#vocal cord dysfunction

[queertransetc]

Shout out to people with breathing related disabilities because this shit sucks

People who need inhalers and nebulizers. People who use ox tanks. People who can’t stand or walk too much because it makes breathing harder. People who have given up important parts of their life because of their breathing issues. People who need assistance and caregivers. Especially huge shoutout to people whose breathing problems don’t have any treatments and/or are getting worse with time

In my experience, we are often left out of the disabled community, either implicitly or explicitly. Needing assistance with chores and errands is so common for disabled people yet when it’s a lung or airway issue that causes us to need that assistance, we’re left out of the convo. Conditions like cystic fibrosis, COPD, lung cancer, VCD, asthma, anaphylaxis, and more can all be seriously disabling. We deserve a voice

Anyways, big hugs for people with breathing issues that want one. We deserve more love <3

[chronically-aware]

People often ask, "On a scale from 0 to 10, how bad is the pain? 0 is no pain, 10 is the worst pain you've ever felt."

But when you have chronic pain, your "0", your base line, it's usually around 3 or 4. Personally, my base line is 5.

The thing with numbers is everyone has a diffent thought process on how they decide what number they are, because everyone has experienced diffrent levels of pain, so I made this scale to show people how mine works.

If 10 is the worst pain I've ever felt, well then, it will change every time I feel new pains that are the worst, so I put a set in place description for each number instead. If I'm at a 10, I'm in the emergency room.

I don't say 10, though. Even when I'm in the emergency room, I won't say 10, because I've been conditioned not to, because there will always be worse pain, and if I can tell someone I'm at a 10 then is it really a 10?

It's an ableist way of thinking. I know that, and I discourage others from thinking that way, but it's hard when it's yourself.

So here I am, encouraging you to be kind to yourself and use the pain scale above to show others who won't listen. Your pain is valid, and you should have a way to describe how much pain you're in, so here you go.

[lost-spoons]

So I'm on Zoom, with the nurse to get checked in, and they said, "I can't hear you," so I sent a message in chat, "I can't talk"

"Why?"

"VCD"

And then we go on with the usual questions in the Zoom chat box. During this, the nurse turns their screen to the side a bit and asks, while bearly moving their mouth, "What is this?"

"VCD? Vocal cord disorder" the other nurse who isn't in screen answer

The two nurses then have a vocal conversation. The one in screen bearly moving their mouth, while I'm there answers texts in chat as if I couldn't hear them.

Once again, if I can't talk, I obviously can't hear :D

Anyways- Did you know that changing your clothes is good for sensory input? If you stay in the same clothes for too long then your nervous system will think it's just not focusing on the sensory input and will focus more so it can feel the change in input- which can cause an increase in pain

[doctor-disc0]

Me every single day:

[weirdstrangeandawful]

To all vocalists/singers, trans people, people in speech therapy, people in kink, people in abusive relationships, people trying to untrain accents, people with swallowing difficulties:

Vocal cords are ligaments...

(no, you don't get the context in which I made this because it's so widely applicable that y'all don't even deserve the opportunity to judge or not judge)

[firstfelltofawn]

someone i barely know just reached out to tell me an article they read about rfk's voice disorder made them think of me and that they know of a narcolepsy medication that might help. i told them i didn't want to go through the pain of getting my throat scoped a second time so i don't know what specific form of dysphonia i have. now i'm going to crawl under the bed and die.

[dahliaduvide]

It's been longer than the summer, but I did spend all summer wanting my voice back and wondering why the hell it had disappeared in the first place. After 3 doctors, tests at 2 different hospitals, and 1 very awesome speech therapist I discovered it was...

Vocal Cord Dysfunction.

And tbh, it floored me. I've never had trouble talking! I talk loud and often! I talk to animals and inanimate objects and myself. Out loud! I also sing quite a bit throughout the day. Of course I hadn't been able to sing since last March, and my voice was getting hoarser and hoarser. There was a bit where it seemed like it was asthma, but the inhaler did nothing when I had a truly awful attack. I needed my partner's mom to tell me I was ok and calm me down.

PRO TIP: If your issue is breathing out, it's your lungs. If your issue is breathing in, it's your vocal cords and you can manage it with breathing exercises once you understand it.

I'm in such a habit of breathing with my chest that I am still doing daily breathing exercises, preparation breaths, and the occasional rescue breath just doing regular life things!

But I can sing again!

So you experience some or all of these symptoms go talk to a doc! You may have to advocate for yourself, especially if you're not a cis male, but it's worth it!

Hoarseness, trouble breathing, specifically trouble breathing in, post-nasal drip, acid reflux, nausea, vomiting, too much phlegm, disliking tight things around your neck, tight belts around your stomach, tight throat, lump in your throat, trouble swallowing, frequent cough/throat clearing, high pitched wheeze on inhale.

You may have been diagnosed with asthma, panic attacks, anxiety disorder, PTSD, or some other obstructive pulmonary issue. VCD is easier and less invasive to deal with than any of those things, and the tools you use for VCD can help with the symptoms of all the other things it could be.

Your voice is you, in so many ways. Losing it is scary. Feeling like you can't breath is scary, whether you're actually in danger of suffocating or not. In the past, VCD wasn't even recognized as a medical issue. Since it occurs most often in women, it was thought to simply be an aspect of hysteria.

Don't let the patriarchy steal your voice and make you blame yourself for it, reach out, get help. You deserve it.

ngl this is so me

[spoonful116]

What is Vocal Cord Dysfunction and what does it look like?

[solarmorrigan]

just looked up corn mold because of your tags on your last post and it’s called corn smut???? what????

I DIDN'T KNOW THIS, EITHER??

Honestly I was just told by an allergist years ago that mold spores get kicked up when they harvest the corn and being that I am allergic to mold this makes my life more difficult (bothers a lot of people, actually)

ANYWAY. CORN SMUT. THE MORE YOU KNOW

[aspendruid]

I love learning about new eds comorbitities and being like ohhhh that's what that is

[bastardizedbitching]

man i love my throat burning from having the audacity to take my dog out to use the bathroom for a whopping 2 minutes

[chronically-aware]

Hello! I'm Jade, and this is my page dedicated to awareness about Ehlers-Danlos-Syndrome, Vocal-Cord-Dysfunction, Migraines, and Postural-Orthostatic-Tachycardia-Syndrome. These are all conditions I have, hence why the page is called 'Personal-Awareness'. I hope this page ends up being helpful to others with the same conditions. I'll be do a deep dive into these conditions, both to inform myself about what's going on with these conditions and how they work and to inform others.

[lost-spoons]

Every time I go to acupuncture, the same nurse checks me in and does all my blood pressure, heart rate, oxygen checks, so they know I can't talk but can hear and talk to me the whole time about whatever they have to say for medical purposes or just asking about my day or telling me about theirs.

Today however, I was checked in by a new nurse. She talked at first, but then I signed that I couldn't speak, just so she knows I wasn't ignoring her when I don't answer. The signs were quite obvious as to what I'm saying, by the way. So after I tell her i can't talk, she gets quite as she goes through the checks, and I realize my mistake. So I stop the nurse and grab her attention with a wave of my hand and point to my ear then both signed yes and nodded my head, then pointed to my mouth and shook my head.

She was a bit flustered at that fumble in communications but recovered well and we both had a laugh about it. The nurse cares on with her tasks, talking this time, and we have a conversation about her tattoo, because they were beautiful.

[doctor-disc0]

I have vocal cord dysfunction. I look up vocal cord dysfunction exercises because I can't breathe. All of them start with something like "breathe in your through your nose" and I'm like bruh

[yunaversalluv]

⋆.˚ ★— Focus Pull

ᴀ ɪɴᴅɪᴇ ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄɪᴀɴ!ᴇʟʟɪᴇ x ᴄᴏɴᴄᴇʀɴᴛ ᴘʜᴏᴛᴏɢʀᴀᴘʜᴇʀ!ꜰᴇᴍ! ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

⋆.˚ ★— Focus Pull m.list

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ꜱʏɴᴏᴘꜱɪꜱ `౨ৎ~

What starts as another routine gig behind the camera turns into something electric. One photo. One look. And suddenly, nothing feels ordinary anymore.

cw for this chapter// mild language, alcohol references, sensual/intense gaze, emotional intensity, brief implied violence/grunge imagery

taglist - @miajooz @talyaisvalslutsoldier @lesoulew @elliespotion @valeisaslut @mariesmagix

CHAPTER ONE - THROUGH THE LENSE

The green room isn’t green. 

It’s beige in a tired, industrial way, with mismatched chairs and a futon that looks like it’s seen war. A string of dead fairy lights droops from the ceiling. Someone left half a burrito on the amp case in the corner, and it’s been there long enough to look philosophical about it. You’ve been to worse places.

You’re early — earlier than usual — half-hoping to catch some candids of the band before they hit the stage. The kind of shots that feel more like moments than marketing. Sweatshirts slung over shoulders. Smudged eyeliner. Fingers dancing across strings like nervous habits. You knock once and step inside.

Three heads turn.

Jesse is the first to speak. “You the photo girl?”

“Photographer,” Dina corrects from where she’s sprawled on the futon, boots up on the edge of a milk crate. “God, Jesse, you make it sound like she’s here to do yearbook headshots.”

You raise your hands in a peace gesture. “Photo girl works. I’ve been called worse.”

Jesse laughs, friendly, already leaning back in his chair with an energy that says he’s been in a thousand of these rooms and somehow made peace with all of them. “I’m Jesse. Drums. The adult supervision.”

Dina snorts. “You once tried to mic a floor tom with a karaoke mic you found in the parking lot.”

“Resourcefulness is a virtue.”

She extends a hand toward you. Rings. Black nail polish chipped to hell. “Dina. Bassist. Co-leader of this circus.”

You shake her hand, and your camera strap swings forward. Jesse eyes it.

“Digital?” he asks, pretending to be disappointed.

“Film on weekends,” you reply.

“Respect.”

And then there’s a pause. A hitch in the rhythm.

Ellie’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, tuning a battered guitar that looks like it’s held together by tape, history, and spite. She hasn’t said a word. Just flicks her gaze up toward you — brief, impassive — then back to the strings.

You’re about to introduce yourself when Dina gestures vaguely at her.

“That’s Ellie.”

Ellie doesn’t look up. “Vocals, guitar, grump,” Dina adds helpfully.

“Cool,” you say, unsure if you're supposed to say more.

“She’s not being rude,” Jesse says, drumming his fingers on the edge of a case. “She’s just in pre-show mode. She gets quiet. Wound tight like a snare.”

“She’ll talk once we’re two songs deep,” Dina mutters. “Or once she forgets you’re new.”

Ellie glances up at that. Her eyes meet yours, fleeting but sharp — and something clicks there, not recognition exactly, but curiosity that cuts a little too close to the bone.

She nods, just once, then goes back to her guitar.

You hover near the edge of the room, uncertain if you’re intruding or observing, until Jesse kicks a stool toward you with his boot.

“You here for the whole set?” he asks.

You nod. “Zine sent me. Said you were good.”

“We are,” Dina says without a shred of irony, cracking open a can of something neon and carbonated. “At least when the mics work and Ellie doesn’t blow her voice screaming on the first chorus.”

Ellie, still looking down, mutters, “Maybe if someone would stop trying to play harmonies off key.”

“One time!” Dina groans.

Jesse just shakes his head, amused. “Don’t let them scare you off. We’re barely dysfunctional.”

You smile and settle in, camera resting in your lap. The band goes back to their routine — adjusting straps, double-checking cords, bantering with the tired ease of people who’ve seen each other at their best and worst and still show up.

You lift the lens once — just a test shot of the space, the light, the tension in the air.

Ellie doesn’t look up.

But her fingers still for a second.

Just long enough to make you wonder if she felt the shutter click — or if she’s just always listening that closely.

The venue is  a mess — the kind of mess that wears its history like a badge of honor. There were peeling posters clinging to the walls in half-torn layers, each one a ghost of a night long gone: punk shows, underground rap battles, someone’s embarrassing, regrettable birthday gig. They stack like tree rings, proof that time has passed and no one’s bothered to clean it up. The floor was slightly stuck in places, and stained in others. The smile of warm beer, spilled whiskey, old wood, and something metallic — sweat, maybe. Or blood. Or the memory of both fill the air.

The stage isn’t a stage, not really.

Just a platform — barely a foot off the ground  — edged with duct tape and scuffer where amps have been dragged across one too many times. A few sad lights are packed in tight, shoulder to shoulder, everybody humming with the kind of restless tension that had-conversation, half-anticipation  — rising like steam in the humid air.

This is currently your third local show this week. Same kind of venue. Same kind of crowd.

You didn’t really expect anything different tonight. The zine gave you the name of the band — Violet Thorns — and a promise of gas money. 

No bio. No soundcheck. No idea what kind of music they even play. Y

You’re only here for the paycheck and the byline. Get a few wide shots. Some gritty close-ups. Maybe a backstage candid or two. Only if they’re feeling generous. Then home to edit until your eyes blur and your coffee goes cold.

You’re adjusting your gear in the corner when the band walks on, casual and barely noticed — just shapes and moving through haze. But then she appears.

Ellie

She steps into the low light like it owes her its life. Not strutting. Not shy. Just there. Present in a way most people aren’t. Like she's been dropped into the room from a height and hasn’t quite landed yet.

She’s dressed like she didn’t try, which means she absolutely did — loose gray tee hanging just right, clinging to the sharp angles of her shoulders. Worn black jeans, frayed at the knees, snug at the hips. Guitar slung low on a battered and old strap, body of it dulled with use. Her hair’s pulled back in a messy half-knot, strands escaping to curl against her cheek and the nape of her neck.

You can already tell they’ll be soaked through with sweat before the second song.

Behind her, Jesse’s fiddling with his kit, tapping each snare and cymbal like he’s having a conversation with them. “Tell me you tuned this thing for real this time,” he mutters to no one in particular, voice half-lost in the reverb of the room.

“Relax, Jess,” Dina says from across the stage, her bass slung low, a patchwork of duct tape and sticker scars covering its body. She’s already chewing gum, rolling it between her teeth like she’s bored, “It’s not your precious open mic night. No one’s here to judge your rim shots.”

Jesse snorts, spinning a stick in his hand. “I’m just saying. Some of us care about tone.”

Ellie just huffs a laugh — the kinda that’s more breath than sound — and crutches to check her pedals. “You two done flirting or should we wait until the second set?”

“Don’t be jealous,” Dina throws back, smirking. “You’ll get your turn.”

You catch it. The exchange. The ease. The way they move around each other like this isn’t a stage but a living room they’ve rehearsed in a hundred times. Ellie doesn’t talk much, but when Jesse gives a lazy four-count with his sticks, she steps to the mic like she’s done it in her sleep.

The light hits her unevenly — a harsh red from the side, a gold hue from behind, and a single white strobe that flickers across her jaw like lightning.

The effect is strange. Disjointed. She looks like someone caught between scenes: half-dream, half-warning.

She doesn’t say much before they start. Just a glance toward the mic, a shift of weight, one sharp breath pulled into her ribs like she’s bracing for impact.

Then sound.

It starts with the guitar — distorted, tense, like a fight you can’t look away from. The first chords cut through the room like they’re trying to slice it open. Her voice follows, rough, and raw, imperfect in the best way. There’s no polish. No filter. Just this unvarnished ache in ever note, like shes trying to claw something out from under her skin and throw it at the crowd.

She doesn’t perform so much as bleed.

And everyone watches.

But she doesn’t watch them.

She doesn’t need to.

You’re shooting on instinct now, moving through the space like you’ve done a hundred times before. The lighting’s unpredictable, ISO climbing too high, shutter struggling to catch the motion. You frame wide. Pull in close. Try to get something usable through the chaos. You’re focusing on the mechanics, not the meaning.

Until she steps forward.

It's not much. Just a half-step. But it’s more than enough. Her fingers tighten around the mic stand like it’s the only thing tethering her to this world, and when the chorus crests — sound crashing into a wave of desperate melody — she lifts her gaze.

And stares straight down the lens.

You freeze.

The crowd, the noise, the movement — all of it falls away in that one second. 

Her expression doesn’t shift. She’s not smiling. Not posing. Her jaw is tight, a muscle jumping just under the skin. There’s sweat shining at her temple, catching in the collar of her shirt. But her eyes — god her eyes — are locked on yours. And there’s something in them that burns.

Not anger.

Not exactly

Intensity. Recognition, maybe. Or a challenge

You take the shot

Click.

You don’t remember adjusting the focus. Don’t remember breathing. You just know — somehow — that it’s right. The lighting is too harsh, the composition almost accidental, but it doesn’t matter. One half of her face is too harsh, the composition almost accidental, but it doesn’t matter. Her sartre pinned to the glas slike she sees something she wasn’t supposed to find, Like she's seeing you.

And it's not pretty.

But it’s honest.

It’s the kind of photo you don’t take twice.

Later, you retreat to the back of the room, gear slung over your shoulder, adrenaline tapering off into exhaustion. The band crashes into their final chorus, and the crowd moves as one body — sweaty, screaming, vibrating with borrowed emotion.

“Drinks after?” Jesse asks, tossing his sticks into a canvas bag backstage.

“God, no,” Dina gorans, stripping off her bass.”I need to un-peel my jeans and die for like, eight hours.”

“You were off during the bridge,” Ellie says quietly, wiping sweat from the back of her neck.

“I was improvising,” Dina shoots back with a grin. “You’re welcome.”

Ellie just gives a one-shoulder shrug, too tired to argue, but something like a smirk tugs at her lips.

You open your camera. Scroll past the noise.

And there it is.

The shot.

Your stomach flips. Something tightens behind your ribs.

She looks electric.

Unreachable.

Like the camera fell in love and didn’t bother to tell you.

You should delete it. You know that. It feels too raw. Too invasive. Like you caught someone in the middle of a confession they didn’t mean to make. But your fingers hover — hesitate — and instead, you flag it. Mark it for export. Tell yours it's just part of the job.

Another face in your portfolio

@lowlightarchive (you) [photo attached]

📸 Violet Thorns at Saint Monday — one of those sets that hits harder in the dark. 🕷️ #violetthorns #grungeaesthetic #concertphotography #indiescene #shotoncanon

♡ 12.5k 🗨️5.5k 

💬 @cassettepunk

This is giving 90s riot girl energy. Who is she and why do I want her to ruin my life???

💬 @undergrounddaily This is the photo that will be in future music docs about the revival of raw-stage grunge. Bookmark this.

💬 @lesbianpit420 she’s either about to kiss the photographer or kill them, and either way I support her

💬 @sixstringtheory been in the scene for years — haven’t seen a photo hit like this since early Yeah Yeah Yeahs. lightning in a lens.

💬 @ellieislord IS SHE LOOKING AT THE CAMERA LIKE THAT ON PURPOSE?????

💬 @lesbianbandcamp the camera didn’t catch her. it unlocked her.

💬 @mossandmurcury caption this: “I want you to see me, but only how I say.”

💬 @zinebite Need a name. Need a source. Need a fucking interview. Where is the band’s PR?

You don’t know yet that it’s already started.

That the photo will spread like wildfire — viral in a way you’ve never experienced. That people will see what you saw and twist it into a thousand meanings. That Ellie will find it. That she’ll send you a message, hours later, in the deep end of the night.

No greeting.

No context.

Just one question:

“Why were you staring so long?”

[firstfelltofawn]

rosemary slack - password protected

this is my new song about how sometimes your life online feels more real than reality. it’s called password protected. i hope you like it. i have a vocal cord disability that I've had since birth and writing music that allows me to sing and work around the limits of my vocal cords is super cathartic.

the bandaid’s gone the wound’s infected everything’s password protected