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Too much whining for FB
Jun. 6th, 2023 12:31 amA FB post was exposed to radiation and became a Kaiju, aka a blog post. So here it is, stashed for the sake of convenience, but public by necessity. I don't care.
After two days of literally insane levels of dangerous and strenuous activity, I have very sensibly been tucked up warm in bed since I got here at about 5am.
But I have been thinking about gutters and flashing and mud and inaccessibility and instability and electrocuting myself and wire and strings and weights and levers and hooks and chopsticks and gaffer and hose fittings and customised tools and a raincoat and a runner (or at least a spare pair of hands) and MORE.
All to fix what a parade of incompetent idiots masquerading as handymen and/or the original equally imaginative DIY owner have wrought over decades. But, I hypothesize, mostly the most recent genius who added flashing to encourage water (and mud and debris) into a nigh-inaccessible section of gutter, but made the damned thing so long it scrapes the base of the gutter, creating a damned dam along a significant length in a really problematic area that has defeated at least a dozen men, including roofers and guttering specialists. It was the first stretch of gutter I ever replaced, because surprise surprise it had rusted through.
And I probably forgot to point this section out to the last dozen people (MEN) whom I paid increasingly large amounts of money to clean, inspect, and REPORT IN WRITING on the state of our roof drainage.
On July 7th, I (and for much of that the bank) will have owned Sector 7 for 20 years. For two decades, drainage or lack thereof has been my constant companion and nightmare.
But now I have an idea that just might be a step in the right direction. I've watched stormfront after stormfront come and go, and in each lull I've thought I really should go out there (after significant preparation) to see if one of the relatively straightforward starting points is even possible. Preferably without causing additional damage as per my many predecessors.
There's not much daylight left, but I foolishly bought work lights some time ago. So I could work outside on summer nights, on the rock garden, I thought. Non-emergency work/play.
But Buffy has sensed my reluctant but increasing desire to abandon this glorious but impractical warmth and rest; she has moved up the bed to pin me down even more firmly.
I really do need to get up for many perfectly mundane reasons, many of them medicinal. I thought today's greatest challenge was going to be grocery shopping, even with a sickly (but neg RAT) Husband to do the driving, but it's a public holiday I'm told, so I'll never make it by closing time.
And ye gods the overdue paperwork and critical prep for NDIS and other meetings/evaluations... Irritating and fiddly at best, terrifying to my very core at 99% probability.
Oh, actual lightning and thunder now. No MacGyvering for me then. It's time to face the NDIS "How fucked up are you really, under all that exhausting masking, stubbornness, and fighting?" prep.
On first reading of the questions I will need to answer briefly and succinctly during a 4 hour evaluation next week, I was floored entirely by one of the mundane items lurking behind the surprise obviously philosophical and existential ones that caught my eye as needing a fair bit of thought.
Buried in one of many long lists I saw "Do you have low motivation? Y/N" At first I laughed and said hell no, I've got truckloads of it. Then paused, thought no, I have truckloads of bullish determination, because I do in fact have low motivation. But I also have no options. But low motivation is up there with the Seven Deadly Sins (Sloth I guess) which makes me a horrible horrible failure of a human being, destined for eternal damnation and suffering (I might be already there). THANKS NUNS.
That's not how I see myself, but it's what I am, at my core. I'm right back to the nightmare phase after diagnosis and relief: So who am I really? The answers were so sickening I was encouraged to abandon the quest and just be me. I miss having counselling or therapy delivered by a professional. I haven't been poked with a stick for *years* so just squished it all down. Not a second since I was accepted into the NDIS. I didn't think I needed it.
Now I have 10? {Ed: only 6] pages of booby traps like that to figure out and prepare responses that are "as brief as possible". In haiku format, perhaps. In less than a week. But also provide my entire medical history "in dot point form" IN ADVANCE.
So here I am, still in bed under a cat, my medication schedule in utter disarray, actively avoiding both tasks because I have absolutely zero motivation to go there.
But then I have to create compelling arguments why my mind (not my brain) restricts me from participating in society, without a sniff of physical or medical cause. But only the mind bits on their list, for which I have a documented diagnosis and evidence of impairment due to those things and those things ONLY.
--
In the interim I have run through those six pages of probing questions with Husband for bounceoff, and discovered that the answers to 90% of the "Do you have difficulty with...? questions are Yes, once I remembered that I have to pretend/mask/perform or make deliberate choices pretty much any time I go near a human. And I'm failing at that because I'm exhausted doing both performance art and being (shhhhh, don't tell the NDIS) a physical disaster. The performance is slipping more and more, partly because I've had to talk about nothing but my failings, and dare not mention achievements, progress, or ingenuity.
Or have a break, apart from this morning. It was nice.
I'm also being hounded by agencies with long horrible contracts so I can finally get a reliable cleaner, even if they're no good for human company. JFC
After two days of literally insane levels of dangerous and strenuous activity, I have very sensibly been tucked up warm in bed since I got here at about 5am.
But I have been thinking about gutters and flashing and mud and inaccessibility and instability and electrocuting myself and wire and strings and weights and levers and hooks and chopsticks and gaffer and hose fittings and customised tools and a raincoat and a runner (or at least a spare pair of hands) and MORE.
All to fix what a parade of incompetent idiots masquerading as handymen and/or the original equally imaginative DIY owner have wrought over decades. But, I hypothesize, mostly the most recent genius who added flashing to encourage water (and mud and debris) into a nigh-inaccessible section of gutter, but made the damned thing so long it scrapes the base of the gutter, creating a damned dam along a significant length in a really problematic area that has defeated at least a dozen men, including roofers and guttering specialists. It was the first stretch of gutter I ever replaced, because surprise surprise it had rusted through.
And I probably forgot to point this section out to the last dozen people (MEN) whom I paid increasingly large amounts of money to clean, inspect, and REPORT IN WRITING on the state of our roof drainage.
On July 7th, I (and for much of that the bank) will have owned Sector 7 for 20 years. For two decades, drainage or lack thereof has been my constant companion and nightmare.
But now I have an idea that just might be a step in the right direction. I've watched stormfront after stormfront come and go, and in each lull I've thought I really should go out there (after significant preparation) to see if one of the relatively straightforward starting points is even possible. Preferably without causing additional damage as per my many predecessors.
There's not much daylight left, but I foolishly bought work lights some time ago. So I could work outside on summer nights, on the rock garden, I thought. Non-emergency work/play.
But Buffy has sensed my reluctant but increasing desire to abandon this glorious but impractical warmth and rest; she has moved up the bed to pin me down even more firmly.
I really do need to get up for many perfectly mundane reasons, many of them medicinal. I thought today's greatest challenge was going to be grocery shopping, even with a sickly (but neg RAT) Husband to do the driving, but it's a public holiday I'm told, so I'll never make it by closing time.
And ye gods the overdue paperwork and critical prep for NDIS and other meetings/evaluations... Irritating and fiddly at best, terrifying to my very core at 99% probability.
Oh, actual lightning and thunder now. No MacGyvering for me then. It's time to face the NDIS "How fucked up are you really, under all that exhausting masking, stubbornness, and fighting?" prep.
On first reading of the questions I will need to answer briefly and succinctly during a 4 hour evaluation next week, I was floored entirely by one of the mundane items lurking behind the surprise obviously philosophical and existential ones that caught my eye as needing a fair bit of thought.
Buried in one of many long lists I saw "Do you have low motivation? Y/N" At first I laughed and said hell no, I've got truckloads of it. Then paused, thought no, I have truckloads of bullish determination, because I do in fact have low motivation. But I also have no options. But low motivation is up there with the Seven Deadly Sins (Sloth I guess) which makes me a horrible horrible failure of a human being, destined for eternal damnation and suffering (I might be already there). THANKS NUNS.
That's not how I see myself, but it's what I am, at my core. I'm right back to the nightmare phase after diagnosis and relief: So who am I really? The answers were so sickening I was encouraged to abandon the quest and just be me. I miss having counselling or therapy delivered by a professional. I haven't been poked with a stick for *years* so just squished it all down. Not a second since I was accepted into the NDIS. I didn't think I needed it.
Now I have 10? {Ed: only 6] pages of booby traps like that to figure out and prepare responses that are "as brief as possible". In haiku format, perhaps. In less than a week. But also provide my entire medical history "in dot point form" IN ADVANCE.
So here I am, still in bed under a cat, my medication schedule in utter disarray, actively avoiding both tasks because I have absolutely zero motivation to go there.
But then I have to create compelling arguments why my mind (not my brain) restricts me from participating in society, without a sniff of physical or medical cause. But only the mind bits on their list, for which I have a documented diagnosis and evidence of impairment due to those things and those things ONLY.
--
In the interim I have run through those six pages of probing questions with Husband for bounceoff, and discovered that the answers to 90% of the "Do you have difficulty with...? questions are Yes, once I remembered that I have to pretend/mask/perform or make deliberate choices pretty much any time I go near a human. And I'm failing at that because I'm exhausted doing both performance art and being (shhhhh, don't tell the NDIS) a physical disaster. The performance is slipping more and more, partly because I've had to talk about nothing but my failings, and dare not mention achievements, progress, or ingenuity.
Or have a break, apart from this morning. It was nice.
I'm also being hounded by agencies with long horrible contracts so I can finally get a reliable cleaner, even if they're no good for human company. JFC
