#and it's not EVERY month that i have issues getting my prescription filled it's like. every other month

[storm-of-feathers]

girl what

[wickedhawtwexler]

love having adhd during the adderall shortage. love that i have to decide what parts of my life are important enough to be focused and alert for. love that it has to be work so that i can avoid fucking up my job too much and getting fired 🤪

[youregonnabeokay-kid]

ADHD information for fanfic writers:

Diagnostic Process:

the diagnostic process is different in every country, but this is a basic overview

- an ADHD referral can come from any type of doctor, unlike referrals for other neurodivergences

- the wait list depends on where you live and how old you are. typically the younger you are, the shorter the wait

- ADHD has to be diagnosed by a psychiatrist or by a doctor who has taken a specialized course to be certified in diagnosing and handling ADHD

- most doctors will make you fill out a questionnaire about your mental health. these questionnaires involves sections about family history, personal history, and statements that you have to agree or disagree with

- a good psychiatrist won’t diagnose you with ADHD during your first visit. they will instead spend the first few visits getting to know you and the state of your mental health

- most people are assessed for depression when being assessed for ADHD. this is because depression can present itself in similar ways. if diagnosed with depression and open to medication, the psychiatrist will first prescribe antidepressants and see how those affect you before moving on with the ADHD assessment

Meds:

- most ADHD meds are taken in the morning since they normally wear off after 8-12 hours

- when meds wear off we go through what’s known as a “crash” or “medication rebound”

- ADHD crashes are pure hell which is why some people with ADHD choose to only take meds during the week or they do nothing on the weekend as a reset of sorts

- basically, when our meds wear off all of our symptoms come back at the same time and we get overstimulated to the point of exhaustion

- some people have smaller doses of their meds that they take at the beginning of the crash. this means they can prolong the crash by a couple hours

- for some people, the first time taking meds is hell. the change is very noticeable and abrupt. i wouldn’t stop talking because it was “too quiet” (it being my mind)

- your dosage is not based on body type or weight and just because you take a high dose in one drug doesn’t mean you take a high dose in all others (my ADHD meds are 10mg higher than the highest prescribed amount but my antipsychotics are .5mg lower than the lowest prescribed dose)

- vyvanse is most often prescribed to people with combo ADHD, ritalin to those with hyperactive ADHD (especially those with impulsivity issues), and adderall for inattentive (no, this is not something that is typically disclosed or well-known but if you’ve talked to enough people w/ ADHD you begin to see a pattern) other ADHD meds are available but less likely to be prescribed

- other meds are also taken into account when getting a prescription for ADHD. vyvanse is the most versatile and is usually the one prescribed if you’re on other medications

- ADHD meds are stimulants which means doctors will never give you refills (if they do, they could lose their license)

- since they’re stimulants, for the first year you have to go to the psychiatrist’s bi-weekly for the first few months, then monthly after that so they can see how you are doing

- ADHD meds are known for lowering sex drives and increasing hunger (sometimes the opposite may happen, as with most drugs, but these are most common)

- it takes about 1/2 hour to an hour for meds to kick in and many of us are able to tell the exact moment they start working

Other Substances:

- the neurons and chemicals in the body of an ADHD person are fucked. this means that many substances and medications have either no effect on us, or the opposite effect of what they are intended for

speaking from personal experience:

- caffeine makes me tired

- melatonin and other sleeping aids like dextromethorphan, which can be found in many cough syrups, make me hyper

- weed makes me feel lighter, but it never affects me more than that. i never get a “proper high” like other people (ie; i find no more joy or fascination in bright colours or moving objects than i usually do)

- while “sugar highs” in general are a myth, they’re real for people with ADHD! they stimulate our dopamine and opioid receptors which gives us a burst of energy

- additionally, people with ADHD are more likely to be addicted to illegal stimulants like cocaine because it calms them down (yup, you read that right. when someone with ADHD does cocaine their mind quiets and they mellow down instead of the usual hyper-active high that neurotypicals get)

Additional Information:

- we’re lacking some of the neurotransmitters in our brains so it takes us longer to process information, and we have “more” thoughts than neurotypicals since our additional thoughts aren’t processed out

- we get what’s called “executive dysfunction” or “ADHD paralysis” where we are physically unable to do things despite no real physical limitations (for non-ADHD folks: try putting your hand in fire. you’ll notice that you are either physically unable to or that your body somewhat restrains you from doing it. this is what executive dysfunction is like. for ADHD folks: do not try this since we’re also less likely to have self-preservation instincts)

- basically, i can sit for hours thinking about doing the dishes, screaming at myself in my head to just do them, but i’m still unable to

- we leave trails! we have so many thoughts going through our head that we forget them all the time, so when we get a thought like “i think the printer is low on paper, i should check” we abandon all tasks in favour of the new thought. however, the remains of those tasks stay where we left them, and thus, an ADHD trail is made

- we have both the worst and best memory of anyone you will ever meet. i might be able to tell you the exact outfit you wore on a specific day five years ago but i won’t remember what i ate for breakfast

- when we get bored, we get depressed. like, life is meaningless and i want to curl up in a ball and die depressed. sometimes we need someone to physically force us out of bed to get us out of our funk (and sometimes all it takes to get out of the funk is doing something fun which makes us feel ridiculous when we think about how depressed we were prior)

- since boredom is detrimental to us, we have to constantly be having fun which, in and of itself, is not fun. this is also why a lot of us end up doing shift work or working dangerous jobs

- we’re adrenaline junkies. this isn’t even a “most of us” situation, it’s all of us. the only difference is how we get that adrenaline. (some get it by jumping out of a plane, others get it by working on assignments in a time crunch)

- we’re social beings. even if we’re introverts, we thrive on social interactions. without them our dopamine plummets and we, once again, get depressed

- all silences are awkward to us. it doesn’t matter if you’re the person we’re most comfortable with in the world, silence is always awkward. or, more specifically, we feel like we need to fill it which is why we often ramble

obviously there’s far more to ADHD than just this and everything can change person by person but i hope this helps to gain a bit more of a general understanding on ADHD

[littlethingwithfeathers]

What to do if you get caught by the Adderall shortage:

So, it’s not getting picked up by the news much (at least not that I’ve seen... NPR, BBC, AP), but there’s a pretty serious Adderall shortage happening right now. It’s been building for awhile helped along by the usual suspects (labor shortages, limited manufacturing facilities, shutdowns due to illness... blah blah) and some not so usual ones (More people getting diagnosed with ADHD... when you take away someone’s coping mechanism, which for some people it’s their in-person work environment and social activities, people start to have more issues!). And it looks like this could last until the beginning of 2023... so... what to do?

Please note, I’m not a doctor or medical professional of any kind. I just had to deal with this, and it’s worrying and a little troublesome to manage, so I thought I’d pass on some advice from my experience. It might not be one size fits all but it might help someone to know who to talk to and what to ask.

Also, if you’re going to use this as a moment to spout some drivel about “Maybe we don’t neeeeed all these meds, you guysssss!” please kindly fuck entirely, completely, and all the way off into the void. Same goes for people who are looking at this as an excuse to whine about “addicts” or drug related crime. Read the room. This post is not your soapbox. 

SO! You’ve gotten a call from your pharmacy that they can’t fill your Adderall prescription because your scrip is on backorder. Wat do??? Step one: Don’t panic. It is one pharmacy out of one version of a drug. You’ve got options, though it might take some legwork. If your prescription is at a chain like CVS, Target, Walmart, etc see if the pharmacy tech will call around to other stores in the area and ask about their stocks. Step two: 

Call your prescribing doctor, inform them of the situation, and ask for a paper prescription. Go pick up the prescription. Ask them for their advice and for information on which pharmacy to call (they might know of a pharmacy with the med in stock).

Step three: 

Start phoning pharmacies. Begin with the big chains. Places like CVS, Walgreens, Target, Walmart, and major grocery stores... places with multiple locations in town. Start here because they might be able to check with other stores in their chain to find out who has your prescription in stock, which will save you a phone call or three potentially. They also have more integrated supply networks and will have a better handle on their inventory. Fan out from your location with the help of Google. If you live in a big city, don’t be afraid to start checking in the ‘burbs or outlying towns. Also, if the pharmacy tech doesn’t seem like they’re in a rush, ask them if they’ve got other options... the generic form, other measurements, other types (long acting, short acting, etc). That will potentially save you this rigmarole a second time if you come up dry.

Step four:

If you call every pharmacy and have no luck, call your prescribing doctor back. Tell them you’ve phoned literally everyone and no one can fill your prescription and ask if there is a way you can change it by a few milligrams or switch to generic for this month? Could you get a shorter prescription (fewer pills, thus easier to fill)? Could you do short acting instead of long acting or vice versa for a few weeks until backorders get filled? In short, see if you can get an alternative to tide you over. Go get that paper prescription, and then start over (this is why asking some of those questions to the pharmacy techs could pay off).

Concluding advice:

-You do not have to do this by yourself. You don’t even actually have to do this yourself. Someone can do 90% of this for you. Other than the call to your physician for the script, a parent, spouse, friend, sibling or otherwise can help with this. They will just need the paper prescription, your insurance card, your name and date of birth, and your prescribing physician’s name and place of business. Get someone to help you if you can.

-If you’re not getting bit by the shortage, take this as a sign to stockpile your meds a bit. And this kinda goes for everyone, not just the ADHD/Adderall people. Shortages and supply issues are not going to go away any time soon. Next it might be blood pressure meds, or a particular steroid... who knows. Talk to your doctor about how to effectively plan for this with the meds you’re taking. Future you will thank you.

[cleolinda]

Dear diary

I am (typically) running late with things I wanted to finish, partly because I had an issue getting a major prescription filled (not because of the Walgreen's labor issues, purely just "PLEASE call in this medication that I get literally every three months, do we not have this on lock by now"). I'm going to be sending out a large post (essay?) about The Ring on the Patreon, with a supplement about two of my favorite creepypasta (pastas? pastae?). And it's the latter that I'm adding a bit to; the second half felt kind of thin. Then I'll post it all here maybe this weekend. I wanted to be posting faster than this, but it's a total of about 4300 words, and like. When you hit that length, there's a certain amount of quality control you've signed yourself up for, you know?

There's another Scary Movie Experience I'd like to write about, and hopefully it will NOT take two weeks to write. But also, confession, I have never seen The Exorcist. It's one of those movies I feel like I've watched via cultural osmosis--I forget that I haven't, because I've seen the scary parts out of context over the years. I am wondering if I should watch that For Science/The Bit, but also: not watching the demon movie is free. Not watching the demon movie costs nothing. On the other hand, I want to write about The Omen, so in for a penny, in for a pound, maybe.

[tallymali]

Don’t know if anon or messages is the better place to ask this. I have friend that’s had uti for 2 months and you came to mind. Would you mind telling your Dr/clinic and the new and previous meds you’re taking? Did both meds work & the new is just cheaper or does new work better also? Thank You Tally!

Oh my god, I'm so glad you've sent me this because I wish more than anything that I'd known about this illness so early on in experiencing it. I have soooo much to say about this so you're absolutely welcome to DM me and relay any questions your friend has.

Okay first off I definitely recommend your friend joins the facebook support group: www.facebook.com/groups/ChronicUTISupportGroup/

Even if they dont use facebook, they should totally just make an account to join. I didn't use it either so I just made a blank profile with a fake name. As long as you answer the questions they send, the mods should let you in with no problem. I said something like "apologies for the blank account, I don't use social media but I was told this is the best place for support" and I was accepted super fast.

So, the clinic I go to is the Harley Street chronic UTI clinic. They don't have their own website but all their info is here: www.chronicutiinfo.com/treatment/conventional-medicine/uk-treatment/prof-malone-lee/

(That website is also an incredible source of info on chronic UTIs)

You have to go there in person for the initial appointment, which costs £250. First thing they do is take your pee and analyse it under a microscope to get a count for white blood cells and epithelial cells. Then you go to the doctor's office (there's a team of doctors that all follow the same protocol) and they discuss your symptoms, any previous medications you've tried, and any other health issues you have. They will almost always prescribe Hiprex and a long term high dose antibiotic. Hiprex is a urinary antiseptic, and it essentially reacts with the acid in your urine to create formaldehyde. Most of us take high dose vitamin C pills with the Hiprex to keep our urine as acidic as possible (high bacteria in the bladder can raise urine pH so we often need help in that department).

At this point they will give you the prescriptions and say you can take them to your NHS GP and see if they're willing to fill them on the NHS. My GP didn't want to get involved with prescribing long term antibiotics, but was happy to fill the Hiprex prescription. I now get my antibiotics from Pharmacierge. Their prices are cheaper than regular pharmacies and they work closely with the Harley Street team. My doctor now just sends my prescriptions straight over to them which cuts out a little admin for me.

After that initial appointment you have to have a follow up appointment every 3 months, which can be done in person or over teams. Either way, they cost £200. If you go in person they will do the pee analysis again, but it's not super necessary to do that to monitor your progress. Patient symptoms are the number one thing they use to decide your treatment. Basically as long as you're in pain, they will keep treating you (the NHS would NEVER). Not a huge amount happens at these check ups, but being on long term antibiotics is risky so they will ask you a million questions about any possible side effects, and switch your meds immediately if you're not tolerating them well. They also ask that you contact your GP and request a blood test 3 times a year to monitor your kidney and liver function. They might also ask for other tests depending on your symptoms and the specific antibiotics you're prescribed.

So yeah, the treatment kind of just boils down to: find the right meds. Take them until you feel completely normal again.

As for the specific meds, here's a list of their most prescribed antibiotics:

Cefalexin

Amoxicillin

Co-amoxiclav

Nitrofurantoin

Trimethoprim

Doxycycline

Oxytetracycline

Azithromycin

Clarithromycin

Pivmecillinam

Lymecycline

For me, before starting treatment under Harley Street, I'd been treated by the Urology Partnership. They prescribed me 3 months of full dose Nitrofurantoin (brand name Macrobid, super common UTI treatment) and I was almost symptomless during that 3 months, but when I finished the course the symptoms returned instantly at full throttle. From that point they would only prescribe me the half dose of Nitrofurantoin which was NOT cutting it. That was when I decided to move to Harley Street. Definitely would not recommend Urology Partnership to people dealing with a chronic UTI.

SO. I emailed the Harley Street clinic with an appointment request and they booked me in for the next week. At my appointment the doctor prescibed Trimethoprim, which is usually the first one they try with new patients. I took it for a little while, (around 2 weeks to a month, I don't remember exactly) but I was still getting symptoms that weren't letting up, so I emailed their clinical enquiries address to let them know. I'd mentioned at my inital appointment that Nitrofurantoin had worked in the past, so they took me off the Trimethoprim and prescribed the Nitro instead, with the note that I'd have to discuss it at my next appointment.

Basically, Nitro is a really good antibiotic but has some of the nastiest side effects and is also the most expensive. So at my follow up appointment my doctor said he was happy for me to stay on it to get my symptoms back under control but he'd like to switch to a less risky antibiotic in time.

So a few months later (June this year) I was switched to Cefalexin, which has some of the least side effects and is one of the cheapest. I've been doing really well on it and I'm really feeling optimistic.

This is all to say that treatment is easy in theory but requires a little trial and error to find the right meds, and then takes a metric fucktonne of patience. There's no set length of time for the treatment, but in general, the longer you've had the cUTI the longer it takes to cure. So if your friend does have cUTI and can get treatment quickly, it shouldn't take too long to cure.

I had mine for two years before starting with Harley Street, which is actually much shorter than the average patient. They frequently treat older patients who have been suffering for over 20 years. I've read a depressing number of posts in the facebook group from people in their 50s+ who have been able to live normally for the first time in their adult life thanks to this treatment.

Knowledge of this condition with the general public AND with doctors (even urologists?????) is basically nonexistent. The NHS and most healthcare systems will slap you with a wastebasket diagnosis (PBS/BPS/IC) and tell you to piss off and live in pain forever. I genuinely don't think I will ever be able to trust a doctor right off the bat to actually prioritise my health ever again in my life. The NHS is full of people who really do care and really do everything they can for their patients but as an institution it does not give one iota of a fuck about the wellbeing of the people it's supposed to care about. It's a big complicated systemic issue but there will never be a good excuse for turning away patients who need medical care to live normally.

If your friend or literally anyone reading this is interested in the more academic/scientific side of this whole thing, I'd definitely read Cystitis Unmasked by Professor Malone Lee. It's written for doctors so it's not an easy read for a layperson but GOD it's so eye opening and infuriating. Professor Malone Lee is the guy who created the Harley Street UTI clinic and I think he spent his entire life raging at all the pillars of incompetance that modern UTI testing and treatment is built upon.

[hargrove-mayfields]

Disabled Billy and Steve Week

Day 5- New Diagnosis

My prompt: Obsessive Compulsive Disorder in Billy

-•-•-•-

For what must be the tenth time in the last month, Heather is parked outside of the hospital, her baby girl in the backseat, but the passenger side empty, waiting for Billy to get back.

The doctors have been running tests and screenings at appointment after appointment. He’s been… struggling. Ever since Isabella was born, his mental health had plummeted. It was never perfect, but for the first time, Heather was genuinely afraid.

Watching her husband pick his scalp until it bled and turned his golden hair red, or wash his face until he got a rash because his freckles started bothering him, was terrifying.

The fear isn’t eased when Billy walks out with a prescription bag, and red eyes that make it clear he’s been crying.

“What did they say?” Heather asks, as soon as he opens the car door.

Billy takes his time answering. He seems like he’s in shock.

Heather would hold his hand, but he has to sanitize, take off his mask, then sanitize again. An obsession.

Somehow, Heather isn’t shocked when Billy finally mumbles, “It’s ocd.”

Honestly, she doesn’t know what to feel. She’s been researching, scrolling on a tablet for hours after Billy is asleep to see what professionals all around the world would diagnose her husband with. But none of that preparation had told her how to feel.

Some part of it is relief, to finally have answers and be able to help Billy manage his symptoms. Another little piece of her heart is scared for how Billy will be feeling through all of this.

She decides to let him tell her, “Is that a good thing? A bad thing? Talk to me, sugar cube.”

“I just need a minute Hetty. That’s all.” Billy tries to smile, but it’s more like a grimace. It hurts to see him like that, but Heather will give him his space.

Instead of bothering him more, she just checks on him every now and again, seeing him glance back at the baby using the mirror that points down at her rear-facing car seat literally every few seconds.

When they get back home, which isn’t far since they knew their array of medical issues would require them being close to a hospital, Billy takes the baby straight inside and lays on the couch with her, just closing her eyes and cuddling her as tight as he feels safe to cuddle her little body.

Heather gives him a kiss on the cheek, and goes to take her own meds, calling from the kitchen, “What are you feeling for dinner tonight, baby?”

Silence. She comes back in, and Billy is in tears. Their little girl is biting his shirt and dozing off, and Billy is trying not to shake too hard with each sob.

His red eyes lock onto her, his lower lip wobbling, “Am I a bad dad?”

“Biscuits for dinner it is.” Heather declares softly, deciding he needs one of his comfort foods at the moment. Additionally, she takes the baby in her arms and comforts Billy with her words, “And no. Sweetie, you’re the best dad in the world.”

It barely helps anything. Billy is spiraling, “But I’m the reason the baby room is so plain. It takes me three times as long as you to change a diaper and I can’t cook for my wife and my kid because I have panic attacks if the oven timer is the wrong number. I can’t clip my baby’s nails cause I might go too short, I can’t hold her when she’s hyper and moving too much- I can’t even fucking be trusted with myself, let alone her little life!”

After all that, Billy takes a shaky, tear-filled breath in, “This OCD shit sucks.”

“None of that means you’re bad though. Your way of doing things is particular, but baby, you’re still here, and you’re doing your best for our girl.” Heather soothes gently.

He scoffs at himself, wiping his eyes more aggressively than necessary, “That’s the bare minimum.”

“Some parents can’t do that. Your mother didn’t.” It probably stings, but it’s reality. One of Billy’s biggest fears when they got pregnant with Isabella was becoming like his parents, or worse. Heather needs him to know that’s not the case.

“Hetty-“ Billy’s face pinches up, like he doesn’t know whether to be hurt or not.

So Heather decides to offer a little bit more insight, and maybe lessen the blow of the brutal reality, “My mom didn’t either. She drugged herself out of her mind and missed my whole childhood. I don’t have any memories from before I was ten. But Bella’s gonna have so so many with you.”

It seems to work, with Billy even smiling as he looks at their little girl and takes it all in, “Do you think she’ll think I’m weird?”

“Honey bun, every kid thinks their parents are weird at some point. But I do know she’s going to think you’re the most loving father a little one could ask for.” Heather chuckles softly.

Now it’s her turn to feel a little bit of panic.

See, Heather has a secret, and seeing as Billy could use a little cheering up, she decides to let him in on it. She takes his hand in hers, and places it on her stomach, right above her scar, “Two little ones, actually.”

Instantly she sees the difference in Billy, and the way his eyes light up. He sits bolt upright and hugs her tight, crying now but for a much better reason.

“Holy shit, baby! How long have you known?”

“Four days. But I’m six weeks along.” Heather enthuses, combing her fingers lovingly through his long curls.

Billy looks like he’s calculating, then he gasps, “Six weeks- Hetty, that’s almost a quarter of the way!”

“I know! Hopefully it’ll fly by like the last one.” Heather laughs softly in pure joy.

Her pregnancy with Isabella was relatively easy, and the number of seizures she had even stayed consistent since her epilepsy medications were safe for her and baby. The worst thing was the morning sickness, but it passed early on enough that she’d somehow enjoyed pregnancy.

Billy had been a wreck, between his emotions and his fears. It took days of promising that she’d be okay when she was nine months in and he’d been scheduled for a work trip before he felt safe to leave her by herself.

At the moment, he doesn’t seem as panicked as he’d been before, but he does fret- “No, no, no, no- I need time. I need to work on stuff.”

Heather cups his face sympathetically, “Bubs, I already told you-“

But Billy interrupts to tell her she’d misinterpreted, “Not personal stuff, lover. I mean I literally need to work on fixing this shitty house up if we’re gonna have two littles running around.”

“First, we need dinner.” Heather happily changes subjects then, but sternly puts her hands on her hips when Billy gets up to help, “Don’t even think about it. This baby bun is literally the size of a grain of rice, I don’t need you butlering yet.”

“Please let me. I feel like I’m buzzing inside.” Billy begs, pouting his bottom lip out in that way that’s always made Heather feel soft.

She rolls her eyes playfully, and hands him a snoozy Bella back, the little one year old reaching for her daddy too, “Put baby girl in her high chair. I could use your help washing fruit.”

“Fruit and.. biscuits?” Billy looks absolutely perplexed by her dinner choices.

Oh how Heather loves this boy.

“No, silly. I’m making you biscuits. Bella can’t eat stuff like that yet though.”

A flush strikes Billy’s cheeks a deep red color- Heather's favorite since she met her soulmate in a pair of swim trunks the same shade- “How the hell do you remember all that stuff?”

Heather just shrugs, though her point is that it’s not as easy as it seems, “Because I don’t have two hundred other things to remember in a day. That and I read a lot of books when I was bedridden. C-sections give lots of time for learning.”

She also goes out into the kitchen, fishing ingredients out of the pantry and measuring utensils out of the cabinets. Billy steps behind her, his hand on the small of her back so she doesn’t bump into him, to reach into the fridge for some strawberries, blueberries, and grapes.

“I’d probably lose my marbles trying to keep track of what’s real and what’s pseudoscience garbage.“ Billy huffs, while portioning out fruit to clean.

It makes Heather recall a time when they were about to be parents and she couldn’t, “Right? Remember when I thought it was bad to sleep on my side when I was pregnant?”

“Changed your tune real quick when the back pain hit.” Billy laughs lightheartedly.

Heather takes the opportunity to reiterate what she’d promised Billy before, “Exactly. Nobody gets everything perfect on the first try.”

She looks over, and Billy is just staring at her lovingly. That was exactly what he needed to hear. Heather smiles back, and blows a kiss, a little puff of dough flour coming from her hands.

Billy acts like he catches the kiss, and puts it to his heart. Nothing beats flirting like dumb, lovestruck teenagers.

Until a piercing wail cuts it off.

Bella over in her high chair starts crying her little head off, Heather guesses because she missed a nap earlier while they were waiting for Billy to finish his appointment.

That sound to them as new parents is instant panic, all the time, and Heather isn’t sure when that feeling will end. Until it does, she knows it’s been hitting Billy harder, and decides to let him take care of it, in the form of an offer, “You wanna get her, bubs?”

Just like she predicted, he’s already drying his hands on the apron not around his own waist, but on Heathers, and running to grab the baby, “Already on it.”

Heather just smiles after him, proud and fond all at the same time. Throw any new diagnosis their way, and they can handle it. Just Billy, her and Isabella, and their little bean on the way. An unbreakable family.

~~~~~

Interested in helping the community? Today’s organization that I’ve chosen to highlight is the Peace of Mind foundation.

POM is part of the international OCD foundation, which means they are recognized as being on of the most beneficial sites for individuals with obsessive compulsive disorder.

On the site, folks can access information about their disability, seek positive affirmations, reach out to care teams, and provide education to family members or carers to make sure the individual is getting the best treatment.

While the site uses language that I personally see as demeaning, I still thought it was important to highlight what they do for the community. I also couldn’t find a single charity or organization that didn’t use the word “suffering” to describe living with our disorder. I personally don’t see my OCD that way, but as I said, I wanted to show that there is a foundation out there trying to support us.

The site accepts donations, saying they will go towards families, therapists, support teams, and of course individuals with OCD. If you’re interested in reading more on your own and forming your own view, click here and the link will take you to the site!

[mikimyslee]

is there anything that helps you when you run out of ambien? tbh i think i'm going to end up in a similar situation soon (in my case i haven't been overusing them but my doctor is just never in his office and the other doctors i get put with won't refill it and try to take me off it cold turkey) i hope you can find some way to hang in there, i'm sending kind thoughts your way and hope life gives you a break. wishing you the best 🫂

(I’m sorry this is so long, prepare for the biggest yapfest of 2024)

This is my first time running out, and it was due to my own stupid irresponsibility, so hopefully I shouldn’t deal with this issue again. However, I absolutely hate that your doctors are treating you so badly, it can be dangerous to pull you off of your meds at random especially when you really need it. If im not misreading and you’re taking Ambien as well, cold turkey quitting that stuff, whether it was your choice or not, can be dangerous depending on a few factors such as dose and length of time you’ve been on it. The doctors you are dealing with sound like they’re being incredibly careless with your health and if it’s possible I would see about switching doctors, but that process can be difficult and frustrating so I completely get it if you can’t do that.

If things start to get bad (like you begin having withdrawal symptoms or you start to feel like hurting yourself) and you have the option available near you, I would go to an urgent care or the ER.

I know that isn’t available to everyone though, but in the past four months I’ve been to the er and urgent care at least 15 times. It’s not an exaggeration, I just have been running into health problems that badly that many times in a short period. I’m saying this because it was the only way I could get SOME kind of help in my most desperate times. Maybe they can listen to the issues you’re having and someone might be able to help you get in contact with your doctor. I can’t say for sure what they’d be willing to do though, it’s like a gamble with every healthcare worker. Sometimes they’re really helpful, sometimes they’re indifferent to your situation.

Depending on where you are and what insurance you have, trying to get the help you NEED is like pulling teeth. I’m so sorry you have to deal with it, it’s stressful, scary, and it’s enough to drive you fucking insane. I’m also sorry that I’m not very good at giving advice and for going on a tangent. Despite being on the highest dose, I probably haven’t been on this med for as long as you have, and so therefore i have not dealt with much physical withdrawal symptoms. Mainly just anxiety, rebound insomnia, nausea. Its difficult for me to say exactly what I’m doing to deal with it, a lot of it is me just sitting and watching the clock, biting my nails, stuffing my face with food to deal with more bubbling over anxiety.

As far as I know, I am with certainty getting that prescription filled, so I’m able to find some comfort in knowing that it will happen eventually. For you, it seems that the future of your prescription refill is uncertain right now. I don’t know how you’re getting through any of it, but if I was in your shoes right now I’d probably be handling it very badly. That’s to say, I genuinely think you’re a resilient and strong person who has likely dealt with more than your fair share of problems and stressors. I think you’re going to make it through this, and you will be able to get in contact with your doctor or a doctor willing to listen to you, even if it’s a painstaking, infuriating process.

As for what I’m doing and I’ve been doing for the past week to get through it…I’ve been trying to keep myself distracted with other things and I take some other meds I have so that I’ll eventually get tired.

At night I take two benedryls, six hydroxizine (25mg), half a mirtazapine (15 mg, previously prescribed for insomnia but I stopped taking it after I got prescribed the zolpidem. I still have it so I’m using it to get through these two weeks) and two 10mg meletonin gummies. These are split into two doses, not taken all at once. I take a Benedryl, three hydroxyzine, and a meletonin gummy. Then I take the rest after a few hours, usually closer to 5 am and then I try to sleep. It’s worked so far, the key is to not start flipping out if you can’t fall asleep immediately, which I do a lot.

I’m not sure if you have hydroxyzine on hand, they give that stuff out like candy, but it’s an antihistamine similar to Benedryl and it can make you sleepy. If you don’t have that, 10mg meletonin gummies and Benedryl might help at least a little BUT PLEASE BE CAREFUL with how much Benedryl you take. It’s funny to joke about that hatman, but you can seriously die if you’re not careful. I went to the icu last month due to an accidental overdose of Benedryl and hydroxizine, wasn’t in there long but it was ROUGH.

At max, take three, but don’t take more than that in one night if you can help it. And don’t take them all at once. If you feel like they’re not working, give it time. I used to take about six or seven benedryls every night just to maybe catch a little sleep. Tolerance can build on it, so you have to be cautious about how much you’re taking.

I wish I had some better way to help, I’m so sorry for this long ass paragraph, I really hope I was able to answer some questions but please feel free to ask more if you need some clarification or anything else. I’m sorry that your doctors aren’t helping you, I know how fucking awful it is to deal with. I’m sorry if I didn’t make any sense at all but I hope I did, let me know if there’s anything else I can do to help. You’ve got this 🫂💖💖💖💖

[bakedbakermom]

you're probably aware that the american healthcare "system" is a fucking shambles and that without insurance, you can wind up bankrupt or with a lifetime of debt from something like cancer or a car accident.

what you might not know is that, without insurance, even your day-to-day ability to access care is not guaranteed.

i have been without health insurance for about six months now. it's fine, we have the equivalent of "catastrophic care" coverage through a medishare cooperative. we just pay out of pocket up to a certain amount like a high deductible plan, and if anything major happens, the co-op will cover it. but it's not, technically, insurance. and when doctors see NO INSURANCE on your forms they... sometimes just won't doctor you?

twice now i have had doctors say they would normally recommend text xyz to rule something out, but it's very expensive so i am "safe to wait" - wait and see if my symptoms disappear, if they get worse, until the issue persists long enough that it's worth the cost. i believe them when they say waiting is safe (these are doctors i have seen for years), but damn it would be nice to NOT wait and just get the answer/rule something out right away.

also getting prescriptions filled is annoying as hell. every month i have to go into the pharmacy (because their phone system is fucked), get told AGAIN that they put a hold on my refill because there is no insurance on file, wait AGAIN for a couple hours for them to fill it even though they've had the order for days AND there are multiple notes in my file saying to just fill right away and not bill insurance... Every. Fucking. Month. i am very lucky to have the time and (with this medication) the executive function to go through this constant cycle of delays, but many can't.

all this to say: fuck this stupid fucking system i am so tired

[billgenbrough]

I can't find the original thread about it in order to just add this onto that, but

Back in June, I was prescribed a medication I had a severe allergic reaction to (was told by an ER doctor that I was in the 10% range of people who had this reaction BEFORE taking the medication for a minimum of two months; chat, I had been on it for 3 days) by a new psychiatrist

I had an appointment with her today. I had already had issues with her during the two previous appointments (her denying I had any symptoms, prescribing medications I said I was not comfortable taking, and also just awful explanations/communication) and today honestly solidified my lack of respect for her.

She prescribed an injectable medication (to be preceded by a two-week trial period of the oral form) (after I told her I have a huge fear of needles, despite doing a lot of blood testing over the last year and a half, and anxiety over the possibility of developing negative side effects that won't go away due to it being stable in my system for 30 days) (I understand her reasoning, but it's still upsetting to have my concerns disregarded continuously) and reiterated that the symptoms I mentioned in JULY were "psychological issues I was blaming the medication on." I don't think chronic headaches for the entire month and a half I was taking the medication and intense nausea every time I took the other medication, both symptoms going away after I discontinued the medications, was a "psychological issue," but okay.

She told me she'd put in two or three doses of the oral version of the injectable. I get a message from the pharmacy to confirm I have three prescriptions ready, so I open the app.

Why the FUCK did I find three different dosages of the medication I had a possibly fatal allergic reaction to (the reaction itself wasn't fatal, instead possibly resulting in permanent disfigurement and/or paralysis, but a specific muscle spasm it caused could have killed me) (aka choking on my own tongue due to it tensing up directly over my fucking windpipe) (I could barely breathe on the way to the ER that day, it was that severe) written as NEW PRESCRIPTIONS on SEPTEMBER NINTH when it was supposed to be a DIFFERENT medication of the same class

Is the doctor seriously that mad that I told her "I'm having X symptoms, and they directly coincide with the timeline of this medication" that she lied about a medication she was giving me? The medication I'm allergic to also comes in an injectable, one of the few in it's class that does (she said she was no longer wanting to give me meds in that class because I had tried and failed with so many of them) so it's completely possible she intentionally told me the wrong medication and didn't expect me to notice due to a similiar "brand" name.

She had actually started lecturing me in her office about having stopped the two medications I was on due to said side effects and the fact they weren't helping anyway (I literally told her I can not take PRNs, but she gave me one anyway, and it didn't work, like every other PRN) a month after I told her this yet she increased it anyway

I'm losing my fucking mind.

Maybe it was the pharmacy filling it as a substitute for the original prescription due to being extremely similar medications (according to the psychiatrist)

Who knows anymore

[crvwly]

a few months ago i had an issue with my medication renewal because i have total time blindness when it comes to my prescriptions and making sure i request more before i run out, you know, common stuff for people with illnesses that cause brain fog, anyway it turned out i needed a doctor's appointment before i could get them renewed and it was going to take longer than the meds i had left and i had to talk with a pharmacist for awhile and they were like hey, we see here you haven't consistently purchased your medication like ever, what is that about?

and i was like oh well, i'm uh. poor. and sometimes i know i won't be able to afford my medication until my next check or the check after, so i ration them? i know i'm not supposed to because that's not how medication works but if i know i wont be able to afford it i'll skip days, so that's why i sometimes don't get my meds until like fifteen days after i was scheduled to run out.

and they were like. okay. well, let me get you an emergency refill to last you until your doctor's appointment, please come pick them up asap so you don't have any more withdrawal symptoms, and please don't ration your meds. and that was that

but ever since then, i have not been charged for a single prescription from this pharmacy. not a one. and i'm certain there's a low-income no-cost meds program at this place bc it's a community health clinic but they didn't have me enroll or fill out forms or answer questions. they just stopped charging me. and that genuinely changed my life because i get my meds on time every time now. sometimes places do have good intentions and genuinely care about their community

[icepixie]

I love it when medical types treat the chart--or even the guidelines from some professional organization--instead of the person sitting in front of them.

My gyn retired this year, so I got assigned to a new one. Who promptly took me off the low-dose birth control I've been on for almost 10 years post-hysterectomy to control the bits of endometriosis still littering my abdomen. This is because I'm 40 and have (controlled!) high blood pressure. Apparently. Probably the "migraine" diagnosis that's going to follow me around forever despite not being true, never having been true, the problem was an infected tooth that presented weirdly doesn't help.

I get the existence of the guidelines (albeit they were devised before low-dose estrogen pills, which seem to have way fewer risks, but whatever). I do not get the unilateral application to me despite my earlier gyn's prescribing them, the decade of history that I do well on them, and that knowledge that progestin-only pills, which were the only other alternative offered, were a complete disaster.

(I took them in an effort to not get labeled uncooperative, but I've had them twice before and each time it not only didn't reduce pain, it made it happen twice as often.)*

The constant repetition of "But a hysterectomy always cures endometriosis!" was obnoxious too, because NO THE FUCK IT DOESN'T, READ SOME PAPERS, and it definitely didn't for me. Is that week of the month better without That Uterus Bitch and The Evil Ovary? Sure. Doesn't mean it's pain free. Also, a delay in filling my bc prescription earlier this year made my arthritis flare, so that may or may not now be a monthly (or every-two-weekly, on the minipill) thing. I wonder how the low-dose combined pill compares to a week of steroids every month for...every health measure out there? Favorably, I'd imagine. Maybe I can get my rheumatologist to weigh in on this.

Anyway, I'm obviously never going back to this person, but I'm not looking forward to auditioning gyns until I find someone who can do more complex risk/benefit assessment than "guidelines say bad." I guess I'll give the minipill a month to "work," because you gotta put up a facade of pretending you don't know more about this extremely specific issue than the doc. I'm debating whether to actually take it or just say I did, since, you know, it makes things worse than doing nothing.

Tangentially, if we could have these doctor-patient talks BEFORE I have to take all of my clothes off and sit there holding a gaping gown closed, that would be awesome.

I'm just so tired of things in my body breaking. (Or, in this case, not breaking, just having the tool that keeps it from breaking taken away.) Also, I can't help wondering how godawful menopause "treatment" is going to be, whenever that happens.

* Almost forgot, Lupron was mentioned as an alternative, and FUCK, no. My last boss was a gyn and when it was being bandied about for my endo before the hysterectomy she told me point blank to never go on it. Brain damage is a side effect I'd like to avoid, thanks.

[ohblackdiamond]

little rock 'n' roll (sexswap paul, nc-17)

Always painful to lose those last precious vestiges of a body. Marbas waited until the sounds stopped and then idly rolled him fully on his back, just to check-- nothing amiss. Physically, the man was gone. Not ten minutes to get rid of twenty-five years.

Prequel to "little t&a," detailing what Paul was up to during the first days of the sexswap curse, prior to Gene showing up at his house. Weird, psychosexual.

Sexswap fic. Complete.

Notes: This was in the works for awhile after “little t&a,” mostly as something to play around with for my own amusement when I was struggling with other fics. I didn’t really intend to post it initially but received some kind feedback, so I eventually spliced what I had together. This is, basically, the prequel to “little t&a,” and chronicles what Paul was doing the days prior to Gene showing up to his house.

“little rock ’n’ roll”

A bit over a month left before the new tour kicked off. Paul was more than ready for it. He hadn’t had a really good lay since the little chick from CBGB a week or two before. It was hard to summon up the will to chase girls down when he knew that on the road, they’d give in without him having to lift a finger or even say a word. At home, it was just too much effort for too little payoff.

At home, he’d get too self-involved, too, a great recipe for depression and disaster. Hilsen had given him various antidepressants and benzos off and on, but the side effects were all just impossible, so he wasn’t consistent with them. This one caused nausea. That one caused dry mouth and sometimes hives. And every single one was inadvisable with alcohol. 

He knew Gene would think less of him if he knew that half the reason Paul rarely partook in the drug scene was his myriad prescriptions, instead of just his ear. He didn’t really care.

He finished off half his dinner (take out from a restaurant a couple miles away), then drew a bath. It was important, allegedly, to stay engaged, to stave off gloomy feelings, so he started on a mental to-do list as he soaked in the tub. He needed to re-dye his hair a little closer to the tour. He’d get Bobby for that, if Bobby wasn’t too coked out for the job. There’d probably be a few promotional photoshoots beforehand that they’d need Bobby for, too. He needed to send Hilsen a finalized (to a point) tour schedule, just so he’d have an idea on when to be on call for him. Not that he called Hilsen constantly or anything, just… just every few days. And he didn’t really have to, but he wanted to call up Bill about KISS’ rider, too, to prevent any bitching from Peter once the tour got underway.

There. All that might keep him occupied for awhile, though it wouldn’t fill out weeks. Once the tour rehearsals were underway, that would kill the rest of his free time. He sunk his head down into the water, trying to zone out, only to raise it back up at a slight, odd feeling of pain. 

Huh. His nipples were weirdly sore. Even obscured by the water, they looked vaguely puffy. Paul poked at one, getting another twinge of soreness, and sat up in the tub to get a better look. They were definitely slightly swollen. Weird. Not one of his normal complaints at all-- not a gut issue or a mental one. But it was so minor that he felt like calling up a doctor would be overkill. He got out of the tub, dried off and headed to bed, trying to think no more of it.

-- 

The first slight alterations had already begun by the time the demon entered his bedroom. Marbas was there only to speed things along to their inevitable conclusion, catalyzing the curse with a touch of one bloodstained finger to the sleeping man’s mouth. His lips closed around the finger in his sleep, tongue latching on and suckling away the blood, taking it into himself and sealing his fate.

The changes went from negligible to obvious from there, before Marbas even pulled away. In fact, the man’s body was conforming almost too easily to the magic being wrought on him. Usually, for a curse this drastic, there’d be more resistance, despite all of Marbas’ usual precautions. Marbas didn’t expect him to awaken during the transformation, but a struggle wouldn’t have been out of place as his body warped and reshaped itself. The man was just letting it happen, letting himself gradually be erased.

Marbas wasn’t interfering too much, allowing the curse itself to do most of the work for him. The girl’s offering, that smear of her blood– freely given, and freely taken– imbued with Marbas’ own power, was softening up the man’s facial features, his chest. It was like watching someone underwater. His five o’clock shadow disappeared entirely and the skin beneath reworked itself; almost blurred for vague moments before reshaping into a smaller chin and a less distinct jawline. He lost a few inches of height, shoulders and torso almost caving in on themselves, body diminishing substantially. He hadn’t been naturally lanky to begin with, and the woman he was becoming was too well-built to be scrawny. Not overweight at all, but not curvaceous, and certainly not delicate. A healthy, if somewhat ordinary frame so far, though his breasts were continuing to swell well after his hips and ass had stopped. Most of his copious body hair had vanished, except for a thin trail pointing down from around his navel. That trail was starting to spill down into a patch of dark curls at his groin. He decided to leave that alone.

The man shifted, made a sharp little cry. Smaller, still long-fingered hands scrambled blindly, then curled around his bent knees. Trembling all the way down to his toes. He was coiling into himself, tossing and turning helplessly as the transformation neared its completion. Always painful to lose those last precious vestiges of a body. Marbas waited until the sounds stopped and then idly rolled him fully on his back, just to check-- nothing amiss. Physically, the man was gone. Not ten minutes to get rid of twenty-five years.

His head lolled, curly, dark hair slipping down. For a moment, Marbas thought there’d been a mistake after all-- the man was missing most of his ear-- but then, looking at it, he judged the deformity to be much like the scars and moles, something that had been there awhile. Interesting, and not worth resolving. Marbas could have reshaped and refined him endlessly, but given no direction from the girl on how she wanted him to look, he was content to leave the man as he was, more or less as he would have been if born female.

He’d sleep for a long time yet. Transformations were too exhausting for mortals to endure otherwise. Marbas left the room, not curious enough to wait on the man to discover what had happened to him.

–

(mama, stan hit me!)

(she wouldn’t let me play with it!)

(she’s a doll! you can’t play with her!)

He shoved both chubby hands into the pockets of his overalls. Julia’s still-red cheek proved her claim. He had hit her for snatching back the doll. But he hadn’t thought she would care. Julia was a big girl. Six years old. She went to school now and she didn’t want to play with him at all anymore. And the doll was just lying in the middle of the living room untouched,with its big green eyes and long blonde hair and fancy blue ruffled dress. It had shoes and stockings-- he had taken the shoes off, but not the stockings, before Julia had grabbed the doll back from him. 

(i wanna play with it! you weren’t playing with it!)

(boys don’t play with dolls!)

He reached for the doll again anyway, gripping the hem of its dress. He heard the faint sound of ripping fabric. But the dress hadn’t ripped. He felt something very odd, very funny, tingling and hot, pulling and twisting. He was yanking at the straps of his overalls, trying to tug them down-- it was just so hot-- only the overalls weren’t overalls at all anymore. Just a dress. The doll’s dress, the cuffed sleeves like manacles on his arms, the ruffles itching against his neck, it was all so strange, so stifling, the heat in his body almost unbearable-- 

He jerked awake only briefly before falling asleep again.

-- 

Paul didn’t usually oversleep much, thanks to all the years of being on the road. They’d leave the hotels way before the ten a.m. checkout, each of them slogging out of their shared rooms, suitcases in hand, clambering to the lobby and then to what passed for their tour bus. Up until recently, that was how it had been-- now, at least, he didn’t have to carry his own suitcase. But it was midmorning before he managed to shake off the last vestiges of sleep and sort of open his eyes, turning his head to check the time. 

10:40. Pretty bad. He made a mumbling sound. Really, he was starting to feel pretty sick. Or, rather, he felt like he was getting over an illness. His whole body felt weirdly drained. He reached for the phone on the nightstand-- eyes shooting wide open at the sight of his arm.

It wasn’t right. It was too small, too thin. There was a bit of muscle, but the shape and size was completely wrong. It wasn’t his arm, even as he flexed the too-small fingers and bent the elbow back and forth. His wrist looked tiny. His skin felt funny. His breaths were catching in his throat, both hands suddenly shaking as he threw off the covers entirely, and stared, horrified, at the rest of himself.

It wasn’t just his arm that was wrong. It was his whole body. Every inch of it.

His chest-- he had actual breasts like a chick would have. They were large and heavy. Absolutely no hair on them at all. Stomach mostly bare, even. His torso didn’t have nearly its usual blockiness. His hips looked strange, jutting distinctly-- even his legs looked far more than subtly wrong, and between his legs… 

No. No way. It wasn’t that there was nothing there. Just nothing he was remotely familiar with. Not from this perspective. A shift, spreading his legs, made it obvious. He didn’t have a cock anymore. He was a girl now. Every single bit of his body veered straight towards that single, inexorable fact.

He hadn’t taken anything, so he must’ve still been asleep. That weird dream about the doll had just morphed into another dream, that was all. A dream where he was suddenly a chick. That was all. Wasn’t it? Paul remembered the bit about pinching yourself to wake up from a dream, and tried it, pinching the skin on his wrist. All it did was confirm that it was very much attached. He tried again, this time biting several of his fingers in turn, right between the knuckles, a bad habit from childhood. Nothing. And all that moving around only meant he caught a glimpse of himself in the vanity mirror over on the other side of his bedroom. He flinched at the sight, at first, only stealing occasional, horrified glances before forcing himself to sit up properly on the bed and look at his own reflection.

He didn’t want to get any closer to the mirror, to really inspect himself. But even peering over from those few feet away, he could tell he was a little bit pretty. But only a little. He had gotten picky enough that he would have no more than glanced at a girl that looked like… like he did now. He had the same mop of dark brown curls as always. He had the same big eyes and full lips. He could still sort of recognize aspects of his face, even with most of his features (particularly, irksomely, his chin) smaller or softer. It was the coldest of comforts.

He ran his fingers down his face, the unfamiliar feel of an utterly smooth chin and jaw making his stomach churn. Down his neck, down those slimmer arms, catching sight of the rose tattoo on his shoulder. Still there. Down finally to his breasts, drawing back at his own brief touch. He didn’t want to feel past that; just looking at himself, hell, just pressing his thighs together, the dull, strangely empty pressure there, was frightening enough.

He cried for what felt like an hour. Just sobbed himself back to sleep like a little kid.

When he woke back up, body no different at all, he stayed in bed until he got hungry. Then he grabbed a bathrobe, half-stumbling to the kitchen. His center of gravity was badly off. His chest was throwing him off the worst. Each movement felt like his whole body was encased in a glove that didn’t quite fit properly. That drained feeling he’d had since he first woke up wasn’t going away at all. Nothing felt right. He felt-- he was kind of clumsy. Nothing was comfortable. Hell, even his bathrobe didn’t fit correctly anymore on him, the sleeves too long, the shoulders too broad. The ends of the belt drooped nearly to his knees.

He made himself two cheese sandwiches, followed up with a glass of water. Eating helped more than he’d expected. He was perversely glad that his appetite didn’t seem enormously different.

He’d have to do something. He’d have to figure out what the hell had happened to him. Well, he knew what the hell had happened to him, but--

Think. He needed to think. Where had he gone over the last couple of days? Had he gone anywhere? He’d gotten take-out lately, a bad habit from the road. He’d slept with… oh, four or five girls since the end of the tour, in scattered hotels rather than in his house. He didn’t really like bringing girls home; it felt invasive, and it made the girls think they actually had an in with him. He hadn’t spent the night with any of those chicks, either. Then he’d… where else had he gone? God, he couldn’t remember.

He let out what would’ve been a much lower grunt under normal circumstances, then stopped himself, caught a little off-guard from the pitch. He swallowed, morbidly curious despite himself. What did he really sound like right now? It took another breath before he was willing to test a word out.

“Fuck.” God, it was obnoxiously high. He’d always thought his real voice was too high as it was, and had tried sometimes to lower it for interviews, but this was ten times worse. At least to his own ear, it seemed like he was on the verge of squeaking. “Fuck it. Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it…”

Could he recognize it? Was it still his voice, the way it was still, at least to some degree, his face? The way his tattoo was still on his shoulder? Two words weren’t really enough to tell.

“She sells seashells by the seashore. Seashore. Sea-shore.” No good. The sentence was a bit too obvious for his tongue to trip over as readily, even as shaken-up as he was. He’d be better off picking words. “This. Distinct. Whistle.”

The lisp was still there. Faint while he was concentrating on the words, trying to move his tongue the right way, but present all the same. Paul took a breath, then shoved a hand through the matted curls on the right side of his face, only drawing back when he felt the familiar, awful remnant of his right ear. That settled it for certain. On some level, he had his own body, with all its failings and imperfections. Just rearranged. Tugged into a new shape. One he didn’t want to stay in. Paul closed his eyes. His throat felt tight as he tried to decide what to do next. There had to be something. What had happened to him couldn’t possibly be permanent.

He thought about it for awhile, but it was several hours before he managed to eke out the nerve to do anything at all about it. His palms were sweating when he finally reached for the phone, calling up Aucoin Management. Not Bill’s personal number-- he couldn’t face Bill now, any better than he could face any of the guys. Fuck, Bill might in some ways be worse to deal with right now than even Gene. He’d always felt like he was Bill’s favorite, the way Peter was clearly Sean’s. To picture Bill even getting an inkling of what had happened to him, or worse, thinking he was crazy-- he’d never be able to handle it.

“Hi, I’m Mr. Stanley’s secretary.”

Bill’s secretary, Linda West, sounded like she was smiling, even over the phone.

“He has a secretary now?”

Paul choked out something like a giggle. 

“He, uh, wanted me to get some books on the occult sent over.”

“What kind?”

“Oh, ones on magic and summoning spirits.” Paul’s knowledge of the occult only went about as far as Dark Shadows, a couple Night Gallery episodes and seeing an interview with Anton LeVay on T.V. as a teenager. He knew some kids in high school that dabbled in magic and Ouija boards, that kind of thing--back then, it was really in. He’d had his palm read a couple times, and even now, he checked his horoscope pretty regularly, especially on tour. He’d always figured there was something to it, probably, but it wasn’t something he’d wanted to get involved in. Now he was involved in it. “Could you get a spellbook, maybe?”

“A spellbook?”

“He’s trying to do some research. Look, just--get it, okay? Have it expedited over to his house. A couple books. It’s really important.”

“I think this is a little unusual for Mr. Stanley.”

“I do, too.” A nervous laugh. “Would… would you like me to, uh, have him authorize--”

“No, that won’t be necessary. We’ll have some books sent tomorrow.”

“Thank you.”

He hung up the phone, exhaling hard. Amazing that it had actually worked. There. He’d do his research, find out what could be done about it, and, well, go from there. They still had a little over a month before the new tour started. Whatever happened to him might even wear off before the books even got to his door. Yeah. Yeah. 

-- 

The next morning, he was still no different physically. The only thing that had started to fade a bit was that sickly, sapped feeling. He was moving around a little better, too; he didn’t feel like he was quite as off-balance, though his strides still weren’t completely smooth. Somehow, he was adjusting to whatever new female baseline he occupied now. That was terrifying in itself. 

He put on the bathrobe again. Then he dug in his drawers for underwear, deciding it probably wasn’t that hygienic to be up and about without it. The thought of trying to wear briefs in his current state was depressing, so he put on one of the few pairs of boxers he owned instead, trying not to think too much of what they used to contain. It was hard not to when he had to tighten the drawstrings so much just to keep them from falling off.

The books were at his doorstep by noon, and he spent the next four hours reading them, stopping only to eat his leftovers from two days before.. He’d ended up with an assortment of what he realized was the real stuff. Translated grimoires. Paul was fairly indifferent even to Judaism, and a little antagonistic towards the fading remnants of the Jesus freaks, but on the same token, he didn’t feel great looking at all those weird sigils and pentagrams. Knowing, or figuring, anyway, that something in these books had to have been responsible for his current form made him queasy. It didn’t help that most of the demons in the book seemed relegated to alchemy, discovering secrets, and, weirdly, battlefields. 

The Secret Lore of Magic had an index. He turned it to “transformations” and started flipping through the references.

“Like  the  previous  spirit,  Ose  is  able  to  transform  people  into  whatever  form  they  will.  He  causes  delusions  and  insanity  if  required.  Those  who  have  been  changed by him may not know it, and continue to behave as they normally do, in spite of their altered appearance.”

Huh. Well, it probably wasn’t Ose, then. He definitely knew what had happened to him. 

“Zepar… a strong Duke, he can change people into any shape they desire. He can make a woman love any man, at the magician’s command.”

Terrifying. Hopefully Gene never got hold of this book. He reached for the next one, The Lesser Key of Solomon, which, when he opened it up, had a subtitle: Goetia: The Book of Evil Spirits. Paul swallowed thickly. This one was even worse, with its explicit instructions on exactly how to invoke and cast away dozens of demons.

His mother would kill him for owning a book like that, much less reading it. Then again, his mother probably wouldn’t recognize him right now. The thought made his heart drop suddenly to his stomach, and he shoved the book off the table to the floor.

Only for it to open by itself a second later, right to one short entry.

“The fifth Spirit is Marbas. He is a Great President, and appeareth at first in the form of a Great Lion, but afterwards, at the request of the Master, he putteth on Human Shape. He answereth truly of things Hidden or Secret. He causeth Diseases and cureth them. Again, he giveth great Wisdom and Knowledge in Mechanical Arts; and can change men into other shapes.”

Just a paragraph. Just a paragraph, but it was enough that his palms started to sweat.

-- 

He read up in the other books about Marbas, but didn’t get much more information. He reread the summoning ritual, but it still made him too nervous to even think about attempting. What would he even do, if he summoned him? He didn’t need to contend with the demon, who probably hadn’t done this to him just for kicks. He needed to figure out who had made the demon transform him, but that had its own problems. Nobody would benefit from Paul being a woman, nobody. He had enemies, sure– every band they’d opened for probably had a bone to pick with him and the rest of KISS– but he couldn’t think of a single person willing, and crazy enough, to inflict this on him. 

He kept mulling it over anyway. The guys in Blue Oyster Cult were pretty weird and geeky (Gene had sort of liked them), but they weren’t malicious and as far as Paul knew, they didn’t actually practice black magic. He didn’t even know the guys in Black Sabbath. Alice Cooper? He didn’t know Alice, either, but he’d always been pretty sure his schtick was just a schtick. Paul pursed his lips. Had to be somebody. Maybe one of Neil Bogart’s rivals was jealous– no, that made no sense at all– Paul jerked a bit in his chair when he heard the phone ring. He had already gotten up and reached for it by the time he remembered not to answer it. Three rings. Four. Five.

His answering machine was in his bedroom. He padded off to check, hearing his own recorded voice just before the caller started up.

“Hey, this is Paul Stanley. If you’ll leave me your name and number, I’ll be reaching out as soon as possible. Thanks.”

“Hey, Paul. This is Peter.” There was a short pause. “I just wanted to say hello. I haven’t seen you much since the tour. Call me back when you can.”

Peter. Paul groaned. It seemed as if that one phone call started an avalanche. Six calls, from everyone from Bill to Hilsen to Bill’s secretary again, among others, in three hours. Eventually he couldn’t stand it anymore, either hearing the messages or hearing the rings. He had to get out of there, had to escape the reminders that he wasn’t himself right now, that people were already reaching out to him, wondering about him. 

He didn’t get far. Just downstairs, where he didn’t have a phone installed. But there were still plenty of reminders there. KISS’ gold albums. More tour junk, albeit mostly in boxes. He tried to push that out of his mind, focus on his album collection instead, mostly bought in bulk after KISS had hit it big. Every record he’d ever wanted, and more than he had time to play. 

He had time now. He had, officially, been stuck like this for over twenty-four hours. He swallowed and started looking through his collection. His latest on-again off-again girlfriend (now off, with no hope of reconciliation if this continued) had given him an old Four Tops record he didn’t feel like playing. He also had one of Cher’s albums, and, for whatever reason, Olivia Newton-John’s latest effort, although girl singers, on the whole, never had appealed to him much. No, right now he wanted something rough, something with an edge to it. He settled for the Stones’ “Exile on Main Street,” plunking down on the couch to the in-out weaving of Richards and Taylor and Jagger’s craggy, agitated vocals. 

(i only get my rocks off while i’m sleeping)

(only get my rocks off while i’m sleeping) 

Paul shifted on the couch. More lyrics. Mick’s girls, at least in songs, were always giving him problems. He never seemed willing to bare whatever was left of his heart for them, with the possible exception of “Angie.” Mostly he and Keith wrote about one-night-stands. The old fuck-me suck-mes that Paul was so prone to himself. Only theirs were better. Grittier. Paul always felt like there was something that, as a writer, he could only imitate, and never really reach. 

Maybe this forced perspective might give him some ideas. His nose wrinkled at the thought. Mick couldn’t even be appealing talking about one of the things he’d always been curious about with girls. 

(i can’t seem to stay in step, ’cause she come every time that she pirouettes on me)

He knew they could do it. Come more than once in a row. It wasn’t a girlie magazine myth-- he’d seen it happen. He’d done it to about a dozen groupies that he knew of, and at least one girlfriend. He ought to be able to do it to himself. He pursed his lips, shifting from his side to his back, stretched across the length of the couch as the next track played, untying his bathrobe. He hadn’t really even looked down there any more than he’d had to earlier, but he reached down, beneath the boxers, cupping his pussy with his hand for a few seconds before letting a finger delve inside. Almost instantly, he could feel himself tighten up, way too much, strange and sore, like he’d gone in too far, even though he’d barely gone in at all. Curiously, he wasn’t even wet. He tried again, meeting the same conclusion, and finally just stopped, shifting and readjusting his position on the couch, spreading his legs wide, knees bent, one resting against the couch, the other dangling towards the floor.

He pushed the boxers down further, too, and, nervously, leaned forward for a better look as he prodded around with his fingers. He at least found his clit, nestled, tiny and useless, between his folds. Touching it wasn’t helping; it was too sensitive. Nothing about this whole experience was anything like masturbating with a dick, or anything like his experiences fingering actual women. 

Maybe he needed to use his imagination a bit to ease himself in, although that wasn’t typical for him.  He didn’t usually have to start off with a fantasy. He could let his mind wander as long as the mechanics were there. But already, he could tell that wasn’t going to work now. He was just too dry. 

Maybe something was wrong with him. Stuck in a body that couldn’t even orgasm. Another part of the curse. He flinched, trying to concentrate. A fantasy, okay. Paul would usually pull out a mental composite of a Playboy playmate, wavy blonde hair, green or blue eyes, with heavy, heaving breasts and a tiny waist. It was hard to get as excited over that picture now that too much of it mirrored himself. He couldn’t even imagine properly fucking her while he was shoving a finger inside his pussy.

Okay. Okay. Maybe something a little off his usual preferences. Paul had fooled around with guys a bit, primarily Ace and Peter and the occasional gay bar denizen. He felt weird fantasizing about either of them, though. Ace would probably laugh at him right now, and Peter, well, he just didn't fit the bill. Maybe… maybe someone he made up. He shut his eyes, going at himself a little easier, sketching out the features in his head. Tall, masculine. Not like the pretty boys Bill was so fond of, nothing effete or weak. Swarthy complexion, dark eyes. Hell, he didn’t even have to be handsome, just have that reassuring presence, that feeling of security–

His breath hitched as he realized who he’d started to conjure up, his hand stilling to a stop. He shoved his boxers back up, retied his robe, and headed for the bathroom, washing his hands, trying to avoid looking at his own face in the mirror, the flush in his cheeks. He had to get hold of himself a little better. Had to.

--

By the third day the phone had started ringing almost constantly. He was starting to get nervous, really nervous, about everything. If this was permanent. How he’d explain himself if it was. What would happen to the band. Just thinking about all that crap was enough to make him want to cry or vomit. 

He’d taken to napping during the day, half-hoping he’d wake up as his normal self, and half-hoping for solace, only to find he couldn’t escape there, either. He’d started having weird dreams. His sister and the doll again, only now the dream would just keep going. He’d be in the doll’s dress. He was nearly Julia’s size, despite the two years between them. Julia was sitting beside him, there in her neat blouse and skirt. She had a school satchel, too, and brown patent leather school shoes. They made a little clacking sound on the linoleum when she’d come home. 

(you want to play?)

(you’re gonna play with me?)

(you don’t play with me anymore)

Julia looked offended, but she nodded.

(you’re my sister)

(no i’m not)

(yes you are)

(i’m not)

(then why’re you wearing that?)

(i don’t know)

(don’t you want to play?)

He did. Enough that he scooted up closer. 

(what are we going to play?)

He never found out. Time swirled forward strangely. Julia yelling at him. He’d goaded her into it. He picked at her sometimes. It was easy. Julia was doing worse in school than he was when she even bothered to show up to class. Julia was embarrassing the whole family with all her crap. Running around with not just hippies, but freaks, smoking dope-- he’d only tried it once himself-- sleeping around. It made him feel better to push her buttons. Like less of a failure. Nothing had turned out right for him, either. He was just as much an outcast at his fancy art school as he’d been in his regular public school. He’d thought he could escape himself, be new, and instead he was still some half-deaf, fat kid that couldn’t get anyone’s attention, good or bad, that was poorer than anyone else going to that damn school, that had a sister who was nuts, that– 

(shut up!)

(shut up!)

(you’re just like me anyway! you bitch, you’re fucked up the same way!)

(i know why you see that shrink! i know all about that!)

(no you don’t! you don’t, you don’t!)

But she did. Paul was certain she did. Forward just slightly. He was in the backseat of a ’63 Chevy with a girl. He had three of his classes with her. They’d never talked too much, but he felt warm around her, wanted to take her out, if she’d go out with him. She had a boyfriend, but that didn’t really matter. Sometimes they just fooled around anyway. He got a bit of a thrill out of that, even if she wouldn’t ever go close to all the way, a thrill and a stab of guilt. She was on his lap, nearly-bare thighs pressed soft against his jeans, her skirt’s hem just a crumpled whisper of fabric. 

(we need to stop this, it’s not right) 

God, he was dying. His jeans were so damn constraining; she was on his lap and here she was worried about cheating when he was the one taking her scraps. He groaned, trying to think of a line, like those old movies that’d come on during the weekends. 

(of course it’s not right, baby)

(i don’t mean him.)

(it’s sick)

(this is really sick)

Forward, forward. Julia in her second trimester. Hadn’t even seen the guy in months, of course. More shame. She was rarely around, but his parents were praying that would change once the baby came. They were hoping Julia would just sign her parental rights over. That was how bad things had gotten. Paul fumed whenever he thought about it. He was probably going to have to forfeit his room for the baby. Money was going to be tight. He might not even get anything from his parents to help foot college next September. His father pulled him aside before dinner one evening.

(don’t you dare put our family through this)

(don’t you ever get pregnant)

Paul stared at him stupidly. He was already taller than his father. Had a mustache and the start of mutton chops at seventeen.

(what are you talking about?)

(i’m not, i can’t--)

He woke with a start, the afternoon sun peeking through the blinds, shivering, and the same. Mechanically, he got up, washed his face, made a sandwich. His new routine was nearly his old routine, off-tour, only now he didn’t have the stage and the grandeur to look forward to. No mass of screaming fans. No pretty girls in his bed. His whole world yanked out from under him, all the hopes he’d obsessed over since he first saw the Beatles on Ed Sullivan. Every ring of the phone and every unplayed message made it clear. He was out. As long as he had this body, he was out entirely. 

He heard a car pull up. He had no intentions of answering it, not at first, but he peered out through the kitchen blinds. It looked like Peter’s car, and then, suddenly, he realized it was Peter’s car. His pulse started to speed, just a little, and despite himself, he crossed over to the living room, aiming to get a better look from the open windows there. Peter got out of the car and headed up the walkway, towards the front porch.

He’d come alone. What had he come for? What did he want? He had called, sure, but he hadn’t sounded urgent. Was he pissed off at him? Had something happened with Bill or Ace or, hell, even one of the roadies? 

Would he tell a random girl? 

In the end, his own curiosity and loneliness got the better of him. When Peter rang the bell, Paul opened the door. 

“Hey.” 

“Hello.” Peter looked mild enough, for Peter. Only a little perturbed. He was dressed in jeans, a t-shirt, and three or four cross necklaces. Typical Peter. His lip curled a little as he surveyed Paul, there in just his bathrobe. Peter had no idea he’d seen Paul in far less at least a hundred times on tour. “Is Paul here?” 

“No.”

“He let you stay here without him?” Peter frowned. “That ain’t like him.”

“He’s not here, Pete.” Oh, shit. Peter raised an eyebrow. Paul’s heart felt like it caught somewhere in his throat as Peter’s eyes searched his face, sizing him up yet again. He could feel his face flush, and he had to shove his hands in his bathrobe pockets to keep their trembling from being noticeable.

“Have I seen you before?”

“No! No. He’s not here. Go away!” Louder than he’d meant it. More scared. Paul bit his lip, watching as Peter stiffened up but didn’t turn to leave. Totally undeterred.

“Hey, c’mon, do you know when he’ll be back?”

“I-I don’t know. I’ll tell him to call. Okay?”

“Okay. Have him call. Jesus, I’m not gonna hurt you.” Peter looked like he was considering something. “Tell him it’s not urgent, okay, kid?”

“Okay.”

“Tell him to get you your own bathrobe, too. He could do better than that shit these days.”

--

It was awhile before he could calm down from seeing Peter. In the end he managed by writing up a grocery list, deciding he’d have a neighborhood kid pick up the stuff for him later.

The next day, driven by boredom as much as anything else, he opted to take a drive. He had to steel himself up for it, digging through his wardrobe. The colorful ladies’ blouses he wore felt too jaunty and flippant. In his real body, they were glam, a little subversive. Now they just wouldn’t do at all.

He pushed aside pair after pair of jeans– he could tell without even trying them on that they were now too wide at the waist, and definitely too long– until, at the back of his closet, he found the dress from his birthday, just a couple months back. Black with red flowers. It was long-sleeved, sure, and would still be baggy, but that didn’t matter. It would work. He pulled it on grimly, then dug around until he found the matching black pumps, stuffing the toes with tissue paper. Thank God he’d done the drag party. It kept him from being stuck wearing something he actually liked. From there he grabbed his wallet and keys, heading out the door, not really caring where he went, as long as he could escape for just a little while.

He ended up driving to Peaches. The record store wasn’t the distraction he’d hoped it would be. He’d tried not to look at the Casablanca promo display posters, feeling sick at the sight of himself and the other guys in the new costumes, painted there against a backdrop of half-naked girls. “KISS - LOVE GUN” in bright red letters above them, and then, below, “THE ONLY ALBUM TO PUT ON YOUR REVOLVER.”

The album was due to release at the end of June, one week before the start of the tour. “Christine Sixteen,” Gene’s song, was supposed to be the lead single. Another suck-me-fuck-me song– Gene had wrote it to make fun of him– only he didn’t have anything to suck right now. His throat felt like it was full of acid as he mindlessly thumbed his way through the new releases. The Eagles had put out a new album, but he’d never liked them. 10cc, too. Gregg Allman, per Gene, purportedly had a solo album coming out this month, but it wasn’t in stock yet. He couldn’t focus anyway. Eventually, he found himself wandering to the cut-out bin, knocking into a pimple-faced boy on accident. 

“Sorry.”

The kid was staring at him. For the barest moment, Paul forgot that he wasn’t in the right body; he thought the kid recognized him, and was about to try and brush him off. 

“Something wrong?”

The kid was staring at him, all right. The kid was staring at his tits. Paul inhaled, rolled his eyes, and turned away, deciding not to bother with a response. They’d done all those bra-burnings, what,  ten years ago, hadn’t they? What did his lack of a brassiere matter anymore, as long as he was covered up? He glanced down for about the first time since he’d put on the dress, belatedly realizing how obvious the outline of his nipples was through the thin fabric. Damn. Well, whatever. It wasn’t like he planned to go out at night or pull anything stupid. 

Not long after, he drove home from Peaches without a single record, still thinking. If what had happened to him wouldn’t wear off on his own, and he wasn’t willing to use black magic himself, was there a way he could pay someone else to fix him? Get his body back? But where would he even begin there? All that seemed apt to greet him were the same round of suspects who might have screwed him up in the first place.

But then there was Gene.

It was a long shot. A serious, serious long shot. It felt pretty desperate, but Paul was pretty desperate. Gene had studied religion in college, and had once planned to become a rabbi. He had been vaguely fascinating to Paul, as one of only a handful of Jewish guys he’d ever known that was actually devout. 

Was being the operative word. Gene still kept kosher, but Paul was pretty sure everything else about his upbringing had been surrendered. But maybe he knew something. Some Jewish mysticism… it wasn’t that far-fetched, was it? A purifying ritual, maybe?

He kicked off the tissue-stuffed shoes just inside the front door and yanked off the dress, leaving it there on the floor, putting the bathrobe back on like a security blanket. Purifying rituals. Yeah. Maybe. It was better than doing nothing. Gene knew a lot, and even if he didn’t know anything that could solve his plight, he’d do his dead-level best to find someone who did. He had to. Both as a friend and as a fellow quarter-sharer in the behemoth of KISS.

He sat down at the rolltop desk at what could’ve been his office, if he stayed in his house for more than a few weeks out of any given year, tugged open a drawer full of cards, invitations, and paperwork. Dug around some more, until he found a book of stamps and a fat stack of postcards. Some he’d written and never bothered to send, but most he’d just bought as souvenirs, silly mementos from when he couldn’t really afford much past a keychain when they’d traveled, but burned through Bill’s credit cards anyway. A blank Buckingham Palace postcard from their first European tour. He pulled out a pen and began to write.

“Gene, do you know anything about curses? 

“Write me back soon. Paul.”

He stuck the postcard in the mailbox. Just sending it off-- just reaching out, no matter how understated-- felt really good. Gene might even get it today. Tomorrow, definitely. He felt confident that Gene would notice it, even. Gene would have been counting on some of those dirty letters from fans to tide him over during the dry spell. He’d be sifting through his own mail right now.

Gene would help him. He’d write him back, hopefully (Paul was terrified he’d call instead, or worse, show up), figure out exactly what he needed to fix things, and then, well, then he’d be back to normal. No more hiding out and living in bathrobes. No more dealing with a body he didn’t recognize. Back to himself, just in time for the tour. With any luck, no one else would even know what had happened. With any luck at all.

[dylanisdazed]

Hey y'all! So my next story is pretty heavy and despite the main character's name, it's fiction. That being said, it's an emotional first part for me--I'm not sure if that will carry through to the reader because I'm not a good writer, but it was very emotional for me to write. I've read and edited it several times and can't seem to get through it without crying. Again, I don't expect it to necessarily resonate as much with the reader.

Trigger Warning: This part deals with thoughts/stories of suicide.

Dylan’s bedroom was painted dark green and filled with plants and candles. The walls were lined with records and band posters. His nightstand was littered with prescription bottles—for his depression and anxiety. He was a very attractive, fit but thin boy, who was well-liked by all. But he saw the world differently and he very rarely liked what he saw. His shaggy dark brown hair often hid his almost black eyes and long dark eyelashes, much to his mother’s chagrin. His best friend Jack had just run up to his bedroom, which was over the family garage. It was raining heavily and thunder rumbled the earth as Dylan opened the door.

“Do you ever think about killing yourself?”

Dylan sat on the bed in his messy room, looking up at his friend as he stood there confused.

“What…? No.” Jack replied concerned.

Dylan looked down.

“Do you?” He asked.

“Yeah. I mean not realistically or anything but yeah, I do.”

Jack stared at him. “What the fuck man? You can’t just say shit like that.”

“Yeah, well actually I can say it and people should say it. It’s just a lot of things I guess.” Dylan continued to look at the ground.

“What kind of things?”

“I don’t know. I mean, I feel things more than others. You know that.”

Jack stared at him.

“It feels like nobody really cares.”

“Dude, what are you talking about? You have tons of people who care about you. Everyone at school loves you and you’re my favorite person on the planet.”

“Yeah. I’m not even talking about me necessarily, just in general. People pretend to care. People are always fucking pretending. They see some sad story about an abused puppy on Twitter, tear up, wonder how somebody could do that, and then scroll on. Move on with their day. They never think about it again. Then they like some post that makes fun of someone else because they are different from them. Or some issue they don’t understand. People are liars and they’re cruel.”

“What does that have to do with anything, Dylan? What does that have to do with you? There have always been assholes in the world and there always will be. It sucks, but it’s how it is.”

“Yeah. I guess maybe I wonder if I want to live in a world like that then, ya know? You remember Becky, from school? She killed herself because people made fun of her weight.”

“I know. It wasn’t that long ago.”

“Just every day, non-stop, people would crack jokes about her. People would put her down, over and over and then she goes and hangs herself alone in her room and of course, the town is shocked but I wasn’t.”

Dylan started crying uncontrollably with his voice trembling but continued, “Then the whole fucking town has a fake ass memorial, and teachers talk about the severity of bullying and then a month later nobody gives a fuck about Becky. I didn’t go to that memorial. We weren’t really friends but we had some nice talks. I couldn’t go to that memorial because I knew half of the fucking kids there, holding candles, and praying, were the same ones who called her names. They were the same ones who hurt her, over and over and over. They made her life a living hell. And for what? Tell me, for WHAT?”

“I don’t know.”

“Those kids are gonna continue on, graduate, go to college, get married, and have kids, all while Becky is rotting six feet under. She’s a rotting corpse. Nothing happens to them. Absolutely no consequences. And it’s not just Becky--that’s the thing. It happens every day, all over this goddamn world; good people, kind people, creative people, smart people, and funny people, who are a little bit different or don’t fit some narrative get bullied and harassed. Not all of them commit suicide, but I know it still fucking hurts.”

“Man, I don’t know what to say to you.” Jack wiped away tears.

“You don’t have to say anything.” Wiping tears away, eyelashes dripping.

“You are a deeply loving person and that’s a good thing. It’s a great thing. You care about other people even if it doesn’t affect you and that’s so rare, Dylan.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, and the world needs people like you.” Jack put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “The world needs heroes and loving people like you to save us from the bullies; the monsters.”

“No, they don’t. Nobody listens.”

You can continue part one on my patreon.

[gracegrove]

I've been off one of my antidepressants for about a week now. I've had issues keeping this med filled consistently for nearly three almost four years. Because my prescriber often writes it incorrectly, doesn't submit a new prescription on time, my pharmacy is often out of stock of it (even though I always fill it there), or my insurance suddenly thinks this is an entirely new prescription and they refuse to cover it. So I can count on having periods of suddenly going off this med at least once every three months. 🙃

The withdrawals off it absolutely suck. I've been off it for five/six days and I'm still having vertigo and nausea and random crying spells. The first couple days I had headaches as well.

Unlike all the other times I've been forced to go off it though, this time I'm on a couple other antidepressants. And I'm actually a bit pissed... Because now that the symptoms are starting to wind down, I'm actually suddenly feeling better. Likely noticeably better. Like perky and energetic.

When I went cold turkey in the past and had no other meds in my system because it was the only antidepressant at the time, I'd be an absolute wreck. I'd be just a giant depressed lump. Like I didn't even want to move or get out of bed. My chest would feel heavy all the time and I'd be just openly crying for hours. This time I feel so chill and like arguably happy.

I'm so suspicious that this antidepressant I just went off may have actually been making my depression worse 👀 for years. And instead of investigating that (why I never seemed better, only the same or worse every time even when they raised my dosage) all these prescribers just insisted that I resume taking this antidepressant as soon as possible to avoid the withdrawal symptoms and "even out".

Shit. I never want to go back on that med again if I already feel better after getting through the symptoms and have only been off it for a week.

Never again. 👀👀👀👀

[suckitsurveys]

Has anyone ever made fun of your taste in music? Yes, which is so dumb.

What’s your favorite season of the year? Summer.

Do you have pop-tarts in your house right now? Nope.

Is anyone’s birthday coming up? One of my cousin’s birthdays is this month.

Does someone owe you over twenty dollars? Yup.

Do you remember who you liked in grade eight? No one, really.

When was the last time you burned any part of your body? My mouth earlier today because I can never wait to drink my tea.

Have you ever overflown a bathtub? Probably.

Are you dressing up for Halloween this year? Of course! I really wanna be Tonya from The White Lotus.

Have you ever called somebody dollface? Maybe as a joke.

If I gave you ten dollars, what would you spend it on? Lunch.

Have you ever thrown food at a stranger in a movie theater? Nope.

What are you most excited about right now? My family and I are going on a lil mini vacation to an indoor waterpark at the end of the month and we’re going WITHOUT my brother in law and I’m so GOD DAMN happy.

Does / did either of your parents serve in the military? They never did.

Are you somewhat of a perfectionist? To a fault.

Do you like sour candy? Yes.

Where would you like to go on your honeymoon? We never really went on a honeymoon but I’d love to go somewhere tropical.

Do you have Verizon? No.

What do you do to stay awake when you’re tired? Coffee.

Are all nighters something you have grown used to? I wouldn’t say I’m “used” to them, no. It’s not something I do often because I don’t really have any reasons to stay awake like that anymore.

Do you usually wear sunglasses when you’re driving? Yes. Prescription sunglasses have been a game changer.

Do you wear your shoes around the house? Nope.

Is there ever a time that you enjoy cold showers? Yeah, when it’s really hot outside.

What clothes are you most comfortable in? Hoodies and leggings/jeans or big tees and bike shorts. Or hoodies and bike shorts or big tees and leggings/jeans.

Is there anybody you’re not ashamed to tell anything to? My husband and my best friend Sarah.

What has changed most about you in the past year? I’m getting better at setting boundaries not only for my mental health but also my physical health.

Are you good at painting nails? Eh. I haven’t painted my own nails in a really long time.

Smoothies or slushies? Smoothies.

Are you good at filling silence in awkward situations? Sometimes, sure.

Ignoring nutrition, could you live off veggies for the rest of your life? No.

Elaborate on a way you have volunteered? I used to belong to a group in high school that did a lot of volunteering. We went to animal shelters or helped kids or cleaned up trash mostly. I’ve also done stuff for school and helped my sister with various things too.

Do you use a full length mirror daily? Yeah. I mean, I walk passed one every morning at least.

Can you walk in heels, or do you feel awkward in them? Nope.

Any TV shows you sit down weekly to watch? The only thing currently airing on a regular basis that I watch is SNL. Otherwise, I basically just binge watch stuff.

Does anybody know about your sex life other than your partners? I mean, I don’t talk about it often with anyone. Not that I wouldn’t, it just doesn’t come up usually.

Even if you don’t like politics, do you still have opinions on the issues? Of course.

Are you one to sneak food into movie theaters? No, if I am going to the movies, I want movie theater popcorn and that’s it.

Will you tell someone if there’s something in their teeth? If I know them, yeah.

Do you ever actually make your bed? I don’t because there’s usually a cat or a husband sleeping in it still before I leave for the day. Sometimes Mark will make it but I don’t really see the point unless we had company or something and they can see into our room.

Do you make an effort to eat healthy? I have been lately. Just mainly getting better at moderation and curbing my cravings for sweet stuff by making smoothies instead.

How are things between the person you like / love / are with? Amazing! I love him more and more every day.

Where did you sleep last night? In my bed.

The last time you kissed someone, what color of shirt were they wearing? Black.

What kind of booze did you last take shots of? Tequila at my friend’s birthday/engagement party back in November.

What’s something you want to purchase next time you’re at the mall? I don’t have any set plans to go to a mall anytime soon.

Has someone of the opposite sex ever told you that you were sexy? Yes.

If you could see any musician live, front row, who would you choose? I’d love to be front row at Lana Del Rey or Billie Eilish or Olivia Rodrigo, even though I’ve already seen Lana and Billie live twice and I’m going to see Olivia next month!

If you had to choose between a million dollars or to be able to change a regret? The money, no question. Fuck a regret.

Are you taller than your mom? I was by an inch by the time she passed.

Have you ever been around someone who was high? Several times, including myself.

Do you prefer to take your showers at night or in the morning? Night.

Think back to June. Were you in a relationship? Yup.

What’s so special about what you’re wearing? Nothing really.

Do you have any ‘naughty’ photos on your phone? Nope.

Could you handle living with a male roommate? I mean, I live with my husband.

What were you doing at 10:00 this morning? This actually. And working. I keep going back and forth.

Why aren’t you texting the last person you kissed? I actually am.

Do you think anyone has feelings for you? I know they do.

What do you miss the most about your past? Blah.

When is the next time you will kiss someone? When I get home later.

Has anyone taken their shirt off in front of you? Yes.

Plan on getting drunk or high tonight? Nah.

In the past week, have you cried hysterically? Yup..

Do you think you’ll actually live a happy life with somebody? I am.

Are you on birth control? Nope, I don’t need to be.

Did you talk to someone until you fell asleep last night? Kinda, Mark and I were talking a little bit.

Last time you were really happy? I mean, I am okay right now.

Do you tend to fall for players? Nope.

Why aren’t you in ‘love’ with your last ex? Because I am not.

Have you ever asked a boy for advice? Yes..

Are you wrapped in a blanket? Nope.

Did you get a full 8 hours of sleep last night? Lol good one.

Have you spoken to your mother today? Father? Neither yet. Well, I mean, I won’t talk to my mom, because she’s dead, but I will see my father later when I stop by before I go to the gym.