It was going to happen, all the stress of all everything was going to land. And it did, I ended foetal in a ball and inconsolable. I took a V and a half and pushed my mind to read something until I was sleepy then I slept. It was a nasty turn, and I knew my lizard brain was in charge even as I could speak with some logic.
Articles from Harrangue Man
I surrendered to the urge to pick my feet and picked them to the point of stinging pain when stepped on. I've put on two pairs of socks for buffering against pain and picking. Hilariously, before I started, my super flat feet had each bare footedly stood on a rock upthrust from the ground or path, which for a heavyset person meant lots of physics and lots of pain.
I was approaching the pen with a cob of corn in my hand when the white Silkie saw me. She charged the slight gap at the gate about a half a foot up where the gap could in theory allow for a chicken to get through if they had a running start and a target.She cleared the gap like a swallow and charged for me with barely a drop in beat.
If you live in the west and you have a diagnosis of PTSD chances are you will be taking pills for it---unlike those not in the west who likely suffer with just personal CBT alone.
I've only gone for jobs I want to do and be happy doing and I got the result of the last interview.I was was the worst they'd ever talked to.That was harsh feedback to get—I didn't answer the questions and apparently volunteered more useful information on the way out of the door than I did in the room. I felt okay in the process but knew it was a bad sign when they had to cut me off and we ran over time. I failed at the most basic of processes; a job interview.
All the delving and other coalesced into a singularity of stress and the next day I was wiped then had a cook off about childhood. By 8 pm I was done and by 8:30 I was asleep.I "slept" for the next 12 hours with minor wakes for torment and toilet. It was a cascading tumble of past life stressors all competing to hurt me the most. I woke drained and clammy with micro bursts of dream thought still pinging around my skull.
I'm still having occasional goes at my foot skin; I've yet to successfully consciously stop myself from doing it for more than a day.Last night I got off a postage stamp sized layer from the back right heel.
The brown Silkie is on the bottom of the pecking order. If she comes out for food or water she will be bullied by the other five. She tries to get as much to eat and drink while dodging attacks then she hides in the hutch the rest of the time.I know the pecking order is natural for chickens but to see it happening in real time where all off her pen mates alternatively attacked her or chased her away reminded me of my childhood where I was effectively a brown Silkie.
If you've had a mental health injury such as PTSD then it impacts on your ability to do physical things like picking up an object and staying a hold of it. Coffee pods are light and easy to hold but also easy to drop for no reason. The solution? Pinch the pod lightly as you pick it up and slot it in; the pinch will counter your fingers from opening because, fuck you, dexterity.Also, be prepared for startle reflex from the noise of the pod machine.