Lindy West's piece in The Guardian "The first 25 days of Trump have been a Zoetrope of galloping despair" is pitch-perfect.The intro:Today, during my morning routine of opening my laptop, clicking on literally anything, and just screaming and screaming, I made the astonishing discovery that Donald Trump has
Articles from Harrangue Man
I was watching ABC news when I realised all three presenters were women and that they were women was incidental. As in it was completely normal and unremarkable.Except it is remarkable because up until effective contraception became available women were shackled by their uterus to being at home.My mother was one of these women who could launch herself into the world for a career on her terms and only accepted marriage on her terms.
I was sitting with my son who was happily playing an iPad. He was making joyful squeaking noises. My injured brain subconsciously interpreted his happy noise as sounds of distress and it induced anxiety.So I remoted myself to the end room to get away from it.Later he joined me—to show off the set up railway set in the end room—and the squeaking began again.
I yelled at my son after he splashed me in the face with water. Fight flight triggered for a moment and I yell-asked if he wanted me crying on the floor of the shed because that's what can happen when fight flight triggers. I kept yelling if that was what he wanted.He cried and I hated that I made him cry. He got over it but I didn't---I loathed that I had lost my cool and monstrously guilted him.
The evil duck went to a nice family who needed a duck. theboy nearly aborted the deal when he casually mentioned it was a psychopath but I don't think they heard him. Phew!My nurse friend corrected me though when I'd called it that---the duck was actually a sociopath because that was its usual behaviour.
It's hot as fuck in the nation's capital and today I did a load of washing. But instead of using the dryer I hung the clothes on the line as there was a plea not to overburden the system with excessive leccy use lest it cause a brown or blackout.I use a dryer because I am short and I have a pain-wracked body.
I had another raging grief out and went to walk it off, out in the rain and lost in pain. As I walked I reflected how my injury puts a burden on those around me because they have to deal with its symptoms—a fierce susceptibility to sudden noise and occasional irrational outbursts to cite but two. As I walked I recalled the worst thing you can do is to think yourself a burden—even when you are. Yes, I am a burden; but no, it's not my fault—I was injured.
The other day I lost my rag at the duck. It came to the gate to bully me and I was in the middle of a flashback. I snarled and charged into the pen to chase it down—it freaked and waddled as fast as it could away from me. It took about 10 seconds of that frenetic anger to burn out for me to realise what I was doing. I left without damaging the duck.
Another joy of psychological injury is the raging grief out where you are suddenly sucked back into the welter of appalling crap that swept you out at the knees. It was due to land at some point; another attack. I made it all through January without one.
It's funny the small capabilities you lose for being psychologically injured. Being able to trim my own fingernails with ease for one. With trembling hands it is difficult to do.But I hunted down a pair of baby safe nailclippers from the tupperware box of assorted medicarnia and with care set forth on the task.I succeeded; and without trimming into the quick either.