#and every day i have vertigo and nausea and a headache and my legs have been hurting like hell for 3 or 4 days now

[evelynhug0]

what do i do with a girl who ignores me/doesn't react to my message anymore (after I had to cancel our date because I was doing super badly (mental health))???? it's been more than 24 hours since i sent my voice message. she has listened to it but no reaction so far. do i have to text her again? if so, shall i send something like "are you mad at me?" or "is everything okay?" or "i'm disappointed that you act like this" ????????? or shall i just ignore her/don't react?????

gosh women are so complicated istg

[paingoes]

Destroyer - Moonshine

(Masterlist)

dont tell the others, but this is my favorite chapter by far

(Content: fainting, nausea, overexertion, alcohol, crying) 

==================

Things were ramping up quickly. The missions now came almost back to back, the temporal limitations of space the only obstacle to their continuity. Delta was out in the field at least once a week. Not every job was as dramatic as the deadly laser light show had been, but they were hitting critical targets for the Empire. After the display at the mech site, money suddenly flowed in. Life aboard the Thorn grew a bit more bearable for the soldiers, now getting reacquainted with the affluence that followed the Empire. Simon had been given better tech to train with and was putting it to good use. Delta snapped the heads off of the dummies without a second thought, perhaps dangerously overtrained in his responsiveness. All the excitement was getting to him. He clenched his fist to destroy the next test-dummy and the next thing he knew, he was on the floor.

“Alright, that’s enough for today,” Simon tilted him onto his side, in recovery position. Delta winced as the shock wore off, a dull headache replacing it. Once his head had stopped spinning uncontrollably, he carefully sat up, trying not to vomit from the exertion. Simon sat cross-legged beside him, offering him a juicebox and some crackers. Anything heavier would’ve just added to the nausea.

“How are you feeling, champ?” Simon asked, nudging the juice closer to him, “Feels like we’ve hardly had time to talk recently.”

“I’m okay, sir,” Delta murmured. His head was between his knees, waiting for the rest of the vertigo to drop off, “It doesn’t hurt.”

“Yeah, but with all the changes, y’know. I wanted to check in on you,” Simon leaned in, trying to study his expression, “Emotionally, I mean. See if you were adjusting okay.”

“I’m stable,” Delta said. This was always the answer that got doctors to leave him alone. They’d pry, sometimes, trying to get a more detailed picture of his mental state. It was all just to evaluate his fitness. He would never give them reason to doubt it. He was stable - and you didn’t have to worry about him breaking down or going postal or anything like that.

Simon looked disappointed. He pulled his bag closer, retrieving a medium-sized paperback from it. The cover was a deep red. He offered it to Delta, who immediately began to flip through it.

“It’s a treatise on empire and succession. I know it’s not what you’re usually into, but it seemed relevant, with all that’s going on right now. I thought you might appreciate it,” Simon shrugged, “I have more once you’re finished with that one. I know you read fast.”

“Thank you, sir,” Delta said softly, placing the book beside him. His eyes flitted up, sensing movement from the balcony. A few people had entered, he didn’t know how long ago. They were watching him. Simon noticed too, a tired grin appearing on his face.

“Just some seniors. Probably want to see what all the fuss is about. Finish your meal, kid. We’re not giving free shows.” Simon patted him on the back. Delta flinched at the touch, then felt ashamed at having done so. He sipped at the juicebox pensively.

============

Delta waited outside of Paris’s door. It’d been a minute with no response, but he heard motion inside. He lightly rapped his knuckles against the steel door, stepping back just in case. 

This time, Paris opened it immediately. “The fuck do you want?” 

There were other people in the room with him, talking loudly amongst themselves, laughing.

“You said-“

Paris didn’t even wait for him to finish, “I’m busy. Take the day off.”

The door slammed shut in his face. 

============

This was fine, really. It gave Delta a chance to rest, catch up on the books he’d been reading. But he found himself strangely restless, wanting to pace along the floors of the ship. It was so much busier than it had been a few weeks ago. When he stepped into the central hub, a wave of déjà vu washed over him. There were the Emperor’s old generals and commanders, each of them orbited by their respective factions. He hadn’t seen most of them since his childhood. He was surprised Paris had even allowed them onboard. 

Delta was content to observe from the shadows. Most people went out of their way to avoid him, but with his hair tied up and baggy clothing on, he was not so immediately recognizable. He hovered close to the group that belonged to the General Nezu. Though he wasn’t present himself, Delta recognized many of the staff’s faces. Nezu had worked particularly close with the Emperor, especially towards the end. His people had been spread out across several tables, but as their lunchtime drew nearer, they began to disperse. They localized closer and closer to the leftmost exit of the workspace. Delta noticed the laptop left unguarded.

He didn’t know why he did it. He’d never considered himself particularly sneaky, but then again, he’d never really been given the opportunity. With nobody looking, he used a soft aura of telekinetic energy to slide the laptop off the desk and into his hands. He hid it on the inside of his hoodie, then walked silently and swiftly back to his room. He propped up his chair in front of the door so that it couldn’t be opened from the outside. He put out a little pulse, searching for hidden cameras, making sure none had been installed since the last time he checked. Nothing. He knelt down beside the bed and opened the laptop hinges up, just a little bit, enough to tape up the front camera. Then he opened it up completely. 

It hadn’t autolocked in the time it took to reach his room, thank god. The first thing he did was to disable the passcode lock. He’d never been able to use a personal computer before, but Simon had shown him how it worked when he was curious. He’d even given him books on it. Delta sat up abruptly, moving over to his desk. There was a small flash drive in the bottom drawer. He had nabbed it a few weeks ago, but he hadn’t been able to see what was on it until now. He took the compsci textbook out of its pile, sending the others in it crashing to the ground. He startled at the noise, but rushed back to the laptop to finish the mission. He slammed the drive into the USB port, but it didn’t enter. He flipped it over, trying the other side. Still nothing. He flipped it a final time and it slid in smoothly.

The flash drive itself was mostly empty. There were a few folders he would check out later, but for now, he was focused on copying everything the laptop had onto it. It gave him an estimate of 45 minutes. While he waited, he looked through the windows already opened on the screen. One of them was the Empire portal. Another, the site of one of their ship venders. The last was an email inbox with a financial spreadsheet pulled up. Delta ripped out one of the blank pages from the textbook, jotting down the username and passwords of the websites that were open. He saved the email and the password. Then, he clicked around on the browser, searching for other websites with info he could scrape up. But he didn’t know how to navigate the browser intuitively and began to get scared of triggering some alarm. He looked anxiously at the countdown, waiting for the rest of the files to load. 

Delta ejected the drive, taking a deep breath. He hid it back in the drawer, then turned the laptop off. He flipped it over, feeling the device with his hands, letting his powers give him a sense of the small mechanisms inside of it. He was now glad for the precision practice; it let him swiftly unscrew the bottom of it and begin to disassemble the computer’s guts, searching it over for any signs of a location tracker. When he found none, he gave a sigh of relief, disconnecting the laptop’s battery. He stored them separately, hiding them in a bag beneath his mattress. Then he sat on the mattress, innocently, trying to look calm. It was enough for one day. His hands were shaking too bad to even type, he wasn’t going to push it anymore. He took the book Simon had given him, rolling onto his side to read it.

============

It was well past dinner time when he finally looked up, remembering where he was. Though he wanted to stay in his room, he figured he should probably go eat something before tomorrow. They sprang missions on him all the time now and they were a lot more miserable if he was undereating the day of. He removed the chair from the door, slipping out into the hall.

He was just outside of the kitchen when he heard a soft sobbing. He did a double take, looking down the hall. In one of the offshoot corridors, all the way down by the end, a figure was collapsed against the wall and crying into their hands. With a start, Delta realized it was Paris. He was piss drunk. 

Delta kept walking. The institute he’d grown up in had nurtured certain traits in its students, and empathy was not among them. Nor was excessive emotionality valued in the empire. He filled up his bag with fruit and granola bars, ready to hide out in his room the rest of the night. But as he exited and saw Paris quiet, now toppled over, he felt a small twinge of concern. He hesitated, weighing over the options in his head. Nobody would know if he left, least of all Paris. He wouldn’t even remember any of this in the morning. But it wouldn’t do good to have the prince passed out defenseless, on a ship swarming with his enemies. Delta rolled his eyes, readjusting the bag on his shoulder before heading down the hall. 

“Your Highness?” Delta bent down beside the still form, prodding him gently, “Paris?”

Paris groaned. His face was puffy with a drunken blush. Tear tracks were still visible. It wasn’t a pretty sight.

“Leave me alone,” he whined.

“Alright,” Delta stood up.

“Waitno. Please,” Paris said, his speech slurring. He sounded so sad. “Mm sorry. Don’t go.”

He reached a hand out to grasp Delta’s sleeve, but it wasn’t demanding. It was pleading. He looked like he was going to cry again. Delta gently removed his hand.

“C’mon. Stand up,” he offered both hands to Paris, who took them cautiously. Paris stood up shakily. He was both taller and heavier than Delta - and much stronger, even when he wasn’t trying to be. Delta nearly fell over as Paris leaned on him.

“Wherewe going?” He mumbled.

“Bed,” Delta told him. Paris let out a small giggle, before remembering how miserable he was.

“They fucking left meee,” Paris’s voice was both high and raspy. Delta walked him down the hall. He took him into the elevator, confident they would not make it up the stairs. Delta shushed him, which did not work.

“They’re all juss snakes and vipers. They don’t have feeeeelings. None of em care.” His voice was weepy and without venom. “Nobody care. How am I supposed to save this? Is ruined. I can’t.”

The elevator door dinged open. Delta half-pushed, half-carried him out. Paris took the wall for support, which was a great help. They managed to stumble down the remaining length of the hallway until they’d arrived at Paris’s room. Delta had to scan the keycard for him; he was looking at it like he didn’t know what it was. Delta fumbled for the lightswitch, throwing Paris off in the general direction of the bed. Delta shut the door, looking around the room. It was totally trashed, even worse than usual. Bottles laid everywhere, as well as various loose articles of clothing, makeup and face paint. He pinched the bridge of his nose, knowing he’d be the one to clean it up in the morning. Paris was crumpled up on the bed, still fully dressed. 

“Do you want to take your shoes off?” Delta asked him, keeping a considerable distance. Paris kicked them off with real signs of struggle, even worse when he had to remove his jacket. With a sigh, Delta unbuttoned the front for him, peeling it off his shoulders. He was slick with sweat and grime. Not seeming to care, Paris collapsed back down on the bed, at least this time managing to get his head on the pillow. Delta moved to bring him a glass of water from the bathroom sink.

“Thank you,” Paris said sweetly as he placed the glass down on the nightstand.

“Don’t mention it,” Delta rolled his eyes. He jumped when Paris reached for his wrist.

“Stay?” Paris begged, “Please stay.” 

Delta wrenched his wrist away. “Absolutely not. You’ll beat the shit out of me if I’m still here in the morning.”

“Nuh I won’t,” Paris promised, “Please stay.”

“Goodnight, Your Highness,” Delta backed out the door, flipping the light off.

~~~

Tags: @catnykit @indigoviolet311 @snakebites-and-ink

[lilacella]

Last chapter, yay 🥳

People are dying.

I hurt myself with this one...

Nightsky

Chapter 11: My Immortal

First Previous

Remus woke up with a thrumming headache. His entire body hurt, his mouth was dry and when he tried to open his eyes, the vertigo hit him like a freight train. He quickly shut them again, trying to take deep breaths to calm himself and maybe mitigate the upcoming nausea.

It wasn't like he didn't knew these symptoms. Waking up after a full had always been a delightful experience...But now that he was in his fifties, transformations had gotten much worse. His joints would feel loose for days and ache, whenever he walked. It had been a gradual but noticable process. One which he tried to hide from Sirius as good as possible. He didn't want him to worry.

So he was somewhat relieved that Sirius had apparently already gone to work this morning, not before tucking Remus in on the small bed they kept in the basement, of course.

Remus stayed still for a while, hoping that he would soon feel good enough to get up and crawl upstairs. He needed his potions from the medicine cabinet. He should have brought them down here, really, but that might have let Sirius know that something was wrong. Sirius already worried about him too much. Remus didn't like it. It was nice that he cared, but Remus couldn't bear the sympathy. He could do this himself!

With a determined push he lifted himself off the mattress. But when he tried to get up, his legs just gave in and he collapsed on the floor, hitting his face on the ground. He groaned. His lip was split. But in his current state this was his least concern. What should he do?

He tried to get up once more but couldn't muster the strength. With every attempt of moving, his head hurt worse, feeling like someone was screwing something into his skull from all sides. It was unbearable. He pressed his cheek to the cold stone tile, hoping the coolness would help with his head. It didn't really. He threw up. The convulsion off his body hurting every single cell off him. It had never been this bad before. Remus felt like he was dying, and maybe he was.

Now, he wished Sirius were still here. He needed help, as much as he didn't want to admit hit. He needed Sirius, needed him to get his potions, to hold him gently, whispering that it would be okay. He needed him to carry him upstairs into their bed, away from the cold hard floor, giving him Sleeping Draught and stroking his head until he fell into a merciful sleep.

But Sirius wasn't here. He was at work and would not be back until evening. Remus was trembling. He just wanted the pain to stop. He could feel his stomach twist again.

When the basement door creaked open, flooding the basment with light, and Sirius voice called out to him Remus thought, for a second, that maybe he had indeed died. The thought was quickly discarded, because his body still felt very much alive and miserable. He didn't have the strength to look up to Sirius but he could feel him approaching, hear him gasp in shock and then returning after a trip upstairs.

"Remus? Try to sit up, love. Can you? It's okay, I'm here." Sirius voice was comforting but Remus couldn't do what he asked him. So Sirius gently pulled him into a sitting position and put something cold against Remus lips.

"Can you drink this? I got you your potion."

Remus opened his lips weakly and let Sirius pour the sharp tasting liquid into his mouth. He almost choked, coughing painfully, while Sirius was still the only thing keeping him upright.

Remus didn't remember much about how Sirius had gotten him upstairs. But he must have, because when he woke up, feeling significantly better, he was laying in their bed, wearing his favorite pyjamas, a steaming cup of tea on his bedside. Sirius must have cast a spell on it to keep it hot.

Remus carefully tried to sit up and found that he could. He still felt dizzy and cranky but this was what he'd always felt like after the moon, when he was younger. He looked out of the window and saw that the sun was setting. He frowned. How long had he slept?! The whole night and the following day? He called out to Sirius who came rushing up the stairs at a speed that startled him.

"Are you okay? Do you need something?" Sirius braced himself against the doorframe to decelerate after running.

Remus smiled fondly.

"I'm much better, thank you. I just..." he pointed at the window. "How long was I out?"

"About eight hours I'd say." Remus frowned. This made no sense.

"But...when did you come home?"

"At about ten. The ring called me."

Remus frowned again but then he remembered and looked down on his ringfinger. The wedding rings. Of course.

When they got married, Sirius had hexed their rings with a complicated spell. They worked similarly to the mirror that he and James shared: If one of them was in trouble and needed the other - you had to think about it really hard to make it work - the other's ring would get warm and glow. You could then take it off and roll it accross a surface - preferably paper - and the ring would print out the current position of the one calling. Sirius had thought that after the Greyback debacle, this would be helpful. They had never used it before, but now it had worked and probably spared Remus a couple hours of crippling agony.

Sirius smiled proudly.

"Told you these would be helpful."

Remus sighed and smiled back.

"Thank you for coming back so quickly."

Sirius sat down on the bed, taking one of Remus hands in his.

"What happened? It has never been this bad?"

Remus contemplated what to tell Sirius for a moment. He still didn't want him to worry, but he'd seen him now, anyways. He sighed.

"I am afraid the effect of the transformations on my body have worsened with age. It is much harder for me to recover now, than it was a couple years ago. I...I didn't want to worry you."

Sirius frowned and then squeezed his hand, rubbing circles over the back of it with his hands.

"You should have told me. Maybe there is something we can do to help you."

Remus shook his head, sadly.

"I don't think there is. I'm just an old werewolf now, love."

"But I can at least take off work and stay with you after the moons. So this won't happen again. I never want to come home to find you like this again..."

"I'm sorry."

Sirius shook his head.

"Nothing to be sorry about, Remus. Just know," he looked up and met Remus' eyes. "That I'm here for you. 'Till death do us part and all that stuff. But it better not!"

Remus laughed weakly and pulled Sirius into his arms.

**

"I'm really worried about him. It just keeps getting worse. He can't even really walk anymore," Sirius said, stirring in his teacup.

James frowned in sympathy.

It had been five years since Remus had broken down after the moon for the first time. Since then his condition had declined rapidly. When he used to only be bedridden for one, mabe two days after a full he could now basically not move out of bed for at least a full week, often longer. And even after that, he never fully managed to bounce back anymore before the next full was drawing near and he started to feel worse because of that. Sirius did what he could to make Remus life easier, but he couldn't help but be scared for him.

"Are the potions not helping?" James asked.

"No, they are. I wouldn't want to know how he'd manage without them. But he is still doing bad. And I hate seeing him like that. There is just nothing I can do to make it better and maybe that's the worst..." Sirius felt a lump in his throat. James nodded quietly and squeezed his arm.

"I'm sorry mate. Is there anything I can do?"

"No. You're doing enough listening to me," Sirius gave him a smile. "Don't tell Remus about this, please. I don't want him to know I'm worried. He hates that." Sirius paused and stared blankly out of the window. "I just...I don't know what to do...What if...Fuck, James what do I do if he dies?"

The tears rolled down Sirius' cheeks and James pulled him into a hug, muffling his sobs with his shoulder.

**

"I got you something," Sirius announced, placing a long package on the kitchen table in front of Remus. Remus raised his eyebrows and folded up the Morning Prophet he'd been reading.

"What is it?"

"Open it." Sirius sat down at the table with him, watching Remus closely as he unwrapped the packing paper. Remus finally lifted out a mahagony cane, covered in complicated carvings.

"A cane?"

"Try it out," Sirius demanded. Remus raised his eyebrows again. This was nice but he couldn't imagine how this would help his impacted walking. It wasn't just his legs, that were hurting. He hesitantly got up from his chair, Sirius jumped up to help him and handed him the cane.

As soon as Remus took the cane in his hands he felt light. He wasn't even leaning on the stick, just loosely holding it, but he felt like he was levitating. He tried to take a couple steps and let out a exhilarated laugh.

"This is...," he experimentally sped up his steps, scurrying trough the kitchen. "This is brilliant! Where did you get it? How much did it cost?" He turned to Sirius with a concerned frown. Sirius smirked sheepishly.

"That's none of your business. When we got married you gave up any right to ask me about prices of the things I get you."

Remus cocked his head, smiling.

"Thank you, love. I...I really like this."

Sirius beamed and walked over to him, gently placing his hands on his hips.

"Anything for you."

**

It was Sirius 60th birthday and they had planned a big party for it. While Sirius wasn't fond of attention, he liked having his favorite people around, just having a good time amongst themselves, while he got to enjoy their presence. James, Sirius and Remus and spent two months planning for it. It should have worked. Sirius birthday fell onto a new moon this year, so they had all thought that Remus would be fine for it.

But he wasn't. The last moon had wrecked him completely and he still couldn't muster the strength to get out of bed without shaking violently. He had told Sirius to just go downstairs and celebrate without him but Sirius had refused.

"I will not go have fun without you while you are up here suffering. What if you need something?" he had said and called the whole thing off, instead spending the day in bed with Remus watching TV, cuddling and eating the cake that had been intended for the party.

"This is great actually," Sirius said in between bites of cake. "Wasn't in the mood for people today anyways."

Remus smiled tiredly.

"That's nice of you to say. I still feel bad for ruining your birthday."

"You didn't ruin anything, love." Sirius gently pet his head. "Spending my whole day in bed with you is the dream, really."

Remus let out a weak chuckle.

"I love you. Maybe we can catch up on it next week."

"Don't worry about that now. Just rest."

Remus nodded.

"Sirius."

"Hmmm?"

"I think I'm going to sleep a bit if that's okay. I'm just so tired."

"Of course, Remus. Sleep as much as you like. I love you." He pressed a kiss on Remus sweaty forehead.

Sirius had fallen asleep next to Remus with the TV still running. When he woke up he turned it off and snuggled against Remus' chest to sleep just a little longer.

He loved sleeping in in the mornings, laying on Remus chest, listening to his heartbeat. But there was no heartbeat. Nor was there breathing. Remus was completely still. Sirius slowly rose his head, his own heart beating in his throat.

"Remus?" He shook the frail man next to him, some desperate hope that he might wake up.

"Remus!" Sirius' voice broke. He knew this was pointless, that Remus was gone. Still, he tried to wake up Remus for several heartbreaking minutes. Because if he gave up, that meant that it would become real.

Sirius shuddered. His hand pressed on Remus chest, desperate to feel a pulse, to feel anything. Then he screamed.

Sirius had never screamed from pain. He would curse and he would flinch but he never screamed. But this was different. This was worse than anything that he'd ever felt. Even when Remus had left him, it hadn't hurt this badly. Because then at least he had hope, hope that things might be okay again. But this was final. He would never be okay again.

**

Since Remus death, James and Lily had taken care of the broken Sirius. He'd been a real mess.

The Potters had taken him in, because he couldn't bear to live in the cottage without Remus, they had taken care of planning the funeral, James had been the one reading the eulogy. Sirius had tried to write one, he really had, but everytime he'd only covered the paper with tears and never with words. He didn't knew how to live without Remus. Without waking up next to him, without seeing him sitting in the kitchen or living room when he came home, without being able to talk to him, ask him for advice or just for comfort. He felt empty and at the same time filled with a burning pain that dripped like acid from his throat into his stomach. Being without Remus was agony and he didn't know how he was supposed to handle it.

Now, Sirius was sitting at the wake, feeling like an emotional trainwreck after the funeral. Around him, people were talking. Talking about Remus. Sharing memories. Crying and laughing and eating and Sirius couldn't take any of it.

"I'm gonna go outside for a bit," he murmured to James and Lily and got up from the table. James looked concerned.

"Do you need me to come with you?"

"No, I just want to be alone for a minute. I'll be fine." Sirius gave them a reassuring smile and walked outside the restaurant.

Outside, he sat down on a bench with a sigh. This was awful. He needed Remus. He needed Remus to comfort him about Remus' own death. How ridiculous. But he did. He wished he was here with him, sitting next to him, holding his hand, murmuring comforting words. Sirius sobbed.

Suddenly, he felt something warm on his chest. Confused he reached down to the ring on the chain around his neck. He had kept Remus wedding band as a memento. Another desperate attempt of keeping him close.

The ring was gleaming. Sirius stared at it in confusion. Then he realized. The ring charm must have activated...But that was impossible. The magic was bound to the soul of the bearer. It needed to be close to work. He looked up in confusion, almost expecting Remus to stand in front of him. Of course he didn't. He put the ring under his shirt again when his own suddenly started pulsating with the same warmth. He frowned. What on earth was going on?

Sirius took off his ring and examined it, then spontaneously decided that it was worth a try. He pulled out his handkerchief, spread it over the seat of the bench and sent the ring rolling. Writing appeared.

With shaking hands he picked up the piece of fabric and read:

"Right here."

Sirius smile turned into a laugh, tears streaming down his face. He could feel it now. Remus would never leave him. Not really. He'd always find him in his heart.

[chronicallyuniconic]

Where do I start with that appointment with the doctor?

✨ [TLDR a very personal post about a single doctors appointment when you already have chronic illnesses, TW for medical bxllshit] ✨

They asked me to come to see them for the below list of symptoms I gave. I have heavily condensed for this post, they're in no particular order, feel free to skip them:

\\ Tingling and numbness in fingers and palm of hand, with weaker grip and cold feeling. Also occurs in right foot, sometimes both feet

Skin problems: Irritation, lumps under skin, thicker and darker body hair causing irritation

Jerking up back from coccyx, legs kicking out and knees locking

Losing feeling when taking a step, hips hurting all the time, affects my walk and I drop. Holding breath to stop jerking due to pain

Passing out with sudden nausea feeling, followed by paralysis and pins and needles in arms. Vomiting after passing out

Vertigo, dizziness when tilting head back, stumbling to the side when standing

Headache and jaw pain leading to migraine

Dry eyes with dark shapes in vision

Losing control of bladder, urgency to urinate, no build-up, sudden full bladder. IBS, fluctuating between constipated and not constipated

Longer, heavier, more painful periods since coming off the pill. Pressure, sharp pain, and hip pain during periods

Cellular level exhaustion, feeling like there is concrete or sand in bones. Nodding off even after sleeping for long periods //

Arrived to see noone in the waiting area or reception wearing a mask, just me. Doctor was wearing one thankfully. This shouldn't have to be up for debate in a pandemic, but there we are.

I started off with the hip problem as its concerned me most, what with losing functionality, just dropping to the ground, struggling to lift myself back up and continue to walk. They got me to lay on the table, made me push and pull against their arm with both legs then said "if you're having this type of weakness you typically wouldn't be able to walk." They just watched me walk, in the way I do, and it instantly made me think *well they don't believe me or do they think that I've just put that on, like made it up?*

The doctor asked about my bladder weakness, didn't/couldnt(?) give any explanation as to why I have sudden urgency and lack of control. My take was that "I shouldn't be losing control of my bladder the way I am. I am not 80 yrs old." Them "we'll get a urine sample" (every single urine sample I have provided in the last 7 years has come back exactly the same, with the same unexplained & ignored "protein in urine"🙃)

They then asked about how I managed some of the above symptoms. Painkillers, baths, heatpads, yoga stretching, etc etc.

"How are your periods?" I explained to them that since I came off the pill they have gotten much heavier each month as time has gone on, typically leaving me in bed from the 3rd day, for 7 to 10 days, I have this constant bearing down feeling with sharp, crushing pains where my ovaries would be, flares up IBS and so on.

For them to say "that's completely normal, you can treat with ibuprofen." At my age, I just felt disbelief in their comment. I have been treating my periods since I was 10 years old for pain management and to reduce heavy flows. I don't take ibuprofen because it flares my asthma, something they should see, but throughout my life, I have noticed that medical professionals refuse to accept it as a side effect that occurs in me and look perplexed by the statement "ibuprofen flares asthma"

The doctor commented that 'I mentioned my symptoms may be more applicable to Multiple Sclerosis' and asked why I think that.

I explained about the new symptoms, worsening of old and new symptoms and the difference between first symptoms at diagnosis to how they present now.

They then asked about my medications and whether they work for me. I explained that none of the medications have helped with fatigue in particular, for the next lines to happen:

Doctor "We can increase X if you like."

Me "I didn't think I could, but if you think it will help fatigue(?)"

Doctor "Why did you think that you could not? Is it because you read it somewhere or someone told you?

Me "No, it's because I'm pretty sure I'm already on the maximum dose."

*doctor looks up doses*

Doctor "Yes, you are right"

Is it just me?? This bullshit is infuriating to me & its so disheartening. This motherfxcker doctor asked ME to come to THEM.

Doctor "so what would you like me to help with what are your main concerns?"

Me "I'm tired beyond comprehension, I haven't been here physically in 2 & 1/2 years because I cannot leave the house. I'm in pain all the time, mainly in my hips, I get constant migraines that cause vertigo, my sudden loss in bladder function, I'm a young person this should not be happening to me and I can't explain it, it's embarrassing and I want these symptoms to stop or know how to treat them or what to do, it's affecting my life"

Doctor "in all of that you never mentioned pain and this is a significant symptom of MS"

Me "it was one of the first things I said, I-"

How can I receive any care when it's like this? Where is the treatment within all of this?

At this point I felt myself start dissociating, mentally I've already left the room, realising what this doctor sees and thinks of me. They mention something about physiotherapy to help my hip/leg problem. I've been on a list with a chronic pain/management clinic for 5 years, suffering waiting for physio.

As I was leaving I said to them, "because I look normal, like this, noone understands my symptoms or seems to believe I have them" for them to give me the pity head tilt, the childlike-sympathy a grazed knee gets, the "oh I know" the way a teenage breakup is handled.

Is there ever going to be a sense of understanding that goes beyond fellow spoonies, zebras & warriors alike?

I'm still wondering why the hell they asked me to go when really, nothing has happened, again.

Again, I had a doctors appointment, where I wish I hadn't bothered at all & my symptoms are now considerably worse as a result.

Does anyone else experience this type of thing or just understand? It's a lonely feeling when you always feel like you have nobody on your side.

[kienova66]

Random FS stuff (Season 5)

Follow up to this thing from eons ago that I just discovered on my laptop while ignoring my homework. 

No one was quite sure how to approach Jemma.

Daisy wanted to broach the barrier that had sprung up between them more than she already had, but she still waged war with anger, resentment, and guilt; too insecure in her own paralyzing emotions associated with everything that was happening to be able to find a way to connect with the other woman. She knew Jemma was hurting, could see it on her face, but she didn’t know what to do.

May was devoting every second of her time to trying to find Coulson and, in return, figure out a way to keep him alive. Mack was angry and betrayed, staying stoic and silent whenever he was in the same room as her, even if he didn’t directly say or do anything. Elena was doing her best, trying to get Jemma to open up and to talk, but the biochemist often kept her visits extremely short and completely focused on Elena’s injuries and recovery.

Deke remained the only one able to really get her to say or do anything, his presence, which had gone from an annoyance to an unshakable support, the only thing keeping her grounded.

Her morning sickness got worse as one week wore into two. Her hands often shaking as she would clutch at the closest garbage bin as waves of nausea swam through her over and over again. She kept little down – only managing enough to keep herself from suffering from dehydration and starvation. As a result, she found herself losing weight, almost always dizzy, and constantly exhausted, even as she tried to help May find a cure for Coulson.

“She needs to talk to someone,” Elena hissed, sticking her foot off the bed and stopping Deke from leaving the room.

“She’s –”

“She is not fine,” the woman shot back, a glare on her features. “She is barely holding it together. She’s scared, I know, but she needs to talk to Fitz. They need each other – even if they’re not on the same page about things right now. She can help him get better and he can keep her from getting worse.”

“She won’t go down there. I’ve tried,” Deke insisted.

“Try again.”

--

“Jemma,” Deke said, keeping his voice low and tempered as he entered his bunk that evening, finding her lying down, a cold compress on her forehead. She gave a soft noise to indicate she heard him, but made no move to say anything or sit up. “What’s wrong?” he pressed, moving until he could kneel down next to the bed.

“Just a headache. I couldn’t stop throwing up earlier.” Her words were quiet and weak, her voice rough from the soreness of her throat.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked, watching as Jemma shook her head minutely.

“I just want to sleep,” she replied, eyes drifting closed.

--

She lasted three more days before it caught up with her. The exhaustion combined with mild dehydration and malnutrition from barely being able to eat or drink due to her morning sickness finally taking their toll. She went to stand up, unable to concentrate on the information in front of her any longer, the attempt to find something to help Coulson making her head hurt.

“Simmons have you –” Daisy started, glancing up at her. Jemma stood, intending to cross the floor to where Daisy was seated, when her vision swam. She staggered for a moment, trying to grab at the edge of the desk, but lost consciousness before she could get a single word out.

--

Fitz looked up when the door to his cell clanged open, Deke rushing through the entrance, eyes wild and panicked.

“Fitz,” he panted, cheeks flushed with exertion, telling of how he had rushed down to the correct floor. “You need to come with me.”

“No, Deke, I’m not going anywhere. I’m down here for a reason,” Fitz retorted, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned back against the wall next to the bed.

“I get that, really, I do, but Jemma is sick. She collapsed and she hasn’t regained consciousness yet and I’m getting really worried and –” Deke rushed. Fitz was instantly on his feet, practically running to the door, Deke letting out a huff before following.

“What happened? What’s wrong with her?” Fitz demanded once they were in the elevator, wringing his hands.

“I… I don’t know,” Deke mumbled.

--

Jemma felt wretched, her head throbbing, the constant nausea simmering just beneath her skin as she slowly came to, the slight tug of an IV in the back of her hand.

“Fitz?” Jemma asked, blinking open tired eyes to find him crouched next to the bed, stroking her hair back from her face. “What’re you-?”

“Deke came to get me,” Fitz explained. “He told me you collapsed.” Jemma whimpered at the realisation, dizziness still clouding her vision as she tried to sit up.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for-”

“Please, stop,” Fitz cut her off, voice pained as he gingerly pressed at her shoulders until she was lying down again. “If you don’t want me to be here, I’ll go back downstairs. But I just… I needed to make sure you were alright.”

“Don’t go,” she said, unable to stop the tears that welled in her eyes. “Please. Just… just stay for a few minutes.” He nodded, moving until he was sitting on the edge of the mattress, worry clouding his eyes as he let them rove over her body – taking in how pale and exhausted she looked. “H-how are you?” Her question made him pause, his hand tensing against his leg before he blew out an exaggerated breath.

“Not great,” he confessed. “I’m… there is a lot I’m going to need to deal with, Jem. More… more than I can even really comprehend right now. But… but I haven’t been hearing him in my head much the last few weeks. Daisy comes to check every day.”

“D-daisy has been to see you?” she asked.

“Yeah… she comes to check to make sure that I’m not getting lost in my psychosis. That… that he hasn’t taken over again.  He’s gotten angry and the imprisonment but I’ve done that to myself. Its just not safe to be around me.”

“You would never hurt me,” she choked out, watching his face fall.

“But I almost did Jem,” Fitz murmured, regret clouding his eyes. “I’m… I’m trying to work on it. But its going to take time. And I don’t want to hurt you or anyone else until I can control this. Besides, I doubt anyone wants me faffing about.”

“I want you,” she whispered, catching his hand in hers as she started crying. Fitz smiled sadly at her, twining their fingers.

“Is Deke taking good care of you?”

“Deke… he’s a good kid, Fitz. I know we all got off on the wrong foot but… he’s been wonderful.”

“Don’t know if we can call him a kid, we’re practically the same age as he is,” Fitz muttered, trying to get her to laugh. Instead she just let out a somewhat choked sob, her fingers tightening when she felt him trying to pull away. “I… I should go.” He tried to stand, only to have her frantically sitting up, desperately attempting to keep him at her side until she was overcome with vertigo, eyes rolling as she started to fall back against the pillows. Fitz caught her, cradling her head as he lowered her back down. “Jem? Jemma, I need you to look at me. What’s wrong?”  

“Just – just a bit dizzy. Sat up too fast. I’ll be fine,” Jemma insisted. “I’m just tired. Haven’t been sleeping much.” Fitz scoffed.

“Jemma, this… its more than that though, isn’t it? You’ve lost weight. Deke told me you can’t keep any food down. I had to put in an IV,” he said, voice tight. “Please. Tell me what’s going on.” She looked up at him, noting the fear in his eyes as he watched her. She let out a shuddering breath, unable to stop the tears that started to fall.

“I’m pregnant,” she whispered.

[writehardwhumpharder]

Deadly Class fic. - with Marcus whump of course.

I don’t know what this is but Marcus is my favorite whumpee right now so I’m just gonna keep writing for him. Basically he does drugs and doesn’t sleep or eat for a couple days. Then it catches up to him in class.

Marcus got his hands on exactly one bottle of amphetamines, 30 day supply, and he was determined to finish it before the weekend was done. Sure it would be smart to ration a resource as valuable as drugs in King’s Dominion, but that just wasn’t Marcus’s style. Shabnam’s parents were still out of town, leaving the house completely trashed but otherwise empty, perfect for the small gathering they were planning. Things had gotten a little out of hand last time when the cops showed up. But this weekend would be different. It was just Marcus, Maria, Billy, Saya, Willie, and of course, Shabnam. If he had to be brutally honest, Marcus had grown to like his new roommate, and he wasn’t a bad sixth wheel to their usual crew.

Once away from the school everyone relaxed a bit, not feeling the need to be assholes all the time just to keep up appearances. So when they were all high on one drug or another, watching T.V. and eating cereal at 2a.m., Marcus felt something he hadn’t felt for a long time. They were all lounging around the living room, Maria and Saya cuddled up together on the couch, with Marcus sitting on the floor at the feet. Everyone else found a cozy armchair to make their home for the next few hours while they came down from the crazy night before. The sound of the T.V. faded into the background and if Marcus closed his eyes, he could pretend he was back home again, surrounded by family, living a normal life. In fact, this moment was probably the most normal he’d felt since his parents died.

“Yo, this is the best cereal I have ever had in my entire life.” Willie said between bites of generic cornflakes.

“That’s because you’re stoned out of your mind.” Saya said, despite being far from sober herself. Shabnam was quiet in his corner of the room, slowly sipping at a rum and coke. This was probably as wild as it got for him, but no one was complaining. Saturday morning they had lined up every last mind altering substance they could find on the coffee table, free for the taking. By now their stash was nearly gone, save for the last few pills Marcus had in his jacket pocket. He was closing in on 50 hours without food or sleep. The drugs made both seem irrelevant. Marcus knew he should really let himself come down now and finally get some sleep before school the next day. The drugs fried his nerves, leaving him twitchy and irritable as a deep ache began to spread throughout his body. No, coming down wasn’t an option right now. Marcus discreetly went to the kitchen where he left his jacket hanging on a chair, spilling the last few pills into his hand. He popped all three in his mouth and downed them with a glass of tap water.

Everyone was dozing off, tucked into the couch and chairs. Marcus didn’t have a spot but he’d slept in far worse conditions than this, his makeshift bed on the floor was actually pretty comfortable. Though he didn’t have any intention of sleeping. The drugs kicked in again, sending a wave of energy through his body, making his heartbeat uncomfortably fast. Marcus grabbed the stub of a joint and took a few hits, hoping that the weed would calm his nerves. In the end he decided just to watch the tv with the subtitles on and sound turned down while sketching in his notebook. Hours whizzed by and Marcus was absorbed in his work, soon the sun started to rise and it would be time to head back to King’s Dominion for their first class. Shit. He would have to survive another 8 hours without sleep. Marcus gave pretending to be sick some serious consideration before realizing the teachers probably don’t give a shit if you’re sick, besides, any show of weakness is frowned upon.

So when the others started to wake up for class Marcus acted as if he was just getting up too. All six of them piled into Willie’s car for the short drive back to school. The sleep deprivation was starting to catch up with Marcus but he couldn’t sleep if he tried, he was too wired.

Shabnam put on his school uniform on at home before they left so Marcus went back to the room alone to change. Ideally he would have taken a shower first but there was no time. Taking off the T-shirt he’d been wearing for the last two and a half days was improvement enough. Marcus’s uniform was carefully laid out on a chair, all except for his belt. Where the hell did he put that. Marcus’s eyes scanned the floor before spotting it sticking out from under his bed. He bent over to grab it only to be assaulted by a wave of vertigo. He instinctively dropped it so he could brace himself on his bed. Waiting for the room to stop spinning, Marcus sat down on the crumpled sheets and took a deep breath. He was just tired. Very tired. The next time he went to grab his things he did it much slower. His notebooks were already in his bag luckily, untouched since Friday. He hadn’t even kept track of which assignments he didn’t do. Oh well, too late now.  Since running to his first class was clearly off the table he hurried to finish getting ready and walked to AP Black Arts. If all he had to do was sit at his desk and stay awake everything would be fine. He didn’t have hand to hand combat training until the end of the day so he could take it easy until then.

—

Marcus slid into his seat with a sigh. This was going to be a rough day. By now a headache had started to form behind his temples and the sound of Brandy's voice, who was chatting with her friends before class started, made his stomach turn. He was about to snap when Master Lin started speaking, drawing his attention back to the front of the room. Marcus let his head rest heavily on his hand. If he sank into his seat any further Master Lin would probably see it as a sign of disrespect.

With the stimulants finally leaving his system, so went every last bit of energy Marcus had. He felt his eyelids closing involuntarily and started to tap his foot in a vain attempt to stay awake. His biggest problem however seemed to be the hunger gnawing at his insides. He couldn’t remember the last time he put something in his mouth that wasn't a pill. Marcus cursed to himself, knowing it was his own fault he was in this situation.

About halfway through class is when things really started to go bad. Marcus said a silent prayer for the fact that he was sitting down as the room started to pitch and sway around him. He didn't even realize he was swaying with it until a stick cracked down on his desk. He stiffened instinctively, waiting for the next blow to strike him, but all he got a scolding glare from Master Lin. His look changed to one of suspicion with a hint of what might have been concern. No, that couldn't be it. I must be imagining things Marcus thought to himself.

The air around him seemed to grow warm and heavy with each passing second. As if it was trying to pull him down into the darkness that hung threateningly in the edges of his vision. His efforts to peel his eyes open and focus on the lecture only made the pain in his head worse and that combined with the mild spinning of the room made him nauseous. If he were anywhere else he would have given up already. But here any mistake was a fatal one. No, he couldn't let that happen.

Sweat beaded at his forehead as he tried to fight the nausea rising from his empty stomach. Wiping it away, Marcus realized a thin layer of sweat coated all of his skin. People in the room started giving him odd looks because he looked, well, horrible. Marcus's skin had paled significantly since the class started. Saya eyed him from a few seats away. He looked like he was about to pass out or throw up or maybe both.

Only a few minutes later Marcus leaned forward to rest his head on his desk, closing his eyes as he gave in to his hunger and exhaustion. When Master Lin turned to walk down another aisle he spotted Marcus sleeping at his desk. There was no tolerance for such behavior. He quickly strode towards his seat but before he could get there, Marcus started to pitch sideways. Every muscle in his body slackened and he slipped out of his seat, landing in an awkward heap on the floor. His feet remained tangled with the legs of his chair and his head hit the floor between desks with a loud thud. For a moment the entire room went still. Marcus hadn't just fallen asleep. He was out cold.

A monk stepped in from the hallway and Master Lin continued his lecture. It was a little hard to pay attention though as the monk grabbed Marcus under his arms and dragged him out of the classroom.

[milverton]

I’ve never talked about this, but I have a chronic headache. And I never even thought too much about it, because I’ve had headaches every other day all my life. I’ve made a few attempts to do something about it in the past (or rather, some of the other physical symptoms than the headache), but it’s never gone anywhere. I’ve had my sinuses and eyes checked because I often have pain around my eyes, but apparently nothing’s wrong. And I’ve been told it’s not migraine, with or without aura.

But. I fairly recently saw this post here on tumblr and it was really eye opening. Or rather what it led to. For the first time in my life i heard about sinus headaches. It sounds very much like my symptoms! I read more about it, and learnt that unless I actually have an infection in my sinuses then it’s probably not a sinus headache, but migraine. And so I read more about different types of migraine (a thing I’ve never bothered doing because, hey, I don’t have it!) and yeah, I’m like 90% sure I have it. The symptoms actually match. Pain around the eyes (that affects vision and makes eyes movements hurt) and sinuses, headache concentrated on one side of the head, nausea, vertigo, tingling feeling on your face... :O :O :O

I’m just so used to the headaches that it doesn’t even register properly how often my head hurts. If I were to take painkillers for every headache, I’d be taking painkillers probably almost every single day. And I’m always explaining the headache with something. It’s a cloudy, rainy day. I didn’t sleep enough. I haven’t had enough water. My neck hurts, maybe I slept in a bad position. It’s because I don’t exercise or stretch enough. It’s because I’m slouching. It’s because my legs aren’t the same length. And probably these things do factor in, but I was mind blown to hear that two of my friends have never had a pulsing headache on one side of their head. Crazy!

So I’m trying (failing) to keep a diary of my headaches so I’ll have something to show when I go see a doctor about it. Because I do plan to see a doctor about it.

[maraudersmessrs]

Remus Lupin and the Prisoner of Azkaban--- Chapter 16: Moony

Ao3 link

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7 / Chapter 8 / Chapter 9 / Chapter 10 / Chapter 11 / Chapter 12 / Chapter 13 / Chapter 14 / Chapter 15 / Chapter 16 / Chapter 17 / Chapter 18 / Chapter 19 / Chapter 20 / Chapter 21 / Chapter 22 / Chapter 23 / Chapter 24 / Chapter 25 / Chapter 26 / Chapter 27 / Chapter 28 / Chapter 29 / Chapter 30 / Chapter 31 / Chapter 32 / Chapter 33 / Chapter 34

(Warning: there is slightly graphic descriptions of the Change and brief suicidal ideation mention)

It was an odd sensation, after a few days of drinking the Wolfsbane potion in succession; he hadn’t realized how closely the wolf usually lurked under the surface the week before the Change. He was slower to irritate, now, and it was far easier to actually feel as calm as he projected; he was able to be unerringly polite to Severus whenever he dropped it off. Unfortunately, it didn’t do much for the physical symptoms of the pain and nausea and general decline of health, as he would need to transform whether he kept his mind or not. And now that the time was drawing nearer, he was growing inexplicably nervous.

For the first time, he would be himself while being not himself. He usually remembered most, if not all, the memories of the night before when he transformed back, but now there would be no blank spots and no cut off point; it would just be...him. As the wolf. This would be the first time he would be even remotely coherent during a full moon since he had run with the rest of the Marauders. Usually, all there was to remember was a chaotic blur of rage and blinding pain, frantically searching for an escape and the ever present need to bite and tear and kill. With them, though...it had been different. It had been almost fun. Because with them, it wasn’t a time of fear as it had been through his childhood; fear of discovery, fear of hurting people, fear of the pain. For them, it was a time of adventure and they had treated it as such.

“You're funny when you're Moony, y’know,” Sirius had said suddenly one day, when they were all silently working on homework on their respective beds.

“So, that's staying, then. That name. THAT name.”

“I mean, it fits, doesn't it?”

“Yeah, I'm Moony, the werewolf who moons people.”  Remus made a pained face. “I love it.”

“Weren't you the one who said we needed anonymity for the Map?” James chimed in without looking up from his paper, frowning in concentration.

“Yeah, but I meant NAME names. Like fuckin’ Fleamont,” Remus deadpanned and James did look up.

“WILL YOU NEVER LET THAT GO?”

“I mean, you were the one who made the mistake of telling us,” Sirius pointed out reasonably. “It's US we're talking about.”

“Ridiculous middle names aside,” Peter said and a strangled noise came from James’ corner. “What about the rest of us?”

“So we're REALLY sticking with that?” Remus complained loudly and was met with a chorus of “YES.”

“What do you first think of when you think ‘dog’?” Peter asked Sirius.

He sauvely ran a hand through his mane of black hair and started confidently, obviously going for something cool, “Pad--” he faltered and lost a bit of steam. “Uh...ffffoot.” He visibly cringed.

They stared at him in silence. “Done,” announced Remus and turned to the other 2. “What about you?”

“No no nooo, do over!” Sirius wailed.

Remus ignored his plea triumphantly. “Nope! Give a stupid name, get a stupid name.”

“That is--that is so unfair. James, Moony is bullying me!”

Remus grinned. “Shut up, PADfoot.”

“Ugh!! White Fang!”

“No.”

“Death wish!”

“No!”

“Uh, uh, Swift...butt!”

“Holy shit, you’re bad at this. What would James be?”

“Lightning!”

“We're not talking about you anymore PADFOOT, we're talking about Mr McStag over here.”

“Oh!” Peter exclaimed and put the back of his hands to his forehead, spreading his fingers. “Uh, what are those things? Oh oh OH--PRONGS!” he yelled, excitedly.

James looked affronted while Sirius and Remus burst into simultaneous laughter. “They are called ANTLERS, thank you very much.”

“PRONGS!” Sirius howled.

“Prongs!” Remus choked in agreement.

“What about me?” Peter seemed wary of asking, seeing the way James was mock glaring at him.

“Sniffy!” Sirius fell back on his bed and rolled around, tears streaming down his face.

“No--no-- Tinypaw!” Remus hiccuped.

“Wormtail.” James said bluntly and Peter let out a soft moan of despair, because he knew what was coming.

“WORMTAIL!” The other 2 wheezed and broke down into complete hysterical peals of laughter.

“Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs?” Peter repeated dubiously.

“What a bunch of idiots!” Sirius hooted.

Well past the time any homework was going to get done, they had managed to stop breaking into spontaneous giggle fits and migrated to sprawl on the floor. ”Okay, but you said I was’ funny’ as a werewolf?”

“Oh, yeah, that. Yeah, you know, you always talked about how you just become a mindless animal who only wants to kill but you actually, like, play around.”

Remus was silent and James added, “You got water up my nose last time. Lake water. It was gross. And you totally did it on purpose,” he stretched out his foot and kicked Remus’ leg.

“Ow. How do you know that?”

“You did the thing that dogs do when they smile; you were totally laughing at me.”

“You guys...I don't really like the idea of you thinking that…that that's me. It's dangerous. It's a monster. I don't want you to underestimate it.”

“So you don't remember?” Sirius rolled onto his back and began opening and closing the 4 poster curtain with his wand, idly.

“I mean...I do, some. Nothing complicated. The wolf doesn't think like the same way we do.” But he had had to admit, the wolf was exponentially calmer when they were all together. He almost never hurt himself anymore when he Changed. He sighed. “I just don't want you guys to be hurt. Don't…don’t PLAY with it. It only takes one bite--”

“We know, we know.” Sirius waved his hand dismissively. “Just one bite, whether we're in human form or not. Where are we going next moon?”

Where would he go this moon, alone? Remus sat in the armchair in his office, tapping the arm restlessly as he stared out the window at the sinking sun. His last potion was drunk, his office locked and warded, just in case, and a space cleared in the center of the room for his Change. This time in the cycle never made him calm, but he hadn’t been this nervous about it in a very long time. Usually, it was just sort of a tired, dull acceptance when he prepared, but this new attention to every detail gave him a heightened awareness that was even more uncomfortable. He had had a constant headache all day and all his joints felt like they were under some immense pressure, which was normal; the day of the full moon always felt a bit like being wrung out and run over at the same time. But he now felt every sensation, paid attention to every thought and it was driving him a bit...well, loony. Shaking his head at himself, he checked his watch, then removed it, undressed, folded the clothes, and placed the lot in the middle of the desk.

It was close now, he could feel every one of his scars prickling, aching. All his muscles felt taught as piano wires. It was hard to tell if he was more nauseous than usual. Maybe he should have asked Snape about side effects. Funny.

The first convulsion of pain that smashed into him stunned him. He had been waiting for the lurch of vertigo that usually preceded the whole thing, but no. Just immediate, crushing, twisting, burning, snapping agony. Joints cracked backwards, radiating starbursts through his body. Muscles folded, knotted, melted. His skin was a millions of repeating wasp stings. He was blind. He was deaf. Skin stretched beyond tearing, every bone broken, shifting. And then it swelled, cresting to the point where he always was secretly hoping that this time would be his last, that this would actually be the death of him. The part where he would be pummeled into darkness to surface the next day.

But no. It was just him. Him and this furious, liquifying force that was taking his body and breaking it. He didn’t know how long it continued. It felt that this was all he had ever known. This is where he had always been. Right here, on the floor of this office, writhing. The full Change blistered through him with no recourse, no unconsciousness.

Finally, his mind clarified enough to realize he was simply laying on his rug, panting and sore. For one, heartstopping moment, he thought he had not Changed after all but this was quickly erased as he tried to lurch to his feet and realized that his body no longer twisted that way. It gave him an uncomfortable buzz of hyper awareness as it felt at once alien and familiar to stand on 4 legs, to be able to move his ears, to smell every person who had been in this room. This is something his body knew that he did not. It was strangely empty to stand there, the thing he feared but needn’t, for now. The monster was gone. But the monster was him. He shuddered and slunk under the huge oaken desk to curl up. He did not look at the moon.

He did not sleep.

[builder051]

Mike and Jason at Thanksgiving

Happy Thanksgiving-time!  It’s a little early, but I’ll have another (better?) treat to post a bit closer to the actual day. It’s not the Stucky novella, though, so don’t get your hopes up quite yet.

I’ve combined prompt #15 from the 100 prompts list with a scenario I’ve had in my head for ages.  This one features Mike and Jason, who are possibly my fave OCs at the moment.

Huge trigger warning for self-induced vomiting in a situation that is simultaneously ED-related and NOT ED-related.  Honestly, you’ll have to read it to understand it, but for me it’s really real and really relatable, and I hope it’s not too overwhelmingly dark and/or stressful.

___

Mike lays curled on her side on the floor of her childhood bedroom, staring up at the blank white walls and lamenting the fate of her old WNBA posters.  She’s barely been out of the house two years, and not even permanently at that.  She’s still expected to trek back to her parents’ home for holidays and summer vacations.  It seems the least they can do is to leave her a tiny bit of herself in this supposedly personal space.  But it would be beyond their current care factor.

Dinner had been a disaster, hence Mike’s current posture.  Why aren’t you in therapy? had kicked off the conversation over appetizers, the turkey had been carved to threats to cut off the housing allowance, and mashed potatoes doled out along with explicit expectations of exactly how much of each food Mike was to eat.

“Jason didn’t get any green beans,” Mike’d pointed out.  Her brother had shot her an ugly face, and their mother’d just turned to pull pies out of the oven.  But then he’d made it up to her by snagging Mike’s roll off her plate when no one was looking.

Jason’s high position in Mike’s mind starts to fall, though, when he calls her name over a soft knock on her bedroom door.  The knob turns and the door creaks inward, the corner of it clipping Mike’s head and adding to her physical misery.  But maybe having a headache is good.  It gives her a better reason to be nauseous.

“Ow.  Fuck,” Mike complains, not moving from her sprawl.

“Jesus.  What’re you doing?”  Jason retracts the door a few inches and leans his head inside.

“Nothing.  Dying.”

“Well, you better hurry up because Mom wants you to come downstairs and taste-test her cookie dough or something,” Jason says.

“Fuck.”  Mike draws her legs further toward her torso, gathering static from the plush carpet.  “Why can’t you do that?”

“Because she’s…being a bitch,” Jason whispers, admitting what they both know.

“It’s another fucking test,” Mike mumbles.  Eggs and sausage for breakfast, grilled cheese for lunch, then stuffed dates and the whole goddamn dinner spread, cooked with butter and cream and everything rich and calorically expensive…wasn’t that enough?  She knows logically the servings were reasonable, but it does nothing to suppress the reflux bubbling in her throat.  She takes a deep inhalation and wills the dizzying nausea to dissipate.

“Mike?”

She lets out her breath.  “Don’t fucking throw me under the bus with her.”

“What do you want me to do?” Jason asks desperately.

“Make Dad do it.  Leave me alone.”

“Dad just asked me if my relationship with Colby is ‘serious,’” Jason says.  “I said maybe, and I walked away.  I’m not going back down there right now.”  He gives an awkward nervous laugh.

Mike swallows her stomach back down to its rightful place.  Guilt increases her inner turmoil; she’s currently wearing one of Colby’s festive and slightly frayed blue and green plaid shirts with light-wash skinny jeans.  Light wash because they might make her bony thighs look a tad fuller.  Not that they’ve done much good fooling her mother, though.  “I…I can’t right now,” she says softly.  “I just…can’t.”

“Hey, I’m not here to, like, torture you or anything,” Jason says, his voice caught between irritation and genuine concern.  “What’s wrong?  Besides mom.”

“Nothing,” Mike says.  She rolls so her knees are on the ground with her torso draped over them and her forehead on the floor.  She breathes down the collar of her shirt and wills the roiling of her stomach to let up.

“Yeah, right,” Jason says.  He pushes the door open another few inches and squats in the doorway a foot or so from Mike’s shoulder.  “I’m serious.  Stop being a jerk and talk to me.”

Mike pauses for a moment.  “I don’t feel good,” she whispers to her knees.  She can feel the skin of her stretched stomach sitting on her denim-clad legs.  Mike experimentally clenches her abdominal muscles, which makes her feel slightly less enormous, but also sends her gulping down rising bile.

“Like, really, or just…I don’t know…in your head?”  Jason’s tone makes it clear it isn’t a dig.  But it doesn’t do much to keep him from sounding as ill-informed as their father.

“Like I’m gonna fucking puke all over this fucking carpet,” Mike growls, shoving herself to standing and wrapping both arms around her stomach.  She fights vertigo on the way up and pauses to steady herself with a shoulder pressed to the wall.

“Hey, breathe for a second, I’m sure you’ll be ok.”  Jason jumps to his feet and tries to put a comforting hand on Mike’s back, but she brushes past him and steps down the hall toward the bathroom.

Mike uncoils one hand from her middle to shut the door behind her, but Jason inserts a hand to stop her.  “Leave me alone,” she breathes. Disgrace foams up her throat and crumples her face.

“What are you doing?” Jason asks seriously.  He locks his dark brown eyes on Mike’s greener set.

“Just…just stop,” Mike whispers.

Jason shakes his head.  His arm falls to his side, and Mike presses the door closed.  She turns the lock with a satisfying click.

Mike isn’t sure if she’s going to sob or retch, but she knows she needs to settle in front of the toilet.  She heaves as soon as she’s down, but all that comes up is spit.  Which is ridiculous, because she can feel every ounce of everything she’s eaten since dawn pressing up against the base of her throat.

The nausea makes her hairline damp, the back of her neck sticky.  Mike’s hands and feet feel freezing compared to the wet heat rising from her core.  She retches again in a disgusting, belchy way and watches clear snotty fluid fall into the toilet water.

“Godfuckingdamnit,” she whispers under her breath.  It has to happen.  It has to happen now.  If Mike sits here wallowing in nausea for another minute, she’s going to die.  Have a brain aneurysm and keel over on the bathroom floor because every inch of her is screaming in pain and clammy sweat.

She shoves her right sleeve up to the elbow and looks down at her trembling hand.  It’s not about calories or fats or even the size of her bloated stomach.  She just wants a second of relief from the horrendous feeling tearing around inside her, and she knows exactly what to do about it.

Mike jams her index finger unceremoniously down her throat.  She pulls back as soon as she feels a mush of stomach contents wash over her hand.  It’s thick and disgusting and hard to get up, the result of too much food and too little fluid, but she rides the next couple heaves and feels the pressure inside her lessen.

Fresh sweat of relief beads on Mike’s brow as she breaks off coughing for a moment.  Then she retches again, all on her own, and the tang of cranberry sauce mixes with the sourness of stomach acid, making her wince and screw up her eyes, which are dripping hot tears down her cheekbones.

Mike tears off a ream of toilet paper and uses it to wipe her face, then to remove the gunk of mucous and vomit from her hand.  She tosses it shakily into the toilet and flushes away the mess, then sits back on her heels for a second.  The beginnings of dehydration have her head throbbing in time with her heartbeat, and shame ignites a blush in Mike’s ashen cheeks.

It’s not like that, Mike tells herself.  She didn’t keep her hand pressed down against the back of her tongue until only yellow bile came up. She let her body do things…normal bodily functions…naturally.  For the most part.

“You’re.  Fine.”  Mike pronounces it with as much force as she can with her hoarse and quivering vocal sound.  She shoves roughly to her feet, using the edge of the countertop to hold her up under a little residual vertigo.

Mike brutally scrubs her hands with the sickeningly floral scented hand soap, then splashes cool tap water over her puffy face.  Her eyes are red, but not bloodshot.  It looks more like she’s just been crying.  Which, to be honest, she has been.  But just a little.

She breathes into a towel for a second, then unlocks the bathroom door.  Mike intends to retreat back to her old bedroom, but she nearly trips over Jason, who’s sitting on the floor of the hall with his knees to his chest.

“What?” Mike snaps at him, her voice shot.

“Mike.”  It’s a sad whisper.

“I threw up.  So fucking what?”

“I know,” Jason says, staring at Mike’s hand, then into her face.

Mike balls her fists.  “No, you don’t.”

“I…It sounds different.  You have to know that.  You have to know I know that.”

“You’re a fucking perv,” Mike spits.  She passes Jason’s crouched form and heads for her room.  “You know nothing about me.”  She thinks about explaining it to the details, describing the degree of grossness until Jason’s face pales and goes green around the edges, but footsteps are coming up the stairs.

“Stay away from me,” Mike threatens.  She swings open her door and slams it shut, turning the lock.  She leans her head against the thin wood, feeling her eyes prickle with tears again.

“Where’s your sister?” Mike hears her mother’s voice ask.

“In her room,” Jason answers with what seems to be the verbal equivalent of a shrug.  “Said her stomach hurt.  Like, cramps or something.”

Mike freezes and lets out her breath in a slow, shaky gust.  She hasn’t had a menstrual cycle in 18 months.  She doesn’t know whether her brother’s aware of that or not, but, as she listens to her mother’s footsteps retreat back down the stairs, Mike thinks perhaps Jason does know her just the right amount.

[scriptshrink]

I'm writing an apocalypse. Society essentially ends. One of my protagonists is bipolar (as I am). Part of his struggle for survival involves trying to get hold of medication. Personally, I am not sure how I'd do at world's end if I was also unmedicated. My personal experience does not really include extreme tragedy and threats to my survival. So the question: do people in life-threatening situations find that their illness sort of takes a backseat for a while, or do they make things worse?

(part 2) Would having bipolar disorder make my character more susceptible to PTSD or other issues? Would his learned coping skills or meds kind of insulate him? What are some withdrawal risks if he can’t get the meds?

The Scriptshrink consultants answer after the jump!

Charlie 

I’m gonna answer the questions about meds specifically because I have a lifetime of experience with them and I used to study pharmacology, but I’ll leave everything else out because it’s a bit of a tricky question for me to answer.

Theoretically, the medication could have somewhat of a “numbing” effect (common for mood stabilisers) which would make it less likely for PTSD to develop, but I don’t know if this is a thing that’s actually been studied. I know that my memories from when I was on my first medication are vague and distant, as I felt like there was somewhat of a disconnect between my feelings, thoughts and my actions - but I don’t know if this would be enough of a disconnect to stop PTSD from developing, should I have been exposed to anything traumatic in that time. Also, traumatic memories are processed differently from nontraumatic memories, so its a bit up in the air. 

 As for withdrawal, it depends on the medication, a few different classes of meds are used for bipolar and all have different side effects and withdrawal symptoms. It also depends on the dosage, whether the person is tapering or going cold turkey, and the individuals physiology. We’ll assume, given the scenario, it’s cold turkey. 

So, the common withdrawal symptoms from lithium include: anxiety, headaches, nausea and emotional dysregulation (very rapid, uncontrolled mood swings). Lithium is pretty forgiving in terms of withdrawal compared to other drugs, which I’ll get into. 

Anticonvulsant drugs (valproate, lamotrigine, carbamazepine etc.)  are a lot less forgiving in terms of withdrawal. Mild symptoms include tremors, irritability, dizziness and vertigo. I came off of a drug of this class and I was so dizzy I nearly fell, multiple times. This was at a fairly low dosage too. The main risk with discontinuing anticonvulsant medications is that it can cause seizures. It’s not super common, but it is a risk.

Finally - antipsychotics. These include aripiprazole (abilify), olanzapine (zyprexa) and quetiapine (seroquel) among loads more.  I’ve luckily not been through antipsychotic withdrawal but it’s apparently a special kind of hell. Symptoms like anxiety, depression, confusion and difficulty concentrating are common. Nausea, loss of appetite and diarrhea are also not unusual. It’s also possible for someone to develop psychosis, or at least start to hallucinate, when coming off of an antipsychotic even if they didn’t initially have psychosis. Sudden changes in the dosage of antipsychotics also increases the risk of neuroleptic malignant syndrome, which is really dangerous. 

As well as all these symptoms, there’s the most obvious thing - that the meds are being used to treat a disorder, and now he doesn’t have the meds. It’s common for someone to relapse (usually into mania) while going through withdrawal.

NaamahDarling

You have wiggle room. You can decide on the severity of his bipolar, how well he responds to medication, how well he handles adversity. I would totally believe it if a bipolar character melted down under life-threatening circumstances.  I would also totally believe it if they buckled down and handled it as long as there were consequences.I’ve had withdrawal from Seroquel and it was, indeed, a circle of hell. Tremors, severe insomnia, several episodes of depersonalization/ dissociation.  The worst was the random twitching every minute or so.  Hypnic jerks were terrible.  

Basically, if you WANT withdrawal to be a factor, it sure as heck can be.  You might also consult @scriptpharmacist​ for details on withdrawal from specific drugs.Immediate catastrophes absolutely can drive everything else to the back of your mind. It might be short term, though - days, a couple of weeks at most. And after that, as the acute stress fades, it starts to take its toll, and you can wind up worse than before, needing more intensive treatment. 

Even non-mentally-ill people react to life-threatening situations in different ways. Also, some react really well to, say, a medical emergency (broken leg, kidney stone) but not so much to a natural disaster (tornado, house fire, earthquake, etc.). So there’s a lot of variation within healthy populations.  And even totally healthy people may navigate a disaster and then, once the danger has passed, totally break down.  That’s normal, even for healthy folks, and mentally ill/bipolar folks are the same.How well your character handles pressure is more of a general character trait that you can decide on than one derived from whatever mental illnesses he might have.

Also, bipolar disorder is frequently comorbid (happening together) with a lot of other psych issues.  It would not be unusual at all for your character to have/be more susceptible to PTSD. 

Learned coping skills can help under pressure, but those take effort to deploy and as things become more stressful, coping strategies become harder to implement and may not work quite as well.  It’s rough even if you’re good at it. 

I have a procedure mapped out for panic attacks and even a severe attack is always going to be of limited duration.  Dealing with something like the bipolar depression is harder because it’s not limited in duration.  I have strategies, but it’s harder to take on something so large. 

I would kinda expect a character like yours to have some self-care stuff he’s found that he CAN do, and for those things to be VERY important to him.Trying to get meds even TODAY when they are can be harrowing. My Seroquel generic is HARD to get, but withdrawal from it is AWFUL, so I don’t have a choice. I HAVE to fight to get it. Finding my right generic Wellbutrin was so hard and I do well enough without it, that I just went off it because the stress of fighting to get it was so absolutely atrocious.  

So his meds would have to work WELL and have manageable discontinuation effects to make it worth trying that hard to get them.Readers who HAVE mental illnesses might appreciate a nod in the direction of “he’s tried other meds, and it didn’t work out, it’s THIS ONE that is SO HELPFUL he will PUNCH MUTANT ALLIGATORS to get it!” Trying several meds is common, and it’s also relatable and would be an easy detail to slip in. You don’t have to name them.Check also to see if it’s a drug you have to work up to a full dose of (like Lamictal), so you know whether it’s realistic to have him go right back to taking it like nothing happened.

Disclaimer 

[rheasunshine]

I woke up this morning with a pulse of 125.  This is an uncomfortable anomaly.  This is the steroids saying “Good Morning”.

Two nights in the last week, Thommy and I have sat in bed, with the Omron 7 Series Upper Arm Blood Pressure Monitor between us, and stared at the reading – “78/45, Pulse 52” – and we played one of our favorite games: ‘911 or nah?’

We play this game often.  We’re getting better all the time.  About a week before I was diagnosed with POTS, I passed out in the shower.  This was my first tip-off that something was probably seriously wrong.  After 15 minutes of “discussion”, it was decided I would go to work anyway.  (READ: After lots of exasperated threatening and ultimatums, *I* did what I always do, which is to just do what *I* want to do, because moving forward no matter what was the only way I knew to keep propelling my life forward, knowing deep down that as soon as I gave in to some of these things, I would have to give up everything.)

Then, about a week later it happened again.  Ok, this time I’ll go, I said.  But no 911, we can drive, ok?

But first I need to shave my legs.

I can’t imagine one person reading this, save Thommy, will understand this AT ALL.  But I’ve been to the ER so many times, that I knew if they admitted me, it might be days before I could shave, and the only thing worse than those hospital gowns and socks, is feeling your own prickly, sharp legs hitting each other while you shift endlessly trying to find a comfortable position.  You’re in so much pain.  You are so helpless and there are times when you barely feel human; having the continually growing hair poking me reminds me, in those moments, that I am at once alive but unable to do anything with, or about, that aliveness.  It’s a bizarre mile-marker, and I don’t expect anyone to understand, but unless I am bleeding out on the floor from a severed artery, Thommy knows that I’m going to ask for time to shave and then brush my teeth.  If you can’t be stubborn in the face of ER visits (which have brought literally life-changing diagnoses for me, no less than 3 times) than you aren’t going to be able to handle life when you leave.

And furthermore, I knew, because us hospital-dwellers know this, that if something was wrong with my heart, there was a good possibly my body might start to swell; and if you are a patient prone to swelling, doctors check your ankles to monitor this swelling.  I can withstand any number of awkward, uncomfortable, humiliating, pride-diminishing moments at the hospital – but I draw the line at having to suffer my own stubbly legs, and the unconscious and uncontrollable flinch that will occur every time a doctor, nurse, or aide (or loving husband looking to provide reassurance) tries to touch my unshaven calf. No.  I’m not doing it.

It’s a secret language I’m speaking, I suppose, with no currently available interpreter.  I accept that this seems preposterous and unimportant to most anyone reading.

So anyway, I shaved.  And we went.  And I was diagnosed with POTS.  And I couldn’t stand up without blacking out.  Fuck, sometimes it even happened sitting down.  And so I went out on a short-term disability, which led to a long-term one, which led to a permanent one.  That was the last time I would work.  I haven’t worked since 2015.  And I am losing my mind.

Literally.  This is not just a meme.  This is not temporary.  This is my everyday reality.

  In the past 12 months, I have endured the electrifying anxiety that comes from researching, deciding-on, starting (and then ultimately stopping) three MS medications.  THREE.  In one year.  First, I tried a monthly infusion called Tysabri, but then quickly developed something called the John Cunningham Virus (JCV).  In people with suppressed immune systems, this can (and does) lead to something called Progressive Multifocal Leukoencephalopathy, or PML.  People can (and do) die from this.  So MS patients receiving Tysabri are monitored every 3 months or so for their levels; it usually takes about two YEARS of monthly infusions before patients become JCV positive.  I became wildly infected (like, an exaggerated titre level, laughable, almost), after only two infusions.  After all the trepidation and suspension of “worst-case-scenario” imaginings, my body only lasted two months.

FUCK.

Then, despite my strong hesitation and vocalized resistance, my local MS neurologist switched me to Aubagio which is a pill you take daily.  Since I don’t have a large intestine, and food, liquids and pills all fly out of me at warp-speed (you’re welcome), causing any number of malabsorption issues, I didn’t think this was a good idea.  Plus it can cause nausea, headaches, cramps, diarrhea, vomiting… if those sound familiar to you it may be because you’ve heard me complain on a fairly regular basis of having all of those symptoms anyway.  It also causes your hair to fall out.

But OK, at this point, I felt like the MS was winning, so I agreed to start it.  I made an appointment at my salon and cut off most of my hair thinking I could game the system. There – take that vanity.  Let’s do this. (I cried when I got home, and then again the next day.)

The month I was on Aubagio was a nightmare hellscape.  Imagine a 24 hour flu that also causes you to suffer periodic amnesia and not know what day, time or month it is.  I wouldn’t leave my bed for 3-4 day stretches.  If the hair had miraculously stopped growing on my legs, I don’t know that I would have showered that entire month.  I have Cottenelle wet wipes, I thought. I have dry shampoo!  Fuck standing, just leave me to here to waste away.  Then all of a sudden, as I tried in vain to find a comfortable resting position, one leg would hit the other and I would snap back to reality, cringe at the unbearableness of my own body, and shower.  Then I would, quite literally, collapse back into bed for 3-4 more days.

By the time we got to Duke and my new neurologist, about 35 days after starting Aubagio, I was ready to give up on everything and just ask for my name to be placed on some kind of Stem Cell Transplant waiting list, or start chemo, or do whatever he wanted me to do as long as it didn’t involve swallowing one more pill.  When he said I could quit Aubagio, it felt like a stay of execution.  I left this appointment with a “pick your poison” bouquet of stat sheets on 3 different infusions I could try.  All, obviously, with very serious side effects, including Jackpot Winners like kidney failure, hepatitis, cirrhosis, thyroid disease, melanoma and breast cancer.

I choose the one more likely to cause breast cancer.

I did a detox to rid myself of the Aubagio and that was even worse than the previous month.  Despite the bottom rising up to meet me, I experienced one of the rarest things I had in 2 years: a night of energy, joy and no pain.  Thommy and I went to a lighthouse on Oak Island, and to Caswell Beach. It was everything:

And finally, on August 14th, we started the journey of Ocrevus and Infusion #1.  We left the house at 6:30 am, and got back home around 9pm.  The 100mg of IV Bendadryl, plus the allergic reaction, have made the details of the day just a sketch; another day in this nightmare that I wish I could say started in 2009 with my MS diagnosis.  But really, it started when I was maybe 2 months old when I first started displaying symptoms of Hirschprung Disease.  So I can safely say this is all I know and nothing I ever hoped for, obviously; it is barely something I can still imagine is happening, even as it’s happening.  I don’t want it anymore.  And the crazy part is – I was the lucky one that day.  The hours passed by in blinks, and even though I was the one who had to get stuck 3 times as they tried to find a spot for the IV, and even though it was me pumped full of steroids and a bag with a toxic sticker on it, Thommy was the one that sat in a bullshit-excuse of a chair for that ENTIRE time.  No drugs.  No warm blanket.  Fuck it babe, I don’t want it for your anymore either.

But more than all of that lately, I can’t stop thinking of the rapidly expanding schism between me and every person I know and love.  This is obviously, obviously, not their fault nor their problem.  What it is, what it’s always been, is this race that I’m running to try to keep up with LIFE (my life, their lives, our lives) while existing almost entirely in an isolated dimension of a life suspended.  There is no mooring to tie myself to, nothing to define myself other than symptoms, disease management, medications, side-effects…

How do you speak that language and still talk to people.  If it wasn’t something I was actively experiencing every minute, of every day, I’m sure there would be a way, because  I’m constantly screaming to myself, “YOU ARE MORE THAN YOUR DISEASE(S).”

Well, I know that.  Truly, I do.  But that’s also kind of a lie I like to tell myself.  Because at any given moment, whether I’m sitting in a cloud of confusion that makes my brain feel like it’s on fire as it tries to decipher what the person I’m talking to is saying to me, or whether I’m focusing on various focal points to keep myself oriented as I stand so that the vertigo doesn’t overcome me, or stuffing down the near-constant sensation of dry-heaving so that I don’t throw up in public, or willing myself, literally conjuring all the cells in my body to communicate with each other so that I can stand for 5 minutes while I talk to someone I’ve stumbled across in public, I am actually these diseases.  It vibrates through my body like a tuning-fork and it never, ever stops.  It is a body electric, and it never shuts off.

Despite what people may see when they look at me, I do not ever feel like a body of blood and muscle and bone.  Nothing in me pumps, flexes or supports.  I am more Jell-O than I am human (or just plain gelatin, depending on my hydration level).

And so when I talk to people, or when I try, to there is this voice somewhere inside that ricochets as I try to swat it away; it’s constantly asking “could this person you’re speaking to be you… could they live like this?” …

I try to make it stop but it’s constantly growing louder.  Could this person, this physical specimen in front of me, with undoubtedly all their own problems and diseases and anxieties and sorrows and pains, could they lose their job tomorrow and turn into a human shaped heap of Jell-O and still get up everyday to a life shattered down around them? And could they pick up those pieces and build a new life?  Can they even comprehend what you’re wondering?  And when I get to my penultimate question, my heart skips one of its tiny, faint beats: Have they ever had to do it before???

Because in that moment, my brain and my heart, that are always asking and searching, wonder one last thing:

Can they show me how?

***

(Note: as I typed this in a haze of frustration and fear, I’ve been watching MSNBC and it’s coverage of Hurricane Harvey and the potential devastation about to befall parts Texas.  I think back to Katrina and how so many people looking to escape it’s path were evacuated to Houston, which is now staring down the barrel of another gun.  And I think of Yemen (if you don’t know about one of the worst humanitarian crises ever that is decimating that country, you should educate yourself and then do whatever it is you do in the face of such suffering, whether it’s monetary or verbal communication between you and your god).  And I think of Heather Heyer’s family.  And I know, as I’ve always known and always said, that suffering is happening on scales NONE of us reading can understand; just as I can’t understand evacuating my home under the threat of 30 inches of rain to possibly never return, or losing a child to cholera, or having a daughter killed by a Nazi.  I know an untold number of us are forced at least once in our life to lose everything and build it back up anew.  And again I ask, HOW?  I really need to know.)

      Can Anyone Hear This? I woke up this morning with a pulse of 125.  This is an uncomfortable anomaly.  This is the steroids saying "Good Morning".