#and ive basically been overworking myself and getting nothing in return

[butteredfrogs]

just texted my boss that i quit my job and im literally shaking

[foolscapper]

Exploding Head Syndrome: A MCU Post-IW Fanfic | Ch. 4

(READ IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER.)

What happens when you pile a bunch of doctors into a medical wing with a catatonic spider-kid? A hell of a lot of things going on at once, it turns out. Bruce can't complain about it, because it at least keeps him focused on anything other than himself; life has been one big roller-coaster he hasn't been able to get off of since Ultron (no, wait, way before that), and all he wants is to sit in a lab and work on anything that isn't his own self-worth and mental capsizing. Two years killing aliens for sport as a gladiator will do that to you. Yeah, he still hasn't figured out how to work with this, so he just went ahead and put all that in a way-too-small box in his brain. Hooray for compartmentalizing.  Back to work. Cho has already gently pulled a sample of Parker's tissue from one of his arms to study his particularly complex cell structure, as is her particularly crucial talent, and Strange has returned from his own collection of ancient texts, Wong hovering at his side to offer whatever knowledge he can in the ways of the soul — to which Bruce knows Tony's grateful, but he also is well-aware that the man is running on fumes by the third day of diagnostics. The genius had been animated with the news of Peter's return, and that scene outside is still fresh in his mind as he eyes the reports that have come back from MRI scans of Peter's brain. There's no damage, no signs of anything that would cause this kind of dramatic loss of self, which Bruce semi-expected with the way Dr. Strange had gone on about the potential effects of the stones on a kid like Peter. There are variables. It's possible someone did this to him — that he was targeted, that maybe Thanos did something specific in the snap that left Peter completely vulnerable to complications. That doesn't too much sense in the grand scope of things, but it surely the madman had some range of control over who stayed and who went. The thing is, Thanos was dead. This shouldn't be a complication. Should it? 

Perhaps it's someone outside of Thanos. Someone from his roster, maybe. But that would also be an odd way to handle payback, especially when the Guardians and Strange were also at their mercy. Bruce didn't rule out the possibility that something from the planet itself might have effected Parker, especially when Titan may very well effect every one of them differently. Strange collected some of the dirt and debris carried over onto the Benatar, and from Peter and Drax's boots, but the results of the study yielded very little. "He's not completely human, that much is certain," Cho says, not unkindly. "If you look at the way his DNA is structured, it is much different than any string I would pull from myself or any normal boy off the street. But if there's a correlation with the way he's reacted to resurrecting, I have not found it yet." Bruce glances at Tony, biting his lip. "His brain scans are clean, too. I've sent everything to Shuri, though, just in case they can find something we don't. Which, you know, is a... pattern... lately..." Tony was up at all hours after the kid had been put to bed, compiling all manner of documents highlighting medical complications and disorders of the mind, and at this point Bruce is tempted to lock him out of the lab (though he's also more than aware he may also be punched in the teeth for it, and the last thing anyone needs is for Hulk to finally decide to pop back in)... Three whole days, though. It's not healthy, and yes, he's not the pinnacle of good mental health himself, but... He twiddles with a pen in his hands, once the two of them are alone (well, Peter is here, too... so they're alone enough). "Hey, we've got this. You're not gonna be any good to this kid if you're passing out mid-conversation." "We've got a bigger problem than that," Tony mumbles, rubbing at the exhaustion all over his face. They're both sitting at a counter near the lounge chairs; why aren't they sitting on the lounge chairs? Bruce is seeing a missed opportunity for comfort here. Peter has the right idea.

Tony adds, "... He hasn't eaten anything."

And okay, that is a pretty important thing to bring up. He'd been putting it off in the hopes they'd find something sooner, to avoid what he figured might have to be done. But even with practically living in the lab with this unresponsive kid, they're no closer to closing in on what's making him tick — or not tick, in this case — and resources are waning. Bruce bites his lip, not happy with what he'll have to say. "He's going to need a temporary feeding tube of some kind, soon. Until we can get any kind of result." "Oh, god." And Bruce sees in his friend's eyes, the slow unraveling that comes with helplessness. He wishes there was something he could say that was any more calming, but the fact of the matter is that Peter is his patient for the meanwhile, and he has to say exactly what's in the kid's best interest, whether it's emotionally draining or not. He's tired, they're all tired, Peter's probably hungry, and nobody wins in this situation. "He's not a typical case, either. His metabolism is too high to do anything different, Tony, I'm sorry. He's already losing way too much weight for just being a few days back, and IV drips are only gonna get us so far. Even if he's not mentally there right now, it's not humane to—" Tony's fist is a sharp, echoing sound against the metal table under his arm. "I know, alright? I know!"  A silence falls over them where they sit, and Peter — as always — only blinks and breathes where he sits nearby. It must be so much, to watch someone you love look like this for so long. Too long. Every glance in the boy's direction is a reminder of just how powerless they can all be, despite their collective minds, their hours and hours of best efforts. Bruce leans back, almost affronted by the simmering heat in Tony's rounded shoulders, tapping his pen to his teeth a few times before he says with a raised brow, "... Are you gonna hulk out on me? Do I need to get the armor out?" It works enough to tame the beast. And maybe even earn a hidden, miserable smile as Tony's face descends into shadow behind his fists. "Ha, ha. Very funny." More softly, Bruce replies, "... It won't be a big deal. It's an hour-long surgery at most, and it's extremely noninvasive and basic, and Cho can do it in her sleep. It's just a little button, practically — you won't even notice anything's any different, and he'll be all the more healthy for it, right? It's for Peter's well-being." Tony cards a hand through his hair, looking at Peter, who is sitting as compliantly as the day he'd been walked in.  "... You're a fucking pain in the ass, Pete," he says.  It's a strained response, and Bruce reaches out to cup one of Tony's shoulders. His doctoring isn't just limited to Peter, and he can see just how drained Tony is; he wears the bags under his eyes like a fashion accessory, and while that's usually all fine and good and expected of someone like him, enough is enough. He can't watch his friend self-combust in front of him."And you need to rest. I'm serious, man. Do you think he wants you to overwork yourself to death here?" "He doesn't want anything right now, because nobody's at the door, Bruce. And I don't know what to do." "Right now? Sleeping is what you do. You're no good to him if you're not at your best." A pause. "I'm getting Pepper." He stands, and Tony looks after him helplessly.  "No, hey — goddammit."

Stephen has met few as stubborn as Tony Stark, but he supposes that's one reason the earth had ultimately been in the best of hands, against Thanos and his unruly power. It takes a few arguments and a hell of a lot of coaxing and an unfair advantage of using a two year old baby, but eventually Tony relents with Bruce and Stephen's promise that they won't do anything until Tony can decide how to approach May Parker about this (this poor woman doesn't even know, she has no clue, and how are they going to explain to this poor woman that her adoptive son is here but not here at all?). Tony also adds an addendum, that he has to be present for every goddamn moment of any surgery involved here no matter how small, 'so help me god'. It's a fair request, one that Stephen gives his word to honor. He consults with Cho and Bruce, and they're in agreement: a percutaneous endoscopic gastrostomy, however temporary it is, is imperative for their patient. It would have never been something he would have cared about, in his professional career. He would have not given Peter Parker a second glance in the hospital, would have passed him off to someone else like he had been the most minor of roadblocks. A thoughtful silence falls over them as Dr. Cho talks about their short-term gameplan. Strange admittedly has a lot he should be doing; the Time Stone is back in its rightful place, and the whole world is reeling from the events of the last few years. He'd only given himself enough time to comb through old records at the Sanctum and remind Christine, rather lamely, that he's back from the dead.  She had nearly strangled him in her embrace, but it was a soft moment he wouldn't trade for anything.   "... I'll oversee the surgery as well," he finally speaks, glancing back at Peter. He's been there for every step of the conversation, and part of him hopes that a teenager hearing the word 'surgery' applied to them will make them suddenly spring to life with anxiety, like a kid realizing he's on his way to a dentist. Nothing of the sort happens, but even Stephen is not allergic to hopeful optimism. "I can promise you, he'll be in safe hands," Cho says worriedly, but he shakes his head with a raised hand. "It's not that. I trust you to be knowledgeable; you're a credit to your field. I just want to know for myself as well, that everything goes exactly as expected." If he can't take an hour out of his day to look out for a teammate, then he doesn't deserve to wear the cloak. "We'd love to have you," Bruce says, then smiles a little. "Are you, uh. Close with Peter?" He considers it for a moment, and only a moment, fleeting. For some reason, most of that moment comprises of memories, of one Peter Parker excitedly rambling at him about magic and floating cloaks for an hour prior to crash landing. He huffs a breath, almost a laugh. "Not particularly, to be honest. I'd only met him on an alien spaceship a day before we all were killed. But — his involvement in our timeline can't be overstated. And... the kid did save my life. And helped me avoid a great deal of torment. So I suppose he's a temporary... ward, of sorts. I'm indebted to him. What about you?" "This is the first time I've met him, actually. But... he means a lot to Tony. And..." The doctor grows quiet for a moment with folded, contemplative arms, and Cho and Stephen give him a moment to continue. "And — I know what it's like." Strange cocks his head. Bruce sighs through his nose, eyes darkening with discontentment. A storm of ugly memories, all kept under lock and key; Stephen knows about the Hulk, of course, but he can hardly imagine the sorts of horror shows only Bruce banner is privy to. The man says, "I know what it's like, to be trapped in your own body. Maybe he's not, not exactly, and nothing like how I've been before, but... either way, he deserves to have it back." That's all that needs to be said. Stephen rises to leave after some time and a couple of warm drinks, hearing Bruce speaking effortlessly to Peter from around the corner before he fades further and further from earshot: "Hey kid, you're pretty good at this whole meditation thing; I'm a pro at it, myself. We should go out and get some air, maybe practice on the lawn. You could use some sunlight before you turn into a lab hermit like the rest of us old men." Wong hovers in the main corridor, newly arrived. A good sign. Stephen walks with him.  "Anything from the Sanctum about the stones that might help this?" "Not very much," Wong relents. "What little can be found are based in texts that predate most everything we know as masters. However... I was able to look into what the Ancient One left behind in her many records and found something potentially helpful — and that is not necessarily something about the infinity stones, but about astral projection. I'll have to show you when we return, so you can help me decipher her chicken scratch." Stephen laughs softly, and they enjoy the sound of each other's footsteps. "... Do you have any theories, about what's actually wrong with the boy?" Strange purses his lips, and says at cautious length, "It's all just a theory, but... the woman, Mantis, she had been able to sense him within his body for a short time, even if it wasn't for long. I think more than anything else, it's possible that Peter returned to himself momentarily like the rest of us — and then panicked and let himself sink back into... wherever we all were." "Panicked?" Wong's brow furrows. "Over being alive again?" "... Over the pain of it. Stark had a hard time talking about it, but from what I can gather from his recollections, Peter's death was extraordinarily different from the rest of us. He felt that something was wrong before he'd passed, and it took him much longer than the rest of us to die. If I had to fathom a guess... I think maybe his composition was his own undoing. He's a scared child who couldn't cope with re-living that moment of suffering." "And what is the solution to that? Is there any?" Stephen looks to the side, where Bruce and Peter are resting in the sun, not too far from where the Benatar had landed — with them and bad news. For a moment Stephen worries about the safety of a mentally lost boy and a doctor sorely lacking in control over his green rage-monster, but then he notices the blot of red on the rooftops — Natasha Romanoff, accompanied by a suited-up Sam Wilson, watching with bird-like eyes over the resting figures.  Stephen smiles faintly despite himself. "None that I can offer anyone right now. There may not be a solution. Even the Scarlet Witch couldn't find any foothold in the kid's mind... There's no link that we can find between him and the physical world. But if there's any hope at all, and if all else truly fails... my personal bet is on the Soul Stone." Though maybe — and this is a fluttering, unprofessional thought in the grand scheme of things — the extended hands of Peter Parker's worried team may be part of that solution, too. Stephen makes a mental note to compile as much as he can to give to Stark from the Ancient One's writings. And he gives silent thanks to her, that even after her passing, she's managed to help provide obnoxiously useful words of wisdom, be it in slowed thunder storms or old, time-stained scrolls.

[docboots]

On How I Learned I Had Hereditary Angioedima

I initially wrote this in an attempt to get it published. Well, that was the ultimate hope. My more realistic goal I was hoping sending it to editors might give me input so that I could edit accordingly. Like the teachers I came across in the public education system had assured me.

I really should have been more skeptical of people giving me advice on how to get published when they were oddly reluctant (read: never produced) to show they followed their own advice and got published. This is not how, at least in my experience trying a number of magazines over the past few months, it worked out.

Instead, they say something like, 'It was well written, but not for us'. Maybe a little 'You have a nice voice and it a deep and touching read. But not for us'. Basically, a lot of brushing me up with a compliment before the normal rejection that all reads the exact same. (Much like my emails from the lawyers and the claims handlers of social security!) There is no real input. Nothing of substance nor anything constructive. Nothing negative even! There is nothing on WHY I wasn't accepted so I may improve. As they want a "unique creative voice, that story only YOU can tell, and blah blah" it'd be nice to know how I do not fit their mold so I could possibly use this apparent skill in writing I have for profit. Maybe get more knowledge on HAE out there. Maybe make this just a little easier.

Since that doesn't seem to be working with this particular article, and that response is getting tired given what it involves, it is better to have it here so I don't have to repeat myself to lawyers and doctors.

On that note! Hello new attorney, should you be reading this. You see, I finally got a letter back from my attorney. It simply said that I had my case transferred to someone new, who was writing the letter, and yet another copy of the memo they have explaining that the average wait time to be heard by an attorney is between 15-17 months. The only difference is somehow the wait is even longer.

All avenues say to pester and be heard, so I am sorry but I am aiming to do that. Especially now that I am being handed around like a hot potato legally, federally, and medically. I got a letter sent to me saying I am no longer eligible for Medicaid. More distressingly, it says the reason is that Medicaid is ending.

No more therapy, no more dentist, no more overpriced painful medication that at least is something, no more doctor visits, nothing. I can not afford it, and I am not going to waste money that can be spent on the thing that at least won't' be pulled out from under me. Where there are potheads, there will be someone who grows and sells it.

The sad thing? Those "criminals" (mostly) treated me a hell of a lot better than this system. Than medical marijuana. They at least let me wait out in the cold in my fucking car. They at least ADMITTED I had a god damn blood disease.

Enraged rant from 9/27/2017 over. Not a rant on when I was 16, when I first found out that I had this drama coursing through my veins. Hopefully, this new madness doesn't make me have to repeat it out of the stress, eh?

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

There had been signs, but I did not know I had the genetic blood disease that would reprogram how I approached life until I woke up with the worst stomach ache of my life a little more than a decade ago. The dread of waking up for high school washed away with a sucker punch from life. The sharp stabbing from my gut should have made me realize this was no ordinary stomach bug, but I have a terrible tendency of ignoring my gut instincts. I only grew mildly concerned when I began to puke with the cadence and fervor of a dying banshee. Every heave feeling like my muscles were testing the tensile strength of my ribs while simultaneously trying to send my stomach on a whimsical journey through my esophagus. Not only was my body violently rejecting what looked to be a liquid combination of every meal I had ever had or dreamed of, but it adamantly refused to let even water back down my overworked throat.

I’d, of course, nurse water down at every opportunity in an attempt to wash away the bitter bile that clung to my throat like an oil, as well fight against the dehydration creeping in. This would end up being a fruitless effort. It would give me relief from the dehydration, only for it to be replaced with spiraling nausea. The dry feeling of a void in my throat spreading into my gut would return shortly, a few sips of water hardly held it back. All the while the jabbing pain in my stomach only seemed to grow worse. It even seemed to be warm, possibly burning. It is hard to tell if something is a particular flavor of pain when there was a far more notable kick in the same area. I would later find out this was due to a portion of my gastrointestinal system swelling up. I would also later find out this would be a pain I’d become intensely familiar with.

This would go on for two to three days before my parents realized how serious it was. They were worried, of course, it was just clear at that point I was neither sick with a stomach bug nor performing some form of elaborate ruse to get out of school. Though I was, at that point, still weighing whether or not getting to miss school for a few days was worth the agony. Not when you can’t enjoy Pokemon Snap, was my reasoning. While I was certain it was just that food poisoning thing everyone was talking about, as I was experimenting with cooking, my parents feared that this was a sign they had been dreading. My birth mother, having been adopted by my grandmother in a chapter of my life worth its own essay, had a genetic blood disease called Hereditary Angioedema. I had a 50% chance of getting it at birth, and I have come to learn that this game is rigged in Nature’s favor.

Surprisingly, a juvenile puking like Pazuzu had an interest in his soul did little to hasten the eternal waiting that is common with an emergency room. Parked between someone with a mild fever and another with a few twitches, we spent an eternity waiting to be seen. As the hours ticked by I became more and more familiar with the pulsing in my gut, having leaped beyond the stage reserved for crying and whining and now locked firmly in the anxious groans and curses towards nature and any deity that I could remember. Luckily I had always had a fondness for mythology, so I had a nice list of fresh legendary gods and goddesses to gripe towards.

It was rather embarrassing carrying around the black trash bag, what with it smelling like an inside-out stomach while sloshing with every step to make certain people knew of its presence. Given the pain in my stomach and the overwhelming exhaustion that comes from dry heaving through the night, I figured it easier to use that to dry heave into. Nothing was really going into the bag, but I figured it’d put people's’ minds at ease. At some point, I had ditched it in exchange for the toilets. Any hope I had that people might think I was in there doing something natural was squashed by the rather disheveled looking man. The man was waiting in a lobby far enough for me to have an idea of the radius of my retching, which by this marker was already alarmingly vast, and made it clear he had heard by courteously asking if I was alright. The concern in his eyes and hanging in his voice made it clear it wasn’t purely an attempt to be cordial. Given the pained noises that your own swollen stomach will cause as it gyrates to the beat of your hoarse vomiting, the man may have just been wanting to be sure I would not respond in tongues or by crawling away on the ceiling. Possibly he feared something worse, like whatever the news was frantic over that year.

As haunting as this situation may be, It is surprising how quickly you get used to pain. It might burn and pulse so that every second has you thinking of it in some capacity. It might make it so every tiny movement makes your every nerve scream and your brain berate you for attempting to function, it might strike when you are too young to process the reason or too old to overcome. It might be due to an immature belief that ‘big boys don’t cry’ or from being hardened due to previous experiences. Like a bad smell, you can grow accustomed to the agony. To the point your every twitch doesn’t cause you to bark out a yelp of pain.

It got to where even I was surprised that I didn’t fully freak out as I was loaded into an ambulance. Shock and adrenaline is a hell of a drug. As nice as the doctors there were, they were not set up to house an adolescent in a hospital bed at that facility. The fresh hell I had been whisked to, however, was another matter entirely. Thankfully I had been given a lovely dose of morphine to keep the pain and nausea away. Also helpful was the IV that I was now attached to pumping me with all the glorious liquids one normally has when in deep stages of dehydration. I was told that if I hadn’t come in when I did, I’d have been at a high risk of complications or death from the lack of liquids, or anything for that matter, in my stomach for the past few days. The anxiety and fear were not so easily stifled. It was here I learned of my disorder, mostly from my parents, something that took quite a long while to sink in.

Hereditary Angioedema is a genetic blood disease that is rare enough that, now a decade later, I still spend far more time explaining my disorder and symptoms than getting any headway in my care. This was proven through my doctor’s insistence on cutting into me and putting a camera in there to be certain. Luckily, my parents talked them out of it, for you see this disorder causes swelling in random places when mental or emotional stress is involved while if I have any physical stress, such as a hit to the arm or merely overexerting myself) the area will swell. The swelling tends to be to the point, should my hand swell, I am unable to bend any of my joints and lasts anywhere between two days to a month. If I am so lucky. So should the doctor have made headway on his desire for a bit of surgical spelunking for what was wrong, I would have likely had to deal with the areas cut into swelling. Our arguments were treated as if we were belligerent, not that my stepmom had experience dealing with this with my birth mom and grandfather (step-great grandfather? My family tree is mildly complicated) who both had the disorder, given you know, genetic.

Luckily, in spite of the Doctor being a prat, the nurses were immensely nice. They even had this small tv on a cart with a ps2 plugged in they let me use occasionally. As the entire experience was maddeningly stressful, the distraction and escape helped me process the new tidbit of knowledge about my biology. Specifically, it didn’t seem to be my biggest fan.

This might sound like I am allergic to stress, and in a sense I am. Antihistamines and the typical allergy medicine don’t do squat and the actual medicine has been hit and miss. 98% miss. Not many companies have room for such genetic shenanigans either. All this I fretted over as I sat in that hospital room as they observed me and made sure my liquids would be back to normal.

How do you escape stress? This demon that escaped the mouths of every living being. Vibrates from every object and every mild action. How could I possibly live when the world itself has potential to kill me? Google did nothing to soothe my worries. It instead believed it would be helpful to fling the statistic that 33%-66% of sufferers died from complications, most often asphyxiation, due to swelling. Life has taught me many things, but this one event taught me that the internet was terrible for anxiety. It did wonders for making mildly stressful situations evolve into a full-blown fit of hypochondria.  Another thing I learned, for the curious, is 85% of all statistics are bull. As that statistic has steadily dropped since. Be it modern advancement or better information, it no longer festers in my mind.

Back then, however? It festered. It consumed my every thought and action before I even realized it. I began quitting hobbies left and right that used to fascinate me. Worse? No one could blame me. In fact, everyone encouraged it. When your own body is puffing up like a balloon at the drop of the hat spurred on by not just these physical hobbies but the everyday madness of life coupled with the special circumstances life decided to dole out to me to be CERTAIN I did not live a single second without madness and anxiety itching at my cortex. I struggled through the pain in others though, and I found what was worth holding on to.

I often remember sitting in that hospital room bouncing between wallowing in self-pity and rage only to tug myself up with an imaginary pep talk. Only to crumble. Then rise. A tremendously annoying cycle that repeated in those few days. As I am sure many do in their darker times, I often think of what I would tell myself then to improve my situation now. There is one thought I seem to always want to say.

It might have even started off as denial, but really, I was right in this sense. Everything would be alright. It’d be a struggle, it will continue to be. Even when my knee is swollen, even when I need a cane or a bit of help, I will get back up. Eventually. Maybe the pain is too much, or my energy is zapped. It is fine to relax, to contemplate. Maybe even veg. I will rise back to my feet. Even if every fiber of my being tells me I should give up, that nothing is worse this much struggle. I know at the bottom of my heart I will learn something from the experience. Be it something as small as the situation itself.

Sadly I would not be able to ease his concerns when it came to avoiding stress entirely. It lurks like an angry beast. Nestled in people's actions. I often relate it to being allergic to wasps, only everyone and everything produces them. Every word, every step, every thought. It takes a lot of time and patience to learn how to avoid the swarms. It was necessary to keep the stress from stinging me.

 That wouldn’t be the first time I would have to deal with that exact situation, nor the last. Life is still hard, and I may write more on what I learned from those struggles one day, but I will always write. I will turn my situations into something I will be proud of. Maybe a piece of horror, maybe a bit of the blues. Maybe I can turn it into a painting or maybe I can warp it into a 10 part mini-series. The disorder might try its damnedest to stand in my way. Be it having my gastrointestinal system swell the night before my first day on a job, leading to being fired, to the pointlessly difficult struggle that trying to get Disability is. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger after all. It builds your characters. It might slow me down for a short time, but I will never, ever stop.

Being stuck is far too stressful, after all. Got this thing about stress.