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probably-enjolras · 3 years

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r.e. disabled les amis headcanons: omg please add yours

yay someone wants to hear mine! some of this will be projection on my part. i’m disabled myself, i need a cane to walk because of a condition called Amplified Musculoskeletal Pain Syndrome (AMPS) which is very similar to fibromyalgia. i’m also going to include some neurodivergent and mental illness headcanons, but i know some people don’t consider those disabilities, but from my own experience with them, i do, so that’s why i’m adding them!

jean valjean has chronic back pain, specifically a problem with the discs in the upper spine, from his time in prison. gradually gets worse as he gets older because of lack of treatment and him triggering the pain himself by lifting the crashes cart and then marius in the sewers. in my modern aus i like to think he gets an upper back/neck and shoulder brace that he wears, and he’s a bit insecure about it so that’s why he’s always wearing big coats even in aus where he’s not being pursued by javert

javert, marius, and enjolras are autistic. javert has known most of his life but marius wasn’t diagnosed until his late teens due to lack of familial support. enjolras would have been diagnosed as a kid but he’s afab and there’s lack of diagnosis for afab children and he doesn’t get diagnosed until he’s in his 20s after doing his own research.

enjolras, grantaire, courfeyrac, and bossuet have adhd. enjolras and bossuet have more hyperactive traits, enjolras’ manifesting in his need to constantly be doing something and chronic boredom, while bossuet doesn’t display his as physical hyperactivity but more racing thoughts and an inability to slow his mind down. courfeyrac and grantaire have more attention deficit issues. they can’t focus on one topic for a while unless they go into hyperfocus or it’s a hyperfixation. grantaire has a lot of self worth issues because of his adhd because growing up he was seen as a bad student and a bad child because of his attention issues and executive dysfunction. courfeyrac got medicated really early on in childhood. enjolras did too and it becomes a bit of an issue between him and grantaire because grantaire doesn’t start medication until he’s about 24 and enjolras has been on medication for a long time and he’s kinda forgotten about how difficult it can be being unmedicated so he thinks grantaire isn’t trying enough. that changes when the pharmacy won’t refill enjolras’ medicine and he has to go a week without it. it’s a really humbling experience he apologizes to grantaire once he’s back on meds (this is based on personal experience actually… i didn’t start meds until a few months ago and i had a friend who started meds in middle school do what enjolras did and ur sucked)

joly had to get his knee joint replaced through surgery and still can’t walk properly without pain in the area so he walks with a cane. he also has an autoimmune disorder that makes him get sick really easily, as well as chronic fatigue and brain fog that makes it hard to complete daily tasks even when he has a low pain day. he also has very bad anxiety that sometimes manifests in worrying about his health excessively and vigilance about staying healthy because he knows that if he even gets a cold, it will be worse for his body than someone without a chronic illness

cosette and eponine both have c-ptsd from living with the thenardiers, and i have so much to say about this that i’m thinking about making an entirely separate post about it. just know that both of them have trauma responses, with cosette becoming very docile and a chronic people pleaser because she doesn’t want to get in trouble even though she won’t be punished like that anymore, while eponine has become hardened by her trauma and puts up walls so she doesn’t get hurt. she also gets frequent nightmares about her siblings being hurt and wakes up sweaty and almost screaming. gavroche came home late one day and eponine was on the verge of a panic attack even though it had only been half an hour

combeferre is blind in one eye and his other eye is partially damaged so he doesn’t have very good depth perception in what he can see, and he also has very limited color vision

feuilly is deaf and grantaire is HoH. feuilly’s primary form of communication is sign language, though he can lip read but not very well. all the amis know basic signs like how to ask if he wants some water/food, hellos and goodbyes, and how to sign their names. once feuilly becomes close with them, he creates signs specifically for their names, which at least in the american d/Deaf/HoH community is very special. a very close family friend of mine is HoH and he gave me a name sign when i came out as trans (it’s a quick movement of the letters R and Y up in the position where male signs are signed like “father”) grantaire is hard of hearing and has hearing aids. sometimes when he fights with enjolras he just takes out his hearing aids and just lets enjolras keep going until he realizes what’s going on.

this next one is very personal to me and is something i don’t think i’ve ever seen before, but i hc jehan with having schizoaffective disorder (bipolar type). i personally have this disorder and i have found some comfort thinking jehan has it too. they started having mood symptoms first, which started as a depressive episode and then suddenly they felt like they had been shocked into a manic episode. once the mania started they began having delusions of grandeur and the belief that they were a prophet sent to help the world. they began thinking people were after them and they heard voices from “angels” telling them what to do. they started writing poetry as a way to get the voices out of their head and onto paper. it took two years to get a diagnosis and a some very rough nights where they weren’t sleeping and would show up to meetings with delusional ideas, and they were scared. they refused to go to the hospital but needed help, so grantaire took them to the community out reach center that he goes to for alcohol addiction treatment and jehan got a psychiatrist who started them on antipsychotics and a mood stabilizer. i like to think that jehan got better quickly, just because i’ve had this disorder for a very long time and i’ve tried almost every antipsychotic out there and im not really better, so i want them to not have my experience. they were accepting of treatment pretty easily, but they did worry that their poetry wouldn’t be the same afterwards. fortunately, they channeled their frustration into poetry as opposed to writing what they were hearing and even though their poetry changed once they got on medicine, they didn’t lose their ability to write it. they’ve also learned how to have confidence in themself and the revolution without becoming delusional, which did take time because hearing enjolras’ strong ideas, it just felt like too much for a while. but the longer they’ve been stable and connected to reality, the easier it becomes to believe that yes, some things may seem improbable, but they can still happen AND some ideas are delusions and can be differentiated between the improbably ideas

bahorel has hypermobile joints and has to be careful when boxing with grantaire because he has subluxed or even fully dislocated his shoulders, elbows, and finger joints while boxing. jehan bought him some colorful finger braces and has stitched patterns into his knee and elbow braces

that’s enough for now because this is getting really long but yeah. lots of projection on my part (whoops) but what is this blog without me projecting my issues onto les mis characters? is this not what this blog is based on 😂

#les mis #les mis headcanons #les miserables #disabled headcanons #les amis #les amis de l'abc

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bagog · 3 years

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What On Earth Has Happened

Hey, no story here, no experiments. Just a play by play of an awful year in my life. Please don't reblog. Trying to just get it down in one place for people who care about me. Long, sob-story beneath the cut.

Air - 'Things are looking up!' I had started to drift a bit from tumblr. The porno purge came and a lot of my friends trickled off the platform after that. I went back to school, attempting to score myself a Masters degree in something that would pay enough to get me out of Student Debt. I was doing great, picking things up fast. I got a new job at a company doing pretty menial work, but the people I worked with were great conversationalists. The work didn't involve dealing with customers at all, paid well, and was small and accomplishable tasks. Essentially I was being prepped to take a better position at the place once I had my Masters. Covid happened, then. Earth - 'The Whole World Sucks Right Now' My company was "essential," so I continued going to work, now on weird schedules. The company I worked for was profiting off Covid, all the while making fun of it as an overblown conspiracy, even as their own epidemiologist urged them to take better precautions. Work became hard to swallow. Water - 'When your lowest place could be lower' The apartment I shared with my boyfriend flooded. The lowest place in any sewage system is typically the bathtub, such that if it backs up, it does so into that tub. Our lowest point is the toilet. So the apartment flooded. Three times. Roots growing through the sewage outflow meant that, often, you needed to wait a solid hour between toilet flushes, or else the toilet would back up with such gusto the sewage would slosh down the hallway and into the living room. We mopped many times. The problem was finally fixed 8 months later, necessitating our having to camp because our house had no water. Fire - 'To destroy all you've done' One afternoon, I smelled burning. Going to our bedroom, I found our shelf a column of flame. I could barely breathe for all the smoke, but I managed to grab a blanket and beat the fire out. On the other side of the room, the pages of the books upon another shelf had begun to crisp from the heat, the blinds on all the windows were warped. The whole apartment had been about to go up. I'm kinda scared of fire now. Heart - 'When moving is too much to ask' Personal health sorta hit a new low. Migraines kept me out of work for two full weeks. I have seasonal foot pain, I always assumed from hiking for a living in my 20s. Turns out it was gout, all the while. Gout is exceptionally painful: it's like a messy pile of razor blades in the ball of your foot every time you step down. At work, I could barely stand. Walking from my car to the door became something I needed to psyche myself up for. Not a lot can stop a gout flare-up once it's in full swing, so I just had to wait it out. For a month. Two. Some of the worst sustained pain I've been in. Little did I know that, in January, come the kidney stones. Kidney stones feel awful. Feel like total shit. Gout and kidney stones are comorbid--brought about as a result of the meds I take to help me focus. So any day I don't drink enough water is a day when my kidneys or my foot just starts aching. But going back to September of 2020... Homophobia - 'goddammit' Finally things are looking better. I'm limping quickly again. Then I am called into the HR office. I am told that two sexual harassment charges have been brought against me. I'm told that one individual has alleged that I, while in the restroom, used a reflective toilet brush to attempt to peep him under a stall wall. I did not do this. I do not understand--reflective toilet brush?? wtf. The second allegation: I just straight up looked over a stall at a guy. I didn't do this either. I'm asked to defend myself, I ask who or date or time of day. I am given nothing. I remark that I don't think I'm tall enough to see over the stall, and I do not understand about the toilet brush. Of the ten minutes of the meeting, I spend 8 of them trying to get my head around how a claim about a reflective toilet brush has me here. "Would you like us to go now to see if you're tall enough to see over the stall? If that would help your defense?" says the HR head. "Yes, I

would," says I. We did not go. I am told that the accusers have no reason to be collaborating, or to even know each other made a claim. This is bullshit, because it was a company of 80 people, and only a quarter of those employees used the restroom where my alleged harassment was to have taken place. Before I am dismissed from work for the day to go home and wait to find out if I'll be fired or not, I march into the HR office once more and say "I hope none of this is happening because I'm gay." The HR head looks positively offended. I got fired cuz I'm gay. Next day I got a call. They'd come to the "objective truth" (that phrase is burned in my mind), and were terminating me. Apparently they discounted the toilet brush rumor, after all. But they really honestly believed I looked over the stall at a dude. Nightmare - 'No Fear One Fear' Let me tell you something: this is a nightmare. This is my honest-to-god nightmare. I've been terrified of getting accused of something in a bathroom since I was 11 years old. I am incredibly self-conscious and careful in public restrooms. To be fired? From a place full of people I like? And all of them will think I'm a pervert. My boyfriend worked at the same place. He would now have to work there every day dealing with people looking at him and wondering what he must think of his boyfriend. That sent me on a spiral. I'm still out of work, almost a year later. It would have been the worst mental health crisis of my life if it wasn't for my boyfriend, my support network, and the meds I've finally been able to get ahold of. Oh, also. My two accusers? Were roommates. HR knew they were roommates. They basically collaborated on a story to get me fired. The story circulating around the place (I still have acquaintances I talk to working there) has dropped the reflective toilet brush entirely. I guess they thought it was too unbelievable. So anyway, the people who accused me are now telling a different set of events than what I was told. Absolute horse shit. Tried to go to my city's human right's council to see if my situation warranted further attention. I gave my side of the story--including tales of the straight manager who had had enough harassment charges brought against him that he was no longer allowed to meet female staff--which indicated I'd been treated differently and wrongly. My old job made an impassioned argument that the committee violated their First Amendment rights(?) ('Freedom of speech' is the biggie with the First Amendment, for people who cba re:USA). I won the vote!! But one member of the committee was missing. So there weren't enough people for the vote to pass. Dismissed. We took it to the EEOC to make an official federal complaint. Just a week ago, an agent of the US Government patiently explained to us that these laws are literally designed to fuck over the worker and protect the employer unless they are epically stupid, and unfortunately, mine had not been epically stupid. So there's nowhere to go, no recourse to be had. It's over, I guess. Family - 'How to sum it up quickly...' My family hit me with the old soft-disown. No more calls, no more communication. They think they are loving me by not having contact with me. By depriving me of my family, they hope it will make me realize that the path I'm on is destructive, and I'll return to them living an upright life. No. I'm living an upright life, now. And if my family can choose to throw me away, then they are not a family I choose. Then my dad hit me back two months later, absolutely gaslighting me and pretending we never had the disown conversation at all. Reality - 'I don't know who I am anymore' I have trouble knowing what's real, anymore. Every message my dad sends on the surface seems loving and supportive and plaintive. I feel I must be the one in the wrong. I got fired for bullshit reasons. It doesn't feel real. "My family can't possibly have ceased contact with me: that's one of those things I know can never happen!!" But that did happen. So what else that feels real, actually isn't? I do

mean to be so dramatic, and I won't apologize for it. But I truly do feel like my mind has been pretty thoroughly unseated by the last year. Whoever I am, I'm becoming someone different. More distilled, at very least. I've discovered a lot of things about myself: trauma that has likely led to a lot of my mental health problems. Discovered I actually have RAGING ADHD, and it has robber me of a lot of things I wanted to do, and now is sort of consuming me completely. I'm looking for help. Trying to get better. Here's hoping. Every bold point above could be its own book, for all my thoughts about them. But enough of that for now. Love you. Thanks for reading.

#personal #depressed writing #life update #2020 sucked

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missmentelle · 4 years

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Hi MM/Bee! I'm a recent college graduate. I always worked hard in school and I matured a lot at college, but I'm realizing how low my self-esteem is. I'm obsessing over the things I haven't done/accomplished, scholarships I never applied for, my body image, my high school days, "not being as successful as my high school class", an old crush who I never talked to (who is already super successful), and some days I feel like I messed up my life beyond repair. How do I work on self-love? Thank you!

For starters, I think it’s important for you to know that you aren’t the only person feeling this way. I get similar questions all the time, often from people who aren’t even out of their 20s yet. It isn’t even remotely true that you need to achieve wild success by age 25 or you’ve wasted your life, but I can understand why so many people feel that way.

Our culture is dangerously obsessed with productivity, youth and achievement, to the point that it is actively making all of our lives miserable. It’s not hard to understand where people get this idea that they’re failing in life if they aren’t a 20-something well-travelled millionaire - that is the message our culture throws in our faces all the time - and it’s so unbelievably untrue. We compile “top 30 under 30″ lists, celebrate incredibly young performers and entertainers, and hold up extremely high-achieving lifestyles as something that every one of us needs to be striving for, but we don’t - there is no timeline for “success”, there is no one true definition of success, and people will take wildly different paths in life to arrive at the same set of goals. What you think of as your failure is not actually your failure - it’s a cultural failure that so many of us fall victim to.

I think it’s also important to remember that you haven’t messed up your life beyond repair: you’ve barely started your life yet. Your college years are supposed to be a time of growing and maturing, and that maturation doesn’t end the moment you cross the stage - you’re going to continue to learn and change and grow throughout your lifespan. And growth means you are always going to mess some stuff up - that’s how we grow. All of us have to make mistakes in this life, and all of us have to prioritize rest sometimes; there are always going to be tests we don’t do so great on, social situations we flub, scholarships we don’t apply for, crushes we don’t confess to, deadlines we miss, relationships we let fall apart and goals we don’t achieve. Nobody speedruns life with 100% completion. And that’s okay. Those missteps and mistakes are what teach us to do better next time, or they give us the time to rest and gather energy for the next goal we want to work toward.

Of course, learning to accept yourself and let go of cultural conditioning is easier said than done. For many of us, it’s a lifelong journey, if not the overarching theme of our lives. I wish there was a simple way to achieve it. I do, however, have some tips that can help you get there:

Unplug from productivity and self-improvement culture. Going online and seeing “Shakespeare wrote King Lear in quarantine, here’s how to maximize your quarantine time” and “here’s how I became a millionaire by age 22″ is not actually that motivating - in all likelihood, it’ll just make you feel bad about yourself. The internet is an absolute firehose of content about how you can do more, achieve more, squeeze more out of your day, and it’s completely overwhelming; honestly, most of us feel better when we stop pointing that firehose straight at our own face. It’s easier to believe that you are enough when you stop consuming content that tells you that you aren’t. Self-improvement culture looks positive on the surface, but we aren’t actually making ourselves better people by obsessing over our work and productivity - we’re just making ourselves miserable.

Ask yourself “who benefits from making me feel bad about myself?” It’s not a coincidence that we’ve built a culture obsessed with youth and productivity - that culture is making a lot of people very, very rich. Whenever you can be convinced that you aren’t thin enough, not pretty enough, not good enough, you can be convinced to run out and buy things that might fix the problem. That’s how we ended up with a $10 billion dollar self-improvement industry and a $532 billion dollar beauty industry. Content people are harder to sell to. Of course, knowing that people are profiting off your insecurities doesn’t magically make the insecurities go away - but it’s important to start thinking critically and asking yourself “where do my insecurities come from? Is there really something wrong with me, or is someone profiting from making people like me feel this way?”

Do things that make you happy, just for the sake of doing them. Paint a picture. Plant a garden. Learn to play the mandolin. Read cheesy romance novels. Find some things that you enjoy doing just for you - things that you don’t need to maximize, monetize or optimize. You don’t even need to be good at them. If you enjoy doing it, have at it. So many of us are encouraged to suck the joy out of our hobbies by turning them into a “side hustle” or another regimented form of self-improvement. Find some activities that just make your life better and do them, just for the sake of doing them.

Examine the role of social media in your life. Most of us don’t post a complete, unedited view of our lives on social media - we just post the highlights and keep the tough stuff - the rejections, the times we got ghosted, the bad hair days - to ourselves. And even if you know that cognitively, it still sucks to log onto social media when you’re having a “blah” week and find yourself bombarded with other people’s engagement announcements, med school acceptances, wedding pictures and photos of the new homes people just bought. Social media forces you to compare your “average” to everyone else’s “best”, all the time. And the numbers don’t help - social media lets you do an exact comparison of how many followers and likes you have compared to someone else, and seeing someone get more positive feedback than you can sting. Working on self-love means taking a hard look at the impact social media is having on your self-esteem. How much of your time do you spend on social media? How do you feel after you use social media? Are you following accounts that make you feel better about yourself, or worse? Do you ever feel bad about the number of likes or followers you have? Do you feel like your time on social media is wasted? Do you follow accounts that make you feel better about yourself, or worse? Stepping away from social media for your mental health is an important move for some people - you can still be happy for your friends and loved ones while acknowledging that it’s not good for you to have their achievements broadcast to you 24/7.

Surround yourself with good, supportive people. If you find that your circle of friends tends to diminish each other’s achievements, be overly critical of each other or go out of their way to one-up each other, that’s probably not a circle of friends that’s going to be good for you in the long run. Find people who are genuinely happy for you, and make you feel supported and loved for who you are. If that means you need to branch out of your current social circles, that’s okay - you can find great friends in surprising places, and it’s worth the initial awkwardness of getting to know a new person.

Challenge your definition of “success”. Success does not have to look like a high-paying job and a giant house and expensive cars and 2.5 honour roll children. It certainly can look that way, if you feel that those are meaningful goals for you, but it doesn’t have to look that way. A doctor is not necessarily “more successful” than a poet, and a lawyer is not necessarily “more successful” than a stay-at-home parent. The only person who gets to define what a “successful” life looks like is you. It takes time to unlearn the social conditioning that “money and prestige = success”, but it can be done. Success looks different for all of us.

Set goals that are personally meaningful to you. It’s important for all of us to think critically about what we want, and it’s even more important to think critically about why we want it. Do we want that degree program or that accomplishment or that job because it aligns with our interests? To impress others? To prove someone wrong? Or because we feel like we’re supposed to want it? Try to focus your energy on the goals that you want, that are personally meaningful to you. If that’s law school, great. If that’s selling homemade jam at the farmer’s market, that is equally great.

Remember that success does not have a deadline. I know this is very hard to believe in your early twenties, but your dreams do not shrivel up and blow away the day you turn 30. Life doesn’t end when your 20s are over. You haven’t missed your shot, and you don’t have to figure everything out right now. Growth and achievement are lifelong journeys - people find their dream jobs, accomplish their goals, finish degrees and meet the love of their life in their 40s, 50s, 60s and beyond. The best book I read this year was “Where the Crawdads Sing” a novel that spent 32 weeks on the New York Times bestseller list. It also happened to be the author’s first novel, and it came out when she was sixty-nine years old. Your dreams do not have an expiration date.

Capture the joy and positivity in your life. I think one of the most important ways to feel better about your life is to spend more time focusing on all the good things in your life, rather than focusing on all the ways you could be better. Rather than fixating on whether you could have applied for more scholarships or turned that B+ into an A-, spend more time reflecting on the happy memories you have of your time in college. Again, this isn’t something that will happen overnight - it’s a learned skill that you need to consciously work on. Interrupt yourself when you are starting to fixate on things you could have done better, and make yourself list out three things you enjoyed about college. Connect with old college friends you haven’t heard from in a while. Try to take more notice of good things in your life as they happen to you - take more pictures, keep a journal, make collages, start a scrapbook, keep a box of momentos. You don’t need to have a perfect life to be happy; it’s okay to work on being happy with the life you have.

Best of luck to you! MM

#Anonymous #AnsweredByMM #askmissmentelle

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thejosh1980 · 3 years

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Little Wing

(Trigger warning: animal/pet death)

Today, right now, I am sat at the spot where Mijo felt his last sunrise, just 24 hours ago.

He was 28 weeks old, he spent 20 of those weeks with me, and my family. He was my family. He was thrust upon me by my wife and mum, who knew Mijo would be the kind of birthday present I'd want, but could never ask for.

When he arrived he was unexpected. Straight from the car, into my bedroom, onto my lap, what a surprise, it was love at first sight. Those eyes, that tail, that round belly, the fur, I was all in. I had to say goodbye to 4 beautiful pets whom I loved dearly when I left Germany, so then and there I made a quiet, whisper promise to Mijo;

“I'll never ever leave you”...

We began like any other Daddy and cat story, playing, eating, talking to each other. We may have made a few messes on the bed learning to potty train, but I couldn't really fault him, he was perfect. He loved cuddles, got under our feet all the time, talked to us a lot and wanted to be a part of everything happening around the house.

He meowed very loudly too. Sometimes he'd meow from the next room sounding lost and worried. That's when I started to realized something was very different about him. It took about 2 weeks, but then I realized, he was totally deaf!!!! No vacuum cleaner, loud bangs, claps, or door slams could get his attention. When he meowed loudly, it was either because he had to, to feel himself meowing in his head, or he was missing us and could smell us, but not hear us in the next room. I had never had a cat who couldn't hear me call their name, so this was going to be a challenge.

Mijo accepted that challenge...

In a short time I figured out how to clicker train him, using a torch. I love training cats. Most folks think it's impossible, but I've taught cats to fetch, sit and come on command in the past.... So, pretty soon I had him jumping up, over and across chairs and tables on cue. I also learnt a way to “call” him; assuming he could see me, if I knelt down and tapped my leg, he'd come a running. Every time. We had it all figured out.

Grab a harness and a lead, and off we go, walking around the garden. This wasn't a cat, this was a dog. He had very little fear, I mean, he couldn't even hear the birds making a racket or the car driving by or the dog barking next door. He was fixated on me.

I bought him a blow up boat, to use in the pool, to help him get used to floating on water. It was a huge boat for his little size, but he'd hop in, and I'd “treat” him while he got used to the motion. The plan was to build him up to a real boat, or canoe or SUP. I could imagine him walking on water.

He was also great with other cats, so I could take him to visit his cousin and they'd play all day (if we'd let them). He'd come with me to visit other family and then... well, then the real adventures started. Mijo and I could go to the river, the park and the beach. We also went for coffee at the busiest part in the local village, and he took it all in his stride. We took bike rides too, as he sat in a special backpack I had for him. I could hold him while skateboarding or put him on my shoulder as I walked around. He was chill, happy to see and smell his silent world.

When Alex or I came home, and he'd be in the bedroom snoozing or gazing out the window, we could come in, take off our shoes, put our stuff down, maybe run to the loo, then we could snuggle up with him, cause he hadn't heard us arrive. He would just be waiting... He'd just wait for someone to step close enough, blow on his ear, feel a vibration and then he'd meow a big BIG hello, purr and snuggle. He was a no pressure cat... But always ready for hugs and pats.

Besides being deaf, he just didn't seem like any other cat I'd had or even met...

But isn't the way it is with all pets? They're all unique.

He loved Alex. He always had a hard decision between my lap and hers, or sleeping close to one or the other. We had a son to take care of, to love and to enjoy. At the beginning, Alex wasn't sure about having a cat, she'd pretty much always been a dog person, but it didn't take long for Mijo to wrap her around his little paw. She was hooked.

We thought he was going to be grow up to become a big boy. You know, Maine Coon sized 5-6 or maybe 7 kilo. We had high hopes for a dog-like cat, big enough to take on the world. We wanted to show him the world too.

After he had his snip (desexing) in mid March, he wasn't very well, and it really traumatized all of us, we just weren't sure why he took it so badly. He was in a lot of pain, even though the operation itself was quick and really good, with no issues. He would spend the day, in his “bread loaf” position, with his nose to the ground. It was like he was conserving all his energy for when we came home or wanted his attention.

Eventually, after a few weeks he bounced back, back to being his usual self, for a while. He actually lost a lot of fur during this time, most likely due to a reaction to the antibiotics and pain killers. Where his collar and harness were, he lost all his hair. It only took a few days, a bit too quick to realize what was going on, he rarely wore the collar or harness after that. It meant we sometimes lost him in the house without his bell on to tell which room he was in, so I'd be running around turning on and off the lights to get his attention and a meow.

It was our fun game of “Mijo Polo”.

We had noticed he wasn't eating as much, and he wasn't as playful. In fact, all his toys were being ignored, and he rarely chased anything we teased him with. When we took him for playtime with his cousin, he wouldn't last as long play fighting. Something was up, we thought he'd bounce back by now.

Overall, he was a very chilled cat, having just had an operation and now with, ringworm, a tooth problem (one adult tooth was causing him problems and needed to be pulled) maybe that was why he wasn't too interested in food. Surely it wasn't bacteria, an infection or a virus in his blood.

In early May, Mijo developed ringworm, which, by the way, isn't a worm but rather a fungal infection. The vet already had us on anti fungal cream day and night. It's very unusual to get ringworm; it's all around us, but a strong immune system, actually, a decent immune system, would fight off any infection naturally. Cats generally just lick it all off their fur. Humans sometimes get it, from a scratch or a wound. It's in the soil, it's in the air.

When we got the treatment for the ringworm, we also gave him an appetite stimulant, to encourage him to eat, but it made little difference. As nothing changed, we went back to the vet a few days later, and did a hypothyroidism test; the results were borderline.

What could be going on?

At the time of his desexing operation, he was 1.7 kilos, a week later he was down to 1.5 and eventually 1.45 kilo. His body was growing a little, but his muscle and fat wasn't.

We talked to the vet and decided, even though his ringworm was infectious, the tooth had to go, sooner rather than later. It seemed logical that it was his biggest barrier to fulfilling his dietary requirements and his well being. We wanted him fattening up, growing up, and being his usual self again, ASAP. We needed to get him back on track towards good health, enough was enough.

On Monday 17th May I dropped the little guy off at the vet for the day. A check up and a tooth pull.

Before any cat gets an anesthetic, they run a simple blood test to determine if the cat is well enough. During the day we got a call that the operation couldn't happen, and that he'd have to stay in over night or longer, with meds to help him, because his red cell blood count was low. 10%. Most cats need around 40%, if there's any complication with the tooth pull, his blood may not clot.

It's official, he was very unwell.

I was at school when I got the news. I was in shock. Our little boy was that unwell? But he does eat (a little), he does walk on the lead with me, he's eating his treats... was he that unwell?

Suddenly we had to decide on some expensive tests to figure out what was wrong with him. I mean, the red blood cells were being eaten up by the white ones, but why?? We arranged the suggested tests and they kept him in over night.

I was very distraught. How can my little guy be so unwell yet behave well? With that blood count, he shouldn't be able to walk, he should be so lethargic that he can't keep his head up!! He should be in a coma.

All in all, theoretically, he should be dead.

So was it dwarfism, hypothyroidism, mycoplasma??? And and and?? Tests... Blood being taken.. Our boy in the vet over night, alone, worried, scared??? Will he make it through the night? I didn't sleep well...

On Tuesday afternoon the vet let us bring him home. His blood level was down to 9.1%. The idea was that, at least at home he'd have cuddles and love, and that might help his immune system. He was lethargic but not completely terrible. I would need to bring him in on Wednesday for another blood test, to see how he was doing.

On Wednesday, it didn't go well, Mijo had gone from 9 to 8.1% blood level. It was now becoming almost impossible to get any blood out of him. I saw how difficult it was 2 weeks earlier when he had the hypothyroid test, they had to try on both legs and his neck to get a half mil of blood! He was a champ and barely complained. But now, I couldn't imagine the pain he went through with even less blood.

He's been that sick for how long?? Why hadn't we noticed?

We were panicking.

The vet suggested we meet with a mature, more experienced doc, on Thursday. We should be able to figure something out, we had to. Each day = less blood = more chance of...

Well, I am a hopeful guy. I realize, I live on hope. I spent years hoping certain people in my life would change, or love me in a way that I feel some love. I always hope things will change for the better. I don't know why, but it's ingrained in me to feel hopelessness or hope... I think I'm never in the middle... or is that called acceptance? OK, maybe I do feel that too, eventually... But it takes a long long time...

I have videos of Mijo on Thursday 20th, he's cleaning himself in the sun, meowing and purring, happy to see me, walking around the garden with me. Full of life and adventure.

At lunch time, Mijo and I go to the vet. He is his usual cute self, always curious at the vets, and now there's a the new guy he's meeting, what an adventure.

Before he opens the cat box he said something along the lines of “Well, because his blood levels are so low, today is really about deciding if he goes to heaven or not...” I'm not sure, but I know I heard words like “heaven” and “euthanasia” early on in the consultation. Shock was setting in. I barely heard anything else he said, luckily we had Alex on the speaker phone.

Turns out, not only is our little guy deaf, he's an anomaly.

Any cat with 8.1% should be comatose. They should barely be able to walk. They certainly can't pee or poo without help and don't drink or eat much. Mijo came out of his box and sniffed around, was alert and ready to meet the new guy!!

The vet was stumped. He had never seen this before, in over 30 years...

We didn't know he was so sick, because, he was, overall, a well behaved cat. His weight he lost, sure, but he was now at least stable. He was eating, it just took a lot of creativity sometimes to spark his interest (mostly warming up meals and giving him treats).

The vet tried to explain to me, but I'm sure Alex on the phone understood it clearly, that we had very little time, well, no time. We had 3 choices that day. Go to a specialist an hour's drive away, give Mijo steroids and hope he had mycoplasma or Immune mediated hemolytic anemia (IMHA) or, lastly, euthanasia.

Wait???? What does that even mean??

The specialist would give him a blood transfusion, and some special custom drugs which should help him. The vet said it could cost in the 10s of thousands, and may help Mijo for a few weeks, but it's not a solution that we are sure would be long term or not.

Giving Mijo steroids would give him a fighting chance, or not... Basically it could cure or kill him. Because we aren't sure what is the cause of the low blood count, it could be IMHA, mycoplasma or something else, but it's a best educated guess at this rate. If it is the wrong choice, he may die quicker than expected.

Euthanasia, no explanation needed.

We decided on steroids. According to the vet, there was a 50/50 chance it would work. If the cause of the blood cells killing off each other was for or against steroids, we'd know soon enough. Still shocked I tried to understand it all. I'm so grateful Alex was on the line and knows this stuff through experience and study.

The idea of taking Mijo an hour's drive north to the specialist, to a cubicle, a place where we may not be with him 24/7, on the off chance that he wouldn't make it and die alone, we couldn't fathom that.

Mijo took the steroid injection like a champ, he always did injections well. He was given some antibiotics to also help. The vet said, that by Saturday we'll know if it was the right decision. We'd know if he would be getting better...

It was decided that on Monday 24th we'd go back in for a blood test to actually see if the steroids were working (cause apparently one can't really tell with Mijo's behavior, the cheeky monkey).

Mijo and I came home, and well, he ate, he was purring, sitting on my lap. The usual deal. When I went out to get the washing in, he tried to go out too, something we, as parents, have been very protective about. He doesn't go out alone, he doesn't go out without a lead or a bell. He's not an easy cat to find if he runs off, not that he has ever tried. He deaf, he can't hear cars or other dangers out there.

I promised him I'd take him out to that side of the house/garden that afternoon...

So we did, we went out, we sat down, he explored. He was well, good, better, best. He was my boy. He trusted me, I trusted him. I'm always amazed how well he walks by my side, like a dog, with loose leash... Taking my steps as cues when to walk, and when to stop.

We also met the neighbor's dog, which was a first, both were not really interested in each other... But still, Mijo knew there's a lot to live for...

Overnight he went great... Woke up with him on my chest relaxing waiting for me to get up and feed him, luckily I have a wife who had to get up for work at that moment. I remember she sang him a lullaby and held him like a baby. It was really sweet to see how much love they had for each other. Rock-a-bye Mijo...

We wanted to him feel as much love as we could. We felt that, if the steroids and antibiotics were doing their part, and we did ours, there's nothing he can't beat. And he sure felt the love...

I held him while doing some singing exercises, close to my chest. It was something we hadn't done before, and he purred. He'd look up and meow every time I stopped making vibrations. He felt it, I felt it, it was a connection.

We spent a lot of time, reading, relaxing and sitting on laps. Alex and I cuddled him, told him we loved him. He was really fighting. He was eating. He was a little more playful than in recent weeks. He wanted to live. We could feel it...

He went from eating half a packet to 1.5 packets a day, plus dry food. He always wanted treats, and I was always glad to oblige.

By Saturday he was wonder cat! Kneading... Purring... Chasing toys... Eager to hang out...

We'd overcome the problem! He was getting better. There's fight, love and life left in him. He was amazing. If it hadn't been for his ringworm (which was also healing very very well) I'd say he was perfect, especially once he put on another few grams...

We had 4 awesome days, loads of energy and love. He was never alone in the house, and rarely alone in a room. We wanted him to know, to feel, that we loved him so deeply and that all we want was him in our life, for adventures and cuddles.

On Monday morning, his appetite went down... He didn't really eat much...

We all left for the day, work and school. I think we were all worried, but he'd been so good and improved so so much, that we were sure he'd be fine. We have the blood test booked for the afternoon, I'm sure he'll pep up by then. The injection could be wearing off too...

Mijo and I went in to the vet, and his test came back at 14%!!! Damn, that's 6 points!! The vet expected 3 to be a big improvement. In fact, if he had 3 or less, euthanasia may have been the only option... Happy days! He was well. He's going to live! He'll be fine.

We're not out of the woods yet, but we are in the right direction.

All that love we lavished on him, not just in the past days, but the past 4 months. The adventures, the friends he'd made (both human and animal) the smells and sights he'd seen, the vibrations he felt, it was all coming together... He was a fighter with a lot of love to give...

We were over joyed. Really, I couldn't have been happier when I got the results. I gave a “whoop” and threw my fist in the air (I've never done that before in my life!).

We changed to tablet form steroids, as they'll be better long term, keep up the antibiotics and off we go...

But we all know, that often people and animals, when they know they are dying, they give it one last shot. And that was it... We didn't realize until Wednesday, that he wasn't actually going to get better...

Mijo stopped grooming himself, he slowly ate less and less... He became more and more lethargic, he started to sit in the “bread loaf” position with his nose on the ground, as he did after the snip, resting. We thought it was the change in steroids, and as I was at school and the girls at work, we just kept thinking he'd pep up eventually.

When I left for school Wednesday morning, he was alert, but lethargic. When I came home early to check on him, he had really changed again.

His belly was a little bloated, but he had hardly eaten. He had trouble walking, it seemed like it was a mix of muscle degradation/pain and confusion. His meowing changed to a high pitch cry, similar to that of a young kitten. He also stopped eating, he wouldn't even touch any of his tasty treats. He searched for any bit of sun to stand in, but he was looking so uncomfortable, his posture had changed, half sitting, half standing. I was grateful, when I carried him to his water bowl, that he drank a lot. He also went to the toilet, I held his tail so he didn't make a mess on himself.

We spent the afternoon outside, as the sun started to set. He loved the sun, I wanted him to feel warmth... I held him, talked to him. I don't know now many times I asked him to please hold on, please fight and that I loved him. He looked more comfortable in the sun.

I did film us walking around the pool. I am forever grateful for technology, so that I could just put my phone down, touch a button and record a moment. As we walked and talked, oblivious to the camera, I recognized a change in his breathing... I may have missed it previously, but for sure, his breath was becoming more and more labored. Every 3 or 4 breaths, he just had to try harder... His eyes were changing too... But I was sure he could recognize me, the way the vibrations from my chest reached his body and the way I smell. He would react from time to time, shifting or clawing at me.

He often touched my chest with his paw. Reaching out...

Mum and I went to the vet late Wednesday afternoon, the earliest we could. I explained it must be the change of steroids. No, it wasn't. They were the same type, it was just that he wasn't able to fight anymore. We discussed the specialist, called them and made a plan to go in first thing in the morning. I arranged for a friend to come with me, and Thursday morning bright and early, we were going up to get Mijo cured. Transfusion, drugs, you name it, we were going to do it. We had to, we told him we'd make him better.

There and then, Alex and I decided to trade in our honeymoon, you know from the wedding we had 13 months ago and still haven't done the traditional thing of a week or two away somewhere. We decided the money we had aside for that, would go to Mijo's specialist costs, because without Mijo, our honeymoon, whatever and whenever we decide to do it, wouldn't be worth doing, if he wasn't around.

I made a firm plan on how to help him through the night. We would hold him in shifts... All 3 of us... If one showered, the other held him. Dinner time, we shared the responsibility, not that we ate much anyhow. We cuddled, we talked, we purred, I would blow gently on his head... He was feeling love and he was fighting...

Because he hadn't eaten all day, we decided to try feeding him with a syringe, with success. With the tablets we were putting into his stomach, I felt he needed something else down there too... With a small syringe, he took it well, lapping up a tasty liquid treat.

When it was bed time, we put pillows around the bed, incase he fell, because he was very wobbly on his feet. He would cry out at random times, possibly from pain, but I think more from confusion. He sometimes wanted to get away from us, as we know, pets know when it's time and usually disappear, isolate.

We barely slept. I managed about 3 hours... But it was tough.. He wouldn't stay still, and eventually we put him in his little bed, near our bed... Of course he didn't stay there long.

At 4am I heard him crying... I found him under the bed... Alex woke up too... His breathing had changed a lot... Every breath was labored. He wasn't getting enough oxygen.

I laid on my back, and Mijo laid on my chest. This was how it often was, especially when I was reading... We did that until around 7am... Alex taking turns, holding him, talking to him, loving him. Mijo could barely hold himself up, he just laid in our arms... Breathing... His eyes began to glaze over...

We discussed our options, we felt the specialist was now a long shot. We didn't think he'd make the drive, he was near the end. Our little man had little fight left... And we wouldn't forgive ourselves for him dying in a foreign place. There were a lot of tears and back and forwards, including mum coming in for cuddles with the little guy at 5am...

Alex called the emergency vet, and we planned to go in at 8:30... Mijo's time had come...

When the sun comes up, if the blind is open in our bedroom, the sun shines right on through to Alex in bed, Mijo was in her arms, while she drank coffee as the sun rose.

Sometime later I took the little guy out to the pool, where we walked and talked, cuddled and loved, around and around, in the morning sun. I talked to him about all the adventures we had, riding bikes, visiting people, the beach and the river. I spent most of that hour, holding him, looking to his eyes... He gazed up, I just hope he knew it was me. I just knew he felt the vibrations of my words.

We both told him, it was OK to let go now. We were ready. But he kept on fighting for each breath... I think he was just like his Dad, always hopeful..

He last moments at home, where in the chair I'm sat in now. It gets the best light, first thing, even though it's inside the “catio”. Alex had sat down while I was walking outside, I seem to do better when I walk, and I brought him in for cuddles with her in the sun... He was bathed in sunshine, in Alex's arms... It was beautiful...

Actually getting in the car and going to the vet, was tough, but it really hit me when I walked in. I held the little guy, and just burst into middle-aged-man tears and sobbing... If you were there, you'd know I was my mother's son, cause she was sobbing too... I couldn't look anyone in the eye... I didn't understand what was going on, or about to go on...

I think I was in another place...

We went into a consult room, and I just laid the little guy down, not thinking of using the blanket we had... The vet explained the procedure and took him away for his catheter and first injection, some anesthetic? I don't know, but apparently it was the right thing, it helped with his pain.

I couldn't even look Alex or Mum in the eye... I just cried...

I still had hope...

When they came back, Mijo was wrapped in a soft blanket, what a great idea...!! He was quieter, more peaceful... The vet left to give us a moment...

He was still breathing, still fighting... I put my ear to his face, and heard him...

I kept making sure his eye lids closed from time to time. I remember back when Catalina, my little girl in Germany, needed to be anesthetized for a check up. The vet put some put liquid drops in her eyes and made her blink, so her eyes didn't dry out... So for Mijo, I did that every once in a while... I didn't want his eyes to dry up... I wanted him to be able to see me, because laying on that table, he couldn't hear me.

I begged Alex not to bring the vet back in for the final injection... I think I may have screamed something at her... I don't know... I wasn't me... I was trying to hold him in my arms, without moving him... I was trying to give him another chance...

I bawled...

I don't know if I have ever cried like that before... I thought I'd be all cried out... I thought all my tears had already left the building the previous hours and days... But there was more... a lot more... and more to come...

I know that Alex and I held hands over his body... I felt the love... I felt his warmth... his breathing... I know I cried tears onto him, there were tear drops on his lips...

I looked him in the eye as much as I could, but mostly, I cried...

I felt the liquid go into him, I felt it go around my hand into him...

I don't know much about what happened after that... I know I didn't want to leave him, I had promised him I would never do it. I regret not holding him once more... I know that at that moment, I felt the life drain out of me... I felt hope die...

I walked out, not knowing what to do, and flopped down on the grass outside... I never sit on grass, but Mijo liked it...

I managed to drive home...

That was yesterday...

Since then I've tried to rest, tried to come to grips with what has happened, tried to connect with a few friends, I've tried... I'm still trying...

This morning I got up wanting to do some sport, washing, then study and take on the day with confidence... It's a new day, I should take that opportunity to get back into my routine... It took all of 1 minute, from bed to bathroom, to be bawling... Except for the time I manage to calm down enough to type this blog, I've been crying... It's now 10am... I was awake at 6:15...

We are running out of tissues..

I felt so bad this morning, I wanted to plead with Alex not to go to work, because I just can't today. I just can't. We have discussed how she copes in these situations, and I know that's how she copes, by going to work, so I kept my trap shut. I just want her to hug me all day, so I can feel her warmth.

I cried so much on the drive to drop mum off at work this morning, she started crying too, and contemplated not going to work... She wanted to be there for me, but I told her, honestly, I don't think I'd be much company today.

I don't know the grieving process, we haven't learnt that in counseling school yet, but I do know, I'm feeling very lost... I feel very numb...

I can't explain it, and maybe that's why folks can never really explain how they feel after someone close to them, or their pet, has passed. We are just lost.

I also feel that I am grieving for my other losses in my life. It's a bit like, it's a culmination of all the others before him, plus him on top, making me feel pain like I have never experienced before.

Grief is just love, with no place to go... Alex and I talked about that quote last night. I used this quote to help me through leaving my 4 pets in Germany, I know I have to find a new place for my love, but for now, I just can't.

I know I couldn't have gotten through this without the support of my Mum and Alex...

While Mum cries at the drop of a hat, she is solid and thoughtful and loving. Alex is strong and experienced in these matters. She knew what to say, and when, even if I did yell back… Both have a lot of time and patience for me.

I know Alex and Mum feel bad, maybe even guilty, for choosing him. Mijo was a present, to give me joy and love and comfort. And he sure did, in multitudes, to all of us. I would never have gotten a cat back then, I didn't feel Alex or I were ready, we were still working through our issues with our pets in Germany.

Alex and I decided that we want Mijo home with us. He was only on this earth for 6.5 months, we expected him to be with us for 10+ years. Taken too early. Once he's cremated we'll have him in a little urn. He was so small, but if there's a little left over, we will either plant a tree with his ashes or sprinkle him down by the river, the first place he went to that was close to water.

The past day or so, I have shared what happened with some friends, classmates and family, and everyone has been so thoughtful and caring. Thank you, it's really helped to know you're all out there, thinking of the little guy. He would have loved to meet you all.

He was perfection. If someone else had gotten him, realized he was deaf, they may not have given him the adventures and life he had. Mum considers him a rescue cat...

So here I am, in the chair, his last chair in his last moments at home.

I can still smell him on my shirt. When I walk around the house, dazed, I sniff my shirt. He had a wonderful smell. The smell of love and adventure. I hope that smell lasts a life time.

I miss his warmth, his meow, which was damn loud!! I miss, that sometimes he'd get lost around the house... Or he'd lose me, around the house. He was gentle, and only bit me once, by accident, piercing my thumb a little. I miss the fact he had 1 tooth growing forward, directly out, making him a tri-toothed kitten with a protruding top lip! He took on the world without fear. I've never experienced anything like it in a cat. My girl Catalina did sit on my shoulder as I walked down the street in Germany, but Mijo, he let me go skateboarding with him, played guitar with me (he'd chew the strings) and one time, I even vacuumed his tail.

All trust. No fear.

Back when he lost all his hair around his neck and stomach after his snip operation, we were pretty concerned. Funnily enough, it grew back pretty quickly, but it grew back white, not grey. He had a ring around his neck and kind of marks on his back wrapping around to his belly. Alex googled it, and actually found out, cats can often have their hair grow back white after trauma or experiencing extremes of temperature if their hair was cut short or fell out.

About a month ago, I sent my dearest of friends, Sandra, a photo of his regrowth, and she commented looks like “little angel wings”...

Fly on little wing, fly on...

RIP Mijo Angus

12-11-2020 – 27-05-2021

Thanks for reading,

Josh

#pet #pet love #pet death #sad story #loss #griefandloss

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spookymultimedia · 3 years

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ITS MY BLOG AND I GET TO INFODUMP ABOUT MY CHARACTERS >:D

Disability and gender experience

CW for ptsd, panic attacks, su*c*de [I will talk about at the end if you still want to read this and will add another warning] , gender dysphoria, mild transpobia and abelism both internal and external

Disability

Lyla has osteoarthritis that is due to Burns' pretty fucky genes. She found this out when one evening they literally couldn't get out of bed for anything due to intense pain in the knees. Waylon had to come and get them and when he got there Lyla was pretty much on the brink of tears. Lyla then got a diagnosis. At first she was frustrated because it changed everything about his daily life. He was prescribed pain medication that dulls the pain to a manageable degree and was recommended to use a cane to get around during mild flare ups. It initially upset her. He thought she was too young to be going through something like that and hated having to limit how much they work. They later realized that stigma was ableist and bullshit and eventually sucked it up and decided to just embrace his new way of life and let her Grandfather help him learn how to cope due to experience with chronic pain [which means its lifelong] . On some days they get around just fine with pain meds but on bad flare up days they have to use a cane or chair to get around. She eventually mastered working with the aids and can even pop a sick wheelie on his chair. The pain still gets to them and it really sucks but he does swallow his pride and allow themselves to rest and be supported by others.

Sometimes with her partner Ashley he'll get snuggled and taken care of by her. Lyla is pretty dang light like his grandfather and Ashley has no problem carrying him around. Lyla secretly loves being carried. He's pretty fucking privileged to have Mr.Burns allow her disability support. Lyla is very privileged. Sometimes they like to make his cane/chair look cool with spray paint and whatnot. Very cripplepunk. Lyla probably found a disabled community of people his age to help her feel less alone.

Abbey has undiagnosed innatentive type adhd and ptsd that she gets full on panic attacks from. Neurodiversity was something taboo and not talked about in her childhood and didn't even realize she was struggling more than she should be. As a child she struggled paying attention to long boring sermons/lectures and was shamed alot for it. She didn't understand how she occasionally made people uncomfortable with very weird and unconventional topics she talks about. Loud sudden stimuli and intense buzzing overwhelms her and can make her cry. She didn't do very well in school and barely graduated high school. She prefered watching her favorite movies and playing dolls with her sister over studying. She's extremely sensitive to fabric and only has certain types of blankets and clothes that she can stand. She absolutely hates the feeling of fabric draping against her legs too much so sometimes she either wears tight-ish pants and avoids skirts/dresses. She hates sitting and walking in dresses. She never wanted to wear them lol they feel bad to her. She refuses to sit up straight and will cross her legs. Abbey hyperfixates on animation, cinema, and dollhouses. She likes binging movies and making doll projects. She tends to bond with people through movies and model making. She struggled to make friends outside of her circle and just stayed friends with people she grew up with at her church. They all escaped that mormon hell. Abbey struggles with her emotions and usually gets overwhelmed too much which can often leave her drained and tired. She has an intense oral fixation and uses stim necklaces to chew on, before she would chew on her sleeves, pen caps, pens, her hair, her shirt, her sleeves, bottle caps, ect. She was a very curious kid and tried to eat playdough, dirt and grass lol. None of them where good. She is decent at working at the video store and feels happy with her job being related to her interests. Because hrt therapy is so expensive she doesn't feel she can afford any kind of therapy or medication and it's very overwhelming for her to have to prioritize one aspect of her health over another. But with financial support from close friends and her boyfriend Tim she gets by ok.

Gender

Lyla assumed that it was completely normal to have a fuzzy fluid gender due to believing gender is a lose concept for most people. He didn't realize most people have static genders that don't change at all. It wasn't something they never questioned. Later in Lyla's 20s they started to learn more on gender and realized she wasn't as cis as he thought they where. The term genderfluid fit his experiences perfectly. They never felt still in their gender. Even if they felt more towards one gender over another it wasn't a firm feeling. It felt fluid and lose. As a teen they dressed in goth fashion and was a self proclaimed tomboy. But they realized tomboys or most gnc women didn't dress up very feminine on somedays or even wear dresses. She loves wearing dresses and she loves wearing lose jeans and a lose men's tee.

Lyla's gender tends to shift weekly but it may present or change depending on who they're with or what media/environment they're exposed too. For example he might feel more feminine with certain friends and more masculine with strangers. Sometimes they feel more comfortable being agender or a nonbinary genders with certain people such as their partner. Sometimes they only use certain pronouns with certain people. He/she/they at work, she/he with parents, she/he/they/it with siblings, she/he with some friends, and she/he/moths/rots, rats, its with their partner. Lyla will either tell people upfront on pronouns for the week or use a pin.

Most of the time clothes don't dictate their gender that week but there are some key differences. Lyla will not wear dresses on more masculine days and may draw on facial hair with a mascara brush. On more feminine days they dress more like a nature witch and loves floral stuff. They are more likely to have fun with makeup on those days.

Lyla doesn't want to undergo any kind of surgery or hormone therapy. Lyla may bind a bit with a sports bra but doesn't really feel uncomfortable with his chest and mostly doesn't mind having visibile tits on masc days.

Abbey always felt different from her birth sex and felt very frustrated learning she wouldn't just naturally grow into the chest and genitals she wants growing up. It was an extremely taboo and forbidden subject but despite that something inside her soul knew she was a girl. Her parents pushed very strict gender roles on her growing up and causes her to struggle with her femininity as an infertile woman who could not stand dresses. It made her feel a bit lost but she later felt better knowing other women cis and trans who don't conform to gender roles.

Abbey gets intense physical dysphoria from her crotch and for a long time she had to just deal with it until surgery was an option. Some days she could tolerate it but some days [especially when she got on estrogen and felt very hormonal] it was unbearable and a wet dream or boner would trigger a depressive episode that consists of cacooning a cover, watching her favorite movies and long naps. It was a toll on her mental health that was already pretty bad. But emotional support, understanding and patience from her friends and boyfriend helped her carry on though it. She eventually does get bottom surgery and it's a HUGE weight off her chest.

Abbey usually dresses in sweatshirts, graphic tees and cute jeans. Whatever's comfortable on the skin. She wore tank tops more when her tits grew in. And they grew in pretty dang fast and big and ah it hurt. She's a c cup which she loves but God they where tender for awhile. Double puberty isn't fun. Her transition was a bit rough and long being low middle class but she pulled through.

TW for su*cide. Leave the post now if this triggers you.

Abbey is a suicide attempt survivor. She suffers ptsd from her own husband taking his life leaving her a widow. She felt trapped and tired in her unbalanced emotions and uncertainty of ever feeling okay or getting the medical attention she needed and attempted to OD. Fortunately she was with Timothy who immediately called an ambulance. She was very tired and at first a bit disappointed she was still alive but also a bit relieved. She then had to cope with feeling suicidal.

#the simpsons #the simpsons oc #trans oc #nonbinary oc #nonbinary #trans

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theritualofourexistence · 4 years

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[hyper]tension

There are so many things I could be writing about right now.

I’ve chosen to stick with one of the things I know best for this post.

Did you guess “body image issues and the problem of narrowly defining the concept of health?”

If so: a cookie for you!

A handful of pictures popped up in my Timehop from 12 whole years ago that gave me pause the other day.

Sometimes when I see older pictures of myself I am overwhelmed by how different I look now... in a bad way. I see myself in those pictures as thin and beautiful and I see myself now as a sausage monster stuffed into bike shorts.

The more I sit with and work on my body image issues, the more I have noticed healthier thinking habits developing. Let me be clear, this has been an incredibly slow process. But seeing those changes is something I am really encouraged by... and it makes the every day body image fight have some measurable value.

I can say with confidence that, at 200 pounds, my body image is currently the best it has ever been.

That has nothing to do with the specific number on the scale and everything to do with working really hard over a lot of years to understand that neither “beauty” or “health” are inherently defined as “thin.” A fundamental pillar of that understanding is that you cannot separate mental health from the concept of general health.

Mainstream culture does this.

Mainstream culture wants you to believe that it’s your weight or your BMI that determines whether or not you are healthy.

That is bullshit.

Here are the pictures of me from 12 years ago. We were moving my high school boyfriend into his freshman dorm for his first year of college. I don’t think any of the people in these photos will mind me sharing them in the context of this blog post.

I am *THIN* in these pictures.

I am 17.

Apart from a very clear warning sign that I was already developing horrible posture, I noticed a couple of things right away about these pictures when I was looking at them the other day.

My shirt is a size small or extra small.

I am holding my arm across my stomach in the fourth picture because I do not think I am *thin enough* to be wearing that shirt.

I may have been a thin 17-year-old. But I was not healthy.

I was physically fit.

I played soccer for three out of four seasons of the year.

But I was not healthy.

I know I wasn’t healthy because I was about to embark on my senior year of high school during which I would, at times, only allow myself one and a half meals per day. Sometimes that one meal would be pasta. Other times that one meal would be a bag of dark chocolate peanut M&Ms and a Mountain Dew. Other times it would be a gallon of strawberries. Other times it would be a family pack of Twizzlers.

My body in those pictures might look healthy.

But appearance is not an appropriate indicator of health.

The two times in my adult life that I have been the thinnest have also been the times in my life where I have struggled the most with body image and disordered eating.

After I escaped the abusive relationship of my freshman year of college, I gained around 20 pounds.

The following summer, I exercised for an hour every day and ate only pickles and Greek yogurt (separately, of course, don’t be gross).

I lost 30 pounds.

That was also not healthy.

Fast forward a handful of years to 2015.

I start an anti-depressant.

Over the course of the next two years I gain around 50 pounds.

Today, in the spirit of full disclosure (and because the numbers don’t mean shit), my weight fluctuates between 190 and 200.

I am obese.

A mathematical algorithm used to determine BMI has labeled me “obese.”

My clothing sizes vary day to day thanks to IBS-related bloating but I’m somewhere around a 14-16.

Do you know the cut-off for plus sizes?

It’s 14.

So, I am an obese, plus-sized woman.

The numbers aren’t very polite, are they?

Within the last two years I was diagnosed with severe iron-deficiency anemia.

I committed to correcting that with a number of lifestyle changes including taking supplements and adding iron-heavy foods to my diet. I took Vitamin C to boost my absorption. On days I took the supplement I had no coffee, no tea, no dairy, and no acid-reducer meds. In 6 very committed months, I resolved my iron issues, for the most part. We have since learned that the daily stomach medicine I take may be affecting my iron absorption so, although I am no longer taking supplements, I am taking a daily vitamin to help maintain a healthy level of iron.

That story is about health.

I had a health issue and I developed a strategy to resolve the issue, being sure to consider my mental health as well.

I have worked really, really hard to consider my HEALTH instead of my WEIGHT.

This obese, plus-sized woman exercises for around an hour every day. She does not drink alcohol or soda. She is aware of what she eats and is careful to eat when she’s hungry and stop when she’s full.

One of the ways I know my thinking is healthier is that when I look at bathing suits on Target’s website, I have started to consider their plus-sized models “normal.”

The average size of an American woman based on the most recent data is between sizes 18 and 20.

I spent over twenty years unable to see an average-sized woman as beautiful.

Even though the clothing industry has labeled me “plus-sized,” if anything, I am “slightly less than average-sized.”

In this post, I’m sure my thinking seems sort of piece-meal and disconnected.

In my head, thin-ness and health and body image and eating and exercise and cultural interpretations of beauty are all smashed into one big Frankenstein’s creation.

For a long, long time I did not consider plus-sized or average-sized women to be beautiful solely because they were not thin.

When I was thin (and not healthy), I know that I considered people of that size, the average size, to be unhealthy.

I am at a point in my life where my habits are the healthiest they have been and my mental health regarding my body image is also the healthiest it has been.

And I weigh 200 pounds.

You cannot look at a person and have any idea how healthy they are.

You cannot look at a BMI or a number on a scale and judge a person’s health accordingly.

I have worked with people who are suicidal who are thin and people who are suicidal who are not thin.

Health cannot be separated from mental health.

Can you be too thin? Absolutely. Your body needs a certain amount of fat and muscle to function properly. Can you be too big? Absolutely. Risks for all kinds of delightfully chronic and fatal conditions increase with weight gain.

Can you be big and be healthy? Yes.

I know because I am those things.

If you exercise, if you are aware of what you eat and are careful to not over-eat, if you get the vitamins you need, if you prioritize balancing mental health and physical health, if you get enough sleep, “healthy” is within reach for everyone.

If I ever write a book, it will be about balancing mental health and physical health. Because for basically my entire adult life, I’ve focused on one or the other and that does not work. I promise that if I do write a book, it’ll be better organized than this zig-zaggy blog post.

We have to push back against the cultural tendency to keep mental health separate from our definitions of general health.

We have to push back against the cultural tendency to define health by how a person looks.

You are not “healthy” if you are not physically healthy.

But you are also not “healthy” if you are not mentally healthy.

And sometimes, especially if you have a tendency toward body dysmorphia or disordered eating, the healthiest option is not to focus on weight loss or buy into a fad diet plan.

I am not trying to lose weight.

I am trying to be healthy.

And, you could argue, I’m not trying to lose weight BECAUSE I am trying to be healthy.

Trying to lose weight feeds mental illness for me. And that is not healthy.

This blog post is brought to you by a lot of years of working really hard to understand myself. My specific approach to managing my health may not work for you, but I challenge anyone reading this to take a moment and think about whether or not you are giving balanced consideration to physical and mental health. Because, even if our specific situations are different, balancing mental and physical health is the only path to being healthy. For me, for you, for everyone.

This blog post is also brought to you by a new health hurdle that has been laid in my lap over the past few weeks.

I have high blood pressure.

Chronic hypertension runs in my family, so I have a predisposition for high blood pressure. I have not been aware of having it at all in the past but thanks to my mom’s new blood pressure machine, I am aware of it now.

Learning that I have high blood pressure instigated a bit of a breakdown.

For a lot of the reasons I have already mentioned.

I’m working really hard to be healthy by balancing my mental and physical health. So why, if both those things are headed in the right direction, does my body not seem to agree?

Well, genetics will do that.

In the name of health, I scheduled an appointment with my doctor. We talked about the typical “lifestyle changes” that would be recommended for someone my age with high blood pressure.

I am already doing all of them.

There are things I cannot control, however, that are affecting my mental health right now. I am carrying a lot of stress about the upcoming election. I am carrying a lot of stress about Black people being disproportionately arrested, charged, jailed, and killed by police as part of a system of oppression that I would very much like to have a part in dismantling. I am carrying a lot of stress about the pandemic that has killed 170,000 Americans. I have spent 7-8 years learning how to manage my stress. Those tools were not intended to work in situations like this.

So, my doctor and I made a plan to monitor my blood pressure, to try do more meditation and progressive relaxation, to eliminate processed snacks from my everyday diet (on occasion is still allowed), and to start doing some basic weight exercises with my cardio.

Blood pressure is a really good example of why a healthy approach requires balancing mental and physical health.

I’ve checked the physical health boxes for blood pressure management.

And things beyond my control are preventing me from checking the mental health boxes for blood pressure management.

And also, genetics.

With the help of my doctor, I’ve developed a plan that considers both my physical and mental health and only time will tell if that has an impact on my blood pressure. For what it’s worth, my doctor is optimistic. Part of the reason my doctor is optimistic is because I am healthy.

To clarify, being healthy does not mean that my IBS has gone away, it just means I am treating my IBS with diet and medicine.

Being healthy does not mean my anxiety has gone away, it just means I am in control of my anxiety.

I would not be healthy if I was unable to manage my IBS.

But I would also not be healthy if I was unable to manage my anxiety.

I would not be healthy if I had not figured out the value of balancing physical and mental health.

Just like I found a way to overcome my iron-deficiency anemia, I will find a way to overcome my high blood pressure. It may require new medication and lifestyle changes, but by giving adequate consideration to both my physical and mental health, I have no doubt that I will eventually find a healthy solution to push myself over this hurdle as well.

Gonna wrap this up with a poor quality mirror-selfie I took this morning when I tried on a new bathing suit. This is a (headless) picture of a 200-pound, obese, plus-sized, healthy person.

#bopo #body positive #body image #health #mental health #physical health #disordered eating #body dysmorphia #fat #thin #obese #healthy #weight #weight loss #diet culture #hypertension #hypertensive #high blood pressure #anxiety

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bitchylittlepsycho69 · 4 years

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entry #1 - Him

Content Warning: suicide, depression and self harm. If you're sensitive to these topics, and you aren't a total masochist about it, maybe you should avoid reading this one.

this is my first entry.

I want to know if other people feel the same way.

is it bad that he still says “kill yourself, look for a reason to” even if I turned a corner, stayed sober, stopped cutting, or had absolutely no reason to feel that way? It’s been since I was 10 that I felt the need to cut, the little voice inside my head saying do it, it’s worth it, you will be at peace, unfortunately I am not as selfish as I thought and I think of my mom every single fucking time... I don’t really no what reason I had to cut myself at that age, but all I remember was the first time he appeared. the little voice inside my ear. Him.

I wasn’t really a enjoyable person to be around growing up, always had problems with friends or my weight or just being able to communicate with people in a certain way, my mom used to say I was just quiet, but honestly I was being consoled by that stupid voice in my head

‘LIE, CUT, DON’T EAT, YOU WILL FEEL BETTER LISTEN TO ME JOANNE’.

I don’t know why... but his voice sounded so soothing until you stop listening to him. then he gets violent and aggressive.

‘MAYBE IT’S BECAUSE YOU’RE WORTHLESS AND YOU NEVER FUCKING LISTEN JOANNE

ugh shut up guy.

After I went into high school. He broke loose. I was my own demon for a while, I started getting into things I never did in my life, (drinking smoking snorting fighting getting arrested the whole shebang) but it’s not like I wasn’t enjoying it. I would drink or do drugs with my new friends to forget about what I’ve been through. like turning over a new leaf. but that was toxic. and on a daily basis I would drink smoke cut repeat. day after day it was like an addiction for pain and forgetfulness. After grade 9 summer 2012, he came back. stronger. he knew every weakness of mine, I am him, he is me. he knows everything now. just when I thought he was gone. he came right back.

I got expelled. sent a girl to the hospital, was arrested, charged. you know it. after that I was sent to counseling but still didn’t go so, I breached my probation, twice. all I remember is that giggle that me and him would do when we would get in trouble do something ridiculous like spray paint the water tower or steal from tip jars and from grocery stores, just stupid shit. I loved the attention and so did he. but he knew my future. and at that time, I didn't. he was up to something. but 16-year-old Joanne, was fucking clueless.

years are passing by same old shit just a different day and my life got boring so demon left for a while, I stopped cutting got into habits like working ffs. my demon left for a while when it was 2015, when I first met the love of my life, knowing I’m manipulative I did everything in my power to keep him around, sometimes healthy, most of the time not. but eventually that relationship came to came to an end and we lost contact. but HE came back. angry. and violent, and ready to play. I grabbed whatever drug I had in my cabinet, took it all. drank until I woke up in the middle of a park on the opposite side of the city when I was just drinking by myself at home, got a 15000 loan and spent it on blow Xanax bottles and cases of liquor, I paid last 3 months rent so I could pretty much trash it for 3 months then find another dump to live in. I drank and drove everywhere sometimes I was black out and still was lucky to make it home. but I didn’t care. I’m ready to die. he knows it, and I know it. and on that day in June 1, 2018 we agreed with each other for the first time. he knew everything now to get rid of me. he knew the alcohol would stay he knew I wouldn’t stop he knows I wouldn’t get help.

‘Now its time Joanne. now there’s nothing more you have left, you’re 20k in debt, your family hates you your friends tolerate because you have the money, you had the stuff, but where is everybody now? you were meant to die alone. Just fucking do it’

“Okay”

After that somebody called the cops on me, they showed up and I was there puking and passed out, only I didnt have any cuts on my arm, pills and cocaine were scattered and mixed together vodka was all over me and I had bleach; unopened, thankfully. Now if that wasn’t rock bottom. Then there is definitely a lot more to come... because I’m still falling.

got on medication, trazodone mostly, some anti depressants, but I wasn’t allowed to have to many, because I am a substance abuser. I could hear him mocking me from the distant “fucking pussy”. He would say it to make me drink to taunt and every time that happened, I would drink and drive, and guess who has a DUI now. After the meds started kicking in, he fucked off. But I stopped taking my meds right after. Is it bad that I missed him?

He left and I didn’t hear from him until September 2019. But that’s another story. Thanks for reading.

my depression will always find a way back. there is no escaping my life. but at least I’m not alone, I have him. he will always be there when you fall, to cradle you in your darkest times, to eagerly make you want feel the endorphins breaking through your wrist, that feeling you’ve been thriving for, the art painted with a blade that you found in your dads tool box, the tears that you shed of every minute of everyday, the things you go through. he will be right where he needs to be. With you. Always.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If any of you are going through something and need to talk to somebody or if somebody you know is going through something there are many support services that are here to help.

IN CANADA:

Canadian Suicide Prevention Service (CSPS): French or English: toll-free 1-833-456-4566 Available 24/7

Kids Help Phone is Canada’s only 24/7, national support service. We offer professional counselling, information and referrals and volunteer-led, text-based support to young people in both English and French.Whether by phone, text, mobile app or through our website, you can connect with us whenever you want, however you want. KIDS HELP PHONE (20 years or youngers): 1-800-668-6868 (Online or on the Phone)

UNITED STATES:

United States Suicide Prevention Lifelines are available 24/7 Call National Hope Helpline at 1-800-SUICIDE (1-800-784-2433) or the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-TALK (1-800-273-8255) or in Spanish, 1-888-628-9454.

Center for Mental Health Services (CMHS), of the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration (SAMHSA), maintains a mental health services locator, which you can use to help find services, facilities and resources in your state.

#dark #notes #thoughts #depression #suicide #escapingreality #toronto #drugs #alcoholic #SAD #reality #diary #suicidal #cutting #self harm #Joannesdiary

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the-dyslexic-blogger · 4 years

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so this is where it begins

So, Hi I'm Dino (obviously not my real name but I wish it were haha). There is a trigger warning to self-harm, mention of suicide and depression.

I'm 20 and attending university a few of my friends have done some blogs, so I decided this is where I'm going to start.

As a reader, I thought you'd better known I have dyslexia. Hence, it is a big step to write a blog as, usually, I'm not too fond of it (the dreaded writing spelling and grammar NOOO), But here we go.

In my lifetime, I've been through a lot of crap to get to be who I am today( I will probably talk about some of this in other blogs.) Of course, the aftermath of having a lot of crap happen to you is a lot of issues in the future and a lot of trauma.

There is a daily struggle with mental health. Everything is a battle most days I have to drag myself out of bed which is so very hard to do many little tasks that are easier for other like showering I find is a massive task (thanks depression love you too). Most nights I'm up to the early hours of the morning fighting the demons in my head screaming at me to give in and will not shut up until I give in to the blade and feel the sweet relief of pain as I cut myself. The blood flows out of wherever I've cut it from, Even after this it's not the end of the battle, I get a big hit off of the guilt about doing it, so I don't sleep whatsoever so am tired all the time. In the daytime dark thoughts still spinning around my head, monsters breathing down my neck. Throughout the day, they are lingering over me, waiting for me to mess up somehow and then reminding me of this mistake all day.

The night time is when they are the loudest when everyone I could turn to is asleep. Still, I don't want to bother my friends with my shitty problems 'they don't care. "They don't like you' the demons whisper in my ear when I pick up the phone to text someone, To scream out and get help for my head trying to kill me, haunting me dark thoughts taking over my mind full of darkness and nightmares no light left I'm alone with my thoughts so, I give in and let the demons take over like a bring me the horizon quote 'it comes in waves, I close my eyes Hold my breath and let it bury me I'm not okay, and it's not all right '. I'd say night time is like a tight rope your battling to staying it while monsters are trying to push you off watch you fall to your death some people make it, but some fall off. I always cant get the thought of they (The demons) have been there when no one else was. They have never left me like everyone does.....

Its been about eight years since I started cutting I've been self-harming for a while I can't remember exactly when I began, it began as hitting myself hard. , it only developed into cutting in year seven. I was bullied a lot, so this triggered me to start cutting myself. I felt worthless and like I deserved it everyone hated me so I may as well hate myself too. It began to get worse when my best friend I'd known since I was in primary school killed herself. The guilt consumed me whole, and I became a shadow of who I used to be I was no longer that sweet innocent child who had no care in the world. I was a self-destructive monster who wanted nothing less than to hurt me and wanted nothing more than have me dead. (I'm not going into the suicidal thoughts in this one yet maybe in a future blog.) Yet no one knew. I wouldn't show any emotions expect happy I was 'hyper ', but it was all an act to stop the evil thoughts consuming me and not to let anyone worry about me I didn't deserve that. I'd tell myself daily that I deserve the pain that I cause myself.

I tried to get help for the bullying at school, but my school made it worse so from then forward I shut down completely refused to talk to anyone about my depression. I didn't have a pleasant childhood my parents were abusive (again not going into that in this one). I didn't have many friends, so I never felt good about myself. This was all a massive kick at my self-esteem. It was only until year 11 when my games teacher noticed me as always wearing long sleeves in the blistering heat when we were playing rounders.

It was a childcare lesson she took me aside and took me to the school nurse then I'll never forget how my heart dropped when she said "roll your sleeves up" I first refused. She suggested that she'd go outside the room and to show the school nurse to make sure they wasn't infected or anything so I agreed to this. After this miss brown was the most supportive and she'd been. School became a bit easier from then. We started talking more and more each lesson I enjoyed her company.

One of my bullies who I am very close to now, and we talk a lot came up to me and apologized for what she has said to me in the past. I forgave her, and we sat and chatted about things I let her open up, and she had been through a lot of shit as well, and I felt terrible and told her she could talk to me. After this we became friends, and we talk now and then.

At this point, I was still self-harming and being bullied even cyberbullied to the point the police was involved. Another traumatizing event happened during this time I put my trust into the wrong person and regretted it. I still regret it today and hate myself. But we will cover that in another blog.

I did my GCSEs did pretty well, and life was okay even though I was still at home my self-harming was still a thing, That summer my sister found out about it she asked I told her not to tell mum. Guess what she did TOLD MY FUCKING Mum. My mum was in a lousy mood came to me shouted at me to take my jumper off, so I did she saw the cuts and had a go at me took my phone off me and grounded me and more which I'm not going to go into yet. It was horrible of course I cut again and again and felt suicidal she made me feel so worthless and alone.

Starting college for the first time was stressful and made my anxiety so bad. The first year of college was when I began therapy Tamsin was my therapist. She was lovely, helped me a lot. My self-harming didn't stop but reduced a bit whereas before the sweet relief of the blade and saw how much id bleed was most nights. It was like it was part of my routine. Go to school/college get home to wait till everyone is asleep then cut my night away.

Then lie in bed and stare at the ceiling thinking of how worthless I was and how I want to be dead how I wish I could cut deeper and made it worse for myself. This reduced a bit it wasn't every night, but most nights it was rough and never thought it would consume my life as much as it did never thought id still be here struggling with it.

I've cut myself a few times where I think I probably should have gone to the hospital, but I didn't. One of these times was in my next college it was rough as my original college had told me I wasn't good enough, And that I Wouldn't make it, so I moved to a new college. One of the first weeks there I remember cutting very deep and panicking it was a hot day I was at work and had got home and felt stressed over things and cut my arm badly. I wrapped a sock on it was all I had and texted my girlfriend she told me to find my mate I walked into town found my mate we went to the shop got some supplies sat on a bench and patched it up. I knew a paramedic, so I texted them asking them what I should do they told me to put alcohol on it, Once I got in I put some rum into a small glass went upstairs and told my dad I was going for a bath I ran the water got a wet flannel and bit it. At the same time, I cleaned it I screamed into the flannel in pain I put the water on so my parents couldn't hear me I led on the floor after this and cried to myself silently until I was done then I came out so my dad wouldn't think anything of it went back into my room and cried myself to sleep.

The second year of college wasn't too bad. I had a shit therapist who would tell me things that triggered my eating disorder and would make me feel suicidal. I remember going into her appointments feeling okay and come out feeling suicidal. I had good best mates in my life it was okay (I was still cutting through) thankfully. I am always thankful to this day my friends stopped me from going to this therapist as she made things worse I stopped seeing her for a few months if I didn't stop seeing her id be 6 feet under the ground with nothing to me but a skull.

I wasn't in therapy for a few months as I needed a break from it all until my cutting and suicidal feelings got worse, so I decided to get back into therapy with the help of my friend I had this lovely therapist called Sharon she stuck by me and suggested I go to the doctors, so I did. I was put in meds and probably diagnosed with my issues. However, id had them since I was at least eight or nine at least had some of them like anxiety. Things calmed down meds helped me but also affected me badly I got all of the side effects,( so that wasn't fun.) Still, things went pretty smoothly until university applications I was accepted into a good uni on a conditional offer. This all went wrong this was in 3rd year by the way my college fucked up and put me into The inappropriate exams I couldn't do the GCSE due to my mental health my therapist suggested I do not take it I was suicidal and cutting.

So I didn't get into the university I tried to get into another one they rejected me as I was about to give up hope my friend introduced me to clearing, and that's how I got into the university I'm in now.

Self-harm and suicidal thoughts still attack me, and I still struggle with simple things like just staying alive and not cutting. Each year I wonder am I going to make it to the next year or will I kill myself before the year ends its an achievement getting through the year and surviving it.

I have excellent people in my life now. I feel happy with where I am for the first time in my whole life. I've never felt pleased with the way things are going things usually fuck up. I'm pretty sure life will throw another obstacle my way eventually, but I'm sure one day it will get better. Self-harm will be in the past one day, not right now I'm not ready to stop altogether I can't physically do that (sorry). One day my mental illnesses will be manageable without the pain that comes with them now. Years down the line, I can say I WAS a self-harmer instead of I AM a self-harmer. That will be a while I still need to heal my emotional scars and finally be free from the monster that is depression. Depression is a war you either win or you die trying it's the worst beast of them all the strongest beast, but even the biggest worst beast can be beaten. I believe in all of you out there struggling with your depression. Suicidal thoughts depression can be beaten, look at those who have got through it google it many celebrities have depression and won the war in their head. People like Lady Gaga, Demi Lovato, Ellen DeGeneres and many more.

Depression is the silent killer it waits till your alone( i mean not alone physically; you could be in a room full of people and still feel alone. )

Then it strikes with false things about no one caring about you. But you are so much stronger than you think if you need support, there are people out there who care about you. You may feel alone but don't tell me in the world of billions, and billions of people, not one cares because that's not true I care.

It's okay not to be okay. I look back and see things do get better from the point I am now to the point I was six years ago things have changed, things may not work out to start with, but it will be okay. Still, they will work out one day this darkness your in will be light you won't have to struggle with the beats in your head the silent monsters that grip you with their claws and consume you alive.

So there you go that some of my battle with self-harm I will go into things a bit more in future. I hope you liked it is not the happiest (sorrrryyyyyyyyyyy ). Still, I hope I can inspire you and give you hope that it does get better and things will work out.

You probably have been told this thousand of but here is the Samaritans number they good and living is good once you get past the darkness of depression. You will get through this your strong enough!

Stay strong fighter!

love

Dino xx

summations:116 123

#blog #mental health #self destruction #self healing #self harrrm

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claimingtheflame · 4 years

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Lincoln Trail Mental Health Facility Part 1

Once again I want to reiterate that a lot of these posts are diaries I wrote never finished. Some of them jump around in my life. The story is about something that took place several years after D left

I remember the moment I turned in the paper. It was nothing. The last question asked my thoughts on the final death of Juliet. I sympathize. To this day I do. Many people probably do. She ended her life because she was in the grip of a mythic tragedy. Who could walk away from such a fate?

Except. Even though this is exactly how I felt, my teenage brain did not yet have the skills to articulate this. I ended up writing something like "I feel what juliet did was right. The world is ugly and filthy and who wants to live in it without someone you love." Because I was an edgy goth kid.

This would send me into the clutches of my own sort of tragedy. A brutal, destructive storm began churning that friday that would completely knock me out of my stupid unlaced combat boots on monday.

It happened like this. I walked into first period, Biology. I sat next to Adam, my closest friend. A knock came shortly after the period started and it turned out to be a senior girl who wanted me to be escorted to Mrs Mudds office. I did not know who that was. It turned out she was a counselor. She had coppery hair and a long, perky, somewhat simian face.

In this story, there is a long list of incompetant people who should not have had their jobs, and possibly should have been in prison. Mrs Mudd is not one of them. As much as I dislike her to this day. Maybe she did really mean well. Maybe she was just swept away by the drama of the whole situation. This is Elizabethtown KY after all.

We talked for a few hours. Looking back, I really don't think I said anything to her that should have been construed that I was depressed or suicidal. We talked about a secret place I visited in the woods behind my neighborhood. We talked about various religious beliefs and about music I listened to. Either way, my mom picked me up from school and I was somewhat excited for the break-in monotony.

We have drove to Lincoln Trail Behavioral Health Center , and I really didn't know what was happening. I had friends who had gone, but I didn't really believe that's why we were there until I saw the look on my mom's face as we walked in. There was a serious feeling of betrayal then. Like God woman haven't you put me through enough. This was an unfair thought. My mother is the second person blameless in the story. I would find out later that basically everybody from my school was telling her I was planning on killing myself quite literally. Mrs. Mudd had apparently told them that the place in the woods was my planned spot to die. I had self-harmed in the past. It was all pleasure related though and I thought it had nothing to do with my mental health. Either way it had been months prior to this, but it added to the Snowball Effect.

I'll admit that I didn't really understand my own mental health at this age. I had just been released from D's clutches only a few precious years earlier. I had no clue what was going on. I was going through a suspended childhood in many ways. All that said, Lincoln Trail Behavioral Health System did not help or address any my mental health issues. Let me reiterate. Aside from some experimental self harm 6 months prior(I received counseling, was evauted, etc), at age 15 I was pretty well behaved. I rarely got in trouble. I certainly never acted disturbed. Lincoln helped nobody who actually went there. In fact I barely escaped with my life and sanity. This is not a dramatic statement. This was a terrible place, as you will learn.

I was obviously scared the moment I walked into this place, all the stories I heard. We were buzzed through a security door after a few accusatory last looks at my mother when I went in quietly. I heard if you resisted or yelled that they gave you a shot in your ass of some kind of sedative. I did not want to give anybody the satisfaction roughing up the goth kid and shooting them in the ass. This was a short-lived Triumph. I would learn quickly that this place was not for me and that there was some horrible mistake pretty early on . I was led to a room and told to take off my clothes down to my underwear. I was told to turn around in front of this guy, who nodded with approval after watching and told me to put back on my clothes. I was wearing really baggy SpongeBob boxers. I guess I could have gotten away with hiding something into the facility. That's the thing. I wasn't a f****** delinquent. Not yet or not anymore depending on how you look at the chronology of things I did as a teenager. Anyway I do remember a kind moment here. The guard escorted me down a hallway and a girl smiled at me brightly. "It's really not that bad here." She said. I smiled and shrugged. This was more of a kind gesture than I realized, I would find this out later.

I was then led to the office of the first real fuckup in this story. This would be my counselor. I don't remember her name. She was somewhat nice to begin with. I'll call her mrs. Wannabe because later she would read a bunch of poems about her Native American ancestry. This extremely blond, blue-eyed woman with a square German face and freckles. Me and Wannabe would talk for about 30 minutes and she would send me on to my actual psychiatrist. I do remember this man's name. I will never forget it. His name was dr. Kodali. We can call him King fuckup. Fuckup prime.

He was a small man, with a small mustache, and skin the color between a beet and a russet potato. He spoke in broken English. He asked me why I thought I was there. I told him about the paper I wrote. He smiled and said " yes we all say things we don't mean. " he asked me if I follow the rules at home. I said yes as long as they are within reason. He laughed at me and said " my own daughter thinks several of my rules are not within reason. Children come to learn to obey. " we did not talk about depression, and this statement would turn out to be significant in many ways. It would come to outline the failure of this institution to children who actually suffered depression. Which I will admit that back then I might have been suffering from. Certainly anxiety. But who doesnt, to some degree?

Let us frame our Shit Pit King with what I didnt know about him before I explain my own experiences. He received kickbacks for pushing certain medicines. This is an important detail. He had been accused on several occasions of over-prescribing meds. He was widely hated as a doctor, and I can't believe he still has a job.

During my first visit, he was mostly dismissive. Interrupted me and laughed at me often. He was mostly interested in my behavior. If I acted up. If I respected authority. Literally nothing about suicide was discussed. So why did this guy prescribe meds at the end of our conversation? He picked up the phone, called my mother, and gave her the dosage information. I narrowly escaped this medicine, whatever it was, due to a surprising hero figure in the story who we will discuss later.

He dismissed me and I was sent to "group" for the first time. This is nothing like "support groups" you see in Lifetime movies. It was a huge room, an obnoxious amount of desk chairs crammed in a circle. Boys on one side. Girls on the other.

I immediately dislike this. It feels tense, and I feel scrutinized. I try to ask a girl near me if I can use one of her pencils. She folds her arms and rolls her eyes. " I can't talk to him." She says to the ceiling. This gets the attention of the counselor of the group, who is actually just an early 20-somethings aide of some kind, there are a few of these. This one I call Nick neckbeard. He says " we are here to work on our problems, not to date. " I am immediately embarrassed. I definitely wasn't trying to date anybody. I let it go but it does set the tone.

Since I am the new kid, a round of introductions is done. Not a lot of these people are notable other than the fact that a lot of them are in here for drugs. Some are in here as an in-between stage between Juvenile Detention and Society. I get the distinct feeling that most of the boys are here for drugs and violent crime. I reflect bitterly that I am in here for writing a stupid paper.

There are several thug wannabe types, maybe two or three other white guys that aren't like that. One obvious skinhead as well. It's split in half racially. Five white Boys & 5 black. There was a round of introductions. Most were there for, as mentioned, substance abuse and violent behavior. The skinhead boasted of being in because he stuck foreign objects in his body. He stabbed himself with pens and various utensils. Another boy was in for desecrating graves. The girls were almost exclusively substance abuse. There was one Arab girl that was in there, and though she talked much I never quite understood why except that I knew she definitely needed to be in there. She either talked incessantly of sex or repeatedly told this story about a "bad doll" that lived in her house- all in broken english.

So this was the introduction to the place. Honestly yes, I would have problems with the other patients. That's really out of the scope of the story though. They are mental patients. What do you expect?

The true problem with Lincoln trail was its staff and overall structure. Such a problem was this structure that it would break me down to that kernel of a child you see on all the other stories on this blog. Such that Lincoln trail would reduce me again to that boy child whispering a question to the darkness: "Why am I being punished?" It would make me know, through recognition and reinforcement of abusive themes I was already familiar with, that I was not in a safe place.

The first night I felt this first blow through humiliation and guilt. It was a simple thing really. We were sent to bed. A corridor with a small basket on the outside of each door. A female counselor was pointing each of us down the hall to our rooms. When my time came, she pointed vaguely down the hall to the right side. I tried to ask for clarification and she shouted "Right there!" And my immediate reaction to being chastised like this was to go to one of the rooms with my belongings. She did not stop me.

I noticed one of the wooden bed frames(they were double rooms with single bathrooms) had no mattress. My roommate was a boy my age. He had close-buzzed haircut. He seemed politely surprised. I shrugged and got in the shower. When I turned the water off, I heard yelling on the other side of the door.

The boy was yelling angrily that he did not know who I was and that he had nothing to do with me. He was explaining that I came into his room unbidden and to no fault of his own. I dressed quickly and came out of the bathroom as soon as possible. A middle-aged blond woman grabs me by the arm and began leading me out of the room. When I asked her where we were going she did not say anything but tightened her grip and sat me down in a chair. This woman becomes important later. Five minutes later Dr kodali came into the office with my other counselor, both looking at me sternly.

I apologize for not knowing the exact words of the conversation. Basically the boy was supposed to have his room to his self. He was gay and had been known to have had sexual contact with other patients. They grilled me hard about whether or not I was gay and deciding whether I should be disciplined. Dr kodali somehow remembers that that my girlfriend had given testimony(positively) over my mental health and he seemed to leave it at that. The blonde lady didnt seem convinced.

When she led me back to my(actual) room, she took the liberty of going through my clothes and belongings. She confiscated basically all of my clothing, saying that it would distract patients(black jeans and tees...none of my flashier stuff). She confiscated my copy of Cannery Row, all my homework, and my shampoo. She really let off on me while doing this. Talking about how sneaky I was and if I was planning anything with Chester(the gay guy) that she would know.

This was Day 1. I would kneel beside the bed that night and pray(I just prayed to 'the goddess' back then), just to feel peace inside. I was so put-upon about the stupid clothes. They were my armor, in a way.

The next day would be a lot worse. I'd learn a lot.

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tribridkissed · 5 years

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Everything Afflicting Lil’ Ol’ Me…

Sleep Paralysis:

Starting off with the basics here because this has been what sort of started it all. When I was little, I was super into the whole idea of spirits. I honestly still am for different reasons, but it started when I was young and having sleep problems. The doctors still don’t know why it started, but I’ve always thought I sensed ‘presences’ so I told ghost stories…because I saw ‘ghosts’ in my sleep, some of which were terrifying and would sit on my chest and I’d still feel that feeling when I woke up, so duh it was real.

When I was a teenager, I started getting these hallucinations far more vividly and the doctors started to take it a lot more seriously, especially when I was getting depressed and suicidal on top of it all. Turned out I had ‘Old Hag’s Syndrome’, or ‘Sleep Paralysis’, and there was now a logical explanation for it. Basically my brain wakes up sometimes before my body does, and I’m paralyzed but I can still see the hallucinations. Feeling pinned down and violated is honestly the worst, and it fucks me up for the rest of the day mentally when it happens. It is why I’m against lucid dreaming, and why I vehemently believe in demons and evil spirits even if doctor’s wanna just call it a hallucination induced by stress. Either way, I have insomnia sometimes too and my sleep is all over the place and that never helps one’s body.

Hormone Imbalances

My hormones have probably been all over the place my whole puberty experience? Like, my periods started out being heavy, irregular and painful. I know that’s mostly normal--we women handle cramps like a boss, okay?--but I would have to stay home from school once or twice in a row every time I got my period, because I was curled up in a ball hurling: much like I do now. Going on birth control helped for a while and then started to make it worse, so we took me off of the birth control and my period started to even out and I stopped getting so sick, unless I ovulated from both sides and not just one, which they found out was also happening. Yay for the possibility of twins naturally, but yikes to the extra hormone surges.

Paraxysmol AFib:

I went through a whole stint of my early 20′s having palpitations in my chest. I just attributed it to my anxiety, and to stress because I had just finished a whole High School career of only honor’s classes, and I had switched from Pre-Med to Early Childhood Development, and so even when the doctors from an arrhythmia, I just sort of dismissed it. I didn't have the time, I was working twelve hours days as a nanny, I was doing college, and I didn't have time...and then I had an AFib attack after exercising and ended up having chest pain.

That pain lasted a month and a half without going away or getting any better, I had a bunch of doctors tell me I was being a hypochondriac, and then I got put on a heart monitor. The heart monitor caught not one but two episodes in the span of three weeks, and it was only then that they took me seriously. So even though I was ‘too young’ and ‘healthy’, I ended up becoming a heart patient at the ripe old age of 25, and it has been part of my life ever since. I take medicine daily to keep my heart rate down, because it beats too fast on its own, and I had to cut down on coffee, which...I was a caffeine addict so that was rough, lol. I’ve had to change dosages, which stresses my body out for a week each time that happens, and it has just been who I am now. I have heart patient jewelry and everything, just in case of emergencies.

Cyclic Vomiting Syndrome

So this all brings me to the next big thing: cyclic vomiting syndrome. I have been sick for 6 months now, nauseous basically every day, vomiting stints every once in a while that land me in urgent care to get IV fluids and meds because nothing will stay in my stomach, it all comes up. This started back in August, now known actual cause, and it has been my main affliction these days. I am on antacid medications, my heart medicine still, and anti nausea I have to take every single day. My body is exhausted, and that’s not even the half of it.

The doctors aren’t even fully sure this is what is going on with me, this is just how they are treating me because they can’t find anything. I have had an MRI, CT scans, ultrasounds, blood tests of all sorts (food allergies, diabetes, etc.), and everything says I am healthy. I have had a tumor removed from my esophagus when they did the endoscopy in the beginning, and I had a history of cysts (I’ve had one in my head, in my arm pits, and now one in my right nasal cavity), and I have a second and third tumor growing in my right arm. They aren’t convinced any of this is related, they just know that my period problem from high school is happening again, so they’re convinced it is hormone induced cyclic vomiting syndrome...which has no for sure cause or cure, so, that has been nice, and has triggered my depression, but I’ve been dealing with my depression my entire life.

Depression/Abuse

Since I was a kid, I’ve had a messed up home life. My uncle did some truly horrible things before he ended up eventually in jail for four life sentences, and short story on that because I simply don’t talk about it, is he used to tape my sister and I shut in boxes, and threaten us with his pet snake. He even through a knife at my cousin once, and would put my sister and up on the top shelf of the closet and leave us there.

On top of that, my Dad was never around much, and he left for good when I was 7, the same year that my grandmother died from the chemo for her ovarian cancer. He is a whole other story in itself, but he only added to my abandonment issues when I was 21 and he showed back up ONLY to talk my sister and I out of making him pay off the back child support he owed (it was a whole thing), and having the audacity to say he stayed away because he loved us...but raised our half siblings, so...just. I don’t like talking about him either.

Then I had a mother who was constantly verbally abusing my sister and I--she still does--and calling us fat even when we were skinny. Telling us we wasted our potential, telling us we’re useless, etc., and only recently getting herself the help she needs for her own emotional issues because she too was abused. Our family is filled with abusers, and she’s much better now that we’ve all addressed we have some problems, but dealing with that on top of all the other things that I deal with now, has been rough.

I feel broken. My mother tells me not to say that, but all of my health issues, and my failed past relationships with boys that have thus kept me single the last three years, make me feel that way. I’m a demisexual person who had two boyfriends cheat because they couldn’t wait for me to be ready for sex, and one basically admit after a little while that he just wanted sex and was “putting up with my feelings until then”, and I dunno, I delved farther into writing and honestly, it has been my only constant.

I’ve been writing stories since I was 6, and this is a hobby, yes, but it is also an escape when I’m not working on my stuff to get published (I’ve actually been a published author since 2011). I’m editing my second book right now and it gets priority sometimes when I’m in a funk, but I have been so sick lately because of my stomach, and just so tired and stressed with work really only keeping me on because they can’t fire me when I have medical reasons and doctor’s notes, and I just thought you guys should know.

I try to be on because writing helps me not think about all of my issues, but sometimes I’m so tired, or so sick, that I just can’t do replies. Plus, my arm with the tumors has been hurting more and more lately, and I may have to get them removed, which will mean another two weeks of a sling and pain meds, and crying myself to sleep because recovery from arm surgery hurts.

So if I’m ever slow, something is up. I love being around to write--it’s my safe space--but I’ve been dealing with a lot lately. I really do love and appreciate all of you, and I’m so grateful that you guys are so patient with me. <3

#out of mystic falls // ooc #damn writing it all out makes me feel a tad sad lmao #tw: sleep paralysis #tw: heart problems #tw: depression #tw: swearing #tw: vomiting mention #tw: period talk #tw: long post #that isn't even all of it because i didn't go into a whole bunch of detail #but that is the just of it guys

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alarajrogers · 5 years

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Rage

(post has nothing to do with Aggretsuko aside from the fact that she sums up my mood even better than Dilbert’s female co-worker trying to control her fist of death)

So I am attempting to get psychiatric help for my teenage son. I call a dozen places. Personal voice mail, fast busy, “leave a message and scheduling will return your call”, personal voice mail, corporate voice mail, “we aren’t treating anyone but the children of employees right now”... and finally I get hold of someone at Johns Hopkins hospital psychiatric department, who tells me that the scheduler doesn’t work today but here are the days the scheduler does work.

I call back today, which is one of the days. I manage to land on the scheduler’s lunch hour, but I’m told I’ll get a call back... which I do, right after my daughter has called to ask me to pick her up from school. Well, I need to take this, so my daughter’s just gonna have to wait, right? I’m trying to get an appointment for her brother.

We go through the usual US health system bullshit. What’s his name, what’s your name, where do you live, what’s your insurance, what’s your insurance number, blah blah, what’s the psychiatric history, how long has he been on his current meds, and finally, after 20 minutes, they ask me, “Is he autistic?”

Well, this seems like a reasonable question for a psychiatric unit to ask, so I answer honestly, “Yes.”

“You’re going to have to call Kennedy Krieger. We don’t treat autistic kids here.”

....what???

I pointed out that he does reasonably well in school when he’s not depressed (code words for “he is not the kind of autistic kid you are probably thinking of who is nonverbal and won’t talk to the doctor”) and that we’re seeking treatment for depression, not autism. Nope. “We don’t treat autistic kids.”

I don’t know how I didn’t go ballistic on her. Wait, I do know. Because I’m autistic myself and I’ve been stomping on and tightly controlling my own emotions my whole life, because meltdowns are fucking horrible and no one understands why I’m having the reactions I’m having so I learned to not have them. But oh my god. I want to break things.

We’re not fucking weird-ass mutants, okay? We do in fact have the same kinds of psychological problems as everyone else! You don’t need a special degree in Autism to treat autistic kids for shit that is not related to their autism... not if they can talk to you in your own language and can manage to get decent grades at school when they show up, anyway. I could, just barely, understand “we don’t have people who are trained to do therapy with teenagers who can’t talk”, but no, blanket “autism? Too freaking weird for the psychologists who work here, come back when you have a normal abnormal psychological condition.”

Quite aside from my utter rage at autism disqualifying a kid from getting depression treatment in a hospital’s psychiatric outpatient division... she couldn’t ask me this first? Why the fuck do you need to know my insurance if you’re going to disqualify my kid anyway? Why did you waste my time by asking for the whole goddamn history if you were then going to say, “Oh, autism! Too scary for us!”

Aggretsuko, sing some death metal for me, I’m too old and my voice is too fucked up to manage it. Also I don’t know how to say “autism” in Japanese, though I could probably manage “you fucking bigoted cocksuckers” or at least something that conveys the same general feeling.

This has ruined my whole goddamn day and I am on the verge of having a meltdown, at the age of nearly 50, because a stupid fucking bureaucrat won’t let my son have an appointment for depression treatment because he’s autistic. Fuck all you assholes out there who think we’re too weird and freakish for you to treat for mental disorders. I hope you end up dying in a hospital and your doctor has autism and she saves your life and you freak out because an autistic touched you and you don’t go back for a followup so you die of the thing. Fuck you.

#actuallyautistic #tw: anti-autistic bigotry #why is there not a pre-populated tag for that

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delicateheartstranger · 5 years

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March 16, 2020

Dear world,

This has been started actually on the 15th, but since it will take awhile to write out everything I will mark it the 16th.

So here begins my crappy 2000s movie start of a blog. Unlike the movies where at some point my blog will blow up and my life will take either a turn for the worse or better I have nothing to fear because that was barely realistic even back then. Since I wanna make sure though just in case any chance someone who knows me finds this I will not state my name. I’ll tell ya’ll this, I’m 19 years old and will be 20 in October, I like fandom shit, I’m trans, I’m pan, I wish I could go back and kill baby Hitler so I would never be born and no ww2, I’m in love with one my best friends, I have feelings for a guy I met online that lives in Norway while I’m stuck in the U.S., I suffer from ptsd/depression/anxiety/a fuck ton of just not being mentally stable, live at home with my parents right now, have no job, most of my close friends are toxic, and I have no privacy.

I was at college for a few month, but then a bunch of things happened and I had to drop out. When I came back home my parents I feel resented me a bit for not being stable enough to stay at that college (they loved it and want to send me back) so now my home life became a lot worse. I’m in a php program currently so even if it weren’t for the fact that my parents would rather roll over dead than have me work (earn money to get the fuck out) I can’t get one since most conflict with time. I’m 19 and only ever held one real job because my parents claim the house needs to be clean before I can work. I’m not the only one who lives here, but okay. Also I would make less messes if I wasn’t home. Top it off it’s like “we don’t want you working for other people before you do the work you owe us at home.” They have this whole family first idea, but the thing is I don’t feel a part of the family. They decided I had no say when I was younger when moving far from home, I wasn’t a part of it enough to get attention while my brother was sick, I wasn’t a part of it enough for them not to judge me to the point where I quit lots of things I loved just so they’d stop hurting me, I wasn’t enough a part of it that they would do things for me that would be what “family” does.

So yes I will put myself aka my mental health first because you guys never will. Because of the Corona outbreak my area has been quarantined. It means 2 weeks no school (wasn’t enrolls), no physical php, less people in public, and that good old shit. Thing is now my parents are trying to force my brother who’s off in college to come back home AND not let me see my friends physically while locking me up in our home. The most I can do if I wanna leave is go for a walk for like 30 minutes near our house. I hate walking as it just riles me up ever more and brings back bad memories of my parents forcing me to. They tried super hard when I was younger to walk the fat off me. Worked like a charm, said no one. If anything the many years of fat shaming made me gain weight as they didn’t get me a therapist, didn’t think I was depressed, didn’t let me take meds, and all I had was eating to comfort me. So yeah I’m basically trapped in my own house. I think I may fuck up. I’ve been around a month or two clean of self harm, but I know that will change in these coming weeks if I am forced to stay here alone with my folks and brother.

I usually have passive SI and SH thoughts, but within this weekend I’ve had so many that I was close to acting on them. They’ve gotten to the level of overwhelming that it’s like I’m back in 11th grade again. Which by the way, found out one my few friends from that time tried to MURDER my other friend (who is a bit newer, but still) is living in a house for people with murderous tendencies. So that’s just peachy. Oh another friend from high school has a brain tumor which probably will kill him and it makes me super sad even though we haven’t talked in years. I am currently upset about my life choices of who I made friends with.

My three best friends would be LM, DW, and LL.

LL is a friend I made in my third high school. He’s kinda going through lots of shit right now. He used to realize that he couldn’t drink and that he could only smoke in small amounts. Now he’s back on his bs. He’s also having unsafe sex with strangers he met on tinder. Now it’s find to fuck around. Go live your best life. But if you are having unsafe sex that’s a problem. He is constantly having pregnancy scares (he’s trans). All of this while on the fact that when he’s not too fucked up he’s like kinda self center. I told him like the other night when he was doing better that I was feeling really down given some shit I got for being fat, but I was fine talking. This man goes ahead and spends the whole time talking about all these stories about himself and doesn’t let me speak for like the whole time. And he was like on this thing about how I need to do something, but he never got there. Don’t tell me how to self improve when you’re in a worse state than me.

Then there is DW. I’ve been in love with him since middle school. We met at this outside of school after school activity. I fell hard. When I first confessed to him he didn’t really speak to me and avoided me for about a year. Then we became friends again due to weird grouping things at that after school activity. Irony was I was trying to get into the group he wasn’t in so I would lose my feelings. Then after we got close again I confessed my feelings, again. Some how that made us best friends? I mean I’m glad he didn’t cut me off again don’t get me wrong, but it just wasn’t what I was expecting. Now here’s some hard shit. About almost a year ago over the summer (2019) we were talking about my weird love life. You see I still tried to date outside of him. Can’t keep going after something that won’t happen. Then I asked about his love life as it’d been like months since I brought it up directly with him. Turns out he’d been dating a girl for almost a YEAR. He just “forgot” to tell me. I understand he could’ve been worried about my feelings, but I’m more hurt that he hid something that big away from me and lied about it too. We’re supposed to be best friends. Course I don’t wanna hear about how he fucks her or whatever. I just wanna be there for him. And so now I’m getting a taste of my own medicine. He is talking about her. How they go on dates, how they had a dear valentines day date, how he cares about her, how she even was in the same php program as me. I wanna fucking strangle her. She used to be my friend, but we grew apart. Then of course I find out that she’s dating the love of my life. Cool. Worst is when me and him are texting and she has the NERVE to try and talk to me. I don’t ever wanna speak to her again. I will if it makes DW happy, but for my sanity and her life I will avoid that. She’s a fine person, props forgot about me and my feelings for him, and doesn’t deserve the utter rage I hold for her. That don’t change it though. All of this on top the fact we’ve been distantly lately. I noticed about like 5 months ago how I was always the one texting DW and that started our convos. How I was the one putting in effort. So I started to text less. He only about 5 times started the conversations. It was over memes and reply to my general instagram stories. I’ve given up and realized if I want him in my life have to do the texting. I won’t let him go anymore. I’ve tried in the past, it don’t help anything. No matter what I try I need him and even if it’s bad for me it’s no worse than not having him.

Now we are on my closest and most toxic best friend. LM. LM I also met in my third high school. She was kind and charismatic. Thing is she is unstable, manipulative, controlling, hurtful, and just really toxic to me. She’s the alpha of the friend group I’m in with her. She can hurt me so much. I’ve tried taking breaks from her in the past, but when that happens she gets angry. She tried in these times to ruin my reputation. She has so much dirt on me. Top it off she lies like crazy and people just like, believe her? The only ones who have been able to see through her shit would be: Me, LL, and MA. That’s it. Not even her own sister can, least she doesn’t show it. It’s shit like, let’s say I was embarrassed by something and felt bad. LM would say I sobbed over it and yeah. Or she also just full on lies about me doing or saying something. It’s too the point where she’s said things about me that could get me in legal trouble if she told some authority figure and they believed her. Like she claims one time that I was about to drug one my crushes if she wasn’t there to stop me and that I masturbated with his jacket when he left the room in his closet. Yes I’m not proud of it, but when I was in a bad head space I thought about the idea/fantasy of having him take horny pills that SHE showed me and offered me. I did also once smell up my crush’s jacket in the closet. Not proud of it at all. I wasn’t stable and wasn’t thinking in my right mind. Doesn’t make what I did okay, but I did not do anything that would be as fucked as she claimed. Sometimes with that old crush she’ll bring it up saying straight up lies like I went to his house. Never did. Did find my crush on white pages (again not okay, but I wasn’t healthy), but never went anywhere near him outside of our setting. So yeah if I cut her off or just take a break she could realllly ruin my life given everyone believes ever word she says. All of that and I’m still a bit bitter over her manipulating a situation where me, her, and a few friends had a crush on the same guy. She lied saying she didn’t have feelings for him. She told us to confess and when we were like ‘idk not to ready for that’ she went ahead and did it for us. He didn’t like us back which is valid. But then she got really handsy and did things that basically helped him fall for her. Now I don’t have feelings for him anymore. If I do imma just push em away given he wouldn’t be good for me. But they constantly do things now as a couple that feel like an invasion on my being. THEY HAD SEX WITH THE DOOR SLIGHTLY OPEN IN THE ROOM NEXT TO ME ONLY TO LIE STRAIGHT TO MY FACE. So they couldn’t see I’d woken up. I was facing the door and they were full on sex. Like I heard the moans. I heard it all. I knew they were fucking. So when they finished and went to wake me up I pretended to be asleep. Then later that day I brought it up to my friend CS (her boyfriend/ex crush) I thought they were having sex cause I could heard them in my dream, he lied to my face saying I was crazy. Straight up gas lighting tactics LM would use. This isn’t the first time they tried that. Even when I was with someone and we both were like yeah we heard ya’ll having sex they denied it and said we were crazy. Like please just don’t fuck when there are others around or at least have the decency to do it where we can’t hear/wake up from it.

All of this said about each one I love them all dearly. And it’s hard the idea of losing them. It’s just so shitty dealing with all their shit on top of my own.

Now the worse thing happening right now that I can’t even talk to a friend about it that I got my new name outed. So my parents are transphobic, but diet transphobic. Like they “support” trans rights yet do really transphobic things.I came out to them a few months ago and not a SINGLE time have they used the right pronouns. Then when bringing up trans things they have shot me down claiming xyz. I just wanna be me, but the same time I don’t want to set myself up for disappointment. At my php program I go by my chosen name. I told all the staff my situation at home yet the nurse managed to fuck up when emailing and wrote in an email that was attached to my parents my chosen name. So great my parents probably know something is up. I’m gonna fucking cry if they hurt me more. They already invalidate me on so many things I can’t stand the idea of them doing so on something so close and core to my identity. They do it with everything else and most things core to who I am. I had one safe space and the nurse had to fuck it up for me. I just can’t fucking deal with all this.

Top it off the one good person in my life, ESK hasn’t spoken to me in about 3 days now. ESK is someone I met online who lives in Europe. He’s genuinely the only good thing in my life. The only non toxic source of happiness. He brings me so much joy. I’m pretty sure he also has feelings for me or had them at one point. He’s 2 years younger than me and is turning 18 soon. I wanna get him a gift, but not only would that be weird, but he also hates celebrating his birthday. So I’ll just wish him a happy birthday when it comes around. Regardless I might not even be able to since he hasn’t responded in awhile. He has some serious health problems so I am worried he could be really sick. That or he’s angry at me/hates me/doesn’t wanna talk anymore. It could be just my anxiety, but the same time it could be true. I hate that I can’t tell. I can’t even talk to any of my bffs about it since they’ll all be super judgmental. Maybe DW, but even then it’d be hard. I just wanna make sure ESK is okay. He means the world to me. I don’t want to lose him. This is all happening after we both showed full face selfies of ourselves in our last convos. I hope he doesn’t think I’m ugly. It’d break my heart into toooooo many pieces if my looks scared him away or made him lose his romantic feelings for me. It’s not like we could date rn as not only are we an ocean away, but I’m far to emotionally unstable to. But hey that won’t matter if he drops off the face of the earth.

Lastly before I go I wanna talk about this girl in my php program who is legit making me crazy. We will call her LLL. She looks and acts just like my first crush, but if she’d grown up. The only difference is her eye color, age, and where she’s from. She isn’t her, but boy that doesn’t stop my lizard brain. I feel like a piece of trash whenever my eyes wander over her more revealing parts. It’s bad to objectify women and bad that I’m placing this role on her. Plus I’m like 90% sure she’s straight and like 60% she has a thing for a guy in our php group (who is much hotter than me). It’s just so hard since I lost my crush via my abusive grandma. It was her fault I didn’t wake up in time (I was 9) which meant I never got her number. I remember my heart sinking seeing her wave good bye to me from her car window as she drove off. I never really got over her as I just repressed any sense of being not cis het. I only really realized what I had for her was more than “wanting to be bffs” like a year or two ago. Still haven’t had the proper therapy to undo all my baggage. I really hope she hasn’t realized that my eyes linger on her just a little too long or that my feet are always pointing towards her. I want it to be a safe space for her.

SO yeah. That’s like 2% of my life rn plus 1% back story. You guys can tell I say like, so, and ya’ll a tad too much. I don’t know what to do and I have to wake up at 7. If anyone sees this I hope you can give me advice before it’s too late.

Yours cordially,

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