#had a panic attack that i might have to take my tonsils out in the future and i cant just not talk for two weeks

[knaveofmogadore]

Imagine you're a robot girl (stay with me) and you're made by a corporation right like you're made by a company for other people but like. You're made by a company. At any moment that company could decide that your line isn't profitable enough and they could cut software updates and support as soon as tomorrow. In the blink of an eye the very things keeping you alive stop coming and you've become terminally ill overnight, your only chance of salvation being the thin hope that in the future a niche group of data hoarders or software engineers become obsessed with getting you to work again. You're an object with sentience and a brain and wants and needs and at any moment the Google news feed of the crusty computer nerd you live with could spit an alert across your eyes telling you that you have months to live.

What even happens when the time runs out? Does life continue as normal, but you're sick more and more often? Do the viruses take more and more processing power to fight off as your security protocols fall out of date? Does the world become muted and distant as your compatibility fails? Do you one day just lose your Internet connection forever, a loss so profound that you can't explain it to your human companions? It's worse than a limb, but not quite like losing your mind.

Do you lose function bit by bit, or are you able to scrape by on second hand parts? Bit by bit replacing the pieces of you that fail, all the while living a muted, disorienting existence without the ability to right yourself? Are you more or less of a person now that you've lost touch with the network? Lost your connection to the metaphysical, to you, the divine? Are you eventually bricked after falling behind one too many software patches? Do you fry after trying to take on an update you're not able to even contain, a piece of software so complex and unfathomable that it burns you to a crisp from the inside out

[chronicilly-studying]

My Chronic Illness Story - Part 1

This is part one of a two-part post describing my journey with chronic illness and how it’s affected my schooling. This part mostly focusses on my story up to the age of about 16/17 - the next part will focus on my last few years of high school, developing and getting diagnosed with ME/CFS, and how I managed to work with my illnesses to get accepted to study Pharmacy at uni. Enjoy! :)

Chiari Malformation - from birth onwards:

From soon after I was born, my mum knew something was wrong: I couldn’t swallow breastmilk properly. And later when I moved onto solid foods it would often not go down my oesophagus like it should, but go up into and out of my nose. I also had central sleep apnoea – which means that I would randomly stop breathing for a short time – to which other mothers would say that I was doing it ‘for attention’. My speech was mostly unintelligible (seriously, I think my parents and a couple of other family members might have been the only ones to reliably know what I was saying. I can’t always understand myself in videos from that time) as I was slurring my words together. I also had some co-ordination and balance problems, but I’m not sure to what extent that was obvious or affected my life early on. My mum had to go to multiple doctors to finally find out what was wrong with me – a 19mm type 1 Chiari Malformation.

A type 1 Chiari Malformation occurs when the cerebellar tonsils – the small bits hanging off the cerebellum – are pushed into the hole at the base of your skull, which is called the foramen magnum. A 19mm herniation means that my cerebellar tonsils had been pushed down to 19mm into that hole. This meant that a lot of important nerves were being compressed such as those responsible for controlling my breathing, swallowing, and co-ordination. I also had partially impaired flow of my cerebrospinal fluid (CSF) – the liquid surrounding the brain that helps cushion it inside your skull. This meant that in conjunction with my other symptoms I also had headaches.

In around August 2005 I had decompression surgery meaning that part of my skull and the discs of my first two vertebrae were removed to give my brain more space and to relieve the pressure inside my skull. While it took a little while for all of my improvements to happen my parents say there was a pretty stark contrast in my ability to do many of the things I struggled to do before, and my speech now isn’t slurred at all. I’m grateful that because I was so young when I had this surgery I don’t really remember my life before, and most of my first-hand experience with this condition has been having more MRIs than your average kid to keep an eye on my herniation and having headaches more frequently than other people my age.

It is something I was always aware of though because my parents would always notify PE teachers (and later on I would) about my condition and explain that there were certain activities that I wasn’t allowed to do – such as having to sit out on a lot of the gymnastics activities at school or not being allowed to play contact sports either at lunchtime or in PE lessons. Because the scar on my neck over 14 years later is still fairly prominent it’s also something I or my parents have had to explain to every new hairdresser I’ve been to so they don’t freak out too much. 

Anxiety - 8/9 onwards:

Unfortunately, as many other people with chronic illnesses will understand, my Chiari malformation wasn’t going to be the only health issue I’d have. While the first panic attack I had was when I was about nine, my anxiety didn’t really start to develop fully until I was around 12 or 13. While it took me another few years to get a diagnosis of generalised anxiety disorder (GAD) it’s clear looking back I likely had it then too – I once had a panic attack right before a ballet lesson because I hadn’t been able to come for a couple of weeks and I was that worried about how behind I might be on the dances we’d been working on. Surprisingly – or maybe not – I never had panic attacks about schoolwork, but I suspect this was more because I channelled my anxiety into more productive means such as studying way harder than a 13-year-old needs to than that I didn’t have anxiety about my grades.

By the time I was 16, I finally got that GAD diagnosis and I’d also developed social anxiety or social phobia. Once I started therapy it was like a light had been shone on a lot of my habits. It turns out being too scared to ask teachers for help because you’d always been ‘the smart one’ since the day you started school is in fact a sign of social anxiety rather than that of an independent learner – the independent learner will try to work through things on their own first, but they know when to ask for help. While wasn’t on the verge of failing or anything like that both my anxiety about marks and my actual performance at school drastically improved once I started biting the bullet and asking for help more. I’m still not perfect at this, but I’ve definitely come a long way.

While I wasn’t on it for very long, I would like to note that I was actually prescribed venlafaxine (sold under brand names like Effexor) for my anxiety early in 2018 – I wasn’t really seeing any improvement on the dose I was on even after the time period it was supposed to come into effect (it was the lowest dose my GP could prescribe if I remember correctly) so rather than mentioning this to my GP and maybe being prescribed a higher dose or a different medication, I took myself off of it. I do not recommend doing this at all – I’m lucky that I didn’t have many withdrawal symptoms, but you shouldn’t try to take yourself off antidepressants without a doctor’s supervision. Withdrawal for some people and some medications is no joke, and you might be putting yourself at risk of a relapse for whatever condition you were taking the medication for in the first place. I have done a lot of work so that I’m mostly able to manage my anxiety without medication, but I have considered asking to be put back on some kind of antidepressant.

[thetechnicallylegendary]

Butt-Dial

Seth walked into his house, dropping his bag onto the floor. This tour has been grueling for him; his knee has been acting up ever since he put too much pressure on it working out, management has been on his case making sure he doesn’t skip out on their deal, the gold for his loyalty, then there was him. Dean. His former brother making his life a living hell. Attacking him in the middle of important matches, pranking him at every chance he gets. At this rate, Seth will be more paranoid of Dean doing something to him than conspiracy theorists are with the government. But now, he was home. Letting out a sigh of relief Seth walks over to his couch and plops down. Reaching over he grabbed the remote from the table and was almost able to turn on the tv before his cellphone started to ring. God, I can’t even have any decent quiet time anymore. He thought reaching to pry his phone out of his back pocket. The ringer was something that sounded off in his sleep; someone always had to talk to him. Triple H calling in to give him a longer list of things that he has to do ranging from interviews to business meetings. Ortan calling in being his usual spy, always wondering what he was doing, reporting it back to Stephanie so that she can call and lecture him on what he is doing wrong with his life. This wasn’t the way Seth thought things would turn out when he joined the Authority. They had sold him the idea that Dean and Roman were keeping him behind in the company. That all great factions fall apart because of envy and greed and that if it was going to happen anyway, then why not be at the forefront of it, leading the destruction, instead of being in the wake and having someone else take his chance? They never sold him the idea that they were a big happy family, all looking out for each other, having each other’s back. If he wanted that he could have stayed with the Shield, they sold him power, money, prosperity. That one got him. He has worked his ass off to get to where he is, and hell would have to freeze over if he was ever going to let himself fall back to were he started. The phone kept ringing, so Seth answered it, expecting to hear H’s gruff voice or Stephanie’s nasal whine. “Hello?” Seth asked into the phone. Nothing came back. He tried again, still nothing. Seth pulled the phone away from his ear to look at the caller ID. Panic flashed through him. The number didn’t have a name with it anymore, but he would always recognize it. Why the hell is Dean calling me? Seth thought. Pulling the phone back up to his ear he went to his usual annoyed Seth voice that he uses when he has to talk to Dean, “What the hell do you want Ambrose, why on God’s green earth are you calling me?” Still no response. There was shuffling around though as if the phone was in a pocket. Damn idiot butt-dialed me. Seth thought. He was about to hang up when he heard voices.

If you only knew

I'm hanging by a thread

The web I spin for you

Seth paused and pulled the phone back up to his ear. Was that Ambrose singing? He honestly couldn’t believe his ears, but the sound continued.

If you only knew

I'd sacrifice my beating

Heart before I lose you

I still hold onto the letters

You returned

I swear I've lived and learned

Seth’s heart stopped when he figured out what song was playing. His mind went back to days that pained him to think about. Days when he felt loved and needed. Days that seemed to spell out the future for him.

It's 4:03 and I can't sleep

Without you next to me I

Toss and turn like the sea

If I drown tonight, bring me

Back to life

Breathe your breath in me

The only thing that I still believe

In is you, if you only knew

Memories came flooding back into his mind. Nights out late with Dean, going out for drinks after an indy match, shit-talking after the alcohol had taken effect. Telling Dean things he’d never told anyone before. Dean sharing some of his past with him that he normally doesn’t talk about. Then the night that they walked back to their motel, Dean stopped him before they got close to the motel lights and kissed him. Darkness surrounding them both as they held each other in a forbidden embrace, savoring the taste of one another. Seth swore come the next morning Dean wouldn’t wanna talk to him again. He was sure Dean just had too much to drink and wouldn’t want a reminder that they played tonsil hockey. So when Dean came knocking on his door with his big goofy shit-eating grin plastered on his face, with wild flowers in his extended hand, he almost couldn’t believe his luck. That night led to many nights of them alone in one or the other motel room. They would just talk, maybe have a drink, maybe not, and just enjoy being with each other. They would play music and dance, or just lay in the bed, tangled together just listening to each other’s heartbeat.  The night that this song played, Seth and sung it to Dean while they lay in bed together, Seth put so much emotion in his voice that when the song had ended, Dean had tears rolling down his cheeks. That was the night Seth told Dean he loved him. That was the night that they went from brothers to lovers, willingly giving over their hearts to each other, entrusting their very souls to one another, believing wholeheartedly that neither one would let the other down. And neither had. Until Seth hit Dean with that chair.

If you only knew

How many times I counted

All the words that went wrong

If you only knew

How I refuse to let you go,

Even when you're gone

I don't regret any days I

Spent, nights we shared,

Or letters that I sent

After that night Dean tried to call Seth so many times that his phone died before he was able to get back to his hotel room. He had left so many voicemails that his inbox was full. Dean wanted to know what happened, why did Seth do it, did he do something wrong that pissed Seth off? If he did, he was sure that they could work it out, that Dean would try to do better by Seth; all he had to do was answer the phone. Talk to him. Be open with him. What Dean didn’t know was that it had nothing to do with him. Seth had agreed to be The Authority’s show pony out of greed but that he never wanted to end the Shield as he did. He wanted to tell Dean what was gonna happen, to have Dean miss that match and fake their hatred on camera. But The Authority couldn’t let that happen. Ortan had found out about Dean and Seth’s romantic relationship and threatened to release proof to the public, shattering what Seth and Dean had worked so hard for unless he broke things off with Dean. But a simple text wouldn’t have been enough, the Authority wanted it to be public and recorded, so it had to be done that way. Seth was so disgusted with himself in the aftermath of that night that he just adopted the persona that Triple H had fed him, the arrogant, cocky bastard that only looked out for himself. He never called Dean back. He put so much venom in the words that he spoke to him on screen that he hoped that Dean would believe then and would be so hurt that he would hate him. Seth had hoped that if Dean hated him, then it would make moving on much easier for Dean. For Seth though, Dean would be the only one. From the way that Dean sounded over the phone, he might hate Seth, but he hasn’t moved on.

It's 4:03 and I can't sleep

Without you next to me I

Toss and turn like the sea

If I drown tonight, bring me

Back to life

Breathe your breath in me

The only thing that I still believe

In is you, if you only knew

If you only knew

Dean kept singing that song, and Seth kept listening. Tears flowing down his face now, his head in his hand, elbows perched on his knees. God, I miss him. Seth thought as Dean finished out the song. Seth couldn’t bring himself to hang up the phone just yet. Yes, it was creepy just sitting there listening to Dean while Dean had no idea that he had accidentally called him. This was the closest he had been to Dean since that night, and he just couldn’t bring himself to lose the connection just yet. There was a soft knock on the other end of the phone; someone was knocking on Dean’s door. More shuffling came as Dean go up to answer the door. “Hey brother, you ready to go? We gotta head out soon to make the plane.” Seth heard Roman’s voice over the shuffling that must have been Dean grabbing his things. “Yeah, I’m ready.” Dean responded. There was a short silence then Roman piped up, “You still listening to that song?” Seth dropped his hand from his head and focused on every sound that was coming out of the phone. “S’the only thing I got left from him. His promise that night and that song.” There was silence from then on. Seth waited to hear something, anything else, while his mind reeled at that confession. Dean still listened to that song, not only does he listen to it but he does so frequently if Roman knows about it. Seth knew he needed to hang up, but before he did he spoke one last time, “I still love you, Dean.” With that he hung up the phone and made a promise to himself, he would fix what he had broken, come hell or The Authority.

[donnerpartyofone]

sometime last september i had a bad cold with an ear infection. a bunch of fluid built up in my ear and never went away. i saw a doctor who suggested it would just disappear on its own, but that it could take three or four months. i took some antibiotics then, which didn’t help. he didn’t seem to consider it a problem. after a couple of months i came back, same deal. he gave me some anti-inflammatory nasal spray and some ear drops, which didn’t help. then i found a new gp and described the problem to her. she stuck her ear thing in my ear, wagged it around, and then just turned around and never discussed it with me in any way.

incidentally, i was seeing that second doctor because i was convinced i was dying from lung cancer. my mother was suddenly diagnosed with stage four lung cancer when she was my age and given a couple of months to live. (she surprised everybody by living for three or four years, which in my estimation was a lot worse than if she had just died right away) i found a gp who specialized in lung disease and explained that i have consistently restricted breathing in one lung that does not fluctuate in any way, and has been going on for a long time. well, my chest x-rays came back clear and i don’t have any other symptoms, so she just put me on some asthma inhalers. i had bad asthma as a kid, and this unceasing one-sided shortness of breath doesn’t resemble that in any way, but my doctor didn’t seem to give a shit about figuring out what was wrong with me as long as the inhalers seemed to be managing the symptoms. i felt like a theme was emerging when i told her about my ear, and she seemed to just look for whatever specific thing she would consider a problem, and when she didn’t see it, she just changed the subject.

so, naturally, i found a new gp. i went because my scripts for my inhalers were running out, and i didn’t want go back to the other doctor to get them renewed. mercifully (i guess although i’m really not dying to keep seeing more and more doctors), my new doctor is sending me for fresh x-rays and referring me to a pulmonologist. i also told her about my ear, and she checked me out and saw all this fluid behind my eardrum. she said this is very common, and might be there “forever”. it could be because of my naturally humongous tonsils, which is a pretty disgusting thing to hear about myself for some reason, or it could be allergy inflammation that’s contributing to the blockage. so the main thing i have to do is stop trying to pop my ear, which i want to do every second of every minute that i’m conscious, because it’s clearly, painfully wearing down my jaw. also, now i get to add an allergy pill to the 23 (24 depending on what’s going on) pills i need to take every day to manage other stuff. 

the “other stuff” is mostly one condition, which is that my system processes copper so poorly that the buildup of this psychoactive metal in my system makes me chronically depressed, anxious, fearful and angry. nutrient therapy is a lot better than being hooked on opiodes...i think? but the number of things i have to take to avoid that is exhausting, and means that i spend an hour or two a day feeling like i’m going to throw up while i digest everything, which isn’t exactly a mood booster.

anyway, my new gp has also referred me to an ENT, which appointment can’t happen soon enough because sometime around 3am yesterday, i developed a loud ringing in the affected ear that will not go away, and by all accounts, might never go away. this is not the first time this week that i was told one of my senses will be permanently impaired for no particularly good reason. a few years ago, i had to have surgery and localized chemotherapy to remove some pathological scar tissue growing across my corneas. it hasn’t come back (although it might), probably thanks in part to the chemo, but now i have a buildup of surgical scar tissue on one eye that is causing glare and spots, and according to my cornea specialist, that’s just the new normal. the few treatments options are considered high risk for little reward, i guess.

depression has a way of casting you as a problematic person in the public eye: someone who is oversensitive, looking for attention, being negative, and refusing to deal with their problems in a mature way (because according to people who don’t really have problems, all problems go away if you just adjust your bad attitude). now, i hate going to the doctor because my experience of autism makes me cry and panic like i’ve been raped if anyone touches me without my specific emotional invitation. also, it’s very hard for me to think of any experience i’ve ever had with a doctor where something was explained to me satisfyingly, or where i got treatment that really worked--as opposed to me just coming out the other end, terrorized and humiliated, sitting there in a puddle of my own various fear fluids thinking, “wait a minute, WHY THE FUCK did i let them do all that random shit to me??” to wit: a couple of years where i submitted myself to a doctor to have core samples regularly, painfully, frighteningly drilled out of my cervix because of some abnormal test results. whatever’s going on COULD be precancerous, i was told. well, what else “could” it be, i asked? they just shrugged, and one day they told me they weren’t seeing the abnormality anymore and they didn’t have to keep mutilating me. so...i could have just been sitting on the couch this whole time? why did i do this, when i don’t even have any particular faith in treatment anyway? but, i keep doing to the doctor(s), because i’ve had it drilled into my head that it’s the “responsible” thing to do, and it will prove to the world that i’m a “positive” person who tries to find “mature” solutions to my problems. that makes it extra frustrating when nothing comes of it, other than the damning confirmation that nothing about me is really working that well, and it’s not going to.

of course, on top of the fact that my problems are not really manageable in any substantial way, there’s the added psychological pressure that comes from people not seeing your problems as problems. exactly one half of my face is affected by rosacea, making it extra obvious that something is wrong with me. having tried everything else that is supposed to manage my symptoms--including two different treatments that are “magic bullets” for 99% of sufferers, both of which made me react so badly that i looked like i’d been attacked by wasps--i decided to take the plunge on my last option, an extremely expensive battery of painful and kind of scary laser treatments. i had the last one this month. i’m not seeing any difference at all, and in fact i’m not sure it didn’t make things worse. no insurance really covers treatment for rosacea because it’s considered a cosmetic problem, even though it results in broken blood vessels and progressive thickening of the skin that anybody would consider a medical problem if they saw it in action. i can already see what’s going on in the mirror, and trying not to notice is not an option.

i realize, as i’m sure many people will be quick to tell me, that i’m actually very lucky. i do not have any “real problems”. i’m performing the basic life problems of a human being just fine. but i have to say, just to stick up for myself, that there is something really special about just having a collection of unrelated problems that just amount to, like, a bunch of bullshit. i have friends who have had, or currently have, really major life challenges--horrifying circumstances or conditions with which they have had to wage a heroic battle. of course i don’t envy them, but at the risk of sounding really incredibly petty, at least they made some kind of sense. the dragon arrives at your door, and it’s cancer, or hiv, or a neurological disorder, or a flesh-and-bone-eating disease; you don your armor and fight the good fight, or prepare to die with dignity, or in the worst case scenario, you just regular-die, but everybody totally understands it as a tragedy. there’s some kind of logic to it all, even if it’s completely unfair and arbitrary in the outing. it’s different when you just have a bunch of bullshit, none of which anybody thinks is a problem individually, and there’s no reason for it. your eye is just kind of shitty and your skin is just kind of shitty and your lung is just kind of shitty and your ear is just kind of shitty and your ovaries are just kind of shitty and your mental health is just kind of shitty (for chronic physiological reasons). so therefore, looking at things is just kind of shitty and having people look at you is just kind of shitty and hearing things is just kind of shitty and really, just being awake and alive is just kind of shitty. and there’s no narrative here, it’s not you versus your virus or you versus your mutating cells or something. it’s just you versus the fact that you’re just, like, kind of a fucking lemon. if your body were a car, you’d get rid of it, and just take the bus from now on. or stop going anywhere altogether.

when i’m not fighting off a violent reaction to my mounting collection of bullshit problems, i’m usually trying to find some meaning to my life. it’s hard to do. i’m not brilliantly intelligent or talented in any way that would make my career into the point of my life. i’m also not going to start a family (which would be a huge challenge for me anyway because of problems with my reproductive system), so that’s out. because of my anhedonia, i can’t really live for pleasure either--a fact which is surely compacted by the way that all of my individual parts seem committed to making any and all sensory input at least sort-of annoying, if not infuriating and claustrophobia-inducing. when it’s just me and my depression, i often think, “god, i really wish i could just achieve something in this life, then all this agonizing would be worth it.” i usually wind up reaffirming that i’m just an ordinary person, i’m not even very good at my hobbies or very knowledgable about my passions, there’s no chance that doing something special with my time on earth is going to save me. but then, of course, there’s my shitty, shitty, shitty physical condition. the only thing i really ever accomplish is preventing myself from screaming.

i realize that many people might want to frame stopping yourself from screaming as an accomplishment in and of itself. when you’re really challenged in life, you have to remember your context. like, one guy might be climbing the corporate ladder, and he has to face the challenge of competition and seizing opportunities and stuff; but when you’re, say, me, not-screaming can be a legitimately equivalent effort that you should be proud of winning at. both my best shrink and my worst shrink have tried to warn me off of comparing myself to others--to noticing, constantly, that compared to pretty much everyone i know i’m really defective, and in fact i’m way behind my peers developmentally because i have to struggle so hard just to get through my fucking day without ruining anything or taking a break for pure suffering. part of the reason to avoid comparing yourself to others is what i was just getting at, that you want to have an authentic sense of your own suffering without using an irrelevant-to-you method of measurement. the other part of it is that you don’t want to delude yourself into thinking that you are the only person who suffers, or that your suffering is the most extreme. my first/worst shrink approached this in a pretty hilarious way: she suggested that maybe ALL of my friends have ALL the same problems as me, they just haven’t mentioned it. first of all, this just shows a real ignorance of how many great complainers i know. but secondly, it suggests a world in which my closest friends have stood by while scars grow over my eyeballs and half my face burns and swells and my ovaries constantly invite painful degrading examinations and threaten cancer and my lung never opens all the way and my ear rings deafeningly et at ad nauseam, and they just...don’t say anything to me. for some reason my dearest companions just don’t feel like offering me support or solidarity or advice from their supposed rich experience, or even venting their own frustrations to an ear they know for a fact is sympathetic, even if it doesn’t hear too well. it’s an extra bizarre idea that still makes me laugh, when i’m not screaming.

now i have to get ready for today’s doctor’s appointment, the fifth of what i think will turn out to be eight this month, not including psychiatric appointments. it’s not for my ear, but i’ll definitely be bringing that up again, because i think i need to add an anti-anxiety prescription to my armory of pills, because i don’t think i’m going to make it through this experience without altering my chemistry until i just don’t give a fuck about anything that happens to me. plus i need to find out if tinnitus is its own thing, or if it is definitely always a symptom of hearing loss (that is, a deteriorating ability to perceive sound, as opposed to an incredibly loud internal sound that you just naturally notice more than other external sounds that you are still technically capable of perceiving). a minute ago, my husband got up and started stalking around our tiny apartment suspiciously. i thought he must have seen a bug, but he’s looking for the source of a weird noise that must be coming from our large mac tower, a couple of feet away. i absolutely cannot hear it at all.

[ratthewrodent]

This fuck up has been set up perfectly for disaster over the past few months and is continuing to destroy my life. This is a long one, but every detail counts in portraying one of the worst weeks of my life.Let me preface this by saying I love my cat more than anything, and while he is currently not sleeping anywhere near me, he's still getting a lot of cautious love. I can't imagine being self-isolated alone without him right now. Truly, I love him too much - too much love got us here today.In January, I adopted an 11 yo, 19 lbs chonker. I fell in love instantly. His last family returned him after 6 months with a bad case of fleas. He had been defleaed but came home with a slew of other health issues. By end of January after a lot of vet visits, he seemed to be on the mend. I knew what I was signing up for when I adopted a senior cat, but just didn't realize the endless possibilities. Truly, I tell him every night before bed he's my ride or die, and that's about to be tested with this saga of the greatest love story ever told.Early February, he starts coughing and stops pooping in his litterbox, despite me cleaning it daily. He's still peeing in there, but seems cautious and runs out immediately. Even when he started pooping on the floor (thank God for wood floors), he'd run under my bed from it. That was the only time he'd go under my bed, otherwise he was cuddled up on or next to me. His medical chart from when I adopted him said he had issues with litterbox pooping- they suspected he was afraid of his last family's other cat and it was behavioral, but something didn't add up. He was fine with pooping in the litterbox for the first month after his kitty enema. I cleaned up his poop every other day and saw nothing out of the ordinary. He was starting to lose weight, which was good because as cute of a chonker as he is, it's NOT healthy, folks. I stopped free feeding him, started feeding him scheduled wet food meals, and we had daily playtime to get him to a healthy weight.I bring him into the vet in February for the 6th time in a month and a half. He had half of his teeth removed before I adopted him. This resulted in an incision infection and an enema due to opiod constipation. This visit was for his cough. I even ask if he could have worms. The vet tells me, "I know you're trying to be a good pet owner, but he likely has allergies and it's a behavioral issue. This might be something he has to live with. Come see me if his mucus turns brown". I had been right about every single Dr. Google diagnosis up until this point, but whatever. I buy an air purifier, vacuum and clean regularly, change the bedding weekly- I already have an obsessive cleaning schedule, and COVID/quarantine has only allowed that the time to thrive. Ask any of my previous roommates and I am the cleanest person you'll ever live with. Despite the cleaning, some coughing days were better than others.All of a sudden end of last week, he starts coughing a lot less, and I start feeling like absolute shit. My best friend even makes a joke that I caught whatever my cat had. Sick, sick foreshadowing.When I read the article about the tiger in the Bronx catching COVID19, I was convinced we both had it. My chest was tight, frequent bathroom runs, just pure exhaustion, losing weight rapidly despite being quarantined for a month in a tiny studio- malnourished to the point my hair is falling out. I'm a mess. I guess it's a good thing I got laid off 2 weeks ago, because the bathroom and I are very close friends these days.I wake up Monday morning to the pungent smell of my cat's usual poop surprise on the wood floor. He's such a kind cat to poop where it's easy cleanup. That's when I see them - worms crawling around EVERYWHERE. I'm gagging, take a little sample for the vet, and flush the rest. I Dr. Google the shit out of it and it is for SURE tapeworms. Then I read about the eggs. Let me remind you I change my sheets and wash my duvet cover weekly. I make my bed the second I get out of it and even vacuume my duvet cover. I RUN to inspect my bed- there are eggs EVERYWHERE. Little rice demons of hell that have been dropping from my poor cat's bum for 3 months. I'm dry heaving at this point. I live in an old studio apartment and my bed is against a brick wall, so I get little grout crumble patches that I have to vacuume up pretty regularly. I remember feeling little patches of what I assumed one night was grout in my sheets, but fell asleep wine drunk and ignored it. When I tell you they were everywhere, I mean they were everywhere. My pillow, under my pillow- my cat and I fall asleep cuddling every night. Again, I love this cat too damn much.I call the vet and it is undoubtedly tapeworm. We suspect he's had it since I adopted him. His prescription gets to me within a few hours. I also get flea medication and spray. I check him for flea dirt regularly and hadn't seen anything, but better to be cautious. I bag all of my bedding, throw out half of what I own, vacuum every inch of this place for an hour, I'm on the fucking floor with my flashlight and find a dead tapeworm under my couch, Swiffer, disinfect my couch, flip my mattress- like total mental breakdown. I give him his medication and his cough stops instantly. He hasn't coughed once since Monday.This has been one of my childhood phobias since I read that urban legend about the guy who starved himself then put a burger patty on his tongue and lured the tapeworm out until he could grab it from his mouth. I'm thinking about this story after giving my cat his meds when holy moly diarrhea. I look in the toilet bowl to 3 long strings floating on the sides that normally I would have flushed to sewage heaven without second thought, but they are undoubtedly tapeworms. My grown ass calls my mom and sobs while still sitting on the toilet in all of my wormy glory. I call and embarrassingly show the doctor, doctor undoubtedly tells me I too have tapeworm and writes me a prescription. He asks me if I want just tapeworm or a full deworming? I'm like wtf does that mean? He's like, "You'd be surprised how many parasites are living in you regularly. Just wait and see what you're about to poop out". I honestly just want to die at this point.My cat and I are prescribed the same medication, obviously just different doses and different pricetags. His was $13 for two doses. Mine? $130 for one dose, 2 pills. That's WITH my last month of insurance from my previous employer. I immediately receive a text that my prescription is on back order because of COVID. I'm trying to fall asleep that night on my couch without any blankets, when would you fucking guess it- my heat stops working. So now I'm just shivering on a small ass couch knowing there's worms crawling around inside of me and eggs everywhere. I don't sleep.I call the pharmacy when they open in tears asking when my meds are going to get there. Lucky me, they had just arrived. He asks me, "Did you know your prescription is $130?" I'm like, "Uh no I've never had tapeworm, but I guess the price is irrelevant". We both nervously laugh. I also haven't had an in-person human interaction in a month because I've been self isolating alone and laid off due to COVID, so this is trying on soooo many levels.I order delivery for a big ass meal from my favorite restaurant because 1. I have no appetite because the thought of feeding the worms makes me want to die and I was hoping ordering from my favorite restaurant would entice me to eat. 2. Medication has to be taken with food. 3. I realize this is the last day the calories don't matter. Might as well enjoy it.I pick up my prescription, light a candle, call my best friend, we have a little virtual funeral for my worms and try to make light of the situation. I play the song I want played at my funeral (Hamburg Song by Keane, it's beautiful). But it just keeps getting worse, y'all. My best friend hesitantly tells me he was telling his physical therapist about my worm saga. She recommended buying clove oil and rubbing it on my pink starfish. I'm like why? Apparently worms like to bite your butt on the way out, and clove oil prevents that. I hate everything at this moment. It's like the different levels of hell.I take the pills and am reading the prescription pamphlet. It notes that you'll experience random aches and pains while the worms are dying. Let me tell you- I felt every fucking worm dying as I lay blanketless on my couch in the fetal position. All of a sudden, I'm thinking about the worms and I can't breathe. My throat is kind of itchy, and I'm thinking there are worms dying in my tonsils at this point or I got COVID at the pharmacy. I'm laying there in the fetal position, telling myself it's just a panic attack. My cat decides to go pee at 2am, jumps out startled trailing pee all over the apartment. I know the medication says limit your alcoholic beverages, but I say fuck it and make a drink. I clean the pee and finally fall asleep for about 3 hours.I wake up bright and early to the smell of cat poop. Still half asleep, I searched his normal spots and couldn't find any poops. He left it in the tub for me- a new spot- thanks, cat. Easy cleanup and no worms- I take it as a win. I flush it down the toilet, bleach the tub, and obsessively wash my hands.Let me tell you- my hands are bleeding from the amount of times I wash them between COVID and wormageddon. I look at myself in the mirror while scrubbing my raw hands and holy shit. My face is is swollen to the point I'm still surprised I can see out of my eyes. My tongue is flopping all over the place. I am having a severe allergic reaction to the tapeworm medication. That panic attack while falling asleep was actually an allergic reaction.I immediately video chat my doctor, he tells me to go get Benadryl immediately and writes me a steroid prescription. I get a call from their finance department on the brief walk to the pharmacy: $140 for that 5 minute virtual visit. I try to dispute the charge- she can't do anything. I just flat out ask her: "Can I just tell you about my shitty life then for $140?". We talk for 5 minutes about how much my life sucks and she agrees. She was very nice about it, but still $140. She basically tells me that if I had waited a month to get tapeworm and almost die from the medication, the virtual visit would have been cheaper without insurance. Fucking love it and American healthcare.I cut my losses go back to the same pharmacy from the day before and they ask me what's wrong. I lift up my glasses and they were like "Ooooof- did you know you were allergic to this medication?". At this point, I'm like "WHY DO ANY OF YOU THINK I'VE HAD TAPEWORMS BEFORE?" Truly, complete mental breakdown. I buy my medication, a box of wine, and $20 worth of candy to ease the pain.So folks, here I am. Unemployed and alone during a pandemic, clenching my butt like never before, still haven't pooped because I'm terrified of worm kisses on the way out, face still swollen shut, but I'm breathing fine. My cat is a new cat, so for that? I am grateful. I am 100% sure I will have PTSD from this experience. It is going to be a long, long, time before my cat and I snuggle regularly again, but I know we'll get there and I still love him. Adopt senior pets regardless of this story, because 10/10- would still get worms again for him.Wormageddon 2020 will not soon be forgotten.TL;DR My recently adopted cat gave us both tapeworm, I almost died from the meds, and this is my hell.Edit: I'll come back and give more meaningful update, but I'm reading all of these comments over the phone, basking in the worst kind of Reddit fame with my best friend, and his smart ass says, "Your tapeworm is going to come out of your butt and ask DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?"But really, y'all are too kind. via /r/tifu

[assholemurphy]

i need to write a 2pg (double spaced) paper over the ‘unitary executive’ being a myth argument, i’ve been assigned pro, which, bc the title isn’t v telling, i have no fucking idea which side i’m on. that means i have to read 10pgs and cite quotes from those pgs to back up my case and i just... don’t... want to.... bleh...

it’s so boring, so annoying, i’d rather debate abt the current presidency and how it’s gone to shit, but no, this class is abt debating technical aspects of the presidency, which is all well and good, i find it interesting, but like, not tonight. all i wanna do is write fic. that’s it. all i wanna do.

but my paper is due at 8a and technically (bc i’m sick) i need sleep today. esp considering i’ve got shop hours (unless i go to the nurse and get tested for the flu and it comes back positive, which i need to do, then i’m not allowed anywhere near theatre) from 1-3p, possibly til 5p, but probs just til 3 bc i don’t feel well. so i need sleep, and i’m tired, but i’m also restless and on edge and i just don’t feel okay at all. i’ve been trying to make myself do this assignment since 6:30p. it’s been 4 hours and i still can’t do it.

my adhd meds have worn off, if i even took them today?? i think i did, but i can’t remember. i need to drink some caffeine and get to work but i just don’t want to. at all. and ik even if i do it, i won’t go to sleep immediately bc i want to write.

so, i think i’m gonna try to write for a bit and see if i can get my shit together enough to write this stupid paper. it’s so fucking short, i wrote 2pgs single spaced in the span of 30 min last time (bc i wasn’t aware it was supposed to be double spaced cause she never told us) so it should be extremely easy, but it’s not. my brother is snoring and i can hear him thru the walls and it’s grating on my every nerve bc he’s been asleep ALL FUCKING DAY so all i’ve heard is him snoring and it’s incredibly annoying. and i can’t play music to write my paper bc that’s too distracting w/o my meds working (as is his fucking snoring, he needs a sleep study done so they’ll take out his tonsils, but he never calls the dr, tho he blames the dr for it not being done yet, even tho he never fucking calls) and i’m so fucking pissed.

i tried to go to class today but i left halfway thru my first one bc i felt like shit. i was shaking and had a fever and was sweating and my throat was on fire and just, ugh, i hate being sick. i rly fucking do. it’s not strep bc i saw the dr today and they tested me for it, but it might be the flu, apparently, bc one of my friends who was over here sunday night (we got drunk, it was great) has the flu, so it’s possible. i hope not, but like, if it’s not that, then there’s nothing that can be done for me bc it’s probs just a virus. but it sucks.

i just want to scream bc everything’s wrong and i feel like i’m gonna have a panic attack but i don’t know why. nothing is rly wrong, it’s just a bunch of little things, like this paper and me being sick and my self-imposed deadlines for a project i have that i’m behind on. i just rly don’t want to be alone rn but in the event that i’m sick, i don’t wanna get anyone sick. i’ve been incredibly out of sorts for the past several days and i don’t know why. it keeps getting worse. nothing is rly wrong, exactly, but i feel so fucked up for some unknown reason. ok, well, ik part of the reason and it worries me (it’s not something i can fix, tho). it’s frustrating. it’d be easier if i had all my meds (i’m getting them tomorrow, tho, hopefully, if my psych has called them in, if not, i’m switching psychs bc i’m done with this ‘we never got the paperwork’ bullshit when i don’t have this problem with any other dr, this isn’t even the first time it’s happened. i’m tired of this bullshit).

i just need a shower and caffeine and maybe a friend. if one is available. probs not, tho. but i’m gonna shower first. then see if i actually want to text anyone. but i need a shower before anything else. hot water will do me good. then some caffeine. then to write. then to do this fucking paper.

[wanderingandconfused-blog]

Ok.

Let me tell you how it happened.

I woke up one Tuesday morning around 6:45 am. I worked at this trendy salad bar place at the time and they had switched my shifts to 8 am to 2 pm--and being the relaxed riser I knew I was--I needed my time to get ready (or at least hit snooze). I had my standard routine: snooze once or twice; shower with my eyes closed; towel dry my hair; throw on my black nike socks, jeans, black company t-shirt, and black flat-brimmed hat with the leaf on it; head downstairs and make breakfast. 

Today was a bit different from normal since my younger sister was in the hospital for mononucleosis, and quite a rough case of it I might add. My mom isn’t the biggest fan of hospitals, and this was the third time in a week she had brought my sister into the ER for fear her tonsils would block her airways. Anyways, the plan was for me to head to work and drop by the hospital afterwards to play cards or something with the bed-ridden sibling. 

It was probably about 7:20 or 7:25 am at this point. My mom was upstairs showering and getting ready to head over to the hospital that morning. My dad was showering and getting ready for work. My older brother and I were downstairs doing the standard “lazy morning” routine--him on the leather recliner, and me scarfing down whatever I had made for breakfast. I remember i was on a bit of a yogurt kick that week from all the parfaits I was eating at work.

While I sat there scraping down the last of the yogurt at the bottom crevices of the container (to which I had added blueberries or strawberries, or some sort of fruit...I can’t remember), my dog kept close to me, hoping for a leftover reward. I paid no attention to her, my elbows perched firmly on massive granite slab of a kitchen island, my gaze directed forward and into the container of yogurt.

My brother laid on the dark brown leather recliner to my left. It was the kind of chair you could sink your entire body into after a long day, or in his case, before a long day. He had his black JanSport backpack laid across his lap, the one he carried everywhere for everything. Even though we all had black JanSport backpacks, every single person in my family could identify his from the signature braided hemp bracelet he kept tied to a zipper on one of the smaller pockets on the back. Unmistakable. It matched his personality with his long dreaded hair, which he frequently put up in a pony tail. I loved that pony-tail. I can’t remember exactly what his hair looked like that morning, but I think it was pulled up and away from his face. His arms were sprawled out above his head, half supporting his head, half simply hanging over the back of the reclined chair. He was a skinny, pasty kid--I can’t remember the last time he had eaten three round meals in a day or worked out, or even saw any sun at all. His arms were about the size of the dead branches you could wiggle off of an old tree, snap off the excess twigs, and make a decent walking stick out of (until you try to put too much weight on it and snap it in two). 

He yawned, took his index and middle fingers to his eyes, and rubbed them in circles before dragging his fingers down the inner corners of his eyes, down the bridge of his nose, and sweeping down the bottom of his cheek, finishing at the corners of his mouth (like he was wiping away any drool that had come about during an accidental morning nap he might’ve taken). He landed the palms of his hands at his temple and, in the middle of a drawn out yawn, vocalized his thoughts. “Man, I don’t feel like going to work today.”

I tried to commiserate and help him look on the bright side.

“Neither do I, but I always feel like that. At the end of the day, I come home and realize it wasn’t so bad. I’ve heard you say it wasn’t so bad after a working day, too.”

He laced his response with an inflection of exhaustion.

“Yeah, but I really don’t feel like going to work today.”

He got up, stretched his arms, yawned, flung his backpack over his shoulder, and went upstairs. I assumed he had gone to check if my dad was ready to drive him to work.

I gave my dog a short glare and shared my thoughts. “No, no, no, you don’t get any people food.” It didn’t deter her spirit of hope. I ignored her and went right back to scraping together the last bits of fruity yogurt at the bottom. It was about 7:30 or 7:35. I would’ve had to leave at some point in the following 10 minutes to get to work on time.

My brother came back downstairs, backpack over his shoulder, and headed out to the backyard. I watched him walk to the left of the patio and disappear from sight, out of the range of any window (of which we had many).

Right at that moment, I had the weirdest feeling. Indescribable. It started in my gut, and made it’s way into my throat. Not wanting to cause a panic, I decided the first move would be to let the dog out. It seemed like an innocuous action. I didn’t want to assume the worst, but I didn’t want to do nothing. After pushing her out the door, watching her trot out of sight to the side of the patio my brother was on, and pausing, I thought the best of the situation. In the back of my mind, I thought everything was going to be fine. 

I even returned to my yogurt at the counter (though it was basically gone) to take my mind off of the negative wandering thoughts that briefly occupied my mind.

My dog wanted back in, so I let her back in.

I poked my head outside to see what mischief my brother was up to this morning, only to see him start walking towards the center of the patio. He’d left his black JanSport backpack with the braided hemp bracelet behind him. 

He kept walking, about 8 feet of patio between us. His arms were stiff to his side as he walked past me, so that I could only see the right side of his body. His right hand was empty. His left hand was not. I seemed like he was trying to hide something from me, like a child trying to casually walk past his mother with an extra twizzler in his far hand, shielded by his own body. Only it wasn’t a twizzler.

I caught the dark black outline of something in his left hand. My heart sunk. He moved with purpose and direction off the patio and out into the small patch of grass we called a yard.

I started walking towards him, analyzing his face. His eyes were aimed toward his destination, determined, but the lower rims were glistening, like a wild animal just before they attack. His forehead had distress written all over it, with his brow furrowed, and sweat beading below his hairline. But I was still giving him the benefit of the doubt.

“Hey, what are you up to?” I tried to say playfully, but with an audible shake in my voice. I had more thoughts in 5 seconds than I did in a normal week.

Maybe he was holding his black airsoft gun?

He made his way across the lawn, walking away from me, so I could only see his back. He switched the black mass from his left hand to his right.

Maybe he was doing a bit of target practice on some birds up in the tree?

“Wait, what are you doing?!” My voice became more frantic as I made my way down the steps into the grass.

It’s not completely unusual for him to do something weird like target practice with an airsoft gun in the morning 10 minutes before work.

He turned towards me, now 10 feet away. 

He’s not doing target practice.

His eyes never met mine. His facial expression never changed. He looked focused, concentrating on the task he’d set out to do, ensuring everything went right the first time.

An airsoft gun couldn’t blow through a skull. Could it? At close range?

“No, WAIT.”

Where would he have even gotten a real gun? 

He raised the barrel to his right temple. My eyes widened. His eyes closed.

“NO, PLEASE. DON’T—”

He fell limp. It felt like an eternity. Like he’d fainted right in front of me in slow motion. I barely registered the pop...

“—NO. FUCK FUCK.”

I fell limp.

I didn’t know what to do. I collapsed to my knees. My head fell into my hands. My eyes couldn’t see straight. My tears blocked any remaining vision. I screamed, or sobbed, or both. I couldn’t make sense of what just happened. I returned to my feet, hands shaking uncontrollably, body following suit. I couldn’t look at him, lying in the grass, limbs haphazardly placed.

Mom, Dad…

I bolted inside, holding back the sudden urge to vomit. “MOM,” I screamed upstairs, “DAD, COME DOWN NOW,” distress, tears, and throbbing pain lacing every word…

Fuck.

[deadpool5195]

You know what sucks...

It sucks to grow up with parents who don't take ailments seriously. They underestimate your pain tolerance and think you're being dramatic, when it scares you that something could really be wrong and they don't take it seriously. Parent: Injured in a snowboarding accident? Ski patrol had to take you to the clinic in a toboggan? They told you to go to a doctor when you got home? Your knee is black and blue and the size of a softball? Eh! Walk it off. We'll ice it, you'll be fine. Me: (years later working at a ski resort) Man that knee I injured a long time ago still gets really ache-y and hurts a ton after a shift on the mountain. Being a catcher in softball for years probably didn't help it heal. My knee now feels weaker than ever and causes me daily pain at work. Not to mention it makes me doubt my ability to do my job since I'm afraid to overuse it and cause more pain and damage to it. It breaks my confidence that my bosses see me as a valuable team member when I'm constantly dealing with knee pain that limits me from doing my job. I feel like I'm always on the brink of getting fired for it. Parent: What's that, your eyes are glued shut with goop and red and itchy beyond belief? It might be pink eye, but just use a warm wash cloth to clean up, you'll be fine. Go to school. Me: No I'm gonna schedule a doctor's appointment. Dr: Yeah you've got a bad case of pink eye in both eyes. Here are some eye drops to use 3 times a day, stay home from school, cuz you're really contagious. Parent: You think you're really sick, every time you swallow it feels like your throat is full of glass shards? You're fine, just gargle salt water and you'll be ok. Me: No you don't understand. I can barely talk, swallow, or eat anything. Something is really wrong. I'm going to urgent care cuz it hurts so much I'm crying. Dr: Yeah you've got tonsillitis and pink eye at the same time. Here's antibiotics to kill the infection. Here's a pill for the swollen tonsils, should help to reduce inflammation. Also have some numbing mouth wash and rinse. Let is coat your throat, it should numb it and take away the pain temporarily. Eye drops for the pink eye, 3 times a day. You need to stay home and limit contact with people. You're really contagious, you should start to feel better in a week or so. (By the way, this situation happened in the last week of my summer retail job when they really needed me, they told me they didn't even care about a Dr's note. If I had that much going on, staying home was better than getting customers and coworkers sick too.) In the end, all these situations where my parents doubt what I'm telling them when I feel sick or injured, really makes me doubt whether other ailments that come up are serious enough to take caution or action on. I don't trust myself anymore to know when I need to go to the doctor and when I can take care of it at home. It's given me a weird case of hypochondria because I can't tell what's serious, what's not, and what and when I should do it. Add my anxiety into the equation and my mind runs with it all and I over think it to the point where I stress myself out enough to force myself into a panic attack or giving in and going to the doctor for no reason. Then when it wasn't a serious issue, my parents ridicule me for costing them medical bills...... So yeah, it sucks having parents who don't listen, understand, empathize, and then try to help you through a situation calmly. Instead they underestimate it all and gaslight you into thinking something is wrong with you.....so thanks mom and dad....