#<<<< my mother and my therapist agreed to have me do a test to diagnose me

[this-machine-runs-on-coffee]

I think 20 probably

Don't know why but I think 20

me: *reads over symptoms of autism once again* “see but i don’t get upset over changes in routine, we change the routine all the time and i’m totally okay with it!”

also me since i was a kid: *gets irritated, stressed, angry, aggravated, and depressed for the rest of the day after something is switched to another day* *gets angry, stressed, and depressed, and has a breakdown when i find out we have to cancel plans, even if i didn’t really wanna go to wherever we were planning to go* *gets aggravated and is easily upset and is depressed the whole day after i get to cancel something that i had been planning for but also are relieved that i don’t have to go since i really didn’t want to* *is depressed, angry, irritated, and stressed after we cancel plans that i had zero feelings for up until that point* etc.

[achaiapelides]

Kit's Diary

Chapter 14

Dear Ty,

I did not write you for quite some time, but that's not my fault at all... Lies. It's totally my fault. I forgot where I put this book and spend four weeks trying to find it. Guess where it was? Under Mina's bed. Luckily Mina can't read yet, so she obviously didn't read what I wrote in here.

Apart of searching for this book, there was a lot of stuff happening this weeks.

Firstly, I had to write some exams. English and History went pretty well, Geography and Spanish, too. With German, I had some struggles, but I think it was good enough to pass. Math, though, was a different story. We were learning about something called vectors, but damn that stuff was so confusing. Why are we learning this? Do they think that before I fight a demon, I stand there and calculate, where the demon is coming from? No. I just stab. Also, I totally failed this exam. We don't have the grades yet, but I don't quite think I want to know them. Also, I had to do a test in physics. I just guessed because I didn’t understand shit, but I apparently I guessed right becauseI got an A in that test. I'm not complaining.

In addition to the exams, we also had to hand in our assignment paper from the history project. You remember the books I told you about? Yes. This project. We chose the book about Anne Boleyn. Stupidly, I started reading a bit too late and only had three days to do the whole assignment. I don't have to tell you that I was awake the whole last night, right? Yeah, not making that mistake again. We also didn't get any grade for this yet, and I honestly have no idea if I did good or not. But I think I didn't fail completely. It's still history, not maths. Lol.

Secondly, I did this hypnosis thing I told you about. Tessa was willing to cast that spell and I apparently told her and the therapist all the stuff that my mind pushed away to protect me. The thing is: I still don't remember it, only Tessa and the therapist got to know it. Originally I wanted them to tell me what happened, but after Mrs Sullivan informed me, that any details might make me remember those repressed memories, which can damage my mental health even more and I guess we all don't want that. So, I agreed that they only tell me a short summary of the events I forgot, without any major details. Tessa told me then that I apparently survived several attacks coming from faeries as a child and also several people from the Shadow Market that tried to assault me. Every time, I told them, a mysterious blonde woman saved me, but I didn't describe that woman further and had no idea who it was. Tessa suggested that it might have been my mother. She also told me that there were other violent people in my memories, but didn't want to specify who it was, only that it didn't seem to be their intention to hurt me, but to keep me safe. Maybe she ment my father because he definitely wasn't the gentlest person on earth.

Apart of that, I also got my official ADHD diagnosis. The sheets really helped Mrs Sullivan and the expert, who joined her, to diagnose me. Thank you, too, I guess. Now, I legally can have more time for exams, for example. Not that I need it. I'm usually not too slow. And if you can't math, more time ain't gonna help you either. I also talked to that expert about you a bit, and he said, that it's actually very possible that you have autism. See, I wasn't wrong! He also told me, that, if we are on speaking terms again, I should encourage you, to also get a diagnosis, even if it won't help you much among Shadowhunter, as it can also ease you mind because you realise that you're not stupid or weird at all.

Thirdly, my friends and I had a sleepover at Cirenworth. Yes all of them. Leo, Sam, Maria, Henry, Hazel and Louise. Henry never visited me, so we showed him around. According to him, the word  "cottage" does not do Cirenworth justice. "That's not a cottage! That's a fucking castle!" Haha. Then Jem explained to us, that legally, Cirenworth is a little bit too small to be a castle, so you have to refer to it as a cottage. But that can't change my mind. From now on forward I will only refer to Cirenworth as our castle now. Anyways, we began our sleepover and watched a few movies, before Leo had the glorious idea to do a karaoke contest. Sam proved to us, that he bears exactly 0% musical talent, Hazel and Louise decided to start a girl group and Leo obviously won, because she's the only one who actually took singing lessons. I, on the other hand, got smacked by Hazel with a pillow, after I sung "Forever & Always" by Taylor Swift a bit too enthusiastically, which, according to her, was very ironic, considering that I am the one who promised to stay with you and then left. Which is fair. But also, just let me enjoy a song goddammit.

Lastly, Tessa and Jem decided that it would be good for me and Mina to see some more of this world. So, we are going to travel around Europe in the autumn holidays starting tomorrow. First we will go to Paris and then to other cities in Europe. But I don't know which. They said it's a surprise. So I'm really excited. But that's nothing against Mina's excitement. She's jumping around the whole day, screaming "Paris! Paris! Paris!" so loud that the mail man looked quite concerned when he delivered a letter.

I hope you also had a good time in the last weeks. Dru told me you visited Blackthorn Hall again with your siblings. And that you have a pet now that eats curtains. Jem also send Church to visit Emma and he came back looking quite traumatized. Now I really wonder what animal your pet is. For all I know it could be an alligator. Wouldn't expect anything less with you. (Please don't let it be an alligator!)

I'm going to end this entry now, as I have to get up early tomorrow to portal to Paris.

Good night!

Love, Kit.

Author's note:

Um... so I forgot to publish the chapter last week and the week before. Oops. And also today is Sunday, not Monday. But I might forget tomorrow again, so here you go. Early chapter!

[my-darling-boy]

Genuinely asking, isn't self-diagnose with a condition kind of dangerous? Because legitimizing self-diagnosing opens a door to many malicious people who would want to exploit the fact they can self-diagnose? And in turn, make the space of autistic people worse?

Was going to skip this, but I’m writing a LONG response because I’m VERY exhausted with the amount of misinformation I see on this “self dx is dangerous” take, so buckle up and allow me to info dump.

Recently, authentic_autism_advocacy, an Instagram account run by a supposed medically diagnosed autistic woman was discovered to be a non-autistic woman, Connie Manning, posing as a medically diagnosed autistic person to spread hate and anti-self diagnosing speech. In reality, she is a neurotypical mother who regularly uses her autistic son for clout; she also turned out to have a hand behind CalmWear, a brand of sensory compression products designed for disabled people. Not only had she been spewing hatred towards other autistic people, she had been accusing well known AFAB autistic tiktokers like beckspectrum of faking being autistic and threatening self diagnosed autistics and saying they are a danger to the community, and engaging in other incredibly discriminating behaviour. Yes, she herself was a neurotypical person posing as a medically diagnosed autistic to perpetuate hateful rhetoric about self diagnosed people and used her voice to speak OVER autistic folk for financial gain and exploitation of autistic people, including her own son. If you want to read this roller coaster of a story, an autistic person wrote an entire article on it with tons of screenshots and sources.

So let me make one thing clear to you.

The purpose of actually, genuinely self diagnosing is not done to attract attention or to parade around and exploit other autistic people. Self diagnosed autistic individuals have recognised due to difficult life circumstances, financial hardship, bigotry and stigma within the medical/legal world, being a minor, lack of insurance, lack of proper access to safe care facilities, being denied assessment due to incompetent or biased practitioners, and/or any other obstacle that they may temporarily or permanently be barred from diagnosis. Self diagnosis does NOT instantly mean a person is posing for clout, nor does it indicate a person is trying to wring money from assistance services or exploit other autistics. And nts who use self diagnose with intentions of harming the community? That’s NOT self diagnosis, that’s abuse of something meant to aid people blocked from medical care or financial means to that care. All we can do for autistic people, no matter who we perceive them to be, is treat them the same way we would any other autistic person. Because the moment you start deciding by your own book who deserves respect and who doesn’t, you’ll be on a slippery slope to locking out thousands of autistic people from the community. If it’s discovered a person like Connie is literally abusing the system of self dx to intentionally mislead the community, by all means, we must hold them accountable. But you cannot simply go about granting and revoking access from people just because someone lacks a diagnosis or doesn’t fit your idea of what being autistic looks like, especially if it’s based on stereotypes.

Moral of the story? Isn’t it ironic how anti-self dx people will 100% believe a user who claims to be medically diagnosed but shows no “written proof” of it, yet always demand written proof from a self dx person? It’s almost like even anti-self dx people can’t tell the difference between someone who is medically diagnosed autistic and someone who isn’t. Well, that’s because they can’t. While there might be common traits, autism has no set model, it is a spectrum, no autistic person is alike; Policing self diagnosed people about their self diagnosis isn’t a form of protecting the community. It’s a form of gatekeeping. If you find yourself granting instant acceptance, without asking for proof, to a person insisting they are medically diagnosed like this neurotyical mother, but then prohibit self dx people from entry entirely on the grounds of not showing proof of medical assessment, you are upholding a double standard. This is why policing autistic people’s diagnosis, self or not, is inherently useless.

So here’s the thing... instead of asking people to stop self diagnosing, what you should instead be asking yourself is, “Why do people self diagnose? What kind of medical system could possibly be in place where people feel they need to resort to self diagnosis rather than get an actual diagnosis?”

Well, it’s mainly common knowledge among most of the autistic community that diagnosis is NOT easy to come by.

One of the main reasons why people cannot get a diagnosis is due to financial/insurance reasons. It’s reasonable to estimate that by the end of 2020 almost 30 million Americans alone were without health insurance. I’ve heard costs out of pocket for an autism diagnosis are between $500-$6000. If a person or a family cannot afford health insurance—which by the way on average is around $5,400 a year for a single person and $13,800 for a family here—where are they supposed to pull out $6,000 to get screened?

You might be asking, “Well aren’t insurances supposed to cover disability?” Sure, there are options for disability care through health insurance—not even going to get into that—but like a lot of things in the US, this is a severely flawed system. A lot of private health insurance will stop or limit coverage for an autism diagnosis or assistance services once a person reaches 18 to 21 years old. In most states, coverage has a higher chance of being denied to autistic adults coming with the added age cap or ONLY covering ABA, an abusive, manipulative “therapy” used to force social compliance and trait suppression on autistic people. The fact that ABA, a conversion therapy, is covered, but little else, shows exactly what insurance companies think of autistic people: they’ll only cover us if we want to learn to be “normal”. This can leave many undiagnosed autistic adults who cannot afford analysis, insurance, or safe assistance services with nowhere to turn. If I was not on my parents’ insurance, there is NO WAY I would EVER be able to afford a diagnosis. I don’t have $2,000 lying around. The MONEY ALONE would prohibit me from getting a diagnosis, no matter how many autistic traits I presented.

When I was going through this system years ago to start a diagnosis, I was shocked to find no therapist within three hours of me was accepting adult patients. “Up to 18 only” their websites would say. And in the event I had found one (1) that accepted me as a then 20 year old with X insurance, and that person refused me diagnosis, I would be out of options unless I planned a 5 hour drive which may have also led me to another biased screener. A person seeking self financed assessment can waste thousands of dollars therapist hopping.

People will say, “Well I live in X place, and where I come from, it’s covered!” Well the reality is that everyone in the world does not live where you live. It’s not realistic to assume everyone is in the same position as you or your family to afford care or access the same resources as you. When you say, “Just go out and get a diagnosis! It’s not that hard!”, understand you are speaking from your personal vantage point where screening may be easily accessed or easily covered/is free OR you have no personal knowledge of what that process is like yourself.

The second thing that bars a ton of people from being diagnosed is the fact that when autism was first discovered, its research was HEAVILY centered on white, cis, heterosexual men. The idea that autistic people are ONLY cis, white, heterosexual men carries on to this day. If you are an outlier to this stereotype, your chances of being misdiagnosed with something else or refused diagnosis skyrocket because so-called “professionals” don’t know how to observe traits in any other person besides a cis, white, heterosexual man, and refuse/fail to recognise the endless ways in which a person can be autistic. ALL the time I hear how AFAB people will go in to get screened only to find out their screener does not believe AFAB people can be autistic, because yes, sexism and anti-lgbtq+ ideas play a huge role in the incredibly outdated diagnostic process, because autism is still believed to be an “AMAB only” thing. People report going into a therapists office and being asked questions like, “Do you like going outside? Do you like having friends?” and being told that if you agree with either of these, you cannot be autistic because criteria at some places is so backwards, you can’t even say you enjoy conversation without failing the test. Other things commonly heard during the analysis are screeners telling someone they are too smart/articulate to be autistic, gas lighting them by saying they are mistaking their symptoms for something else/making them up, telling a person they seem normal, dismissing clear autistic traits by saying they’re unique “superpowers”, or intentionally misdiagnosing a person as ADHD INSTEAD of autistic. People on social media have also pointed out what influences racism has on the diagnostic process as well and how lack of research and understanding of autistic POC contributes to under-diagnosis and stigma has only contributed to refusal of care and under-representation of POC in the disabled community, as one autistic Black woman points out on Instagram, “I found excellent articles that support and validate my feelings and experiences, but I could find no research on autistic Black people.” Additionally, because research has primarily been done on young men, this means anyone who is not a cis man and is over the age of 18 and is seeking a diagnosis has a much higher chance of not receiving one because screeners don’t understand how autistic traits may present differently in adults, especially since adults are very likely to mask. Some autism screeners are so against autism they have told clients they would only diagnosis a person autistic if it was their last resort to avoid “placing a burden on their shoulders”. These reasons are largely responsible for why autism is incredibly mis/under-diagnosed. This ask would be the length of a novel if I included every single type of discrimination and mistreatment during the evaluation process alone, but understand it can be incredibly biased, sexist, transphobic, racist, or just flat out ableist. And guess what? Though this process can take as little as a month to get sorted, that is rare. The assessment SHOULD be very short. But a lot of autistic people have reported their diagnosis took more than 2-4 years because of having to waste time, energy, and money hopping from therapist to therapist looking for someone to take them seriously, as many autistic people compiled on the actuallyautistictiktoks page on Instagram point out.

The last thing I want to touch on is this idea that people have that self diagnosing is dangerous. “What if someone self diagnoses and they take advantage of services that are meant for autistic people?” ...The Big Things you think I am going to take advantage of as a self diagnosed autistic person, like scholarship money for instance or SSDI, I do not have legal access to without a formal diagnosis. I cannot waltz into a law firm and ask for a $5,000 scholarship for autistic people without a diagnosis, because they WILL NOT give it to me!

Let me tell you some of things I’ve “cruelly taken advantage of” as a self diagnosed autistic person. I bought glasses with blue light protection, because screen and fluorescent lighting at work and even natural blue toned light from the sky lowers my threshold for some sensory input like noise and social interaction; wearing them to work everyday has improved my sensory thresholds incredibly. I’ve talked to my manager and told him I’m autistic and that I have a hard time understanding vague direction and may need to step away briefly on occasion to tend to a shutdown before a meltdown comes on at work; he had no problem with this. I use subtitles; sometimes I have trouble processing audio or reading facial expressions and tone, and being able to see the words displayed on the screen gives me a significantly better understanding of what I watch. All my life, I have been having meltdowns which I had mistaken for mental breakdowns or panic attacks and having access to resources that walked me through preventative methods and tips on what to do if I have one has been ENORMOUSLY helpful to me. All my life, I was trying to deal with them thinking they were something else; becoming aware of this and accepting that they are in fact autistic meltdowns has helped me not only go through them, but has helped me redirect stims which at their worst previously had me hitting and clawing my arms, slapping my face, and even hitting my head. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to wait 4 years for a diagnosis to use resources I could be using to make my life more accessible right now!

People will say, “Oh well yeah, I don’t mean You are one of Those Types of self diagnosed autistic people, you clearly sound/look autistic, I’m talking about other people.” The thing is, there is no broad “sounding/looking autistic”, that’s stereotyping, and you can’t demand everyone who interacts with you show you their Autistic Card, because again, not everyone is able to be diagnosed, especially given the mistreatment and stigma present towards autistic people in the medical field! And what made you ask for their diagnosis? Because they “don’t seem autistic” to you? Why didn’t you ask for their diagnosis? Because they “seemed autistic” to you? By denying anyone who doesn’t have a diagnosis resources they may very well need, you are denying assistance to thousands of people who are without means to be diagnosed. And I am SO tired of seeing comments online on self diagnosis posts that “people don’t know what they’re taking about” as if they know us personally, like are you me? Are you my doctor I’ve consulted? Did you watch me academically research and consult with other autistic people about being autistic for over 3 years? I’m tired of “well, one time a self diagnosed person laughed at my actually autistic diagnosed friend...so all self dx people are evil” because there is ZERO correlation between a person being self assessed and their behavior towards a non self assessed person. The fact both those arguments are in use whenever self dx comes up is yet another form of gatekeeping.

Self diagnosing autism is not begging for attention or Evil Criminal Money Funneling Schemes. It is a result of a deeply flawed medical and insurance system that has failed to give proper attention and care to those who need it, it is a result of resources not made available, of safe support systems not there for kids and adults alike. You want to talk about what’s truly dangerous? How the hate group Autism Speaks has been parading itself around since 2005 as an advocacy group for autistic people and has been misusing millions of dollars worth of donation money and promoting stigma and hatred around autistic people; no autistic members are present on their board. How Sia and her new film Music was nominated for 2 Golden Globes despite it replacing the original autistic actor with a neurotypical actor, using offensive stereotypes, and using the main autistic character as a prop, and featured an extremely dangerous bodily restraint scene on an autistic person having a meltdown in public and featured very insensitive content due to Sia’s lack of consulting with autistic people to make the film (spoilers in that article).

Instead of policing autistic people, whether they fit your idea of what an autistic person is or not, redirect your efforts and your energy to dismantling systems and holding others accountable for perpetuating harmful stereotypes about autistic people that are legitimately dangerous on such a scale that they have created insurmountable damage to the autistic community. But I guarantee you, worrying over whether your classmate is “faking it” will not do any justice to the decades worth of discrimination autistic people face still today.

I understand. You care about the community, you don’t want autistic people to be exploited or taken advantage of. I don’t want to be exploited and taken advantage of as an autistic person, and I don’t want that for others! But I also understand that when we self proclaim ourselves as judges of random autistic strangers on the internet or start accusing people of faking or demanding to see medical paperwork from people when the basis of our suspicions is “this person doesn’t look like my stereotyped view on how I think an autistic person should act”, THAT is when you really run into trouble. Because if you are allowed to deny self dx people entrance into the autistic community, what’s stopping you from thinking you have the power to deny ANYONE entrance into that community?

And there is power in self diagnosis for many autistic people. When the evaluation system is literally rigged to set you up for failure and put you through unnecessary hardship, self dx is a self affirming, empowering tool to take back control from a process designed to gaslight and crush you. The evaluation process was NOT formulated by an autistic person, nor was it made to be inclusive of all autistic people. Until the evaluation system in place for autistic people is safe, accessible, and free to ALL, you have EVERY right to self diagnose.

[just-your-average-tangerine]

This is going to be long, I apologize in advance.

I'd say my experience started when I was just out of high school (18-19 years old). My mom was working as a bouncer at a lesbian bar, her shift would end around 11pm, and she'd stay and drink until the bar closed, then call me to come pick her up. By the time I'd get there, she'd be waiting out front with several of her friends who were regulars at the bar. These friends (the youngest of whom was 38, the others all in their 50s) had a running bet on which one of them would be the first to "have" me and how many it would take to "make a good lesbian out of me" the 38 year old even offered that if my mother would get me to marry her she would "fix me" and "make sure I stayed a woman".

Before starting t I was told over and over again by a variety of people, including other queer people and even other trans people, that I shouldn't go on t, or I shouldn't want to go on t because it was bound to turn me into a monster or a rapist.

In an intake interview to get in to see a gender therapist to get my letter to start t. The therapist, who very clearly lacked even basic trans competency, diagnosed me with bipolar disorder, based on a bad reaction I'd had to a medication that subsequent doctors agreed I should never have been prescribed in the first place, 4 years earlier. This diagnosis was used to delay my appointment with the gender therapist until I had a minimum of 8 weeks with a different therapist, I don't believe this diagnosis is accurate, and I suspect it was to delay my transition.

When I started testosterone, the physicians assistant that was supposed to show me how to do the injection refused to do so, claiming that if I didn't already understand how to self administer an intramuscular injection then I clearly was not competent to be making this decision. The only thing she did tell me was that I didn't need to measure a dose because each vial was one dose. As I'm sure anyone on injectable testosterone knows, that is absolutely not accurate. This led to my t levels being way too high. Before that test came back, the doctor took me off t because I'd gained weight (~7 pounds, a perfectly reasonable amount for the first 8 weeks on t). Then, once my hormone test came back showing such high levels, all my future appointments were canceled, and I was told testosterone was clearly not a viable option for me. Luckily, a friend of mine urged me to get a second opinion, and I've been safely on t for 2 years.

Shortly after starting t, a trans fem nonbinary person who I had considered a friend prior to this, called me in the middle of the night claiming to need help. I went to their house immediately and discovered they'd lied about needing help. It turned out that they'd seen me post on Instagram earlier, and based on the post, they assumed that I was drunk and would be easier to take advantage of. They spent an hour or so telling me how it's such a shame I'm a man and I would be so much better off being nonbinary because they "don't like men but they like me". They then asked if they could practice knot tying on me, I agreed, and they bound my hands together, pushed me back on the couch, climbed on top of me, and said I should "just let them fuck the man out of me".

Ive sat through trans support groups where it was explained that trans men shouldn't want to be men but since we are we have a responsibility to be good allies to women by never going out in public after dark, never speaking to women in public, etc. Because it could be taken as a threat. I've sat through trans support groups in which it was explained that because all fetuses initially develop as female, that trans femininity is a developmental issue, but trans masculinity is a mental illness, and therefore it makes sense that I'm both trans and autistic because "all trans men are retards". I've sat through trans social groups where one person explained to another that "t boys make the best fuck dolls and you don't even have to treat them like people".

I tried to join a queer mens group and was told that it's for queer men, not "delusional little girls."

My mothers believe I was manipulated into thinking I'm trans (and gay) because the lgbt center I went to "hates lesbians"

I could probably go on but this is long enough as is.

❗️❗️ This is asked entirely in good faith. This post is intended to open dialogue and help with solidarity and understanding. ❗️❗️

I would like to hear specifically from trans men and trans mascs how the system of [whatever the fuck you call the intersection of transphobia, misogyny, and specifically your gender- whether transandrophobia, isomisogny, antitransmasculinity, transandromisia, transmisandry, or any that I have missed as there are a lot of words to describe similar concepts] uniquely targets and affects you. Things that you feel other demographics do not experience. Reblogs and replies are very encouraged! If you would prefer, you could dm or send an ask to be added anonymously by me.

This is in the spirit of wanting to understand. I am listening. I encourage all non-trans-mascs to not speak on this topic and let trans mascs and trans men do the talking here. Reblog the post to spread it, but please say nothing.

Any and all people who identify as trans men and/or trans mascs are encouraged to participate.

This is not bait to start a fight. I will block without hesitation anyone who is actively being a shithead on this post. I want to hear and uplift your voices by getting it directly from you.

Click this to access the trans fem and trans women version of this post.

[actuallyadhd]

Hi.. I was diagnosed with ASD last year and was tested for ADHD with a computerized test then. The test apparently said I don’t have ADHD so I wasn’t diagnosed but I felt like it may have been flawed (I FORCED myself to focus on the test because I was told to “do my best”) so I wanted to pursue testing with a different method. Recently my new therapist and my mother looked through the DSM criteria with me for ADHD and I marked all the inattentive symptoms as Yes, and 6 of the hyperactive as Yes until I get more info about them (ASD can make understanding written word tricky for me). Even though my parent and I were agreeing on the symptoms this seems surreal and I’m afraid I’ve been manipulative or lied somehow in order to come to this conclusion… like maybe I’m faking my way through it. But I can’t control how difficult it is for me to focus on things, the fact it takes me 2 weeks to get to folding laundry I intended to do way earlier, or the fact I continuously misplace things.. or anything else I deal with. Idk I guess I’m just wondering if it’s possible I’m faking all this… I’m afraid I’ve misled people somehow. You can ignore this if you need to tbh. Thanks for reading if you did.

Sent April 27, 2022

The fact that you’re worried you might be faking tells me that you probably aren’t. Might it be something other than ADHD? Sure, that’s a possibility. But you’re definitely struggling, and you definitely deserve help. If that means you need a formal diagnosis (that’s how we access medication and accommodations), then that’s what you need.

Now, a good thing to ask about is a full psychoeducational assessment. I had one done in 2010, and it was really helpful and interesting. One of the things I learned was that there’s a relatively common profile that turns up in ADHD. Basically, relative to your full IQ score, your processing speed and working memory will be lower than expected. This doesn’t necessarily mean that you will score below average on these two measures, it means that you will score below the range your IQ sits in. So, for example, if your IQ is over 120 and you score 110 or lower, that’s lower than expected and is a sign that you have a deficit in that area.

If it would help, I can try and put together a video about the criteria with examples of ways they might show up in someone’s life. It would go up on the Actually ADHD YouTube channel. If short-form is better for you, I can also split it into bite-sized TikToks.

Followers, what do you think about this? Also, would video information about diagnostic criteria be helpful?

-J

[andiandyandee]

We Are Going to Be Friends Pt.11

I’m back!!  Sorry this took so long, the baby (She’s 3, but she’s my baby, okay?) has been super sick for like a month so her mother and I have been at out wit’s end trying to make her feel better. Anyway. Here’s the first Chapter Here’s the most recent chapter Here’s the whole series on ao3

Tag List:

@datfearlessfangirl @princemesscharming @illogicalthinking @holliberries

Here’s the Fic!

    “Logan, I don’t know if getting a tattoo from some rando is a great idea.” Remus was hanging upside down from his bed, watching Logan work on his biology homework. Roman was sitting in a bean bag chair, working on his history homework.

    “It’ll be fine, Rem. if it turns out bad I’ll just get it covered up when I’m 18.”

    “What if it gets infected? And then because you won’t go to a hospital ever it’s gonna spread to your hand and arm and heart and they’re gonna have to amputate and then how are you going to become a doctor with only one arm or you’ll boil alive from the fever and we won’t-”

    “Did you know dueling is legal in Paraguay as long as both parties are registered blood donors?” Logan remarked without looking up from his book. Remus looked baffled. Roman looked slightly annoyed.

    “Why do you always do that? It’s rude to interrupt someone, you know.”

    “Do what?” Logan glanced at Remus for some clarification, hoping he would understand Roman as his brother better than Logan did as his boyfriend. Remus shrugged.

    “You do it all the time. Rem will be talking about something and then you just like, cut him off with some random fact.” Logan snorted at Roman’s now protective tone.

    “It’s to pull him out of a panic spiral. When someone with OCD starts spiraling, like he just was, you can sometimes confuse them enough to keep them from freaking out. A distraction technique, essentially.” The twins both looked confused. They spoke at the same time,

    “Remus doesn’t have OCD.”

    “I don’t have OCD.” Logan gave them a confused smile.

    “I’m sorry, I don’t think I get the joke.”

    “It’s not a joke. My diagnosis is just anxiety, It’s not OCD.”

    “If you don’t have OCD I’ll eat my boot.” Logan gestured at Remus vaguely. “You literally display every single symptom, how has your therapist never tested you?”

    “Picani didn’t diagnose me, he just kept my diagnosis from my old doctor. What do you mean by all the symptoms?”

    “I mean- I could be wrong, but it seems obvious, right? You get stuck in cycles of being completely obsessed with a thought or potential event, you find something that makes you feel better, then you feel compelled to do it any time the thought arises.”

    “I think everyone does that,” Remus mumbled.

    “Where in your closet do your clothes go specifically?”

    “Be more specific,” Remus asked, uneasily.

    “100% cotton shirts, where do they go?”

    “Uh, towards the back. I can’t see them when I open my closet but I know they won’t get eaten by moths because moths don’t eat cotton because it doesn’t have Keratin but I have to keep anything that moths might eat toward the front so I can check on it when I open the closet doors and-”

    “And in what order do your books go on the shelf?”

    “There isn’t a specific order, but the ones I’ve read the most I keep on the middle two shelves so they’re at eye level, while books I’ll never read but still keep or books I’ve read but didn’t like are at the bottom because I probably won’t see them unless I bend down, which I don’t do, and books I want to read but haven’t yet are on the top shelves because I feel better knowing that if I decide to read them all I have to do is reach for them.” Logan nodded.

    “What do you do if you see what you believe is a carpet beetle? Walk me through your usual process.”

    “Uh, I’d probably try to catch it, google carpet beetles, I have a bookmark for them actually, make sure that’s what it is. If I’m unsure I’ll google black beetles and make sure it’s not something else, check to see if I can find any more, if I can’t I’ll put the one outside then go shower and then I’ll clean the room I found it in, wash my hands and then I’ll double-check to see if any more have come out, then shower again.”  Roman looked totally baffled.

    “I mean, those seem a little extreme, but I don’t know if that’s OCD.”

    “Remus, what’s your routine when you walk to your therapist's office?”

    “What day? On Wednesday appointments I leave the school, come home, change into my boots, dad drops me off, I wait outside the office until 3:29, I walk in, Picani says “Remus! Right in time!” and we do our session. I leave, turn right, walk the long way to Starbucks, order my drink-” Logan raised his eyebrows at him as if this was making his point. Which it was.”Oh. Huh.”

    “Have you mentioned this to your therapist?”

    “No, I guess I never realized.” Remus was looking a little put-off. “Does it... bother you?”

    “Don’t be an idiot.” Logan waved a hand vaguely at him. “I knew what I was getting myself into when I decided to talk to you.” He smirked. “Now, had I realized what I was getting myself into when I started dating Roman, maybe I would have made some better choices.” Roman laughed, throwing his pillow at Logan’s face. This action set off what was probably the most aggressive pillow fight known to date, and it only ended when Roman swung his arm around to catch a pillow hurling at Logan, only to miss and essentially punch him in the eye.

    “Fuck! Ow, what the fuck,” Logan held his eye, looking at Roman in complete exasperation. “Roman I think you just broke my face.” Roman was stone-still, horrified, and Remus looked just as panicked, hands up as if to placate to the other teens if they turned to violence. “Woah, okay, why did it get so serious all of the sudden?”

    “Logan I am so sor-”

    “Wait, what? It was an accident, Ro. No big deal. How bad does it look?” When Logan moved his hand, Roman actually flinched back. “Damn, that bad? This is what I get for not wearing my glasses…” He looked in the mirror and snorted. “Oh, that’s gonna be gnarly later. L will kill you if I still have a black eye for prom, you know.” Logan glanced back at the twins who were still pale and nervous.

    “Logan, I am so sorry, it was an accident, I promise I would never- I couldn’t…”

    “Ro?” Logan had a soft smile on his face. “You’re an idiot.” Roman immediately snapped out of his panic to dramatically gasp.

    “How dare you, peasant!” Logan snorted, coming back over and sitting down.

     “I spend time in mosh pits. I think at this point every person I like had given me a black eye. Except for Remus, weirdly enough.”

    The evening calmed down significantly once Remus brought Logan and ice-pack. They mostly just went back to homework, Remus occasionally anxiously bringing up Logan’s tattoo, which he was supposed to get the next day. It was mostly Logan with his back to Roman’s chest, only half awake, listening to Remus talk excitedly about sea urchins, which was apparently his new favorite sea creature.    Getting the tattoo was fine, if uneventful. The ‘artist’ seemed a little weird, and possibly drunk, but Logan had never gotten a tattoo, so he assumed this wasn’t too far off from how they usually went. When he made it to the Sander’s house, a trash bag held on with electrical tape around his wrist, he was still grinning like a madman. Remus laughed at him and took a photo on his stupid polaroid camera that was completely ridiculous because they had cellphones with cameras, and when Logan took the bag off, Remus took a picture of that too, even though it was red and a little puffy and the lines didn’t look very good. Logan loved it, and both Remus and Roman couldn’t help but like something that made him so happy.  

    They both liked it a lot less a week later, when Logan showed up to their house pale and a little grey looking, arm tucked up towards his chest.

    “I thought It was healing alright so I left it uncovered, the artist said it was normal for it to be a little red for a while so I didn’t question it. We went to a show, and to a party and it hurts and I don’t know why. ” Logan’s words were a little slurred, he was obviously a little out of it, so they guided him inside and sat him on the couch.

    “Can we see, Lo?”

    “It’s really gross, way worse than it was last night... I don’t think-” Remus pulled Logan’s arm away from his chest and Roman almost gagged. It was significantly worse than it had looked the last time they’d seen it only two nights ago, now yellow and swollen and bleeding again. “I don’t know why it got so infected... I was taking care of it..” From how close they were together, they could tell that Logan had a fever, and he was definitely sweating.

    “Something must have gotten into it while you were out. You need antibiotics.”

    “No doctors,” Logan grumbled, pressing his face into Roman’s shoulder. “Please.”  They agreed, because it was hard to argue with Logan in general, but especially about doctors, but both brothers looked uneasy as they helped Logan clean the tattoo and re-wrap it.

[ltwinks]

So today I fucked up, kinda, I guess.

I have ADHD. In a nutshell and in an extremely-super-simplified way of explaining it, ADHD is what happens when your brain doesn't process dopamine like a neurotypical brain does; it doesn't get enough or it isn't consistent enough, so it becomes an absolute dopamine fiend and constantly searches for sources of

The Good Chemical.

From what I understand, doctors and scientists and whatnot can't agree on what exactly the issue is (which is, I think, where the idea that it doesn't exist comes from?), but that isn't related to how I fucked up.

I have had it my whole life (as you do, you're born with it) but I wasn't diagnosed until I was 23. An adult.

Anybody who knows me in real life (what's up, Val!) can attest that I was a very bad student, but like, in a weird way. I always forgot to do the homework and usually forgot to do take-home projects, but my test scores were generally awesome. I had an incredibly difficult time paying attention, not because I was bored (I mean, 'bored' in the way neurotypical people are bored; in terms of ADHD-style boredom, I'm actually the CEO of the company), but because I could not force my brain to focus. I read other books and wrote things that were entirely unrelated to the class (people used to imitate how my seventh and eighth grade math teacher used to say "Put away anything that's not math!" in his loud, booming voice, and I was generally responsible for him saying that so often) and daydreamed and stared into space (which I now know is called d i s s o c i a t i n g). Basically, you know the teacher from Peanuts? The one whose dialogue is just a formless salad of sounds? That's what people sound like when my brain decides there's no dopamine to be found here, cue the Windows shutdown sound.

What I'm getting at here is that, looking back, it was pretty obvious, but only if you were looking for it. Like, I don't have The Zoomies (usually, but sometimes I will admit that I fancy a good sprint) or other hyperactive activities or behaviors, and that was the hallmark of ADHD back then. So if you were just looking for Zoomies And Other Extreme Sports, you wouldn't even see me.

Aaaaaaand it's pretty clear that I should have had an IEP. And then maybe school would have turned out better for me and not been so stressful that I (for legal reasons, this is a joke) wanted to un-alive myself by yeeting myself into traffic.

But what's in the past is in the past. I got my diagnosis now and, with a therapist, am putting together a toolbox of techniques and strategies to help me be A Functional Adult©.

And now we come to the part where I fucked up.

Because like any good ADHD story, it must be winding and long-winded and go off on at least two tangents that aren't totally necessary to the story but I'm not sure if they're not so here, have some exposition, I made it just for you and please help yourself to a second serving if you're still hungry.

I made the decision not to tell my mother that I have ADHD. I have three autistic siblings and another sibling diagnosed with ADHD, but he's the hyperactive type and I'm the inattentive type, so our symptoms present a little differently. Without a doubt, I know my mom would feel so guilty if she knew she missed the fact that I have ADHD and I struggled because of it.

So I figure, I can't change the past, I am becoming able to live with it, and making her feel guilty is cruel and unproductive when there's nothing she can do fix it.

A friend of mine just got diagnosed with autism and he has been posting about it on Facebook a lot since then. Today, he posted an apology, saying he realized how much he's been posting about it and that he'll rein it in. I posted a comment saying that I get it, I got a neurodivergent diagnosis as an adult too, and it's so clarifying to get answers and see the pieces fit together, and that it's healing to not have to wonder anymore why I am the way I am and that it's not my fault; my brain is wired a little differently.

THE PROBLEM IS that my friend is also my brother-in-law and we're friends on Facebook, and my mom is a mutual friend. She saw his post and my comment and commented "I'm so happy for both of you!"

And that's it. She hasn't called me or texted me, and that's weird behavior for her. Usually she would instantly call and confront me. I can only assume that she's freaking out.

Yeah, I fucked up. Thanks for reading.

[spooniemumoftwo]

This is me!

Have you ever heard of ME CFS? Do you know anyone with ME CFS? Have you ever heard the phrase ‘counting spoons’? 

Having read a huge number of blog posts on ME CFS over the past few years, this is my own answer to some of these questions. Please bear with me – this has been a work in progress for a while now.

Me – Could I have M.E?

As a teenager, and even recently, I never imagined that I would find myself writing about my experiences of life with a chronic illness, and yet, here I am. I am 33 years of age, a wife and mother to two beautiful children, and I have a diagnosis of Myalgic Encephalomyelitis (ME CFS). 

Over the past few years, I have come to realise that ME CFS is something you can’t fully understand or describe to someone unless you have the experience of this debilitating illness yourself.

Where do I start?

Over the last three years, there have been ups and downs; life has been interesting, and the learning curve I have found myself travelling on has been almost vertical at times. I am not there yet.

Back in Summer 2017, I woke one morning to find I had no voice at all. This was unusual for me but not the first time it had happened. Things had been busy and a little fraught with two small children, whilst I was also working almost full time, so I thought nothing of it. I now suspect, as do the consultants I have spoken to since, that this was my body’s way of fighting the Chicken Pox virus, as my youngest came down with Chicken Pox two weeks after I first lost my voice. A week without my voice went by, writing notes for my husband to ignore as he felt appropriate, and giving my children 'the look' instead of telling them what I was thinking, and I spoke to my GP who diagnosed me with Acute Viral Laryngitis, and prescribed me three weeks off work and TOTAL voice rest, much to my husband’s delight and amusement. Three weeks later I returned to work, having slept all day for at least two of the three weeks I’d had off work. I was shattered. I never imagined returning to work after only three weeks off would be that tiring, but I did it. I underwent a further six months of speech and language therapy sessions (ironic considering my own role as a speech and language therapist) to help me work on my returning voice and my worryingly limited breath support, something I had only noticed since losing my voice.

Nearly twelve months on, in April 2018, I found myself signed off work again, this time with suspected Labyrinthitis. I experienced dizziness on and off, and again, I slept for most of the time I was off work. I was finding it hard to put sentences together, and felt like my whole body was being held down by a weighted blanket. Three weeks off work again and then I returned to work and my usual routine, with a promise to myself to take things easier this time. The dizziness continued but not enough for me to be off work, so a referral to a cardiologist followed to check it was nothing cardiology related. A 24 hour ECG followed by a 32 day ECG test demonstrated nothing significant, and therefore this was put down as yet another symptom I had no answers or reasons for.

By August 2018, I realised I had spent the majority of the summer term in schools telling myself ‘if I can make it to the summer holidays, I will be okay’ and yet, there I was, at the start of the summer holidays, and I hadn’t allowed myself to slow down at all. I have always, even as a pre-teen and a teenager, worked towards the school holidays, and continue to do so as an adult. I recall, as a teenager, regularly sleeping for the first one or two days of a school holiday, or suffering with a cold and feeling generally unwell for the first few days after allowing myself to slow down or to relax, and yet, here I was, putting the same pressure on myself as I always had. This time, however, I did not allow myself to rest. I knew what would happen if I did.

August 2018 saw me celebrating my own mini achievements regarding my engagement in a Couch to 5K running programme. I have never been sporty, and running was my least favourite exercise. However, for some reason, in 2018, I decided I was going to make myself enjoy running! I soon found running gave me time to myself with my thoughts, (unless accompanied by one of my chatty little people who often wanted to go with Mummy on a run) and running was my 'me time'. I managed to complete my first ever continuous 20 minute run in the middle of August, a very small achievement for many, however for me this was huge! I was becoming a runner, or so I thought. I only ran once more that month, and haven't managed a run since…

The summer holidays passed by and at the end of August, we celebrated my eldest child’s 5th birthday. I will never forget the call we received first thing that morning, to tell us that my grandfather had sadly passed away in the early hours of the morning.  On my daughter’s birthday. I held myself together and threw all of my energy into celebrating my daughter’s special day. I was heart broken, and yet, as always, my children came first, and always will. The day after, we hosted a party for our daughter as we had planned. I could think of any number of places I would rather be, than hosting a children’s party, but for my children, ensuring they were happy, and maintaining the usual normality, especially things they had looked forward to, was essential. After we had cleared up, and the children had been put to bed, revelling in the excitement of the day, I took myself off to the gym, and pushed myself to run as far as I could.  I managed a 35 minute continuous run, telling myself “it was just for you, Grandad!'’ I was exhausted, mentally and physically. Running had allowed me time to myself to clear my head and my thoughts on many occasions prior to this, however that night, I was broken. I could do no more. My head hurt, my legs hurt, even my breathing was draining me.  I was done.

Two days later, I lost my voice again, and this time, I listened. I listened to what my body was saying, and started to put a few of the pieces together in my story. I have always pushed myself as far as I could push, but I was spent. Emotionally, and physically, I had nothing left. I spoke to my GP in view of my previous significant voice loss, and was instantly told to take some time off work to recharge and rest my voice. I reluctantly agreed to take a week off to recharge before going back to work.

A week later, at the start of September, I saw my GP, accompanied by a very good friend, to make sure I gave the facts and was honest about what was going on. We talked about everything. With the support of my friend, I listed all of the symptoms I had been experiencing, and yet not acknowledged, things I was finding difficult - sensitivities to light and noise, complete physical exhaustion, difficulties concentrating, poor spatial awareness - there can only be so many times a person can walk into the same photocopier in the same position on the same day. (My record was five times one day.) I described the difficulty I had in expressing myself and communicating with others at times, and my concerns about the slightly narcoleptic speed at which I could fall asleep and still feel totally unrested when I woke up, no matter how long I slept for. I raised my concerns and questioned whether I could possibly have some signs of ME CFS, however my GP said that at this stage, she did not feel I had ME, and that there were a huge number of reasons I was feeling as I was at that time. She was right about that, there had been a lot going on. I reluctantly left the doctor’s surgery with a certificate signing me off work for four weeks, and I was under strict instruction to rest completely, and not to return to work within the next four week period. I have never taken time off work willingly, other than for the usual expected absences due to the usual common illnesses, and therefore this went entirely against my work ethic. But this time, I had to - I was spent. I had no idea what was wrong with me, and how long it would last.  I was worried and totally exhausted.

A month later, I returned to my GP to try and persuade her I was ready to return to work. We talked about how the last month had gone, how I was feeling, and what my thoughts about work were. I tried to list the positives to show I was feeling better but what were they? I was sleeping all of the time other than when I had to be awake to do a school run, or to look after my children, which I had been doing mainly from the sofa whilst they amused themselves in my sight. I was finding it difficult to carry out simple and regular tasks such as showering, which left me incapacitated and lay on my bed for some time before I could continue with the day. Cooking and preparing meals were a challenge, as this involved me being upright for longer than was comfortable. Having a conversation on the telephone was exhausting, and yet talking to someone in person was strangely slightly easier. I was often disorientated and a slight change in plans left me confused. On really bad days, I frequently could not have a conversation without losing what I was saying, and found it difficult to think of the words I wanted to say. My mind went blank. None of this made sense. I was 31 years old and generally healthy. What was wrong with me? I sounded like I was making this up and began to doubt myself. My GP informed me that she had been thinking about me, and had spoken to a colleague of hers for some advice. She advised that after some thought, she felt a referral to a specialist in Chronic Fatigue may be worthwhile, as it was possible that some of my symptoms could be signs of ME CFS. That made me anxious. I had suspected that this may be the case for me for a while, but to hear a clinical professional confirm my suspicions and want to investigate further sent chills right through me. How and why was this happening? We agreed that I would be referred to the consultant specialist, and I left the appointment with another four weeks off work, and a hope that I would return to work after another month, IF my energy levels had increased sufficiently.

Another month later, I returned to my GP, and despite me still experiencing significant fatigue, I was desperate to return to work and some normality. My GP reluctantly agreed to a phased return to work which would be monitored closely by her. I returned to work, initially for two half days a week, with a view to being back to my normal thirty hours a week by the end of December. I was still exhausted. Each day was a huge challenge, but it felt so good to be back at work! I tried to take things as easy as possible, as I was mindful that I needed to read the signs and listen to what my body was saying. I didn't feel like the person I was before, and yet just being 'me' again, in my usual workplace was a tonic.

In February 2019, I saw a consultant specialist in chronic fatigue, accompanied by another amazing friend. We talked through everything, literally everything! For a whole two hours, we discussed things I was able to do and things I couldn't do. Things I enjoyed and things I didn't. We talked in detail about my childhood, family history and medical history. I was referred for a sleep study to rule out sleep apnoea, and was advised that if the results of this study were unremarkable, then yes, I would be diagnosed with ME CFS. Otherwise, the diagnosis would be sleep apnoea. I felt sick, but with support from my friend, my husband and my family, we talked things through. But there were still no answers.

I am so lucky to have an amazing family and so many loyal and caring friends around me who know me better than I know myself at times. I can't express my thanks to each and every single person who supports us. Those who are there for me, to listen, advise and give the best hugs, and those fabulous friends who just know what to say and do when its needed. Those who try to understand what's going on, and those who know me best! My amazing family and friends regulate me and aren't afraid to tell me what I need to hear, despite this often being the harsh reality that I can't see (or don't want to!). I am often told to rest and that I need to put myself first, but that's not how I work, or it’s not how I've worked in the past anyway. I know I unintentionally frustrate the people I am closest to with my stubbornness and drive, and my reluctance to 'give in or give up', and I am so grateful for the support of so many people.  

I finally received my appointment for my sleep study at home at the end of May 2019. I was shown how to fit the oxygen tubes, oxygen monitor and all the gubbins that go with it and was sent on my way. Honestly, the sleep study was not the best night of sleep I've ever had...it turns out I'm a little more claustrophobic than I thought I was. But, by the following morning, the test was done and the equipment was safely returned to the hospital. My pending diagnosis was in their hands now. I received a letter at the start of July 2019, to say that I didn't have sleep apnoea, so there it was. A diagnosis of ME CFS.  Mixed emotions flooded me...relief that I wasn't going to have to wear a mask to sleep, and yet dread at reading the words I knew would be in my next letter from the consultant! On 25th July 2019, my letter arrived in the post. It simply said 'I can confirm that this patient has ME CFS. I will refer her to the local ME service for support'.  I was numb. 

So many questions!

How will this affect my children? What will happen next? Where do I stand with work? Will I need help? What does the future hold? All these questions filled my head. Many questions remain unanswered even twelve months on from receiving this letter. With no cure or successful treatment for this, I felt a mixture of panic, sadness and dread and telling my husband the results we didn't want to hear was hard. How would I be able to be the wife and mother I so wanted to be with this chronic illness? My children are still so young. My husband didn't sign up for this! This all felt so unfair!

Since my diagnosis, I've been supported by the local ME CFS service and their advice has been invaluable. The learning we have done as a family about the illness, the symptoms themselves and life as we know it, has been intense. I am able to recognise some of my triggers and my responses, though these constantly change and have increased in severity lately, but my husband, family and close friends will agree that I'm still pretty rubbish at really listening. I cannot seem to take it all in.  I am on overload.  I am a giver naturally...I don't come first in my head. I think of everyone else before myself - my children, my family and my friends. That is just me.  But it wears me out.  

My children

When I was diagnosed with ME CFS, my first thought was not for me, but for my children. This is not how I imagined parenting my own children. I felt a huge sadness that this would mean they had to grow up more quickly, to understand things a young child shouldn't have to, and that we may not be able to do all the lovely things we did when I was a child. I made a promise there and then...ME CFS wasn’t going to stop me doing things with our children. Our promise to our children even then, was that they would come first and that my husband and I would get through this together. This is not my children’s problem, it is mine.

My husband and I agreed very early on, not to give our children the details but just to explain, when needed, that Mummy just needed to rest. This worked for a while and kept questions at bay. I recall one lunchtime when I had prepared a 'picky lunch' at the request of our three-year-old son. I had laid on the sofa while they ate and watched a film. My daughter, aged around five at the time, touched my arm gently and gave me a crisp she had found, saying “Mummy, please have this heart-shaped crisp. It will give you more energy”. Wow!! I'm not sure how I held the tears in...I was completely taken aback! Without telling her anything other than that Mummy was sometimes a bit tired, this little sensitive soul had put two and two together and made her own conclusions. I knew we had to tell her a bit more now, if anything, to make sure she wasn't making her own ‘wrong’ deductions. 

We have recently been introduced to a fabulous book which has been integral in our challenge of giving our children the facts they need whilst not giving them too much. This book, 'Supercharged Superhero' by Gemma Everson has been written to help children understand why a parent with ME may not be able to play all the time, and that they can have fun in different ways with their family. We love this book, and my children often ask if we can look at it again. We've spent many hours reading through the story, chatting about the pictures and thinking of our own ways to have fun which I can join in with too. Find out more about ‘Supercharged Superhero’ and get your own copy of this gorgeous book.

The Journey so far – September 2020

My journey through diagnosis and learning to adapt so far has been uphill. There have been some huge changes I've had to make to my lifestyle, specifically our pace of life and my priorities. Having never been able to say 'no' to anyone or anything in my adult life, my major challenge is to start saying ‘No, no, no!’ Such a simple word, and yet I just can't do it! Others always come before me; my family and my friends, and yet I know I need to work on this. I know I unintentionally drive my husband and close friends to distraction...they know me better than I know myself often, and I am always being told to slow down, or to put me first, but I can't. Only when I have no option otherwise.

I spend my life falling asleep without planning to. I rarely see the end of a television programme or film. As a family, we often plan to go out on adventures in the mornings or early afternoon, as my more unpredictable time of day is usually mid afternoon to early evening. With careful planning, we do go out and make memories as a family of four, and we have lots of fun together. 

Everyday, I spend huge amounts of energy putting a brave face on to hide what I'm really feeling inside. I can’t do this anymore! I feel like most people only see me in a disguise, only my close friends and family know enough to understand what's really going on, and many of them can read me like a book. Conversely, I am constantly told I look really well, when in reality, I can barely stand up some days!  When things are really bad I can't easily hold a conversation, and I often focus all my energy on getting to the end of a day, an hour, a meeting or some other mini target I've set myself. I am wishing time away just to ‘get through’.  My illness is an invisible illness, and it is called that for a reason...it IS invisible!

On paper, my symptoms are fairly mild in contrast with others who have the same diagnosed condition. I am able go to work four days a week still, I am able to take my children to the park or on carefully planned day trips, I can still do some of the things I do for me, to allow me to be 'me', although these ‘things’ for me, are usually the ‘things’ I cut out if I need to slow down - leaving no time for Me!  

The Present and the Immediate Future   

In recent months I have seen a huge flare of my symptoms and have been much more debilitated than previously, but I am hoping this is just a blip in my journey. Working from home and home schooling two young children during the Covid 19 pandemic has not helped.  Life has been a bit mad for us all lately, hasn't it?! I can only imagine how people feel, who have much more significant symptoms, and I try to empathise with those whose symptoms are much more severe than mine. ME CFS is so varied and different for each and every person diagnosed with it!  

ME CFS is not well understood.  As it is ‘invisible’, others do not know I am suffering symptoms that often debilitate me. I cover it well by pretending I am ‘ok’ until I finally crash and burn at home. This is my reason for sharing my story, living with this condition, to promote awareness so that others may benefit from learning about how it affects a person and how people can make allowances. It is not going away!! Maybe I was ‘given’ this condition because I am naturally a strong person who is ‘driven’ to come through everything, no matter what. I do not know. I know that sometimes, I just can’t and I am worn out ‘pretending’. So I have chosen to share this and maybe I can make a difference to someone else. Acknowledging symptoms is just the start. Getting a diagnosis is paramount, and getting the right help is vital for any kind of future.

You've got this far, well done! Look out for how my story unfolds. Until then, we must stay positive!

XxXx

#chronicfatiguesyndrome #chronicfatigue #mecfs #me #myalgicenceohalomyelitis #cfsme

[thejeksburyguy]

Autism

There is a boy in my english class

He says something stupid, we laugh, he laughs, we all tease each other

It is playful and fun

Then the words become different

'Exuding autism'

'What are you, on the spectrum?'

'That was so stupid, I must be autistic'

They are laughing

I am not

Autism

My therapist says I should be tested for it

I tell my doctor, she agrees

Multiple adults and peers in my life, insulting me or prodding me or gently bringing it up, asking if I'm diagnosed, or telling me their parents can 'tell I have asperger's'

Parents of friends with autism telling me they love having me over, it's so nice to have someone who thinks just like their kid, who understands what it's like- wait, you're not on the spectrum? Not diagnosed? But we could have sworn..

My mother refuses to schedule an appointment

My mother gets angry if I mention this 'disease'

My mother would rather have no child than an autistic one

Autism

I have to rely on research on my own

Wikipedia, medical books, reading posts and literature written by people with autism

I analyze my own behaviour, things start to make sense

Sensory overload

Social awkwardness

Special interests

Why that one texture makes me rub and scratch at the area of skin that touched it

Why that sound drives me to tears and makes me shake

Why that smell is unbearable, that light is too bright, that specific food makes me sick to my stomach just looking at it because it feels awful in my mouth, the taste is Wrong, and mother please don't make me eat it please can I just make myself a peanut butter and syrup sandwich instead? Or tuna with miracle whip, no it HAS to be miracle whip, mayonnaise doesn't taste Right, no, miracle whip, and no no NO you made the ramen Wrong, the steps go in THIS order, you're disrupting how it's supposed to go, and I'm trying to keep my mouth shut, trying not to irritate you, but I'm watching you make it AND YOU'RE NOT DOING IT RIGHT AND IT'S DRIVING ME NUTS sorry I'll stop twisting my hair tapping my fingers on the table jumping my leg I'm sorry

Why my voice cuts out sometimes, selective mutism kicking in, only capable of verbal ticks and the occasional repeated word

Mother I'm sorry, I don't know why I pop my lips, I don't know why I ramble for hours about one thing and can never let a topic go, I know the weird noises I make irritate you but I can't help it, you're telling me I'm mature enough to know better, to 'be able to help it', but the noises just happen and they make me feel better and I know I ask a lot of stupid questions, I know it should be obvious, but I can't understand how you want me to do this I don't understand why are you YELLING-

Why I flap my hands they call it stimming why I twirl my hair on my finger getting yelled at for distracting the class despite it making no noise why tones, jokes, instructions go over my head idiot it should have been obvious just LISTEN why I'm obsessed with that specific soft texture and I need it okay I need that plushie I need that sweater they're perfect they're the perfect feeling mother please-

Sloths

Sloths are a special interest of mine

I know a lot about sloths

Did you know some of them grow moss in their fur? They move so slowly, and the air is so moist, that plants grow on their backs, and sometimes they eat them, like a personal garden you carry on your back

I get excited when I see anything to do with sloths

I have a sloth shirt, two sloth plushies, a sloth on my pencil pouch, I'm trying to convince my mother to let me buy a giant sloth plush I always see in the store but she says I'm too old

Wolves as well, I love wolves, I know even more about wolves, I have so many wolf plushies but my mother keeps telling me to get rid of them, she made me get rid of my wolf shirts even though they still fit, I get really upset when I catch her trying to get rid of my plushies, they're mine and they need to stay together, don't you understand they're a pack? Don't you understand they'll be lonely without one another? You already made me throw out my figurines (you're still mad that I bought more) let me keep my stuffies

My fidgets, my quirks, my thought process

Autism

They are still laughing

.

I am not

[copingmecha]

I took a WISC-V test when I was in 6th grade. They didn't give me a diagnosis. According to my mother, they said I was extremely smart, bordeline genius, but nothing much else stood out to them I guess? Or either my mom couldn't read of understand the results.

I took speech therapy all throughout elementary school. I didn't talk much at all. I didn't learn the terms selective mutism or nonverbal until I was an adult, and I feel like those apply well to my childhood. My speech therapy IEP led me to undergo tons of psychological and psychiatric evaluations by supposed professionals. I'd have more ear tests done than any other kids I knew because of my speech delays. They couldn't figure out what was the cause of my speech problems, while all of the other kids in my speech class seemed to have comorbid diagonses that explained it.

As early as age two, I began organizing and sorting various objects. Bath time consisted of me playing with shampoo bottles rather than toys, something my siblings tease about to this day. My family continually likes to comment how I organized and stacked various objects as a child. I was often called OCD when I became a pre-teen, because of my repetitive behavior in sorting and stacking objects.

When I was a toddler, my mom took me to get tested for autism spectrum disorder. She was at her wit's end figuring out what was "wrong" with me, and had heard on the radio that one of the symptoms was delayed speech and not talking to people. Apparently, the people doing the test turned me away as well and said there was nothing wrong with me and that I didn't qualify.

When I was being taken home from the hospital, I cried the whole way home for simply being in the carseat. My mom said she knew something was different about me then. I cried in car rides up until I was about six. She had brought it up to pediatricians countless times, but they said nothing was wrong.

I finally saw a therapist at 18. At this point, I had self-diagnosed myself with social and general anxiety disorder for several years, going back and forth between the two, but mostly very adamant on the social anxiety diagnosis. My therapist said I most like had an anxiety disorder, but it would be somewhere in between general or social. She said I had panic disorder, which I didn't believe at first since I thought I just had anxiety attacks. I started having major panic attacks later on in college.

I never brought up my past psychiatric adventures with my therapist, because it was my first therapist and I thought it was the answer. I thought panic and anxiety disorders explained everything. I thought therapy was my answer.

It wasn't.

I told her how I feared driving.

I told her how I couldn't get a job and have never had one.

I told her how guilty I fuilt for not being able to do either of these things at 18.

But then, I struggled to talk to my own therapist, to even answer her. I didn't have answers to any of her questions and I didn't know why.

I leave therapy after about 3 months, accomplishing very minor goals...if any at all tbh.

I go back to my life and suddenly I nearly drop out of college. I take a semester break. I don't find a job. I get calls for interviews, but I don't pick up the phone because my anxiety is too much.

I get panic attacks being in public. I don't understand it, because I thought I was finally being social and talking to people outside of school and going places...Why couldn't everything get better? Why was I still randomly storming off when I was standing in a group of people?

And why...why was I still hurting myself?

Why did no one ever notice I self-harmed throughout my childhood? Why did no one see I would burn and hit myself? Why wasn't this a concern?

And why was I still throwing childish temper tantrums as an adult?

Why do certain lights give me a headache? Certain sounds? Why does it make me want to scream and have me on edge and make me anxious?

And how come whenever I bring up to close ones that I think I might have asperger's syndrome, they compare me to other people they know who are autistic?

"Well, you're not like so-and-so, so you can't be autistic."

And they might agree with my anxiety diagnosis, but they turn it and make it about them and their menial anxiety. "Omg, I get that way too!"

But do you constantly open and close your microwave and dryer door to make sure an animal didn't get in there? Even if it's unlikely that it would have happened.

Do you pace back and forth to music EVERY NIGHT to escape into another world? To the point where it is very disruptive to both yourself and others?

Idk what to do any more....

I'm an adult without a proper diagnosis and no income and no health insurance.

I just want to know who I am. I want to uncover the mystery. I want to be okay instead of crying every fucking night over this!!!

[becoming-lilibet]

Reflect on your greatest struggle. What was it and how did you grow from it?

My greatest struggle has been a culmination of years that were spent between a mix of deception, of denial, a realization that my body was deteriorating like an 80 year old, lies, and a flame that would not burn out. Some stories need a back story, but when it comes to stories of an insidious fight with anorexia, they can turn into war stories of competition. I will not speak of certain weights, I will limit the discussion of behaviors as much as possible (only ones to show how an entire family unit watched their daughter die before their eyes), and omit numbers of total intake and the like, which I suppose falls under behaviors. But this is a journey that has taken place over the course of my young adolescence until now, at age 31. 

There is no onset age where a man or woman develops an eating disorder. Mine just so happened to begin around 8 years old when it was my only way to cope with being sexually abused by two neighborhood boys. My innocence was taken and I was free falling through the streets of Gracemore. My body had been violated and I in turn violated the natural equilibrium of myself. I remember being a sad kid who perfected the art of deception. If I pretended everything was okay, no one would catch on, and I could suffer in silence behind my purple painted walls. 

It started simply with chewing and spitting. TO this day I’m unsure how that behavior went unnoticed by my parents, but now I know as an adult that those struggling with EDs are sneaky little shits. I’ve written another piece called “The Obsession with Emptiness” on my recovery blog (recoverywithoutkale) that tells the tale of how around this very age I also discovered the evil of the Diet Culture aisle at stores and  began to shoplift laxatives and diuretics. 

By time I reached 13, my ED was all I thought about. You can’t diagnose a child with Bipolar disorder (I finally received that diagnosis at 19), but I was in fact struggling with towering highs and abysmal lows. My mom and I fought a lot during my middle school years. It wasn’t entirely her fault or mine. I believe my mother has untreated mental health issues that made us pit against each other. 

I found an old photograph of my mom in a bikini, lounging in the sun. She was skin and bones. It was dated 1986, before I was a thought. My sister caught me starting at it and said, “Yeah, see? Mom was anorexic, now she binges.” At the time I didn’t know what the word “anorexic” even meant. I was so out of control with my impulses, my identity, my sexuality, that I ended up losing my virginity my 8th grade year. What I didn’t anticipate was that my boyfriend was going to break up with me right after he had sex with me two or three days later. 

But I found the cure for my heartbreak even deeper. My mom was going on the South Beach Diet and asked me to join with her. I eagerly agreed. I felt so powerful. I felt so accomplished. I lost a significant amount of weight in the first two weeks of Phase 1, beating the amount of weight my mom lost by double. That’s all it took. I was addicted. She eventually stopped, but I didn’t. How could I stop now? 

Thus began my dance with ED. At age 16 I was seeing a therapist who had been consulting with my doctor and they diagnosed me with anorexia - restrictive type. At this point I wasn’t abusing laxatives or diuretics or diet pills. Just an adherence to a strict starvation diet. After that I went down a new rabbit hole: the online ED community on Xanga. It was essentially pro-ED, without a doubt. Competing, challenges, tips and tricks. It was all dangerous. Then when the summer I was 16 rolled around, I was date raped by a member of my youth group after returning from a mission trip to San Antonio. The ED swooped in and rescued me. I thought the more I lost, I could kill the femininity inside.

By time I graduated and went to college I knew my problem was out of hand, but I had no way of stopping it. At least, I had no idea how to stop it. I attended an eating disorder support group on campus but the girls were so banal and I couldn’t stand them. 

After I got pregnant, I ceased all eating disorder behaviors all the way until my daughter stopped nursing around 8 months old. I was left with untreated Post-Partum Depression and a whole lot of extra baby weight. I lost weight, to say the least. But I lost myself most of all. 

September of 2009 I admitted myself inpatient to the eating disorder ward (VITA) at Research Medical Center. How ironic, I thought to myself. The place I was born is the place I’m coming to die. There was a three month long wait list, but after assessing me they admitted me three days later. I had a myriad of tests done to evaluate the damage I’d done to my body. They pushed me around in a wheelchair because my blood pressure was so low, as was my heart rate, and because of the severity of my anorexia, they did not want me burning any calories by walking. It was humiliating. 

That first day I spent the whole day getting every test imaginable done. Then, my results. When I heard the words it was as if I were floating above my body. The doctors asked who referred me there and I was confused. “No one. I admitted myself.” Next they asked, “Are you living alone?” and I answered, “No, I live with my parents...” Their eyes widened and looked perplexed and asked, “Have you been resisting treatment? Why didn’t your parents bring you in months ago?” I was offended by his first question. I told him, “I’ve been complying with my shrink, taking all my meds, being honest with my ED therapist, and being transparent about my behaviors, but neither of them suggested treatment so I Googled it myself.” I had no answer for my parents actions. Then he leaned in and said, “I’m going to be honest and level with you here since all you’ve been doing is be honest with us and most patients aren’t forthcoming during the intake process. You are dying, Sarah. If you hadn’t admitted yourself today I would guess you’d have two weeks at most before you passed away.” Me, floating, higher and higher...

So began a three month hospitalization to weight restore and heal my disordered mind. I had a positive experience at VITA. My therapist was amazing - she convinced my parents I have a real life-threatening disorder that I did not choose. The psychiatrist Dr. Mandal taught us so many profound lessons - most of which I haven’t forgotten. And I made close friends, which is crucial when you’re forced to wake up at 4AM for vitals and be drugged to sleep at 9-10PM. I can’t say this is where I magically recovered, but it’s where I finally discovered I could, can, and will beat this. 

Eating disorder recovery is a life long journey, I was re-hospitalized at VITA again about six months after my discharge. Hung in the balance for years of recovery and relapse, and spent last summer at EDCare (a story for another time, perhaps) for 13 weeks where I experienced medical malpractice. I don’t know how to say I am now. I’m learning to embrace a few fat body in a fatphobic society, I act on ED behaviors a couple times a week, sometimes none at all. But this is certainly the furthest I’ve ever come in recovery and for that I am proud. I have a lot of hard work to do in the future but I have a small group of people who are in my support system. I won’t stop fighting now. 

[inanawesomewave]

SOCIOPATH WALKS OUT OF A THERAPIST’S OFFICE

Today I received a letter saying I had been discharged -- without my request or input -- from therapy.  Let me rewind a little.  As those of you who follow this blog know, I have been receiving therapy for just a few weeks. We have barely left the assessment phase, so whilst my therapist has been very good at listening to the traumas I have experienced and throwing in his two cents here and there, we haven’t so much got into the crux of therapy, as we have identified what the therapy is for, and what it was for was: 1. I have a lot of baseline and situational anger and contempt (his words, but I do tend to agree) and whilst I don’t want to give into forgiveness and adopting a mindful, wellness-y kind of mindset which would be insincere for me, I would like to stop being so constantly exhausted by my own rage, and stop being so at the behest of the contempt I feel constantly whirring in the background. 2. In order to do that, I need to confront childhood trauma head on, deal with it, talk about it, make sense of it, draw a line under it, move on. My old therapist from years ago (who discharged me after two and a half, almost three years, not long after my ASPD diagnosis, but we’ll get to that...) once described trauma as being like a big old blanket, in that if you shove it into the airing cupboard all crumpled and hurried, it’s going to ping out from time to time and trip you up and you’re going to have to angrily just shove it back in there, and it’s going to happen again and again. If you fold it neatly, it will stay there and not bother you, and will only come out if you specifically go in to fetch it. My current therapy was to learn how to fold that big blanket.  3. I love my son and my husband with all of my heart, and I want to treat them fairly and lovingly. In order to do that, I need to be a healthy person, so therapy was about untangling the threads of who I am, so that I can have enough insight and awareness to know what I need and when I need it. If I know that, then I will better know what my son needs and when he needs it. In short, I don’t want to become my mother.  And we did uncover some things. We spoke about a specific trauma, one that sticks out the most amongst everything, and going into that was like opening a Pandora’s Box of feelings, some of which I didn’t know the name of, and whilst it was very hard to hold it together without relapsing into some extremely antisocial behaviours (random people who I don’t know don’t need to hear any diatribes about What I Really Think About People Like You, and that’s not empathy talking, that’s a desire to not be seen as someone small and pathetic), it was cushioned by the fact that I knew I had a therapist now, and whatever intense, primary emotion took over my brain and my body whilst these old thoughts came to harry me, I could go to therapy that week, and mention them to someone who I was assured was there to help me. I had to agree to trust this man, and he had to agree to trust me. I was given conditions before my behaviour demanded them: “there are ways I won’t be spoken to” was said, before I’d ever slipped away from respect and courtesy, “some of this will trigger anger in you and you need to trust that I’m not trying to hurt you” was said too. Most importantly, I was told: “the relationship we have in this room will come to be the prototype of the relationships you have outside of this room. If you can be vulnerable and trusting in here, you will have a new blueprint of how to behave out there”. Sound logic, I thought. He’s into attachment theory and I guess I am too -- the relationship I had from my primary caregiver growing up was inconsistent, punitive, cold, dismissive and contemptuous, and that’s how antisocials get this way, most of the time. We didn’t learn the things that non-sociopaths would consider to be markers of goodness and humanity. Therapy is where you try to learn those things.  In my first few weeks, my therapy was on a day where I attend university to do my degree in psychology (finally, eh?). I told the therapist it wasn’t possible for me to attend those days without my performance at uni being compromised. I was told, in the kindest way possible, look do you want therapy or not? Because I’m in the UK and poor, I’m receiving the therapy through the NHS. Waiting lists are long and you take what you can get. I was lucky to get therapy in the first place. Still, I missed a few, and the day was finally changed. I didn’t miss any more sessions because I didn’t need to, and was told that I couldn’t miss any more unless it was a medical issue. Then, I got the flu.  Now I don’t know if you’ve had the flu, you probably have. It’s that kind of virus where your throat is on fire and your bones are aching and every muscle hurts to move and you feel you’ve been hit by a city bus for a week. I couldn’t get into therapy, but given our agreement about medical absences, I thought we were good. Nobody called to gripe about this absence, and my next appointment was in just two days from now. Then I got a letter telling me I was no longer receiving therapy, citing “competing demands in [my] personal life” -- a decision that has been made for me. “I want to assure you this is not a decision I have taken lightly. I have no doubt that you wanted to engage in therapy”. I tried to call to smooth things over and explain that a sick note is making its way to them to excuse my absence, but guess what? My therapist is on leave. Because he’s allowed time off from his demanding personal life.  And now I have some thoughts.  As mentioned earlier, I study psychology. My initial degree was a major in psychology, and a minor in psychotherapy. I was going to become a therapist, if you can imagine such a charade, but one semester into my studies I realised through “self reflection” and a practical exam where I had to give therapy for ten minutes to prove what i’d learned, that I straight up don’t have the empathy. I should’ve known to begin with, but I don’t. I couldn’t do it, or feel it, I had this man sitting in front of me (a classmate) talking either candidly or in character, I didn’t care to really speculate, about feeling like a failure, letting himself down. My instinct was to try to show him the things in his life that were good, snap him out of it as gently as I could but at least get him to stop talking and having those thoughts, and I was given the feedback that I shouldn’t try to hurry someone out of feeling bad, I should sit with their feeling, let them feel their feeling, reflect it back to them, show them that I’m feeling it with them. I pretended in the re-exam in order to pass, but the whole time I felt myself knowing just how on display I was, and how this was different to performing empathy in day to day life; this was real, applied, intense and unwavering empathy I had to show. I passed, and I dropped the module so that next year it will be replaced by forensic psychology. I don’t have what it takes, and I’m ok with that. But my therapist knew he had what it took. He did the schooling, got the MA, has a background in social work, he sat with pain and shared his pain and learned and cared and earned the title of Psychotherapist through the kind of work I shirked from at the first hurdle. Not only does he experience empathy, but he made a career out of it. And in that room, I was encouraged to trust him, though he could not trust me to be ill, and could not empathise at all. I admire the pretence perhaps, but I am resentful of its consequence. He has so much empathy, he thought it would be a good idea to coax traumas out of me, and in turn the trust that I would speak and confront them knowing they would finally get folded away. His attachment theory deal encouraged me to re-learn what interpersonal interactions really are, the good that people really have, the contempt I’ve been wasting. And all I have learned from him is the same I have learned since being very small: you can’t trust people. There’s no such thing as help. There’s no such thing as selflessness. There’s no such thing as empathy. There’s no such thing as trust. I am someone who does not need love. I am someone who must not ask for help. The only way to not be weakened by my trauma, is to be strengthened by it. Weakness is to talk, talking leaves you open to exploitation. Vulnerability is a curse. It’s a dog eat dog world. It’s every man for himself. And it’s funny because just last week I wondered if the mood had changed. Sociopaths, whilst hilariously low on affective empathy, can read a room, a tone, a palpable shift at the very least. I don’t know if this is because of years of studying human performance, or a hypervigilant hangover from an abusive childhood where tone-reading was essential and could be the thing that stopped you getting a beating, reading the mood and charming your way out of it before it got violent, it may even be something neurobiological, who knows. But I sensed something else. We’ve never said the words, antisocial or otherwise, but it’s known. And I think last week, he knew that he knew. Now I don’t want to get all paranoid, but I know this story very well. Sociopath walks into a therapist’s office. Sociopath is encouraged to walk right back out again.  And I wonder if the diagnosis of ASPD is a morally correct one. Why diagnose a mental illness to begin with? Well, usually because it’s causing the person distress, and could be treated to improve that person’s quality of life. But what’s the treatment for ASPD? If threadbare research has kind of sort of perhaps but maybe not “proven” that antisocials don’t respond to therapy, then is the correct way to test this half-baked theory to in fact remove that decision away from antisocials? And how many times have I heard antisocial friends tell me they’ve been refused therapy, or spoken to like shit in therapy, or dropped from therapy when their diagnosis became apparent? Is it ethical to diagnose antisocial personality disorder if you have no desire or intent whatsoever to help that person? Who is that diagnosis helping, exactly? Because there are no medications licensed, and there’s no inpatient treatment, no therapy, nothing at all unless you’re willing to pay through the nose for what is essentially guesswork. It is known that if two people commit the same crime but one of them has ASPD, that person will receive a harsher custodial sentence. Not because of what they’ve done, but what they might do in future. Is the diagnosis of ASPD a morally sound one? Who is it protecting? What purpose does it serve? I have said this before and will repeat it until my bones seize completely: antisocials are just as likely to have come from trauma and neglect as those with BPD, and cPTSD. Antisocials have extremely high rates of addiction. Antisocials are just as likely to commit suicide as borderlines, a figure we can agree is very high. But who cares about a dead sociopath?  Who cares about a living one? And if I get my therapist back, what then? What will therapy look like now I’ve lost respect and trust for this person? When they say that sociopaths don’t respond to therapy because “They’ll always just try to analyse the therapist, that’s their problem”... perhaps, yes. Because if you poke a hungry bear with a stick over and over again, the bear might bite you, even despite what studies have said about bears in captivity secretly not wanting food, based on a sample size of two bears who ate their gatekeepers. 

[lyesera-thoughts]

Fibromyalgia

I picked a very technical picture this time, not sure how I feel about it. Mostly drawn in by the colorful circles.

Anyways, Fibromyalgia. It’s a fancy word that, until recently, basically meant “You’re always in pain and we can’t figure out why”.

It’s put a huge negative outlook on the condition and my understanding is that many doctors still treat it as non-existent.

There is currently no test that can conclusively say, 100%, that you have fibromyaglia. This isn’t a disease, it is a condition. Which was news to me when I started learning about it, because it was now a condition that I appear to have.

I’d say in the last 2-3 years I noticed a sensitivity to touch. One that I couldn’t place and ignored for a long time, until it started causing strain in my relationship with my fiance. Suddenly, his holding my arm, hugging me, laying his head on my shoulders, laying on top of me (fully or even just on my side) caused sharp pains. Every time I told him, he scoffed in disbelief.

His disbelief turned to our frustration and, in my case, my instant reaction to start shoving him away from me when it happened. I don’t blame him anymore. I was mad he didn’t believe me, but I couldn’t explain what was going on. So, to him, it wasn’t a thing. We both know better now.

That sensitivity turned to everyday pain and it got to the point until the end of 2018, I was running at a constant pain level of 3-4 and there was nothing that was stopping it, short of marijuana. Yes, I consume marijuana, in my defense I waited until it was legal in my state to do so! I find doing illegal things (even non-harmful things) can cause panic attacks so it wasn’t even a thing I would consider until laws changed. Point is, over-the-counter painkillers weren’t killing it.

I explained my journey into being diagnosed with this condition in another post already, but the summary was, a lot of blood tests were done. The only abnormal thing that could be seen was that my C-Reactive Protein was 2-3 times the highest acceptable number.

C-Reactive Protein is how we can detect inflammation in the blood. We have a range that, depending on the source you hear it from, is somewhere under 7 or somewhere under 10. Mine has, per my last blood test 4 months ago, peaked out at 21.

Fibromyalgia is a condition that, when you have large amounts of inflammation in your blood, turns your pain dial to 11 (you know that 1-10 pain scale hospitals will ask you about?). And then you get stuck there. There are specific pressure points that tend to be more painful than others and that appears to be the most common way to be diagnosed now. You have to have this pain point test completed by a Rheumatologist before you can be diagnosed. Which, after a 6 month wait, because rheumatologists are that busy, I finally had done in January of this year.

This led me into really learning more about this condition and what I learned is there is a lot of speculation, but not a lot of concrete facts. Here’s what I have gleaned.

1) There is no genetic factor to fibromyalgia that can be detected. But it does appear to be common in folks who have immediate family members with the condition. In my case, my mother has been diagnosed.

2) There may be a trigger in that is is most commonly found in those that either have PTSD or have suffered a brain or spin injury. My pain peaked following a concussion I suffered in December 2016.

3) People with fibromyalgia have anxiety, depression, and sleep issues. All of which I have, but I had them before I experienced pain, so I’m not sure if they are symptoms of the condition or if they are results of the condition or if this is a case of I already had the others, I won’t see them develop out of the condition.

4) There is no cure for fibromyalgia. This seems to be true as it is a condition, not a disease. It can be treated with cleaner eating, exercise, and/or prescription medications. The key is to lower the inflammation in your blood, which will turn off your body’s need to dial up your pain receptors.

5) Inflammation is caused by stress, poor eating/food sensitivities, poor sleep, and a few others I cannot recall at this time. This also seems to be true for me. If I have a bad night of sleep or if I only snack on carbs and sugar all day, I have terrible pains. I also discovered that my body doesn’t like red meats or a ton of dairy. I can only have them in small doses. A really stressful day can also bring pain, but for me it seems that my stress has to be extreme. My general anxiety doesn’t bring pain, but if I’m borderline panic, it can come.

That all being said, I have found that I am doing just fine without medications. I am dedicated to living this new, cleaner life style and the key focus that my physical therapist, my gym, my doctor, and my nutritionist all agree on is “sustainable”.

This isn’t a “fad-diet” or a “temporary cleanse”. This is something that I will have to live with my entire life, so it has to be enjoyable.

No food is off limits to me, not a single one. But I have learned that while I can enjoy them once in a while, constant partaking of them causes pain. I can enjoy them and I know when to stop so that I can continue to be pain free.

I know that being stationary causes stiffness and, in other parts of my body, even swelling. This causes inflammation and pain. I spend 30-60 minutes at least 3 times a week being active. It’s really not much time at all, if you think about it. What’s half an hour to an hour out of your day to enjoy a pain free life? 

Always work with your doctors. They may come off stern or scary, but they’re trained to help you. Communicate with them, tell them what you hope to achieve. They will help you.

[taenamseok]

The Case of Her Heart

Masterlist

Summary: A damaged man that just wants to feel alive again. A detective who doesn't understand people's emotions. Can they work together to bring down a criminal mastermind?

Previous/ Next

Chapter Three

"What do you mean 'what are you doing here'? Can I not stop by to check up on my darling little sister?" The man smirks. Namjoon looks between the two in confusion, Y/N's sharp glare on the man as he casually sips his tea. "Little sister?" Namjoon asks. Y/N sighs, clearly irritated. "Yes. Namjoon, this is my tedious older brother, Yoongi." She says before heading to the kitchen. "Hello." Yoongi mumbled before taking a sip of his tea. "Um, hello." Namjoon stutters.

"So what, Y/N, is this one of your old homeless network people." Yoongi chuckles. "No, hes a friend. He'll be taking the flat upstairs." Y/N rambled, sorting through the abundance of lab equipment in the kitchen. "A friend?" "I will?" Yoongi and Namjoon ask simultaneously. "Yes." Y/N sighs irritably. "If you want to." "Well, I haven't even see it yet, so I can't exactly make a decision." Namjoon chuckles. "You haven't seen it yet? Well then, I'll show you. Yoongi, please make sure you're not here when I get back." Y/N grabs Namjoon's wrist, pulling him towards the door.

"Now now, Y/N, you know why I'm here. It's your weekly-" "Sh." Y/N cuts Yoongi off quickly. "I'm busy. Another time." She says quickly before pulling Namjoon out of the flat. Yoongi sighs, setting his tea down. Jin sat down in the armchair across from him with a newspaper, silently reading. "Seokjin, why can't she just realize I just want to look after her? I just want to make sure she doesn't overdose again." Yoongi groans, resting his head on his hand. "I know, none of us want that again, but I have a feeling that no one will ever be able to get through that thick skull of hers."

Y/N unlocks the door, a cloud of dust spilling out as the door swings open, causing the two to cough. "Obviously it needs a little cleaning." Y/N coughs. She shows him around the flat, and it's not that bad. It's the same layout as hers, the only difference is that its empty, a cornflower blue coating the walls. "So what do think?" She asks, clapping her hands together. "Um, it's nice. Its a good size, just needs a little TLC." Namjoon nods, looking around. "Yes, I agree."

"Well then, what do you think, Namjoon?" Jin asks, setting his newspaper down. "Its nice. I really like it. How much a month would it be?" "Can you please discuss that elsewhere? I have things I need to do up here and I need silence." Y/N groans, bouncing on her toes. "Y/N, not too much." Jin warns, pointing a finger at her. Y/N only rolls her eyes in response, passing them on her way to her bedroom. "Come on, we'll talk about this in my flat." Jin sighs, leading Namjoon downstairs.

It had been a few days since Namjoon's first meeting with Y/N, and he has visited Baker Street every day since, whether by her request for company or to clean the flat upstairs before he moved his stuff in at the end of the week. He had gone a few places with her, following silently as they visited odd places, solving a few cases unrelated to the disappearances. Namjoon was sitting at his desk in his own flat when he got a text.

Y/N: Meet me at the lab. Namjoon put down his pencil, closing the journal that he had bought as recommended by his therapist.

Namjoon walked into the lab, seeing Y/N standing at a whiteboard, a bunch of note that made no sense to Namjoon scribbled on there. "Namjoon, come take a look at this." She said, biting the end of the marker. He stands next to her and glances over all of the writing on the whiteboard. "What do you think of this?" She asks, pointing at the board. "Um, I don't know. What is it about?" He asks, putting his hands in his pockets casually. He had grown more comfortable around Y/N over time, trusting her for some reason, something he hadn't done in a long time.

"I looked around for that name in Joyce Meriweather's letter, Charlie. I figured if I found out who Charlie was it'd give me a hint as to who she went with. So, my research brought me to a hospital, St. Agatha's." "The children's hospital?" "Correct." Y/N smirked. "Charlie Meriweather, aged twelve, diagnosed with leukemia. Now, I want you to read over what I have here and tell me how Charlie is related to Joyce." Y/N says, stepping back. "Is this a test?"

"Yes, of sorts." Namjoon clears his throat, his eyebrows furrowing as he reads over the material. After a few minutes he comes to his conclusion.

"Hes her brother." Namjoon smiles confidently. "And how did you come up with that?" "Well, they have the same last name, but she had him very young and was married very young, she couldn't be his mother. Back at the flat, there was also no child's toys or pictures around. She cares for him, has the same last name, too old to be her child, so, brother." Y/N smirks at his response.

"Well, that's not all the evidence, but you're correct, so I applaud you. Yes, he is in fact, her younger brother." She says, walking over to sit down on a stool. As she sits, the door opens, the mortician, Hoseok, stepping in. Namjoon had come to know that for working around dead people all the time, Hoseok was surprisingly lively, always cracking jokes and such. This time, he had a man following behind him. He was a little bit taller than Hoseok, his hair dyed grey, an oversized jumper covered his torso as some ripped skinny jeans covered his lower half.

"And this is the lab." Hoseok said. "Oh, hello. I didnt expect anyone to be in here." Hoseok chuckles. "I was just showing my friend around. Um, Tae, this is-" "Min Y/N. I've read about you. You're like, super smart, right?" The man asks, holding a hand out to Y/N. Her eyes scan him for a moment before shaking his hand. "Wow, you're even hotter in person." Tae smirks, biting his lip. "Charming." Y/N rolls her eyes, standing and walking over to the counter.

"Nice try, Tae, but trust me, I've been trying for years. It's not gonna work." Hoseok chuckles. Tae circles the counter, looking at the whiteboard before standing beside Y/N. Namjoon watches as he slips her a small piece of paper, whispering something in her ear before turning away, smiling at Namjoon in the process. "Well, Hobi, this was an awesome tour and all, but I gotta head back. I'll be waiting for that text, Y/N." Tae winks at Y/N before leaving.

"Sorry about that, hes still a bit immature. Playing the field, living life, you know." Hoseok chuckles. Y/N hums in response, getting up and grabbing her coat. "Come on, Namjoon, he have some places to check out." She says before walking out the door, Namjoon quickly following her.

"So, what exactly are you doing?" Namjoon asks, relaxing in his armchair. He hadn't been around long, but the plush chair had become his seat, right across from Y/N's. She sat at the desk, typing away as Namjoon watched as her fingers danced elegantly across the keys. "I'm looking through the data base of the hospitals in the area of the disappearances to confirm a theory of mine." Y/N says.

"What's the theory?" "Well, maybe if Joyce was taken to help her little brother, I presume helping by doing something for money that'll help pay for treatment, maybe the other missing persons went for the same reason. So, I'm looking to see if any of the others have family members that are currently undergoing any form of treatment." She rambles.

"Anything so far?" "No, not yet." Y/N sighs. They sit in silence for a few moments before she blots out of her chair, shouting. "What?" Namjoon cries, shocked by the action. "I finally got something. Right here. Martin Willington. Same name as James Willington." Y/N smiles excitedly, looking like a child that was just given their favorite treat. "Well, what do you say we go pay Mr. Willington a visit?"

"How can I help you?" The receptionist asks. "Hello. Yes, um, I was wondering what room my Uncle Martin is in." "Identification please?" "Oh, of course." Y/N says, pulling out a wallet. Namjoon looks, multiple IDs lined up in the wallet. She picked one and handed it to the woman. The woman took it, handing it back to Y/N along with a small name tag sticker. "Alright, here you go Mrs. Banner. Room 464."

"Thank you so much. Come darling, let's go." Y/N smiled, taking Namjoon's hand in hers. Namjoon is slightly stunned, but stays composed as they walk through the hall, hand in hand. Once they're out of sight of the reception desk Y/N drops his hand. "Mrs. Banner?" Namjoon chuckles. "Yes. Also Ms. Bennett, Mrs. Dodman, Johnson, etcetera." She smirks. "Can never use the same one more than once though. I have a guy."

Namjoon silently applauds her, standing in the elevator as it ascends to the fourth floor. When the doors open they follow the hallway to room 464. The door is open, so they walk in, the only person in the room being the man laying in the bed. "Mr. Willington?" Y/N asks softly, circling the bed. The man shifts slightly, looking at her. Hes an older gentleman, his hair greying. "Yes? Who are you?" He croaks. "My name is Y/N. I just have a few questions." "About James?" "Yes. Do you mind?" "No, not at all." Y/N pulls a seat to the side of the bed, taking a seat as Namjoon stand awkwardly to the side.

"Mr. Willington, how are you and James related?" "Ah, hes my nephew. Brother's son. Such a nice boy." Martin smiles. "And you were close?" Y/N asks. "Yes. I don't have any children of my own, so Jimmy is like a son to me. Is there any news from him?" Martin asks, excitedly. "No, I'm sorry. Mr. Willington, after his disappearance, has anything strange happened?" "Well, not too much, but I think Jimmy is taking care of me. After he left, the doctors have said someone has been paying large amounts of money towards my treatment." Martin smiles.

"Money? Do you know from who?" Y/N asks curiously. "No. Its only under the name of Kim Industries." "Kim Industries? I've never heard of that." Y/N says, chewing the inside of her cheek. "Neither have I, but I know Jimmy has something to do with it."

After the encounter, Y/N and Namjoon head back to Baker Street, Y/N back on the computer while Namjoon reads, Jin in the kitchen making tea. "Nothing. Theres absolutely nothing." Y/N sighs, her head falling harshly on the desk. "No Kim Industries at all?" Namjoon asks. "No." Y/N mumbles into the wood.

Y/N's phone pings, a notification popping up on the screen. "What does it say?" She asks Namjoon. He grabs the phone, unlocking it and tapping on the notification. It's a text message from an unknown number. "You're about to travel into dangerous territory, Ms. Min. I look forward to our little game. Just a warning, I never lose." Namjoon read aloud. Y/N sits up, cocking her head to the side. "From who?" She asks. "Unknown number. Theres a signature though. KT."

"KT? Hm. Strange. I'll have to talk to Jason about it." Y/N sighs. "His name is Jimin, not Jason." Namjoon chuckles, Y/N dismissing him with a wave of the hand.

"Hello?" The young man answers his phone. "I sent you some pictures. Let me know what you think." The deep voice echoes through the speaker. The phone buzzes, the man looking at the messages. Multiple pictures of a young woman load onto the screen. She's beautiful, and his breath hitches. "Who is she?" He asks. "Her name is Min Y/N. I need you to distract her for a bit. She's on my trail and I'm not ready yet. I need you to help me get a bit more time." The deep voice says.

The young man licks his lips, a million ideas running through his mind. "Yes, sir. I think I have something in mind. This is going to be so much fun." He chuckles.

[social-buttface]

I also want to chime in a bit of my own experience. I’m a white cis female who has ADHD, clearly coming from my mother and both bio grandmothers, and maternal grandfather, so I was always predisposed to it. However I was only diagnosed with depression as a child, at 8, and was put on a cocktail of SSRIs from ages 11-18 when I quit cold turkey in college, because my dad was no longer there to help me remember to take them. Lost a ton of weight and had pretty severe withdrawal symptoms (my roommate was scared for me, as I was throwing up from the shakes and anxiety every day).

About a year later I started to realize I have ADHD due to posts like these, and began pushing for a diagnosis. However, at first they didn’t want to diagnose me, because I’m moderately-severely hard of hearing & have been my whole life, so it was too much of a “confounding variable” for the first therapist I had. The second therapist, however, actually listened to me, and nearly diagnosed me just based on the ping-pongy way I was describing my symptoms to her. I got a diagnosis test from her 3 months later (that was as often as I could get an appointment; I’ve since given up). She concluded I did indeed have inattentive type ADHD with some symptoms of the hyperactive type (fidgeting, rambling). She instructed me that I had to get a drug test & an EKG before I could be approved for medication.

An avid weed consumer as a way of self-medicating (although it only makes my symptoms worse, but, y’know, it feels good so I did it a *lot*) I had to go cold turkey off weed for like a month. Got the pee test. Passed. Time for the EKG!

A couple weeks after the EKG I got a call from my physician. She noticed an unusual pattern in my heart’s electrical impulses, indicative of WPW (Wolff-Parkinson-White) Syndrome, in which I essentially have an extra nerve in my heart that causes palpitations & lightheadedness and even fainting (“Oh…so THAT’S what all that was about my whole life.”) I’d told my parents and doctors of these symptoms since I was a child and all they said was “You’re overweight, lose weight and it will fix it.” Well it turns out losing weight would do nothing and “fixing it” involves invasive heart surgery where they burn off that extra nerve. Might get it in the future, because:

This *new* diagnosis rules me out of being eligible to do what I was trying to do in the first place, which is get medication! On top of that I am already registered in the system as having nicotine and weed addiction/dependency issues, which I was trying to get help with during quarantine, and am now regretting because it will only be used against me. So not only did they not want to diagnose me at first because i’m HOH, but now they won’t/can’t give me medication because they think I’ll abuse it and i that it will cause a heart attack.

So I drink coffee every day & am looking into caffeine pills. It’s the only thing that helps me focus at all. I also still have an incredibly difficult time not smoking weed/nicotine when it is available to me, because it provides temporary relief and my impulses are stronger than the knowledge in my head. I know weed makes my symptoms worse and makes me uncontrollably anxious half the time, and I know nicotine will give me cancer. It breaks my partner’s heart when they see me smoking, and they’ve told me to stop, and I’ve agreed and intended to stop, but every time it is available I do it again. It’s even worse since I’m now 21. I should exercise, but WPW makes it pretty painful for me to do so at times (cardio, anyway). Besides, ever since I was put on SSRIs as a child I gained a lot of weight at it has stayed with me, even as an adult and with the withdrawal weight loss. My skin is loose and hangs down. So it’s difficult to exercise with all my body fat swinging around. I like my belly and boobs but they makes things hard sometimes. It sucks! It really fucking sucks and all I ever wanted was to be taken seriously as a child and maybe this all could have been prevented.

anyways can we start recognizing adhd as an actual and serious disorder that

can affect on functioning in every day life so badly that it interferes with taking care of very basic human needs

is not 10 yrs old white boy exclusive disorder

is not a fake disorder created to benefit medicine companies

definitely should not be reduced to “kid who cant sit still and wont stop screaming” stereotypes because adhd has a whole fuckton of symptoms ranging from serious memory issues to fine motor control difficulties

[rainbow-sides]

Anomalies: Chapter Four

Summary: Anomalies is about different reactions to grief and how four brothers each respond to the death of their mother. The oldest brother, Roman, gets custody of the twins, Patton and Virgil, and the youngest brother, Logan, after their mother`s death. Virgil is also trying to navigate through a multitude of anxiety disorders, including OCD and trichotillomania, with the help of his brothers and his therapist, Dr. Picani. But meanwhile, Roman isn`t sure he can handle the responsibility of taking care of his brothers, Logan doesn`t process loss in a way most people can understand, and Patton isn`t nearly as okay as he seems…

Warnings: Death of a parent, grief, anxiety, trichotillomania, panic attacks, obsessive thought spirals, dissociation, OCD, some swearing, mentions of terminal illness (leukemia), thoughts about death, self-hatred, self-depreciation. For a list of the content warnings for the whole story as well as more information, please see this post. Please heed the warnings and stay safe.

Word Count: 1,808

Notes:

Masterpost to All Chapters

The next Friday, he walked out of Dr. Picani’s office with diagnoses of OCD, trich, and a panic disorder. He managed to hold it together until he got into the car, and then started to cry. Patton, who had come with him again, slid over into the middle seat so he could do both of their seatbelts and then put his arms around his twin.

“This is a good thing,” their mother said as she drove out of the parking garage. “Now that we know why you’re feeling this way, we can work on making it better. Are you okay with Dr. Picani, or do you want to find a different doctor?”

“I’d rather stay with him,” Virgil replied, trying to keep his breathing under control with the exercise that the therapist had taught him. “He--he’s good, I like him.”

“Is he helping?”

“Uh-huh.” Virgil nodded, putting his head down on Patton’s shoulder with a sniffle. “I mean--I don’t know how much anyone can actually help, but...if anyone can, I think it might be him.”

And over the next six months, things did improve. A lot. Virgil actually managed to get the trich under control, and he was passing out from panic attacks a lot less. After a few weeks, he didn’t have anxiety attacks about going to see Dr. Picani anymore. He actually found himself looking forward to it, which really surprised him. He could laugh at the therapist’s slightly ridiculous, over the top cartoon comparisons one minute and then talk to him about the deeply rooted obsessive rituals that he had never told anyone else about the next minute. Some of his eyelashes even started to grow back.

Then their mother had been diagnosed with leukemia, and all of the progress flew out the window.

The night after the confirmed diagnosis was told to him, he found himself in front of the bathroom mirror. He could barely remember doing it, he must have dissociated, but pretty much all of his eyelashes were gone again, and most of one eyebrow. As soon as he realized what he had done, he burst into tears and collapsed onto the bathroom floor with a thud, smacking his arm against the cabinet.

A few seconds later, someone was knocking at the door. “Virgil! Virgil, what was that sound? Virgil, are you crying? Open the door, please, let me come in,” Roman pleaded.

Footsteps, and then Patton’s voice joined him. “Virge?” he said, sounding frightened. “Virge, are you okay? Answer me!”

Shaking so hard he could barely get his hands to cooperate, he reached up and unlocked the door. It flew open.

“Oh, Virgil, honey!” Roman exclaimed. “Oh…”

Patton dropped down in front of him and grabbed his hands. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” he said. “What happened? Did you fall? Are you hurt?”

Virgil shook his head. Sobbing, he tried to explain that he had relapsed with the trich. Knowing that he wasn’t making much sense and finding it difficult to put words in any sort of coherent order, he wiped away his eye makeup roughly with the back of his hand.

Patton gasped sharply. “Oh! Oh, Virgil...oh, you should have told me it was bad again.”

“I was doing so good,” Virgil sobbed. “I w-was doing so good, I d-don’t understand, I was t-trying s-so hard! And n-now I f-fucked it all up, I c-can’t...I’m a f-failure, m-mom’s gonna be s-so disappointed, and so is Dr. Picani…” He hit the floor with his fist, wincing at the pain.

Roman nudged Patton aside, saying, “Virgil, let’s get you out of the bathroom. Come here, it’s okay, we’ve got you.” He hesitated for a second, then just scooped the crying Virgil up into his arms and carried him down the hall into the nearest bedroom, Patton’s. He set him down on the bed.

“I’m a failure,” Virgil whimpered again. “And m-mom’s gonna see when she g-gets home from her appointment, and I’m g-gonna have to t-tell Dr. Picani that I fucked up, and I’m so stupid, I hate myself for fucking this up, I--”

For once, Patton didn’t tell him off for swearing. He held Virgil’s hands as tightly as he could. “You’re not a failure,” he said sternly. “Listen to me, Virgil. The...the news we got yesterday, it’s messing with all of us. Logan hasn’t said a word all day, I...I can barely stop crying.” And indeed, there were tears dripping down his cheeks. “It’s scary, Virgil, and Dr. Picani told you that it gets worse when you’re scared or stressed. Remember?”

“Uh-huh,” Virgil managed. “But still--”

“No, no ‘but still’. You aren’t allowed to hate yourself because of this, Virgil. We won’t let you.” He sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled Virgil into his arms. “Nobody is disappointed in you,” he murmured. “Nobody is going to blame you.”

Probably drawn by the noise, Logan nudged his way into the room. He gazed at his brothers, wide-eyed.

“Hey, kiddo,” Patton said. “What's up?”

Logan gestured at Virgil and tilted his head.

“He's...he's gonna be okay,” Patton said.

Logan narrowed his eyes and left the room, walking with purpose.

The phone rang suddenly. Roman groaned. “I'll go get it. You got him?”

“I've got him,” Patton confirmed.

Roman ruffled Virgil’s hair as he rushed off to get the phone.

“Pat?” Virgil said in a tiny voice.

“Yeah?”

“I'm really scared.”

“Me, too.” Pat gave him a squeeze. “Me, too.”

Logan came back into the room and held out one of his koosh-balls. It was pale pink, and a little smaller than the blue one he had given Virgil a while ago.

Virgil smiled through his tears and took the toy. “Oh, Lo...thanks.”

The quiet 12-year old hopped up onto the bed, his legs dangling over the side. “The five year survival rate for leukemia is 63% and rising with advancements in treatment,” he said, the first words he had spoken all day. “The probability is on our side for a good outcome.”

“That...that helps, Logan,” Patton said sincerely. “Are you doing okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Roman walked back through the door, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “That was Mom. She wants us to know that they’re doing more tests, and it might be a while, so don’t wait for her to come home to go to sleep. She says she loves us all, and that she’s really proud of us for being so strong.”

Virgil’s lower lip trembled. He hadn’t been strong.

“I’m really tired,” Patton said, squeezing Virgil’s hand. “Can...can we all stay here tonight?”

“Sure,” Roman agreed. “Let’s all get pajamas. Lo, do you want me to read the next chapter in the book for you?” Logan was, of course, more than capable of reading even very advanced books by himself. However, he also liked being read to, and Roman was always more than happy to oblige, especially if it meant that he got to do character voices. He had just finished reading Logan The Hobbit, and was beginning The Lord of the Rings. Logan had immediately pointed out the flaw in logic with the plot hole that ‘the eagles could have just flown them to Orodruin’. Roman had decided to engage in a debate about realism vs fantasy and plot devices, which was one of the very few topics he had a fighting chance of winning against Logan in. He actually managed to get Logan to suspend disbelief, and now the kid was just really enjoying the novel.

“Yes, please,” Logan said. “If Patton and Virgil are okay with it?”

“I’m definitely gonna fall asleep halfway through the chapter, but sure,” Patton answered.

Virgil nodded his agreement.

Logan and Roman went off to get ready for bed, and the twins got changed in Patton’s room. They went to the bathroom to brush their teeth, Virgil avoiding looking in the mirror at all costs. Then they went back to Patton’s room and settled down on the side of the double bed that was against the wall. Patton reluctantly moved some of his many pillows and stuffed animals on his bed to the top of his dresser.

“Surely you don’t need that many pillows,” Virgil said. “And you’ve got, like, fifteen plushies there.”

“Eighteen, and I love each and every one them,” Patton retorted. “And hey, you like sleeping on a tiny twin bed with about a hundred pounds of blanket on top of you even though Mom offered you a double bed as well. I don’t cast judgement on how you choose to sleep.”

“Whatever,” Virgil said. He had slid down underneath the covers, facing the wall. He was still holding the pink koosh-ball from Logan.

Patton plunked down next to him. “So...how are you doing?” he asked seriously.

Virgil laughed humorlessly. “Well, I’m all out of tears. Is that good or bad?”

“Ohhh…” Patton nestled up against him, sighing. “Virge.”

“No, I…” Even though his eyes were dry, there was a lump in his throat that was difficult to speak around. “Pat, I went almost a month without pulling at all. And then I just completely ruined it. And I hate that that’s what I’m focusing on, and not the fact that our mother has cancer. I just feel like...like I’m a horrible person.”

Patton let out a sound of discontent and wrapped his arms around Virgil’s waist from behind. “You’re not a horrible person.”

“Then why am I crying about my stupid eyelashes instead of our sick mom?” Virgil muttered.

“I don’t have the energy to fight you right now,” Patton said tiredly. “So I’m just gonna hold you instead.”

Virgil exhaled softly. “I appreciate that. I don’t want to fight you, either.”

“Good,” Patton mumbled into his shoulder.

By the time that Roman and Logan returned, the twins were both nearly asleep. Roman got through about five pages before Logan was out as well. The oldest brother put the book on Patton’s bedside table and turned of the lamp that was casting a pale golden light around the periwinkle-colored walls of the bedroom. He had left a note for their mom on the kitchen table to let her know why the first three bedrooms she would check on as she made her way down the hall when she got home were empty.

When she returned from the hospital, exhausted and in a fairly significant amount of pain, the sight of her children curled up together, peacefully asleep, brought a smile to her lips. She blew them each a kiss before slipping out quietly, not wanting to wake them up.

Two years later, the four of them were all sleeping in Patton’s bed again. But now, their mother couldn’t come to check on them. She would never return from the hospital again.

It’s been a pretty cloudy head-day for me, I haven’t really been able to focus on much, so apologies for this sub-par end note. Uhhh, okay. So. Hope you guys are having a good Monday! Make yourself some tea and take some deep breaths, it’s gonna be okay. Try to find some reasons to smile, even if it’s hard. Work for three minutes on something you’ve been putting off. Intend to just do three minutes, and you might be surprised by how much more you end up doing. And if you do only do three minutes, then that’s fine! You accomplished a goal! Great job! I’m so proud of you. Keep going strong, my friends. I love you! <3 ~Martin

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