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.
Articles from Harrangue Man
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.
The sexual abuse I suffered was mild; fondling by my child psychologist who diddled me via hypnotherapy. The hypnosis did not work and I watched through lidded eyes as he pulled my pants down and played with my junk.Twinned with that was the physical and mental debasement suffered 'neath a posh veneer.Child abuse stories make me sick.
It's near two am and I've just eaten two slices of brie.Bring it on.(turns off light)
I was having an angry brood about the before ago and I spat that out. It's true—it's as good a description of one of my schools that I've spat. The events of then are thirty years gone—but they echo in the now.It's fucked and debilitating. To be angered by past abuse is because you relived it.