Cher.
When you live the life of a broken person you get sad at yourself for the absence of acceptance. For example. theboy has a friend who now has to wear glasses and he got hassled for it. I said "It's not like he went 'ERRRGH; and summoned the powers of the supernatural to weaken his vision". In that being teased for an acquired disability is most fucked and dumb to hassle someone about it. The heuristic shorthand became "I'm X; I'm going to weaken my vision!" (ERRRRGH).
It wasn't an actual hole, like, in the dirt or anything. It's just that the foam mattress I'd used since I was probably ten had compressed with my more solid form and created a hole. Not through the mattress but a depression that was noticeably foetal short man shaped, I pointed this out a number of times; the (w)hole situation.
I was standing next to a ledge when the small girl's hand pushed it—she couldn't see it; she was too low down. I watched the glass vanish from view, thought "shit" and had a moment to brace. It smashed into a seeming thousand shards of a thousand yet more shards each with a ring that rippled through me.I held firm; I was not shaken.