#medical violence

[queersatanic]

Even in the absolute best case scenarios where the police manage to make a suicidal person go with them quietly and cooperatively without causing a scene, being involuntarily hospitalized is still at best useless for most people and it's often traumatic. Without community support, people who are suicidal get worse, not better. Being reminded we're considered burdens by the people who claim to love us feels like shit.

Right, you can talk to lots of people who've gone through this, and whatever their crisis, the abuse they suffered at the hands of medical professionals often far outstrips it.

"Well, what am I supposed to do then?"

We have to be building better systems where, "Call the violent men with guns you can't make eye contact with for fear they club you, strangle you, or murder you, and if not that, cage you and dope you indefinitely," is not an option period, much less what someone considers to be a best option.

[jadwiga-abremovic]

"Medical ethics convention"

AKA

"Should we selectively abort disabled people, sterilize them in their teens, or just euthanize them outright? "

[defundthepolicedestroythegop]

[anotherseverussnapelover]

Ok folks,

Should I make a tik tok account to speak about why I've to starve myself to be taken seriously by doctors ?

🚨 TW : Fatphodia, médical violence 🚨

Hear me out :

I've been fat since I was 3yo - obese since I was 6 (yes I did diets, yes I did sports (up to 8h/week besides PE in school), yes I've seen many doctors)

I easily gain weight since I have a 56% of the genes that ease obesity (according to DNA analysis that was made when I was around 12 for research purpose)

I have had a surgery cuting 2/3 of my stomach ~10 years ago

I lost 60 kg in ONE YEAR and the surgeon who did the surgery told me that I will NEVER be under 100kg since I never have since I stopped growing (and this means that I will ALWAYS be obese according to BMI)

When I was around 100kg, I had many health issues : dizziness (lasted up to 1,5 month, when weather/shower is warmer than 25°C), low blood pressure (down to 8/6), VERY PAINFUL PERIOD, ARTHRITIS, and the list can go on. Which eased or DISAPPEARED when I gained weight again.

So why now ?

Because I've been to my GP a few days ago, because my arthritic knee has been hurting and swollen for 2 weeks, since I hurt myself during a physiotherapy appointment (2 to 3 app. a week for 3 years now and it's a lifelong situation since it's a degenerative condition). And since my period was about to begin, I've had the "usual" inflammatory response so some other articulations was swollen too, especially my wrist which I had a surgery on like 4 months ago.

As I already knew it, it's a twisted knee (for like the 12th or 13th time in 15 years, and no, I can't wear a brace, since my knees are making an X and the surgery that could have prevent both the twisting and the arthritis was refused because of 🥁🥁🥁 MY WEIGHT).

BUT, when I asked about applying for a Recognition as a disabled worker, which basically compel my boss to adapt my post (the most part being working remotely since some days I can't drive because of the pain, and even 10 minutes of driving CAN CAUSE pain) and being paid from the first day of sick leave when I need one because of my knee (according to the law, you're not paid for the 3 first day of a sick leave, and then you go back to work or the NHS compensates the loss), he opposed me that I need to lose weight before speaking about this recognition like. What ?

THIS IS A DEGENERATIVE CONDITION. IT WILL NEVER HEAL. IT WILL ONLY GET WORST.

LOSING WEIGHT WILL JUST BRING UP OTHER ISSUES, WHICH ARE OTHERWISE DISABLING (e.g when I can't walk straight nor drive because of dizziness, can't take a hot shower because it causes dizziness, can't move for days because of period's pain, etc. see above)

He told me that my wrist which I had a surgery on will probably always hurt because it can happen when the carpal tunnel syndrome is too advanced AND GUESS WHO'S THE ONE THAT DIDN'T WANT TO ADDRESS ME TO A NEUROLOGIST FOR 15 YEARS BECAUSE HE DIDN'T BELIEVE IT WAS THAT ????!!! AND IT WAS ??!! AND IT WAS WAY MUCH WORST THAN EXPECTED??!!!

And that's just for the actual GP, because I've almost NEVER met a physician who didn't lectured me about my weight, EVEN WHEN I DIDN'T COME FOR THAT IN THE FIRST PLACE (I literally went to a physician to fulfill paperworks, HE LECTURED ME FOR 20 MINUTES ABOUT WHY I SHOULD LOSE WEIGHT, the anaesthesist I met prior to my wrist surgery DID THE SAME, EXCUSE ME BIATCH, IT WILL NOT CHANGE WITHIN 10 DAYS, and, OF COURSE the anesthesia became a fucking trauma because she didn't sent the right infos to the surgery aisle, my prior GP I've met when I was in internship in Paris told me to DO ANOTHER A SURGERY TO REDUCE MY STOMACH, and so on, once again)

So, since I'm not listened to, nor taken seriously, I decided to lose weight by the only efficient way so far : starving myself (100g of white rice, 100g of kimchi, 2 eggs, 2 toasts, 2 milk coffees and 1 milk tea a day), no matter what happens.

[thoughts-of-a-social-worker]

Why Henrietta Lacks’ “Immortal Life” Matters

I don’t recall hearing the name “Henrietta Lacks” before college. I suspect that this is a common story among folks my age and those who graduated before Rebecca Skloot’s book The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks was published in 2010. In fact, the reason Skloot wrote her book in the first place was because no one seemed to be able to answer her question – who was Henrietta Lacks? Skloot, who has dual degrees in biological science and creative nonfiction, set out to find the answers on her own. After more than a thousand hours of interviews, scientific and historical research, and deep dives into archival content (as well as the personal journals of Henrietta’s daughter, Deborah Lacks) she was able to show the world a holistic story not just of HeLa cells and Henrietta Lacks but of her family and their struggle to come to terms with her “immortality” – as well as how that immortality came about. 

Skloot’s book stayed on the New York Times bestseller list for more than six years and, ultimately, I believe it raised awareness of an individual’s rights (or lack thereof) to control how their tissues are used, as well as illustrating the racial inequities embedded in the U.S. medical system. In Skloot’s afterword, she noted that it was not illegal for doctors to take Henrietta’s cells without her knowledge in 1951, nor would it have been illegal when the book was published in 2009. She discussed how, while hundreds of millions of tissue samples are being stored in the U.S., there is no case law that fully clarifies whether an individual has a right to control their own tissue once it is removed from their body. While it’s true that this absence of individual rights resulted in major medical breakthroughs, the Lacks family didn’t find out how Henrietta’s cells were used until decades later and never received any compensation from the entities who profited from the use of her cells. Skloot included a quote from Deborah Lacks which summed up the family’s frustration well, stating, “... I have always thought it was strange, if our mother cells done so much for medicine, how come her family can’t afford to see no doctors? Don’t make no sense. People got rich off my mother without us even knowin about them takin her cells, now we don’t get a dime.”

The Lacks family is certainly not the only family to have ever been taken advantage of by the U.S. medical system for research purposes. There is an extensive history of exploitation – particularly of people of color – which is justified by the need for continual advancements in medicine. From the 1840s experiments performed by Dr. Marion Sims (also known as the “Father of Gynecology”) on enslaved Black women to the 1932 Tuskegee experiments which purposefully denied syphilis treatment to Black men, subjecting BIPOC individuals to medical violence for the purposes of study is not a new phenomenon. It’s no surprise that marginalized communities, especially Black communities, have a deep mistrust of the U.S. medical system. I think about the vaccine skepticism among communities of color during the COVID-19 pandemic and, with these repeated acts of medical violence in mind, I find myself having much more empathy for those who may have been afraid to get the COVID-19 vaccine. 

Johns Hopkins, the medical establishment which first took and cultured Henrietta’s cells, initially tried to better understand how her cells worked by studying her children – and it’s important to note that this was done without the family’s awareness of the researchers’ intent. Today, Johns Hopkins hosts a symposium every year in honor of Henrietta Lacks and celebrates the advancements made possible with her cells. While members of the Lacks family have been present, and she has posthumously been thanked, no additional recompense has been provided to the Lacks. In fact, it ended up being the Henrietta Lacks Foundation created by Skloot which provided money to Henrietta’s immediate family members, in the form of grant funds. As of this spring – more than 70 years after Henrietta’s death – the attorneys representing Lacks’ estate shared that the family has received no financial compensation from either the pharmaceutical or biotechnology industries that have profited from the use of Henrietta’s cells. In August, there was still no update as to whether or not the lawsuit filed by the Lacks family will go to trial or be dismissed by the judge. For now, her family continues to wait, and hope, for justice.

[pensarecool2]

cw: vent. click to read.

I really hate the idea that """painkillers""" and """antidepressants""" are anything more than just 100% placebos. Whenever I try to talk about this, I get accused of being a liar or a conspiracy theorist or some shit. No. The actual fucking bullshit conspiracy is that """pain medication""" actually does anything for pain. It does not. Either every single time I have consumed any form of pain med throughout my entire life, it has been a complete dud, or maybe they don't fucking do shit. """Antidepressants"" have never made me not depressed and not want to die. The only reason I'm alive at this point is because I'm a coward, and it would make my partner upset. The whole fucking medical industry is a fucking scam. The idea that medication is useful is so fucking bullshit. And even if it did fucking work (which there is no way it does) it is not like you can get it in the United States unless you have like fucking magical abilities because psychiatrists and other doctors are violently allergic to actually listening to patients or helping them. They all literally care about two things, money, and getting you to shut the fuck up and go away. They could care less if you live or die or actually need help. I fucking HATE therapists and social workers. They are fine with you potentially killing yourself, so long as it means they don't have to deal with you anymore and it is bullshit. I have never acted with any kind of doctor whatsoever and had them not be a piece of shit.

When I was forced to get ear surgery (I forget what it was for but I think it was supposed to fix my hearing and I was highly pressured to get it when I was 14 without understanding much about it) the surgery left me in severe pain for more than a month of recovery. When I had a follow up appointment to check my hearing, my results were so bad that I was told that I was lying for attention, and actually the surgery was a success and my hearing was fine.

When I finally managed to get top surgery, I was fucking traumatized in the hospital bed cause I was all prepped and shit and ready and this fucking piece of shit asshole surgeon comes out and is like "oh you have to have stopped testosterone before surgery, go home and we'll reschedule" which isn't even a really medically necessary requirement or anything, just his random bullshit preference. Sure he ended up doing a good job but this combined with some other weird shit (he was a top surgeon who somehow didn't know what gender dysphoria was?? Idk he was the best option available) idk that fucking upset me.

Last time I went to the mental hospital, I was isolated, and forced to have the shittiest room (it had a window so anyone could look in and the curtain was super thin and on the outside so it let in so much hallway light that I could not sleep, also the room had only a bed so I had to put all my stuff on the floor even though all the other rooms had shelves and I was lied to and kept expecting new furniture) BECAUSE I AM TRANS. Even the other single rooms were bigger and nicer. I was told that the policy was because I am transitioning and it was heavily implied it was because I might assault someone. I was forced into the shittiest room, I think intended for those on suicide watch(?) because I was inherently seen as a predator because I have had top surgery and am on Testosterone. Speaking of that shitty fucking hospital, they did not set me up with any help once I left like they said they would. They just fucking made an account for me on this app called "Aptihealth" which I do not think qualifies as healthcare and should be shut down.

Literally every therapist I have ever had is identical. They sit there and listen to you talk about your trauma, and then they go "oh you mentioned you have a pet. tell me about the pet" and then give you no advice on anything, and encourage you to direct the conversation to bullshit that does not matter, tell you to solve your own problems, and then go "well we're reaching the end of the session, does this time next week work for you?" Like ok, I guess that discussing fucking random tv shows or other fun shit is more enjoyable of trying to work through how my father raped me as a child but why am I paying you $20 I cannot afford because I have no income, and getting assistance takes fucking forever, and I cannot be alone or unsupervised without having a full on mental breakdown for you to ask me what discord is when I randomly bring it up. I swear to god the number of fucking therapists that hear me mention a social media site, and go "oh what's that? explain it in detail" when I mention it as part of explaining something else. Shut the fuck up you old fucking cunt and give me resources to help me with my issues other than some shit you found off page one of Google that I already tried and know does not work.

Ok so there was one "therapist" that wasn't like this, she was worse. I saw her for more than a decade of my life. She worked at some small clinic and her only """"qualification"""" was being an art therapist. My dad would pay her to encourage me to blindly obey him and see him as without fault because he "loves me" because he is my father. She would encourage him to actively ignore me when I was suicidal, and was a big fan of making sure I stayed brainwashed. I don't know how much she was aware of the things my father did, but if he told her to talk to me about how I was "misbehaving" too much, or not doing well with homework or not listening to him, by god she would deal with that. Clearly, the reason why my grades were taking in high school was because I was lazy, and me saying I almost always had an active plan was because I just wanted to get out of doing the homework in the advanced classes I was pressured to take and I couldn't read the textbooks because I was lazy and not because I was not at that reading level. Also that bitch convinced me that I wasn't trans cause I was crying when I tried coming out to her and she said some shit about how it was the media's fault or some shit idk. I saw her from like I think 2012(?) up until January of 2020 when I realized how unhelpful she was. Early 2020 is when I started realizing a lot of the brainwashing and shit. Its hard to realize that you've been basically mind controlled into not understanding a goddamn fucking thing about how the world works when your fucking pedo rapist father starts lying to you from the moment you understand words. I swear to god he is a fucking wannabe cult leader. He could easily make form a cult but I guess he decided just his firstborn was enough.

Even if fucking antidepressants worked, I have yet to find a psychiatrist that actually gives a fuck about what you have to say. They usually just give you random shit, even if you said it previously didn't work, and ignore you if you point out unwanted side effects. And even if you try to trust them, they don't pick up the phone when you try to remind them you need medication refills but they don't give a shit about that cause they do not fucking care.

The most recent time I interacted with paramedics? I am pretty fucking sure that I was drugged with something that I don't even know what it was. I was paralyzed and terrified. I was also openly mocked and belittled by the emergency responders who laughed at me and dismissed me as a dumb junkie when I was scared and needed help. And then when I was taken to the ER? I was there for more than 8 hours before I left without seeing a doctor. There were people there who had been waiting 24+ hours without seeing a doctor.

People keep telling me "oh just find a primary care physician" NONE ARE TAKING NEW PATIENTS AND IF YOU MISS A SINGLE FUCKING APPOINTMENT, THEY BAN YOU FROM THEIR WHOLE FUCKING PRACTICE.

I go to planned parenthood for my testosterone. I have been on t with them since September 2020, and they don't give a fuck. They don't give a fuck. They don't know shit about hrt. they do not care about patients. They are fucking assholes. and they are inconsistent about refilling shit. The one time I went for an appointment and I was asked if I was ok... I WAS BILLED AN EXTRA $15 FOR A FUCKING "EMOTIONAL ASSESSMENT" CAUSE THIS ONE FUCKING NURSE ASKED ME IF I WAS OK.

I'm lucky that I managed to get my mom to help me get a diagnosis for some of my issues a few years ago, but there's more serious shit I need formal diagnoses for, and it is so fucking hard to even talk to a psychologist, never mind find one that isn't a fucking cunt. Can't get SSI/SSD/Whatever the fuck it is with an autism assessment but how the fuck am I supposed to get diagnosed with PTSD. I can't just say "Oh yeah I have PTSD because I fill all the requirements and also a few medical professionals callously told me I have PTSD when I was begging them for help in the ER and then discharged because if you are begging for actual help with your mental problems, then they will just discharge you because people who are begging for help don't actually end up hurting themselves, so I haven't actually gotten any help, but trust me when I say that I cannot work without freaking the fuck out so give me government money so that I can stay alive." I'm trying anyways but idk how far I'm gonna get. I should probably check that they got my documents but they can straight-up just say they did not get them if they feel like it.

I fucking hate every facet of the medical industry in the united states because it is all bullshit

[dykefaggotry]

ik it’s such a niche thing but i wish it were more common to tag things like medical violence/death bc there’s so many posts out there describing the horrific ways in which someone with chronic illness or disability will die from lack of medical care bc of Capitalism and they’ll go completely untagged which is understandable bc theres not really an accepted tag for that but i just wish we could have one and make it common use bc i really do not wanna see all the ways in which i could die without some warning at least 

[parttimepunner]

Don’t expect me to be able to function when the best medication for me is in short supply.

[memoriae-lectoris]

However, whites of the slave-owning class enjoyed better initial health, better nutrition, and less exposure to environmental pathogens and parasites than did enslaved blacks. Slave owners did not suffer from overwork and exposure, so they were better able than slaves to withstand the rigors of bloodletting. Sensing this, many physicians and scientists discouraged bloodletting for slaves. Thomas Jefferson, statesman and amateur physician-scientist, wrote unequivocally, “Never bleed a negro.” But in their everyday practices, physicians didn’t listen. Dr. Lunsford Yandell wrote, “On March 16, 1833, I was called before sunrise to visit a Negro woman. I took from her twelve ounces of blood… I waited about fifteen minutes when she had a severe convulsion.”

Such techniques as cupping (the use of heated glass jars to create a partial vacuum that drew blood upward to the skin’s surface or through an incision in the skin) and trephination (the therapeutic drilling of holes in the skull) were risky for pampered, well-nourished adults living in relatively healthy environments. But they were fatal attentions for sickly, undernourished, and exhausted slaves and for their children, who were at even higher risk of succumbing to anemia or dehydration. Enslaved African Americans were more vulnerable than whites to respiratory infections, thanks to poorly constructed slave shacks that admitted winter cold and summer heat. Slaves’ immune systems were unfamiliar with, or naïve to, microbes that caused various pneumonias and tuberculosis. Parasitic infections and abysmal nutrition also undermined blacks’ immunological rigor. Before antibiotics and sterile technique, surgery was an often-fatal affair. Unaware of the connection between bacteria and infection, surgeons operated in their street clothes and with dirty hands in filthy environments, such as the shacks that served as “slave hospitals.” Even minor incisions or injuries could proceed to life-threatening infections with frightening rapidity.

Southern medicine of the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries was harsh, ineffective, and experimental by nature. Physicians’ memoirs, medical journals, and planters’ records all reveal that enslaved black Americans bore the worst abuses of these crudely empirical practices, which countenanced a hazardous degree of ad hoc experimentation in medications, dosages, and even spontaneous surgical experiments in the daily practice among slaves. Physicians were active participants in the exploitation of African American bodies. The records reveal that slaves were both medically neglected and abused because they were powerless and legally invisible; the courts were almost completely uninterested in the safety and health rights of the enslaved.

The practice of hiring slaves out further endangered enslaved workers by removing much of an employer’s incentive to keep the slave healthy and safe. Some humane plantation owners were careful to choose less risky work venues, but a great danger of slave death or disability was inherent in some forms of mining, tobacco production, rice farming, and most plantation work. In these settings, the slave’s possible death became part of his owner’s commercial calculations.

Ominously for blacks, the owners, not the enslaved workers, determined safety and rationed medical care, deciding when and what type of care was to be given. Because professional attention was expensive, most owners dosed their own slaves as long as they could before calling in physicians, who usually saw slaves only in extremis, as a last resort. In clinical notes, medical journals, and memoirs, physicians consistently decried the planters’ tendency to rely upon the cheaper ministrations of overseers, slaves, and mistresses in order to save expense.

Physicians’ records also expressed disgust at the conditions in which enslaved workers were kept.

[serious2020]

[intersectionalpraxis]

It's not "going to be a good outcome" if his patients don't "align with his values" -you mean people who don't align with your genocidal apologism and zionist terrorist agenda have the potential to be harmed during their surgeries??

That medical license needs to be revoked.

You can also report him here:

One of my friends is a nurse, and has had to treat people and work with staff who are racist pieces of shit, but she would be the one losing her job/be isolated if she tried to address it with her management team. Seeing zionists like him proudly say he would use his position of power to hurt and abuse people... just despicable.

Also update: to the recent anon who was berating me in my inbox for 'labeling him a zionist' I did a little more research on him, and this is my update for those interested in reading my follow-up.

He's pro-Israel and was in Jerusalem with his family when the October's 7th attack happened. Here is some more context:

[nemfrog]

Pierced by sharp objects. A compleat discourse of wounds. 1678.

Internet Archive

[trans-axolotl2]

I've been reading Cripping Intersex by Celeste Orr and one concept that I think is absolutely crucial and one of the best resources I've found for understanding my own experiences as an intersex person is the term Compulsory Dyadism.

Dr. Orr coins the term: "I propose the expression 'compulsory dyadism' to describe the instituted cultural mandate that people cannot violate the sex dyad, have intersex traits, or 'house the spectre of intersex' (Sparrow 2013, 29). Said spectre must be, according to the mandate, exorcised. However, trying to definitively cast out the spectre via curative violence always fails. The spectre always returns: a new intersex baby is born; one learns that they have intersex traits in adulthood; and/or medical procedures cannot cast out the spectre fully, as evidenced by life-long medical interventions, routines, or patienthood status. And the effects of compulsory dyadism haunt in the form of disabilities, scars, memories, trauma, and medical regimens (e.g., HRT routines). Compulsory dyadism, therefore, is not simply an event or a set of instituted policies but is an ongoing exorcising process and structure of pathologization, curative violence, erasure, trauma, and oppression." (Orr 19-20).

They continue on in their book to explore compulsory dyadism as it shows up in medical interventions, racializing intersex + sports sex testing, and eugenic and prenatal interventions on intersex fetuses. This term makes so much sense to me and puts words to an experience I've been struggling to comprehend--how can it be that so many endosex* people express such revulsion and fear of intersex bodies and traits, yet at the same time don't even know that intersex people exist? Why is it that people understand when I refer to my body in the terms used by freak shows, call myself a hermaphrodite, remember bearded ladies and laugh at interphobic jokes--yet do not even know that intersex people are as common as redheads? Understanding the term compulsory dyadism elucidates this for me. Endosex people might not comprehend what intersex actually is or know anything about our advocacy, but they do grow up in a cultural environment that indoctrinates them into false ideas about the sex binary and cultivates a fear of anything that lies outside of it.

From birth, compulsory dyadism affects every one of us, whether you're intersex or not. Intersex people carry the heaviest burden and often the most visible wounds that compulsory dyadism inflicts, as shown through often the very literal scars of violent, "curative" surgery, but the whole process of sex assignment at birth is a manifestation of compulsory dyadism. Ideas entrenched in the medical system that assign gender to the hormones testosterone and estrogen although neither of those hormones have anything to do with gender, a society that starts selling hair removal products to girls at puberty, and the historical legacy of things like sexual inversion theory are all manifestations of compulsory dyadism. For intersex people, facing compulsory dyadism often means that we are subjected to curative violence, institutionalized medical malpractice that sometimes includes aspects of ritualized sexual abuse, and means that we are left "haunted by, for instance, traumatic memories, acquires body-mind disabilities, an ability that was taken, or a 'paradoxical nostalgia....for all the futures that were lost' (Fisher 2013,45)." (Orr 26).

Compulsory dyadism works in tandem with concepts like compulsory able-bodiedness and compulsory heterosexuality to create mindsets and systems that tie together ideas to suggest that the only "normal" body is a cisgender one that meets capitalist standards of function, is capable of heterosexual sex and reproduction, and has chromosomes, hormones, genitalia, reproductive system, and sex traits that all line up. Part of compulsory dyadism is convincing the public that this is the only way for a body to function, erasing intersex people both by excluding us from public perception and by actively utilizing curative violence as a way to actively erasure intersex traits from our body. Compulsory dyadism works by getting both the endosex and intersex public to buy into the idea that intersex doesn't exist, and if it does exist then it needs to be treated as a freakshow, either exploiting us to put us on display as an aberration or by delegating us to the medical freakshow of experimentation and violence.

Until we all start to fully understand the many, many ways that compulsory dyadism is showing up in our lives, I don't think we're going to be able to achieve true intersex liberation. And in fact, I think many causes are tied into intersex liberation and affected by compulsory dyadism in ways that endosex people don't understand. Take the intense revulsion that some trans people express about the thought of medical transition, for example. Although transitioning does not make people intersex and never will, and the only way to be intersex is to have an intersex variation, I think that compulsory dyadism affects a lot more of that rhetoric than is expressed. The disgust I see some people talking about when they think about medical transition causing them to live in a body that has XX chromosomes, a vagina, but also more hair, a larger clitoris--I think a lot of this rhetoric is born in compulsory dyadism that teaches us to view anything that steps outside the sex dyad with intense fear and violence. I'm thinking about transphobic legislation blocking medical transition and how there's intersex exceptions in almost every one of those bills, and how having an understanding of compulsory dyadism would actually help us understand the ways in which our struggles overlap and choose to build meaningful solidarity, instead of just sitting together by default.

I have so much more to say about this topic, and will probably continue to write about it for a while, but I want to end by just saying: I think this is going to be one of the most important concepts for intersex advocacy going into the next decade. With all due respect and much love to intersex activists both current and present,I think that it's time for a new strategy, not one where we medicalize ourselves and distance ourselves from queer liberation, not one where we sort of just end up as an add on to LGBTQ community by default, not even one where we use a human rights framework, nonprofits, and try to negotiate with the government. I agree with so much of what Dr. Orr says in Cripping Intersex and I think the intersex and/as/is/with disability framework, along with these foundational ideas for understanding our own oppression with the language of compulsory dyadism and curative violence, are providing us with the tools to start laying a foundation for a truly liberatory mode of intersex community building and liberation.

*Endosex means not intersex

Endosex people, please feel free to reblog!

[yawnderu]

Lamb of God — Nikto x Medic!Reader | Part I

Shot, stabbed, beaten... Mikhail has been through hell countless times, yet no amount of training or experience from years in Spetsnaz could ever prepare him for what Victor Zakhaev did to him. 8 missing nails, multiple new wounds on his already scarred body, and a face so disfigured he could no longer recognize himself— not only was his body broken, but so was his psyche.

His first visit was with the medics, wounds in desperate need of cleaning even with infection starting to set in most of them, the chemical burns on his face already blistering and itching despite being scolded by the medic multiple times for scratching himself. He was a difficult patient to say the least— not wanting anyone to touch his injuries or even look at him, only accepting treatment from the only person who dared confront him.

“'Stop that.” Your request comes in a sharp tone, not wanting him to itch his blistering injuries and make the scarring worse than what you knew it would be. A mumbled ''don't tell me what to do'' makes its way to your ears, though you decide to ignore it when he puts his hands way, adhesive bandages decorating his fingers where the nails had been ripped off.

“Sit up for me.” The man is an aggressive dog that defends himself with fangs bared, yet he somehow listens to your commands— even when he scoffs or grumbles before finally doing what you ask. Your gloved hand goes to his chin as you examine the red skin on his face, noting it was washed when he was first rescued, no residue of the acid left. He mumbles something and you raise an eyebrow, waiting for him to repeat himself.

“Is it gross?” His deep voice asks, accent even rougher with the raw emotion he's feeling. He knows for a fact it's gross, he saw it himself— he has blisters covering over half of his face, still remembering the acid dripping down his face from Zakhaev simply wanting to cause him pain.

“I've seen worse— at least you still have a face.” Being a medic for the military allowed you to see both human cruelty, and the extends injuries could go. You've seen multiple soldiers missing their face, skin pulled and bones poking out of their bodies— Mikhail's injuries aren't the worst you've seen, not even close.

“Your nose doesn't look too weird either, even when I was told it was broken. Your eyes still work, all your limbs are still attached... you'll recover from everything in no time.” You try to keep a positive attitude despite the way his baby blue eyes are staring holes into your head, pupils looking tiny despite the dim light in the room.

“I'm mostly worried about what's going on here.” You tap his head softly and he doesn't take long on pushing your hand away softly, a small smile making way to your lips when you notice how he avoids eye contact for a second before he's back to staring at you. You stare back for a while, trying to decipher what he's feeling before going to grab a cloth, filling a small bucket with cold water and making your way back to him.

“This might hurt a little bit, let me know if you want me to stop and we can take a break.” He looks down at the bucket of water and the cloth you're dipping in, squeezing the excess water as you wait for his approval. He gives you a nod in affirmation, flinching slightly as the cold cloth makes contact with his face. It doesn't hurt as much as he imagined— if anything, it feels almost soothing, the previous ache and itchiness disappearing even if only for a very short while.

“Заканчивай быстрее с этой хернëй.” He mutters under his breath despite how good it actually feels on his injuries, not wanting to get any pity from you.

“Be patient.” It almost feels like he's getting scolded by his nana, faint memories of the old woman cleaning his scrapped knees come to mind, holding onto them to try and stop the bad thoughts from flooding his damaged brain.

“Mikhail.” Your soft voice slowly brings him back to reality, feeling an odd sensation all over his face. His hand goes up to feel his cheeks, only now realizing that you already dressed his wounds. He looks utterly confused, not even remembering you getting gauze, everything happening too suddenly. Now that he thinks about it, he doesn't remember most of the heli flight back home, too busy thinking about... what was he even thinking about?

“Mikhail.” You repeat, one of your gloved hands going to his shoulder in attempts to make him look at you. He's still staring blankly at the floor, just as he has been doing for the past 20 minutes, not responding to his own name.

“Quiet, I hear enough voices.” He brushes you off, finally getting up from the medical bed and quickly leaving your office despite the small limp from the beatings he took for days.

He hears voices? His next stop will have to be with the provided psychiatrist once his body recovers a little bit to test if he's still fit to be part of Spetsnaz, leaving your heart filled with worry until you move onto the next patient, making a mental note to check on him later.

A/N: Mikhail is Nikto's name in this fic, the person he used to be before turning into Никто.

[bigassmoonchild]

Tags

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Word Count: 2.6k

Summary: He's gone. He's gone and all he's left you with is this god damned pup, but god forbid you're allowed more than a month of peace. You never wanted to see this.

Content Tags: Mentions of Death, Pregnancy, The 141 Being A Pack, Angst, Hurt/No Comfort, Hurt/Some Comfort, Mentions of Violence, Medical Inaccuracies, Fear, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha! Ghost, No Use of Y/N

A/N: I'm having some problems finding accounts asking to be tagged. Please make sure you've got the right settings! As always, content under the cut and requests are open!

P.S: Keep sending in asks! I'm checking throughout the week!!

Part 1 | Previous, Next | Headcannons, Masterlist

A knock on your door brought you out of your stupor. You'd been half asleep, having finally been able to get some rest after throwing up half of your dinner from the night before.

It was barely 5, so theoretically no one should really be bothering you. Gaz had your squadron to do some combat situations, and he knew exactly what to do with them. They were especially feisty.

When you'd opened it, you weren't entirely sure what to expect. Maybe Simon? Or Soap, or Price? Maybe Gaz?

Definitely not the officer standing at your door, holding a few items. Neither of you spoke for a few moments, just staring at one another. He didn't seem to expect you, and you were just scared. You felt your heart sinking into your stomach.

He spoke your name to you and you nodded, feeling like you were staring through him. "I'm so sorry," and from there you didn't remember anything. Just a few words, the handing over of the few items of his they recovered before another apology.

You closed the door, staring at the dog tags sitting in your hands. You read his name, written on the dirty tag. When you took it into the bathroom and washed it, you felt the metal warm up like you'd just taken it off of Simon.

Waking up the next morning left you feeling hungover. Head throbbing, mouth dry and just feeling sick overall. You weren't sure of anything over the next few days, moving like you were a puppet being controlled.

There weren't any tears, there wasn't anything. You didn't feel anything. You avoided the pack- his pack. Staying away from the main areas they'd go, you found yourself staying within the medical areas, your office and your room. You ignored everyone outside of your squad.

So when there was a knock on the door, you hadn't thought twice of calling the person in. You and Sadie, one of the two Omegas you were training, had been talking and slowly becoming what you almost considered a friend.

"You can't keep hiding from us," Price said to you and you froze. Your chest seized, eyes shutting harshly. You didn't want to even think. "You've got his dog tags on," he whispered, rounding your desk and standing beside you.

It took a few weeks, but you had eventually cleared Price to walk without assistance. And he was abusing his ability to slowly get back to normal.

A sob tore through your chest and you felt everything hit you. Anger, for Simon doing this to you. Sadness, how you realized all you had left was the pup. You didn't want to believe he was gone, but he was. The tags around your neck proved it.

Price pulled you in close, resting his head atop yours as you wailed. You could feel the tears and snot, maybe drool coating his shirt as you grasped onto him. Hoping that he would be able to fix everything. He was the pack Alpha, he was supposed to know what to do.

Rocking you a little, just slightly side to side, he hummed against you. Allowing you to cry everything out, feeling as you slowly grew limp. The wails turned to sobs, sobs turned to hiccups before it was just shaky breaths. All you could think the entire time was 'he's actually gone'.

Pulling your face away from his chest, he gave you a small smile. "He's only assumed KIA," he whispered and you blinked at him. "We never got a body," he told you. You tugged your head free of him, could feel your eyelashes sticking uncomfortably together.

"He might not be dead?"

"Don't get your hopes up, kid," he gave you a little pat on the head. "Don't allow yourself to wallow in pity, let us take some of the pain off of you. We lost a packmate, just as you lost a mate," he whispered and let himself out.

All you could do was sit in your office, blinking slowly and feeling nothing at all. You didn't think it was possible to feel nothing after losing someone, but the little hope Price had given you felt like nothing at all.

They couldn't recover his dog tags without a body, could they?

As time wore on, and they were slowly losing hope on finding Simon, you eventually broke the news. You'd called the pack into Price's office, feeling it was best to break it there. Somewhere he could control reactions as best as possible.

When Gaz finally entered, closing the door behind him you looked at the three around you. You breathed deeply, completely unsure how to go about any of this.

"I'm pregnant," well, that's how you broke it to them. It wasn't how you were expecting it, but that's how it happened. None of them said anything, they all just stared at you.

Soap was the first to respond, pulling you into him and pressing his head against your abdomen. "Really?" He'd whispered and you nodded, wrapping your arms around him as best you could.

You all stayed quiet, it felt like you were both grieving the loss of Simon but hoping the best for the pup you were going to be responsible for.

And they made sure to help. Price would help you during the nights when you felt the worst. The loneliest. He had claimed to be responsible, 'I'm the pack leader after all'.

Gaz dragged you out of your nest, forcing you to go for walks with him or eat with everyone else in the mess hall. He would come by every so often, just to check up on you or interact with you. 'Givin' you a little bit less monotony, huh?' You enjoyed when he came by, it made you a little less lonely.

Even with everything that everyone did, Soap seemed to grow the closest with you. He'd insisted on joining you when you'd gone to the doctor to be able to get vitamins and other medications. He insisted on making sure you didn't have to be alone in the mornings after Price had left to deal with Captain stuff, helping you through the sickness.

You just wanted Simon. As much as you appreciated everything they were doing, they weren't Simon. You had been able to get into his room one night, after the fourth week of him being missing. It took you this long before you could get yourself to enter his room.

When you did, you had to choke back tears. His scent wafted over you, just slightly becoming stale but still there. His bed was made, pristine as ever, and you found yourself building a nest slowly.

In his closet, you'd buried yourself in layers of his blankets and clothes. Shirts and hoodies, some left unwashed being the closest you could get to his fresh scent.

All you wanted was to be alone. For once, you didn't want anyone near you, you didn't want to talk to anyone. Being snappier to people seemed like the way to get them to leave you alone. Stay colder with people.

No different than Simon, you figured. Not too much different than how he would perform, if it had been you. How similar to him were you becoming? Pushing people away, going through shit on your own? Not talking?

So you filled your time with work. You didn't give yourself much time to sleep, barely enough time to eat and take care of yourself. You didn't want to think, and you didn't allow Gaz to pull you away. No matter how hard he tried.

A few days latter, you'd been working on helping one of the recruits patch up a simple wound in the medical center. Your squad had finally graduated to helping there, and so you'd been using them to help. When you'd cleaned your hands of the blood that caught on them, you saw Price standing by the front desk.

Venturing over to him, checking in with some of your squad to make sure they were alright, you found him looking through papers. Files. You recognized one of the names, Sadie.

"What's that?"

"Is there anyone you recommend for a reconnaissance mission, Doc?"

Once more, you were sitting on the chopper. Soap had to sit this out, as his stitches still hadn't quite healed up from the emergency surgery. So there was one more spot open for you to join, and you had opted for Prices choice of your squad.

Sadie 'Trip' Thomason. She had been lovingly given the callsign Trip because of her first attempt at running a course. She ate complete shit, and continued to somehow trip every single course. Even ones that were on level ground.

You loved the kid, but she was a klutz. So you joined on the mission, nor wanting her to be alone for her first one. She wasn't much different from you.

As the chopper landed, you were surprised by the fact you weren't taking fire. They had decided to use a shit ton of people for this mission, so whoever they were rescuing was important. Yourself, Trip, and another squad leader and one of their people had joined.

Enough medics to perform a surgery.

You and Trip stayed behind, prepping an area for emergency medical attention. It was mostly because you were pregnant, but you were one of the most skilled medics they'd had.

"Hey Doc, you wanna know something?" Gaz called through the coms. You hummed in response, moving quickly through the chopper. "My boyfriend left me because I was too mysterious. Or did he?" You snorted at that, feeling your chest tighten just a little.

You knew of Simons whole dark and dad joke schtick. You never really got to hear it, but he sometimes said them to you. During lunches and dinners with you. Before everything fucked up.

"Did the lieutenant rub off on you, Gaz?" You'd asked back and he made a little jab at you, snickering about how dirty it sounded. God, you'd hit him if you could.

Trip had nudged you, wiggling her eyebrows at you at that.

"You and the lieutenant have something going on, then?" You rolled your eyes, trying to bite back the tears that were trying to force themselves from your eyes.

Looking over at her, you gave a little smile. "He's my mate," she gave a little gasp, nudging you even more. You shook your head. "He's assumed KIA, though," you whispered, glancing out to the dark tree line. You were wondering who it was that took this much manpower to bring home.

There wasn't a shot in hell you were going to get your hopes up and think it was Simon. No chance. In the time you'd been thinking, Trip had finished off prepping for quick medical attention and you'd come back to.

You started to prep for possible surgery when gunshots began echoing around you. "Prep the chopper for liftoff!" Gaz shouted through the coms and you checked the pilot to make sure he'd heard but watched as he began pressing buttons.

The ground quaked under you as it began preparing to lift, your supplies starting to shake and nearly fly off. Trip fell trying to save items and you had to shout at her to leave them over the chopper blades.

"But we need them!" You shook your head, gesturing around you.

"We're about to take off, we have enough backup supplies to replace them! It'll take too long to collect them, they're not too sanitary anymore!" You shouted back, grabbing her vest and strapping her in to the helicopter. "Do not fall!" You shouted, tugging on the rope keeping her set.

She nodded and began to try and reset the area, only bringing out the items that could be held down or were heavy enough to hold themselves down. Glancing out, you could see figured running towards the chopper, one thrashing around.

"We've got a feral Alpha, Doc! We need to sedate him!" You watched as four people dragged the Alpha closer, hear the snarls he was letting out. Leather. Tobacco, heavy musk and sweat. Your heart started pounding harder and harder, vision tunneling.

Shaking your head, you stumbled back into the chopper. "You can't sedate a feral Alpha," you whispered into the coms, watching as the man you called your Mate tried to fight off the men dragging him onto the chopper.

They'd found rope and tied his arms together. All you could do was stare, see the man you loved brought down into ferality. It was different than a feral rut, the amount of androstenone filling him was lethal. His body was in a state of fight or flight, so there was no chance it could turn into a rut.

He was fighting.

With one step forward he snarled at you, eyes blown black from his pupils. His scent was different, just barely, but you couldn't work on him in this condition. You could feel yourself panicking, staring at Simon but not quite Simon. Gaz came around, tugging you away from the man lying tied on the floor of the chopper.

"Talk me through it," he whispered. "Why's he feral?" You blinked up at Gaz, swallowing as your mind reeled.

Looking to the side, you could see Trip sneaking glances at you. "Androstenone," you whispered. "He's got too much of it in him, but he's in fight or flight so instead of being in a feral rut, he's just feral," you whispered.

"And how do we help him?"

"I don't know," you whispered.

Back on base, Price had found you. You didn't even want to look at him, not with how he'd lied about what the mission was. It wasn't just a reconnaissance mission, you were quite literally sent to rescue your mate.

He was put in a high secure containment cell. He was literally knocked out to be checked out, a few different medics and highly esteemed surgeons being called in to do emergency surgeries. Emergency blood transfusions. It seemed like everyone on base was trying to help, offering their blood to the man.

All you could do was sit in his room, playing with the dog tags that you'd put around your neck some months ago. Between the time they'd rescued Simon from the time your test had been, it was around two months.

God, you were two months along with his pup and he didn't even know it. Would he recognize you? Your scent? Or had it changed with the new hormones that had flooded your body.

You were terrified, wanting nothing more than to have Simon in your nest, hold him close and never let him leave again. But that's not how the real world worked and you had to get back to work.

The next few days you were extremely distracted. "I asked for more pain meds," one of the patients told you.

"No, you didn't," you said and they looked at you lost. You blinked slowly, trying to process what they'd actually said. Can I get more pain meds? "Sorry," you whispered and turned around, calling for one of your trainees and having them give him for pain meds.

It continued like that for a while. You answered phone calls from people just asking some basic questions about whether they should or should not come in to the center for. Sometimes you'd hung up on people instead of putting them on hold, sometimes you just said words that combined and had to repeat yourself three times.

There was a sudden influx of people for a short while, and each of them had been clawed or bitten by something. Someone?

It took a little while, but Price had eventually found you. "Lot of people being attacked, huh?" You blinked at him.

"What's happening?"

"They're trying to figure out how to bring Simon out of the feral mindset he's in," he whispered, looking away. You looked at him, not being able to say anything. "We need your help,"

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