#repeating what i said in the prescription: i was half conscious recording this and it is unscripted and also i don't care

[megabuild]

here's my take on the political alignments of 3rd life characters (c! only i don't care)

[gotham-ruaidh]

Little Bit Better Than I Used To Be

This story takes place during the summer of 1987. It’s the time of the Cold War, and heavy metal, and Just Say No.

Ten chapters, each with a specific song as its soundtrack.

I’m so excited to finally share it with you.

Catch up: Chapter 1 (Starry Eyes) || Chapter 2 (Save Our Souls) || Also posted at AO3

—-

Chapter 3: Dancing On Glass

I've been through hell // And I'm never goin' back // To dancing on glass // Going way too fast...

Need one more rush // Then I know, I know I'll stop // One extra push // Last trip to the top...

Soundtrack: “Dancing On Glass,” Mötley Crüe, 1987 [click here to listen]

Three P.M.

Group.

Claire’s hands wrapped around the hard sides of the plastic chair, holding herself upright, watching about two dozen fellow patients? inmates? addicts? shuffle into the room.

Two people stood at the door – greeting others as they entered, handing out small packets of tissues and bottles of Coke.

Today’s facilitator – a middle-aged, bearded man – stood to one side, chatting with a few people.

“Hey!”

Claire startled – and turned to her right to see Jamie slide into the chair beside her.

“How’s it going today? Day two, right?”

She nodded. “Met with my therapist this morning.”

“That’s great! Who’ve you got?”

“Gillian.”

Jamie cracked open a bottle. “Oh, she’s great. Been here a long time. She’s married to the director – did you know that?”

Claire’s eyebrows raised. “No, but that’s really interesting.”

Jamie gulped about half the bottle in one shot. “Yeah. We owe everything to them.”

“Yeah, well. I got assigned to dinner set-up duty.”

He beamed. “Great! I’ve been on that rotation for the last few weeks. I’ll show you all the ropes.”

“Few weeks? How long have you been here, if you don’t mind me asking?”

He set down his Coke. “I don’t. And I’ve been here eight weeks. The best eight weeks of my fucked-up life.”

“Don’t say that,” she chided. “Surely everything can’t be so terrible.”

He stared at her for a long moment.

“It can be, if you were the reason why a sold-out European tour couldn’t happen, and it cost your backers and buddies tens of millions of dollars, and it pissed off countless thousands of fans.”

Now the greeters took their seats within the circle.

“Couldn’t, or didn’t?” Claire hoped her words were gentle, but when her head split with pain like this she could never tell. “And what do you mean by ‘tour’?”

His eyes narrowed. “Couldn’t. My manager said I’d come back from Europe in a body bag. He’s a bloodsucker but he had enough sense to not kill the golden goose.” He finished his Coke in one long gulp – flexing the tattoos swirling on his forearm and elbow. “And I’m a professional musician – in case you couldn’t guess from the way I look.”

“I see.”

He grinned. “How about that – someone who doesn’t recognize me.”

She folded her hands in her lap, closing her eyes against the pain, so desperately wanting to disappear. “I guess between medical school, and being a surgeon, and my ex-husband…and the pills…there are a lot of things I haven’t paid attention to.”

“Hey.” Softly he reached out to touch her knee – and she looked up at him.

“I’m not making fun of you, Claire. It’s just…I don’t know. Refreshing.”

She smiled tightly.

The facilitator clapped his hands. “Everyone – are we ready?”

People around the circle nodded, and the man sat down in the last empty chair.

“Great. Well, hi everyone. For those of you who don’t know me – I’m Murtagh. Been clean for just about eleven years now. Before that I spent a small fortune that I didn’t have – ”

“ – on enough blow to kill an elephant,” Jamie and several others chorused.

Murtagh smiled. “Wiseasses. Now – today’s topic is: clarity.”

“Can you be more specific?” A heavyset, bearded man across the circle piped up.

“You mean – provide more clarity?” Geneva snickered from somewhere near Jamie.

“Easy,” Murtagh interjected. “And yes, Rupert, of course. What I mean is: something I hear a lot from people here is that being away from substances gives them clarity for the first time in years. Clarity of thoughts – meaning, you’re logical and rational. Clarity of judgment – meaning, you feel like you are empowered to make good decisions. And overall, clarity to step away from all the bullshit that the substances made you do, or made it easier for you to do, and say – damn, what the hell was I doing?”

Across the circle, Rupert nodded. “OK. Oh – hi everyone, I’m Rupert, and I’m an alcoholic. Yeah – I can definitely relate. I wanted to not have clarity, so that I didn’t have to think about how much I was screwing up my job, and my marriage.”

“Good,” Murtagh praised. “And now that you can’t avoid it – how do you feel?”

Rupert stroked his thick beard. “Like shit. I love Scarlet so much, and I fucked it all up. I understand that now.”

“I feel the same way,” Jamie added. “Hi, I'm Jamie, and I'm an alcoholic, too. I drank because I’ve always felt so responsible for everything going on in my band – because I’m the guy that brought us together, and I’m the guy who writes the songs, and I’m the guy who’s across the table from the record company executives, advocating on our behalf.” He bounced a long, thin, jean-clad leg rapidly up and down. “I felt like I was being used, and that I was the only one who cared. I felt that really clearly. So I drank to…to avoid that clarity.”

Claire carefully watched the others around the circle. What Jamie was sharing could make any one of them a quick buck – all it would take was one phone call to a tabloid. But everyone was listening raptly – clearly thinking about parallels in their own lives – and it began to dawn on her that Jamie had one thing she didn’t have much of for herself: respect.

“And then when I drank, I’d just get really mean,” he continued. “I’d say things to rile up my drummer. I had a fling with my manager’s girlfriend, just to fuck with him. And yeah, I’d destroy hotel rooms.”

“Your reaction was to want to hurt people,” Murtagh said gently. “You had had clarity – clarity that you were shouldering too much, for too many people – and you reacted by wanting to push them away.”

“Yeah.” Claire spoke without thinking. “Um – hi everyone, I’m Claire, and I’m addicted to pills. Halcions, mostly.”

“Oh, those are the best,” a woman to Claire’s left remarked.

“Hey – no positive talk,” Murtagh interjected. “You know better than that, Letitia.”

Letitia huffed.

Murtagh turned back to face Claire. “Tell us more, Claire, if you’re comfortable?”

Now that she’d started, she couldn’t stop. “I was – am – a trauma surgeon for an emergency room. I love it – I love the adrenaline of it, and of course being able to help people on the worst day of their lives. I love being able to heal people. But…but it’s pretty heavy stuff. People die, no matter how hard you try to save them. People wake up and they’re not happy that they don’t have a leg anymore – and I say, would you rather be dead?”

“And you wanted to get away from that?” Jamie asked gently.

She closed her eyes. “I had to have clarity to do my job properly – it’s hard to describe, but it’s like having a laser focus on what’s in front of you. Getting in the zone. Shutting out everything else. And then when it’s all done – I would crash. The whole world would come rushing back, and I’d be covered in someone else’s blood and barely able to sit down before I had to work on the next person. That was so, so hard to deal with.”

“I understand.” Claire opened her eyes – it was an older man speaking right next to Jamie. “Hi everyone – I’m Ned, I’m a lawyer and crack addict, and there are a lot of jokes I’m sure you could make based on that.”

Claire managed a small smile.

“I’m a defense attorney – I’m that guy you see on TV arguing in a courtroom and presenting to a jury. I totally get what Claire said, because I needed to have that kind of really focused clarity, too. It was kind of like acting – I had to remember my argument, and I had to present it to the jury, and I had to pick up on cues from them to see how well I was doing. And then afterward I’d just crash. But I still had to have energy to prep for the next day, and that’s where Miss Crack came in.”

“So what I’m hearing is that clarity is something you already had – and then you turn to substances to get away from it.” Murtagh folded his arms. “Because it’s hard to flip that ‘off’ switch. And then eventually, the substances change from being something to take a vacation from that clarity, to completely blocking out that clarity altogether.”

“Exactly.” It was easier for Claire to focus on Murtagh than the sea of faces surrounding her. “And it’s a deliberate choice. I’m sure, Ned and Rupert and Jamie, that you deliberately sought out something to prevent that clarity. I know I did – I wrote the prescriptions for the pills that I consumed.”

Rupert nodded. “The bottle didn’t pick itself up and pour the liquor down my throat. And you’re right, Claire – at first, at least, it was a conscious decision. Until it became something I had to depend on.”

“I think that there are ways for this to happen more positively.” A woman seated beside Rupert quietly spoke. “Oh – hi, everyone, I’m Marsali, and I’m an alcoholic. What I mean is, there are ways to flip that ‘off’ switch that aren’t so…destructive. You can go for a run. Listen to music. Cook a meal. Watch a movie. Make love to your significant other.”

Murtagh nodded. “Marsali brings up a good point here. I’ll repeat something that I’ve already told many of you before, because it bears repeating. Substance addiction is addiction, first and foremost. All of us are here because our brains are hard-wired for addiction. We can’t change that. But we can change what it is that we’re addicted to.”

“Like what?” Letitia had calmed down a bit, but clearly she was skeptical.

“Whatever works for you,” Murtagh shrugged. “Jiu Jitsu. Flower Arranging. Reading. Playing the drums. Writing. Riding motorcycles. Not all addictions are bad – we just need to find the addictions that help us, and don’t hurt us or the people around us.”

Everyone’s heads nodded in agreement, quietly reflecting.

“So – that’s my homework assignment for all of you.” Murtagh pulled a small spiral notebook from his pocket, flipped to a fresh page, and began scribbling in it. “To think about the thing that you can become positively addicted to. Something you already enjoy, or something you’ve never done before. But I hope that even just thinking about it will give you focus. Improve your clarity.”

“Got it,” Ned said quietly.

Murtagh flipped back to an earlier page in his notebook. “Now – I have here my notes from the last time I facilitated Group. OK if I start going around and asking people for follow-up thoughts to those? Rupert?”

Rupert nodded, and began to speak.

“Facilitators take turns hosting Group every fourth day.” Claire started a bit, but held steady as Jamie leaned in close, spoke quietly into her ear. “We talk about things, and we’re assigned homework, and then the next time the facilitator is back we talk about it.”

“Thanks,” Claire murmured.

Jamie didn’t pull away. “If you ever just want to talk…”

She swallowed. “Thanks. I do. I just – it’s a lot to process.”

“It is. But you’ll get there. Talk more at our dinner prep.”

With that he pulled back, and a low buzz settled somewhere between Claire’s ears as the people around her chimed in to the conversation.

[cripthevoteuk-blog]

Disabled in Theresa May’s Britain #35: Alex [CW: suicide]

From Cardiff

I am a Canadian who moved to Cardiff for a job. I was diagnosed several years ago with primary hypersomnolence, a rare neurological sleep disorder that means when I am not medicated, I often end up sleeping 16, 18 or even 20 hours at a time. When I received my job offer, I had been taking modafinil for my condition for about a year. Thankfully, even though modafinil prescriptions are usually only provided a month at a time because it is a restricted class medication, my sleep doctor in Canada gave me a 3 month supply just before I left, to tide me over until I could get a new prescription in the UK. Little did I know that I would not receive another prescription until six months after I had arrived in the country, and that it would be another two months before I received a prescription at the right dose. 

I registered with a GP surgery during my first week in the UK and made an appointment as soon as I was on their patient roster. I informed them about my health condition, said that I was taking modafinil, and mentioned that I was starting to experience some side effects and would like to explore other treatment options, but wasn't sure how best to go about this. My GP said she would look into it. I never heard anything back. About six weeks later, I made another appointment with my GP to remind them that I needed to be referred to someone who could treat my sleep disorder. The GP I saw that day told me there was no such doctor in Wales. (I later found out this was not true.) I asked her what my options were then. She repeated that there are no sleep doctors in Wales. I asked if the GP surgery would be willing to provide me a refill for my modafinil if I had my sleep specialist in Canada fax them a letter. She said no. I asked if I could be referred anywhere else in the UK then. She told me that is not permitted (I later found out this is not true). I asked whether I would need to see a doctor privately, and how I could do this. She ignored me, and said she'd have to refer me to a psychiatrist because they're the ones who deal with the kinds of medications that are used to treat my condition. I went home and waited for my referral to go through. 

About three weeks later, I got a letter in the post with an appointment for a phone consultation the following week. I stayed home from work that morning to take the phone call. The woman on the phone asked what my concern was and I told her that I had a diagnosed neurological sleep disorder and was in need of someone who could treat me - or at least refill my modafinil prescription, as my supply of medication was by now running very low and I was rationing it to every other day, which was making it difficult to perform at work. She told me they couldn't do that. She was actually calling from the Access and Assessment and Brief Intervention team from mental health services. 

The psychiatrist to whom I'd been referred had taken one look at my file, and concluded that it had nothing to do with his practice, but decided that since I had a history of depression he may as well refer me to an intervention team. After I assured the woman that I was in need of neurological treatment, not psychiatric intervention, she told me I should make an appointment with my GP and request a neurology referral. I rang my GP surgery immediately and requested an appointment later that day but they told me only urgent appointments were available. When I told them that I was in urgent need of a correct referral to obtain the medication that keeps me conscious, they told me that did not qualify as urgent. 

I rang them at 8am the following morning and thankfully got in to see the doctor that day. It was the same doctor who had given me the psychiatry referral. I told her what the woman on the phone had said to me, and requested a neurology referral. She told me there was no way a neurologist would prescribe me modafinil but when I insisted she rolled her eyes and said she'd see what she could do. I waited another four weeks and heard nothing. By that point I was restricting my modafinil to two days a week, and resorting to working from home quite a lot because it enabled me to nap when I needed and work odd hours whenever I happened to be awake. With four weeks passed, I rang the referral department at the hospital to find out what was going on. They informed me that my GP had provided a 'standard' rather than an urgent referral, so my wait time for an appointment would be approximately one year. I rang my GP and said I wanted to speak with her. I was told she was unavailable but that she would call me back later in the day. I did not hear back. 

The next day I called again and was told by the receptionist that the reason I had received a standard referral is because "urgent referrals are only for suspected brain tumours." I asked if they understood that I had a two week supply left of the medication that keeps me conscious, and that without it I was unable to work or to function since I was, well, unconscious. They told me that didn't qualify as urgent. 

The next day I made an appointment and was seen by a different doctor at the same surgery. She repeated that urgent referrals are only for suspected brain tumours, but said that she could request an 'expedited referral', which would happen at the discretion of the neurologist. I asked her to please do that. 

Five months after arriving in the UK, I completely ran out of my medication. I went AWOL from work for a week because I wasn't aware enough to realise I should probably ring them to let them know what was happening. I couldn't make it out to go grocery shopping and I couldn't be sure I'd stay awake long enough for food delivery to arrive, so for a week I subsisted off of a block of marzipan I had in my cupboard. When I finally woke up a bit toward the end of the week, I rang my mum in tears and thankfully, she offered to fly to the UK to help me. I called my GP and told them I hadn't eaten or bathed in a week and apparently that was enough to qualify me for an urgent appointment there. 

The doctor I saw that day told me that I'd just have to wait for my neurology appointment (fortunately, I'd finally received one, that was to take place two weeks from then). He wrote me a sick note to cover me for a month of absence from work. Two weeks later I had my appointment with the neurologist. When I told him I'd been experiencing cognitive deficits related to my condition, that it was impacting my ability to work, and that I was concerned, he replied "you sound fine right now; I'm not worried." When I mentioned that the modafinil had been causing some side effects and asked about the possibility of switching to another of the meds commonly used to treat primary hypersomnolence, he refused. When I asked why, he said "I won't prescribe those for hypersomnolence." I later learned this was likely because they are second-line medications and the way they are budgeted for means that doctors are discouraged from prescribing them. He said that the best he could do was prescribe me my modafinil at a quarter of the dose I'd been taking, and that hopefully that would mitigate the side effects. (It did not. It did however mitigate the actual useful effects of the drug. However, it would be awhile until I even received that prescription.) 

A week after my appointment with the neurologist, I'd still heard nothing from his office or from my GP. I rang my GP and they said they'd heard nothing from the neurologist and could do nothing until they did. I rang the neurologist's office and his administrator informed me that he hadn't yet prepared the recommendation letter, but that he’d had an accident and would be off work indefinitely. When I asked what this meant for me receiving my prescription, she repeated that he'd be out of the office indefinitely. I rang my GP back and they said they would ring the neurologist's office to see if they could fax his notes from my appointment to my GP. The next day I rang the GP again; they'd left a message with the neurologist's office but hadn't heard anything back. The next day I rang again; they’d still heard nothing from his office. This began a two week period where I and my mother rang the neurologist's office multiple times per day and never heard anything back. A week in, the receptionist changed the outgoing message on the voicemail to request that patients not leave multiple messages. 

Two weeks in, my mum went to the neurologist's office and refused to leave until they faxed my records to the GP and rang the GP to confirm they had received them. It took my mum two and a half hours to convince the receptionist to do this. It took five minutes for the fax and the phone call. The next day, I finally had my modafinil again, though at such a low dose I was still having to ration it, and was only able to return to work part-time. 

My parents ultimately supported me to see a sleep specialist in London who prescribed me modafinil at the correct dose, enabling me to return to work full-time after three months of absence and one month of part-time. During that four months, I was suicidal. I was terrified of losing my job. I was terrified by the resurgence of my symptoms. I wasn't able to do basic things like buy or make food, or shower. I was terrified by how utterly powerless I was in this situation. I was terrified and angered by how little anyone seemed to be interested in helping me. I don't know what would have happened if my mother hadn't been able to come over, care for me, and fight for me. I am incredibly privileged that my parents were able and willing to support me through this - though it's worth noting they have now had to delay their planned retirement by several years because of the cost of mum taking several months off work, flying over and caring for me, and paying to see a private specialist. I felt incredibly alone whilst experiencing this, but as I have become more familiar with the experiences of other disabled people dealing with the bureaucracy of a severely underfunded, devolved NHS, I am realising what I experienced is quite standard. We hear a lot about how they are trying to kill us off by denying benefits, but the dismantling of the NHS is the second major battlefront of this regime's war on the disabled. They are denying us healthcare so that we will disappear.