#aware because you were asking about my antidepressants a few months ago

[dykegeology]

Share houses where everyone just like. minds their own business are like pretty decent. Share houses but someone decides they want to make a like group where everyone's super close and goes to all sorts of stuff together become the most unparalleled mechanism of torment and horror

[deaddoberman]

I need to rant because Friday was fucking awful

I got a new doctor like six months ago and I’ve only seen him a few times so far. I thought he was cool but during my appointment on Friday he went on this rant about how since people started caring about mental health everyone suddenly has depression and anxiety. He was saying that the government should start limiting access to antidepressants. He also told me that only people in war zones should have panic attacks and then called psychology a pseudoscience.

It wasn’t ALL bad, I agreed with some of the stuff he was saying. Like the fact that ativan is over-prescribed and that resilience is important for mental health. But then he proceeded to say that he’ll keep giving me ativan whenever I ask for it and it’s my own fault if I get addicted to it. Like… I get that it isn’t his fault that I abuse prescription drugs but he could at least NOT give them to me.

Idk it’s just weird to me when people say that mental health awareness and treatment is causing people to be mentally ill. Like did you ever consider that maybe people were suffering in silence before?

“When I was your age if I said I was sad I would get the shit beat out of me” like okay?? I’m sorry that your parents were awful to you, but are you implying that I deserve the same treatment? If you really think that getting beat up for showing emotion made you a better person then you might need to reconsider.

[notjosieyouremy]

alright so here’s the story. basically, i kept seeing tiktoks about partners who cheat and about how terrible men are. i kept thinking, i got one of the good ones tho, he would never, he’s so good to me, im so glad i don’t have to deal with any of that shit

well about four nights ago when i was drunk i went through his phone and found some pretty incriminating stuff. all of it happened about 3 months ago then appeared to stop. he was responding to personal ads on reddit and exchanging s*xual messages and noods. as far as i could tell, he didn’t meetup with any of those people. i did however find flirty texts with a woman from him past, jessie. they did meet up, tho it wasn’t clear what had happened. so i saved jessie’s number to my phone and texted her the next day. she was so great. she’s a true girl’s girl. she told me exactly what happened. they made out, he touched the booba, there was some dry humping but not full s*x. he was telling her that we were trying out polyamory and that i was aware of everything and we’d been talking about it (not true). a few days later in text he told her that we had talked and decided to remain monogamous (also not true, we had no such discussion). they only met up that one time. she was more mad about it than i was, which is funny to me

i wasn’t mad, i’m still not mad, tho i am a little hurt, so let’s talk about why i wasn’t pissed when i should be. i just can’t summon the emotional energy to get angry about it (antidepressants save the day again). there has never been any jealousy or possessiveness in our relationship. since day one he has said he doesn’t care if i sleep with other people. i didn’t want to be poly because i had never done that before and it sounded scary and new. my love for him did not change when i found out. but my perception of him changed. i always thought he was perfect, and he always hated when i’d say that (believe people when they tell you who they are). i learned that he makes mistakes like everybody else. he’s not infallible, but i still love him just the same. he’s still the best part of my life. plus hes mad enough at himself, he doesn’t need me to be mad at him too

so the way i see it, i had three options: 1. break up (no, not worth it. i would literally marry him tomorrow if he asked me). 2. we stay together, but i would never be able to trust him again. i would always be worried he was being unfaithful. and this hurt would manifest anger and resentment and it would fester and rot (i don’t wanna do that. i don’t have the emotional energy to hold a grudge against him. it’s so exhausting). 3. let’s just be ethically non monogamous. i don’t wanna constantly worry about it happening again, so if it does, we’ve already established it’s ok. i’m in the process of accepting something that i’ve known for a long time: one person can’t meet all their partner’s needs all the time and trying to do so is exhausting. i feel safe and secure enough with him that i know he won’t leave me. he insisted that he doesn’t want to do anything outside of the relationship, he was just going through something at the time of his infidelity, but he agreed to do whatever i needed in order to heal

one final thing that happened was two nights ago i went through his phone again. i didn’t find any new incriminating evidence, but i felt really guilty about it. so the next day i told him and asked him to change to passcode on his phone. i know i shouldn’t be invading his privacy in that way but sometimes i give in to temptation and curiosity

all men are trash

guess who found out her boyfriend cheated

[alittlepudge-neverhurtnobody]

Okay so what about david stating to gain alot of weight quickly and everyones kinda worried but he's actually just really happy and comfortable in his relationship + probably finding out hes kinda into it

(And maybe even patrick not knowing so he gets a bit worried too)

Oh I love this!! (As you may know from following me) wg as a sign of recovery/happiness/comfort is one of my favorite tropes of all time so I would love to see this for David!! either gaining weight when he starts getting comfortable with Patrick once they’ve settled the whole barbecue/olive branch debacle, or I could also see like, David waiting until after the wedding bc he has Very Specific Visions of how things should look and also probably has had pieces of that outfit picked out since his old life and where is he going to find a tailor here he can trust to let out the seams without causing irreparable damage? waiting after the wedding and then deciding that he’s not dieting anymore. after the wedding, he can eat whatever he wants, no matter what it is, no matter how much, no matter how often. he gets to eat specifically because he wants to, no more restricting or holding himself back or switching out to a healthier option. and his metabolism is slowing down, his body is settling a little more as he settles down, and so he does gain a lot of weight quickly but he also isn’t worrying about it the way he used to because he feels secure enough to let his body change without fear that his partner is going to reject him for it. 

but of course David has a history of worrying about these things and handling them Uh Pretty Badly, so when he starts plumping up, everyone starts swooping in to check on him. Johnny and Moira trying to ask after his mental health in their own awkward, less-than-helpful ways (”so, son ... you know, sometimes ... when someone isn’t talking about something that’s bothering them ... it comes out in, ah, you know ... other ways, like maybe, ah, a lot of cheeseburgers at the cafe -- I mean, at a cafe -- and, you know, it might help that person to, ah, talk about it!” / “DaViD, I do hope your emotional entanglements are not imposing a hamper on your wellBeInG, lest we reprise your cognitive doldrums of two! thousand! and! fiiiive!”), Alexis fussing over him and offering him a little bit of the high-end moisturizer she treats herself to because it’s infused with sweet orange oil and it’s, like, so good at lifting your spirits, David, like, you will feel like a whole new person with just, like, the teeniest smidge, and suggesting little trips and excursions because she thinks something is wrong and wants to perk him up, despite David not actually ... seeming down. but in the past his weight gains have always been accompanied by a lot of shame and guilt and heartbreak and he guesses he sort of quietly did all the unlearning about that and it didn’t occur to anyone else to do so, because they’re all hovering over him and making kind little offers and trying to help him when he does not need it, thank you very much!!

(cue Stevie in the background having a pleasant but more-than-vaguely threatening conversation with Patrick because if she finds out that, say, he hid something else from David, or he’s upsetting David in some way, well, is Patrick aware that there are bodies buried on the motel grounds that no one has ever found? no? interesting ... ! but Patrick’s a little worried too, because he’s heard David talk about his body in the past and his language isn’t always ... the kindest? so he’s sort of treating David with kid gloves, trying not to patronize him but also not to cause some kind of body-image meltdown. he very carefully doesn’t say anything about food or David’s steadily climbing weight or his snug clothes, but he tries to go heavy on the casual touches and affection so David can at least be secure that Patrick is here for him for whatever’s going on.)

finally Alexis says something while she and David are out browsing at some very sad little indie mall, like, seventeen towns over and the way she says it, it could be about his perceived mental anguish or his weight, and he kind of snaps back at her and tells her he’s very happy with his body, and he’s very happy period, thanks so much, squinty unamused smile, and she just looks him up and down and goes, “well, duh, David, it’s not like getting fat is a bad thing, it’s just historically been a bad thing for you,” and tosses her hair and pushes a sweater into his hands before flouncing away like this is fully how she intended this conversation to go. the sweater is a 3x and not completely awful and David doesn’t even own anything in a 3x yet but somehow she intuited that it would fit perfectly? (in the car on the way home he has Sarah McLachlan on and Alexis hasn’t said a word to complain about it yet, which means something is up, and finally she runs her fingers through the ends of her hair and goes, like there was no break in their conversation at all, “okay but like, I think we all just thought it was, like, the birthday clown thing all over again, and you were just going to go radio silent for like six months and we would all be, like, highkey worried about you even if we only seemed lowkey worried about you or, like, not worried about you at all, and then you’d come out, like, four sizes bigger and be super mean to yourself for like another six months before you lost it all, and, like, none of us want to see that happen again, David. not because of the weight. because we care about you and we don’t want you to go through that again.” she sits back hard in her seat and punches the stereo dial. “also because you’re listening to Sarah what’s-her-name with all those sad puppy commercials and, like, that does not suggest a healthy mental state, David, ugh.” David lets that sink in for a few minutes. He smiles to himself. He lets Alexis change the music.

and when he and Patrick finally talk about it, David tells him that he really doesn’t need to worry, maybe gives him the rundown on the behaviors he actually SHOULD worry about if David ever starts exhibiting (which he can fact-check with Alexis, who’s apparently been keeping the score way more than David has given her credit for). he tells Patrick that it actually feels very freeing, letting himself get bigger and not policing what he eats anymore, and he’s never really been in a situation before where he felt secure and safe enough to be comfortable exploring that, and obviously he would love if Patrick wanted to sort of ... get involved, so to speak?? and even if it isn’t Patrick’s kink the way it’s David’s, Patrick is VERY down to love on David’s body and learn to appreciate it in the Extremely Specific ways David wants it appreciated. he can’t imagine a situation where more David would ever be a bad thing, so it’s super, super exciting to learn that not only does David agree, but plans to make sure that there’s going to be a lot more of him going forward now that they’re both on the same page.

(ALSO i’m really into the idea of David having been heavy before, but by circumstance rather than decision, and now taking this opportunity to explore being fat deliberately instead!! I threw some words together about it a while back and I’m gonna put them under a cut bc it does mention unwanted wg from meds and I’m not sure if that’s a trigger for anyone!)

Trim is relative, of course. He’s gained a whopping thirty-eight pounds since moving here a few years ago, and — it’s fine, he’s made his peace with it, he just likes things to be intentional, his body included. He’d mind those thirty-eight pounds much less if he had gained them by indulging himself, by enjoying treats he had chosen specifically for pleasure, rather than by stress-eating in his motel room.

He’s been heavy before — in his early twenties, he’d tried an antidepressant that hollowed out his appetite and added sixty pounds to his frame. He hadn’t stayed on it long, because it made him sick when he drank and he wasn’t in a place to give up drinking then, or even to cut back, but the weight had lingered for a good six months before he'd managed to shave it off with party drugs and an absolutely punishing workout regimen. It’s intentional, he told people when they asked about the weight, because they did ask and it always disarmed them. And although it wasn’t true, he’d let himself think sometimes about the possibility. He kind of liked being heavy. He kind of liked taking up space. He kind of liked jiggling. It made him feel like some sort of prince, indulgent and luxurious, the picture of wealth, and he thought that maybe he could have more-than-liked it, if it had just been something he’d chosen.

[readyplayerhobi]

Flower | 19

; Hoseok x Reader

; Genre: Fluff, slight angst

; Word Count: 5k

; Warnings: Brief mentions of depression, anxiety

; Synopsis: You finally decide to take a dip into the world of online dating and find the Flower dating app. One of the top matches for you proves to be a guy who looks to be your complete opposite; tattooed, pierced, a metalhead and oh…incredibly handsome. What happens when you throw caution to the wind and reach out to him?

; A/N: A chapter that’s a little bit more fluffier :D thank you for the love and as usual, please send me comments or feedback so I can see you’re enjoying it still! :D We’re almost halfway through!

; Flower Masterpost

-

“Ooh, look at that house.” Hoseok murmurs, almost to himself given how quiet his voice had gone. Pausing from your walk, you turn around and see that he’s stopped a feet away, his camera being held up to his eye as he looks through the viewfinder. There’s a few moments where he shifts around, trying to find the best angle and lighting before you hear the click of the shutter.

He’s not even looking at you as he begins walking again, instead his eyes are focused on the LCD screen on the back of his camera. Leaning against him a little when he finally reaches you, you peer around at what he’d just taken a photo of and smile in amusement.

After all of the bad stuff that had happened recently, you’d found yourself needing to do something to distract yourself. The antidepressants no longer gave you any major side effects and you thought that they were working, though it was probably too early to say yes or no for definite. But you also wanted to thank Hoseok for being so sweet and reliable.

As such, you’d asked Chungha if her family might let you use their beach house for the weekend. It was one of those big, rambling wooden beach houses that always looked so pretty, its yard bumping up against soft white sand and an endless expanse of beautiful blue ocean as far as the eye could see. 

The town it was in was equally picturesque, one of those places that looks like it’s been transplanted from some old European place with plenty of old style charm and warmth. Chungha’s house had apparently been in her family for generations; some long ago ancestor had built it themselves when they’d arrived and since then, her family had moved on and it had become more of a holiday home.

You’d been there once during college when Chungha had invited Soyeon and you for spring break. It had been a great time and you’d just known that Hoseok would love it all, particularly for his photography.

So you’d told him to make sure he wasn’t doing anything this weekend and to bring his camera before driving out here. He’d been excited enough to know that you were both spending a weekend at the beach, apparently he loved the ocean, but when he actually saw the town as you were driving through and then the house he’d been thoroughly charmed by it all.

That had been yesterday, the both of you getting to see the town just as the sun was setting in the winter hours and so today, Saturday, was the first time you were getting to show him it all properly. The house he’d just taken a picture of was on one of the little side streets and it looked adorably quaint, its wooden front painted a delicate shell white with baby pink window frames and a soft yellow door.

Flower boxes full of what must be winter blooming flowers and plants were hung from the windows while planters of small, ornate bushes framed the door. The awnings along the roof were also wood but had been intricately carved, giving it the impression of some kind of fairytale house.

The photos that Hoseok had taken looked pretty enough, but you knew that he’d do some magical editing later and they’d look beautiful. You could already see how the contrasting colours would look perfect against the greenery surrounding the building and you couldn’t help the smile that spread over your face as Hoseok made little noises as he walked.

He did that a lot when he was happy, and you didn’t know if he knew he did it. You weren’t going to tell him though, because you didn’t want him to get embarrassed about it and stop doing them. It made you happy to hear his vocalisation of his own emotions, and you needed some happiness lately.

Wrapping your arm around his, you pressed against him until he veered slightly off course. Looking up, he checks that he’s not about to walk off the road before looking down at you with a grin, letting his camera drop to hang by the strap around his neck and withdrawing his arm from your grasp before placing it around your waist contentedly. 

“This place is great, my photos are gonna look awesome.” He commented, his tone already distracted as he spotted something new in the distance that had attracted his attention. Smiling, you simply lay your head against his shoulder and just…enjoy his presence. You’d been well aware of his love for photography and had watched over the last few months as he’d done some casual stuff around the place you lived in alongside taking your photos for your Instagram.

But this was the first time you were truly seeing the raw passion he had for it. The way his eyes lit up when he got a good shot or how bright his smile became when he saw something that he knew would look perfect on camera.

“Why didn’t you do photography professionally? Your photos are great and you obviously love it, you’ve got a good eye.” You ask, looking up at him as he evidently decides that he’s not going to take another photo.

For a few seconds, he doesn’t respond but you can tell by the way he purses his lips slightly and his dimples come to life that he’s thinking about the answer for you. Eventually, thought he just shrugs.

“Because I was young and dumb? I liked photography when I was a teenager but it was never my number one thing. And then I went to college and finally learnt to handle my emotions better. By that point…I just wanted something stable in my life. As much as I love photography, I know that it’s not really a hugely stable job and I might never make it. I wasn’t ready to risk myself when I’d finally gotten my life on track again.” He sounds a little bit wistful but it vanishes as he shrugs lightly.

“It’s fine, I love my job now and I love computers. I get to enjoy photography as a hobby, which is all I want to be honest. I’d be worried that if I turned my hobby into my job then I wouldn’t love it anymore, you know?” Nodding, you hum gently as you ponder on his question intently.

Hoseok is only two years older than you, and sometimes it feels like he’s got his whole life sorted out already. Like he’s a real adult and you’re just a pretend adult. The thought makes you laugh to yourself, shaking your head as Hoseok gives you a querying look.

He’d probably think the same thing if you told him. What was being an adult anyway? You still called your dad for the simplest of things after all.

Smiling to yourself, you huddle further into Hoseok’s warmth and take the opportunity to simply chat lightly with him. Next weekend, you would be going to his parents for the first time. And if he’d been nervous to meet your parents, then you were terrified to meet his.

Hoseok’s family was pretty well off compared to yours and he’d never really wanted for anything. The fact that they’d lost a daughter made that all seem pointless in comparison really, but it made you feel a little sick thinking about it. You were dating their only child now, the only child they had left out of what had been two.

He’d never said anything but nice things about them but you knew that parents were always god in their children’s eyes. Especially if they had no negative emotions or feelings towards them. And Hoseok adored his mom, you knew that. But that just made it all the more worse.

You’d read more than enough subreddits to have realised that there was a special category of mom and that was the moms of sons. Some seemed to be fine, but some seemed to act like a girlfriend was taking their place in their son’s life. There were plenty of horrifying stories out there of women treating their sons girlfriend or wife horrifically bad and the son being unable to see it because of how much he loved her.

While you doubted Hoseok’s mom was like that, and for that you didn’t really think Hoseok would react happily if his parents were mean, it was still a worry. You’d never met a guy’s parents before. So that was all rushing through your mind as well. Yet another reason you’d opted to spend this weekend just enjoying each other’s company.

Taking a breath, you let you a small ‘ooh’ as you realised that you smell something delicious. Looking to the side, your eyes widen as you see a café with its door swinging shut, sending a waft of delightful smells your way. The delicious looking array of baked goods and sweets in the shop front make it even more enticing and you purse your lips as your mouth waters.

Pausing, you let go of him to step closer, focusing intently on a delicious red velvet cake that was topped with decadent buttercream frosting. You don’t even realise you’re making a face at the cake until you hear Hoseok’s chuckle and the sound of a shutter once more.

Looking at him with wide eyes, you sigh affectionately as you see him pulling his camera down with a grin. Turning it around he shows you see the image that he’d just taken and you smile at how he’d focused on your face, the background soft and pretty as you stared intently into the café front.

You always hated having your photograph taken, until Jung Hoseok had started taking them. As long as he was the one behind the camera, you knew that he wouldn’t make you look ugly or anything.

“Do you want one?” He asks, gesturing to the display. Humming lightly, you chew on your lip before nodding with a smile. This was a weekend of doing stuff to make you happy, which obviously meant that you had to treat yourself.

The answering grin on Hoseok’s face tells you that he probably knows that, but he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he gestures for you to go inside the dual café and shop. It’s nice and warm inside, making you realise just how brisk and chilly it had been outside and you unwrap your scarf from around your neck.

“Go sit down, I’ll get your stuff.” Hoseok says, leaning forward and kissing your forehead quickly before handing you his camera and backpack. You take both from him without complaint, wanting to tell him that you’ll pay but you know there’s no way he’s letting that happen right now.

You’d learnt to pick your fights with Hoseok, or arguments rather. Particularly as you hated arguing and all of that so you tried your hardest to not argue at all. And this wasn’t something worth the time or effort.

The café isn’t that busy so you make sure to grab a table a little further inside. It’s only knee high but the dark red couch that accompanies it looks far too comfy to give up, particularly given the abundance of soft, multi-patterned cushions. 

Carefully placing Hoseok’s camera on the table and his backpack on the floor, you add your own bag before sinking down into the blissfully squishy couch. The cushions practically envelop you and you can’t help but smile as you almost fall backwards, resting against the equally soft back.

Yeah, this was a good spot. And it let you people watch in the whole café along with a perfect view of the street outside.

Hoseok came over with a tray in his hands and you take a moment to peruse him, enjoying the little triangle his lips have turned into as he concentrates on not dropping anything. It makes him look adorably cute, which is at complete odds with the rest of his look. 

His one concession to being in this pretty town today had been that he was wearing a white shirt, just a hint of the outline of his tattoo whenever he moved a certain way. But that was it though. Otherwise, he definitely didn’t look like he belonged in this place.

Grey distressed jeans with holes ripped into the knees met his new pair of black Dr Martens, a present he’d bought himself after a particularly hard week. An equally dark leather jacket was slung casually over his shoulders, the silver points on it highlighted by the silver necklaces he wore and the new hoops in his ears and the ring in his lip.

As usual, he looked incredibly handsome and the perfect picture of grunge and rock. But he really didn’t fit this overly…dainty town and you almost wanted to laugh at how out of place his fashion was, even in this café. He must be used to it by now, particularly given he was dating you but it still amused you anyway.

“What are you laughing at?” Eyes widening, you realise that you must’ve been smiling or something at him because he had a decidedly amused look on his face as he places the tray on the table. A big slice of red velvet cake is placed in front of you alongside a fork while he puts a fancy looking sandwich down in front of himself before sitting.

He’s got you a tall glass of water, flavoured with some real strawberries that makes you ‘ooh’ in delight while he takes a sip of whatever tea he’d bought. Peering over at his plate, you give him a raised brow and he smiles.

“Pastrami, Swiss cheese, mayo, tomato and lettuce.” He grins and you make another noise, watching intently as he takes a bite. A spot of mayo stays on the corner of his lips and you reach over, wiping it away with one of the paper napkins he’d brought too.

“Good?” You ask, curious as you eye the thickly stacked sandwich questioningly. Pausing, Hoseok looks at you before nodding and making a sigh so quiet that you almost didn’t hear it. But then he offers it to you, gesturing for you to take a bite and you grin happily.

The flavours burst in your mouth, combining together beautifully and you let out the tiniest moan of contentment at just how delicious they all are. You’re surprised Hoseok doesn’t mind the mayonnaise given he’s not a fan of it, but you suppose it’s just like people liking tuna mayo and not mayonnaise.

The next fifteen minutes are spent with the both of you slowly eating the sandwich, one bite at a time and you can’t help but hum happily with how…content you feel with everything right now. It’s a very bizarre concept to you and you’re sure it’s the antidepressants, working properly like they’re supposed to.

Maybe it’s just a placebo effect, but you can’t find it in yourself to care.

“God this place is so nice.” Hoseok sighs once he’s finished, slumping on the couch and resting his hands over his stomach. You poke it gently and giggle as he overly exaggerates a pout before reaching forward for the plate of cake. Take a large section, you eat it slowly and make an appreciative noise before glancing back at your boyfriend.

“This is so good, holy shit.” You whisper, eyes widening as he laughs loudly at your reaction. His mouth is engaged pretty quickly though as you feed him a piece of the cake, watching as he contemplates for a second before nodding agreement with you.

Wriggling in your seat, you continue to eat the cake with sole minded focus while Hoseok just watches you for a moment. That is, until he reaches for his camera, popping the lens off and changing it for you knew was better for closer shots. Sure enough, just like you’d suspected, he lifts the camera up and raises a brow at you, asking the question silently.

With a mouth full of cake, you don’t answer verbally but instead nod a little shyly as you swallow as quickly as possible. It just makes him snort though, lifting the camera to his face and angling it exactly how he wanted. You’re not entirely sure what he wants you to do but you can’t help but look down at the plate, fork cutting into the soft cake as you try not to feel too embarrassed about him photographing you in a place where other people are probably looking.

Outside it felt fine, but it felt very personal in here with the dimmer lighting and such. 

“You’re so beautiful, you know that?” Hoseok says, his voice soft as he checks over the image and you feel so many emotions at once that you’re not sure what you’re actually feeling. Embarrassed? Pleased? Shy? Happy? He’s the only man who’s ever called you beautiful outside of your dad.

So you deflect it with sarcasm, because that’s how you dealt with things that made you feel shy. A terrible coping mechanism, you know, but it has got you through life so far.

“Has that sandwich turned you sappy? Or was it the cake?” From the way Hoseok’s lips twist, you can tell that he wants to laugh but instead he just continues to flick through the photos he’s taken over the day. It’s one of the things you like best about him, that he never lets your awkwardness interrupt.

“Can I take one of us?” He asks, his voice gentle as he poses the question to you. You loved that about him, that he’d learnt to always ask if he could take a photograph of you both together. Nodding, you lean into his body and smile at the camera as he holds it out in front of you both. There’s a moment of nothing before he clicks the button a few times.

Placing the now empty plate down, you lean back on the couch and let out a deep sigh, belly full and your mind happy. There would have been a time when you’d have been ashamed of your body after eating, not wanting Hoseok to see anything that he might find ugly. But you’d learnt by now that he wasn’t like that, and he didn’t even notice that kind of stuff.

So you let yourself just relax fully against the cushions, moving your hand to rest on his thigh and simply enjoying the contact while he looks at the selfies. He shows them to you and you can’t help but feel a flutter in your stomach at how happy you both look, your eyes bright with sweet smiles on both your faces. You’d also discovered that you liked having your photo taken with him.

The two of you fall into a comfortable silence after that, the sounds taken up instead by the gentle music flowing through the speakers, the quiet chatter of other customers and the clinking of cutlery on plates. It all feels very…domestic and you have one of those moments where you realise how strange this all is for you.

If you’d been told a year ago that you’d be sat here, on a weekend break to a little beach town with your boyfriend of nine months after suffering a breakdown and finally reaching out for help, you’d have laughed in their face. Being on antidepressants might have been believable sure, but a boyfriend? That’s been with you for nine months?

No, you would’ve never believed that.

And yet here he was, in all his outrageously attractive glory with his calm and reassuring presence. For you. Because of you. 

Hoseok smiles at something on his camera and you can’t help the smile in response, a bubble of emotion rising inside you as you watch the way his eyes almost glitter, the skin beneath them swelling in that way they do when he’s happy and the shape of his eyes becoming those sweet little half moons that he always got when he was feeling particularly joyful. It was a mix of happiness, fondness and something else, something much deeper.

“You have such pretty eyes.” You whisper without meaning to, practically purring with delight as those eyes get even smaller as his cheeks rise from the size of the grin he’s sporting. There’s just a hint of pink on them now and you coo at him, carefully taking his camera and putting it into the shooting mode.

Lifting it up to your eye, you wonder if the camera will ever be able to get across just how much you care for this man. Just how much you adore him and will treasure him for as long as you are able to have him. You’re not sure, but you want to try at least.

His face comes into focus in the tiny viewfinder and you watch in enjoyment as he gets a slightly bashful look on his face, your compliment evidently still being consumed. But you don’t let him off that easy and instead decide to lay it on a little thicker.

“Such pretty eyes and a beautiful nose. You’re so handsome, I swear. It’s not fair. Even your smile is like a heart!” The pink starts to stain deeper, his ears slowly turning too while he bites at his lip, the silver ring catching the light perfectly and you snap away happily.

He lets you take photos with the camera until finally he reaches out, gesturing for it. You give it back to him happily, content that he went along with you long enough that you got some pretty pictures of him. Leaning back against his arm, you rest your head on his shoulder and watch as he flicks through the pictures.

“I want those pictures. Just so you know.” You state, letting him know that he’s going to have to edit them for you and he can’t just delete them. He doesn’t argue back, just nodding before pressing a kiss to your forehead affectionately.

-

The sea here during summer is a beautiful blue that shimmers like a jewel, but at the moment it’s duller. A coldness rolls in from afar, the waves harsher with the oncoming winter and you shiver inside your coat, wrapping your arms around your waist.

After leaving the café, Hoseok and you had walked around the town some more. He’d taken a few more pictures of things he thought were interesting before you’d asked if you could take some photographs too. That has resulted in him giving you a quick tutorial in how to use his camera in depth. You had a brief experience with it obviously, but actually doing anything more than just simply clicking wasn’t something you had experience with.

It had been fun though. Not only had you enjoyed taking the photos themselves, along with the process of trying to decide what would make a good shot, but you’d enjoyed interacting with Hoseok about something he was passionate about. You felt like he’d done a lot of the heavy lifting in your relationship so far, and you wanted to try and show more of an interest in what made him happy.

And he seemed to quite enjoy teaching you different shooting techniques. It wasn’t ever going to be your thing, but you’d decided that you would be more than happy to go along with him whenever he got the creative urge.

Now though, you were both walking along the beach back to the house. It perhaps wasn’t as nice of a walk as it could have been given the chilly temperatures, but it gave you the perfect opportunity to get closer to Hoseok.

Leaning into him as you both trudge against the shifting sand beneath your feet, you can’t help but smile as the wind blows the familiar smell of Hoseok to you. You’d always thought that he smelled good and the thought runs through your mind even now, thankful that he was someone who actually took care of himself.

There had been far too many guys in college who had thought that hygiene was just a word they couldn’t spell properly.

Neither of you says anything, too happy and content in the familiar silence between you both and you’re thankful for that too. It had always been hard to find people with whom silence was just a comfortable experience and not an anxiety inducing event where you mentally scrambled for a topic to talk about.

With Hoseok though, you didn’t feel that need to talk and he didn’t bother with any small talk either. Instead, you both just enjoyed the world around you and the simple company of each other.

You don’t notice that he’s fallen behind you once more, too concentrated on not falling over in the sand as you spy the house in the distance. It’s only when you go to reach out for his hand, hoping to curl your fingers together inside the pocket of his coat and find nothing but air that you realise.

Turning around, a particularly harsh and severe wind cuts through you, causing you to wrap your arms around yourself even tighter as you shiver while you stagger slightly from the force. Looking back at Hoseok with wide eyes, you can’t help but laugh when you see how red his cheeks have gone from the windchill. His camera is being slowly lowered and you can see that even his fingers are red too.

Reaching up, you cup his cheeks and coo gently at how cold they feel against your hands, thumbs stroking the slight stubble growing from his lack of shaving this morning. Grinning, you eye his nose in amusement, the elegant tip now pink from the cold sea breeze.

Pushing up onto your tiptoes, you press your lips to said nose affectionately. It’s gentle and quick, but you bite your lip as you see the happy look in his brown eyes.

“Cold nose.” You tease him lightly, moving one hand to press the tip of your forefinger against it. He lets you for a few seconds before moving his head just enough to allow him to kiss your finger instead, his gaze warm against the chilly conditions.

“I love you.” Hoseok says it so casually that you don’t even really register what he’s just said at first. Instead, you’re still just smiling at him with a look of pure girlish happiness on your face from how sweet he looks and the adorable reaction he’d had to your kiss.

And then it does. Those syllables become words in your head and those words gain meaning, causing you to jolt back from him slightly as you comprehend them. 

Your eyes must be astonishingly wide right now, your jaw dropped open at some point and in the back of your mind, you note how cold your teeth feel against the wind. But that’s not what you can focus on.

Hoseok loves you. He loves you. He loves you and he’s told you this.

No one had ever told you that they loved you outside of friends and family. A swirl of emotions forms a vortex in your stomach and you’re not sure whether you want to cry, shout, dance for joy or throw up. It wasn’t really a big deal, people said it to each other all the time, right?

“I don’t expect you to say it, and I’ve held back until I felt you might be able to accept it a little better. But I really do. And I hope me telling you can make you as happy as I feel telling you.” Now he’s cupping your face, the palms of his hands so hot against your cheeks.

And he’s smiling, lips spreading and his white teeth showing as the gesture gets wider and bigger with dual amusement and happiness. For a few seconds, you simply gawp at him, unable to form words before you look away, shyness you haven’t felt in months with him rising to the fore.

“Even after…everything?” You don’t need anyone to pull apart what you’ve just said as you understand it better than anyone. After the breakdown and crippling depression, the side effects of the antidepressants, the long time it’s taken for him to get anywhere with you in terms of a relationship. You were happy with how everything had gone with him, but you knew that there would be many men who would be frustrated.

“Yep. And I don’t want to make a big thing out of this, okay? It’s just how I feel. I don’t want to overwhelm you or have expectations on you. The sun is hot, space is big, this wind is really cold and I love you. That’s all. Now, I think maybe we should head back to the house, call for takeout and then spend the rest of the night cuddled up. Sounds good?” Just like he’d said, he doesn’t ponder on what he’d said.

And you understand him instinctively, because you would be the same way. He evidently doesn’t want to analyse his words, maybe because he just doesn’t want to or maybe because he didn’t want to make you overthink.

But you can’t deny the fizzing happiness that zaps through your veins as you smile at him brightly, the emotion beating out everything else you’re feeling to be the most prominent. He loves you.

“Netflix and chill?” You ask, your voice a tiny bit hoarse and a little shy, but Hoseok takes your words with a grin of relief as he nods.

Tangling your fingers together, he begins to walk back down the beach while you keep pace beside him. “Thought you’d never ask.”

[oh-mother-of-darkness]

hello this isnt abt batfam or batman but i saw your age and was wondering how do i survive till 23? i am 18 now and 5 more years is very hard to survive please help

Interesting question. I turn 24 in ten days, and sometimes even I’m not sure. I guess I’ll talk about how I personally stayed alive this long before I try to give advice.

The very first thing I would say is that I am religious, and that worldview makes a difference. I don’t mean that in a “everything happens for a reason” kind of way, and as a matter of fact, I very much dislike that line of thinking. It does a lot of damage, and I’m aware that it rightly puts a lot of people off from religion in general. 

I hold two beliefs that I think are helpful in terms of survival. First, I believe that humans are by nature bad. Counterintuitive in this conversation? Stick with me. Every day, but especially at my lowest moments, I hate the things that I am. In a metaphorical sense, my mind whispers to me that I am selfish, that I am cowardly, that I think bad things and I am capable of worse. I’m hateful, I’m terrifying, and I am absolutely broken. At my core, there is something fundamentally wrong, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t fix it. 

I am disgusting. I’m several thousand evil things in a trench-coat pretending to be anything but myself, and I’m not fooling anyone. 

Well, yeah. Yeah, I’m all those things and more: manipulative, lying, self-obsessed, angry, unforgiving, and judgmental. I could, of course, go on.

Here’s the thing-- everybody is. I am no better and no worse than any other person in the universe, and though I am ever abhorrent thing, I am. I have the same dignity, the same worth, and the same life as any human anywhere. The dark things are part and parcel of my humanity, but although I am not good, I do good. 

I will never be perfect because that just isn’t possible, but I can be kind. I can be loving, I can be strong, and I can be wise. 

Shit, doesn’t that set me free?

There’s a lot more to this conversation, and the rest goes, in brief, like this: at the bottom of the darkness that is every soul, we have one great fear-- if I am truly evil, no one will ever love me. Good news on that front, there is a God who does. If that’s something you want to talk about, hey hit me up. I’ll evangelize on my own time. 

Back to it. My second belief is a kind of understanding about the passage of time, and it’s sort of hard to boil down into a few sentences, but I’ll try my best. I believe in a grand struggle between good and evil. I know the beginning of that struggle. I know the end of that struggle: that good will win. I am a part of the middle. 

I see my role in the universe as extraordinary small but absolutely necessary. I have a two-fold purpose-- love God, love humans. I interpret both as a call to help others in any way I can, and I think in the way my life has worked out so far, that’s really the most important thing keeping me alive. 

I see all of this through the frame of my religion, but I would argue that everything I’ve said so far is applicable outside of that frame, because a lot of folks get to the same place from a fully secular point of view. I cannot be perfect. I should care about and fight for other people. That’s really all we’re working from here. 

A few years back, when people asked me this question-- how do you stay alive?-- I used to answer “spite,” and that’s not untrue. I am a very angry person, and the grand majority of that anger is directed at what I perceive as unjust acts. I have a deep-seated hatred of establishments (including the established church), and you’d be shocked at how much of a motivator that can be. 

I grew up in an environment that was very intentional in teaching me to identify injustice. Though I have radically departed from many of the teachings of my childhood, the part about fighting for others was something I learned at day one, and that bit has stuck around. For the most part, I grew up in an environment where everyone was on the same page about it. 

And theeeeeeen I went to undergrad. Hello, Texas A&M. I hit campus as an 18 year old fully incapacitated by anxiety. I was the kind of person who didn’t-- in fact couldn’t-- speak in front of others. I had always lived my life in a way that minimized myself, because if I never spoke, if I never disagreed, if I never drew attention, I would never make anyone angry. I knew from experience that angry people hurt me, and I was afraid of pain. 

Then I experienced the absolute shenaniganry of conservative Texans. The culture shock sent me to space and back, and on the return trip I decided that I couldn’t be quiet anymore. 

I learned to speak my freshman year so that I could scream FUCK YOU. It was incredibly painful, and I can’t tell you exactly how I managed it other than I was angry, and I didn’t want to lose. 

I fought a similar battle on my homefront against parents that didn’t know how to deal with a daughter that disagreed, or even worse, a daughter that wasn’t okay. I wasn’t a perfect child anymore. I knew I had anxiety, I knew I was depressed, and we all knew who I blamed for that. They hadn’t been the perfect parents they thought they were. 

I found myself growing, little by little, into a person that could write and argue and hold her ground. That’s personal growth for sure, but it didn’t necessarily help my mental health. As a matter of fact, my health declined all through undergrad, and in my third and final year, I cracked.

I was desperate. I was isolated. I was flooded by fear and despair, and I was falling apart. I don’t remember huge chunks of undergrad because I was so depressed that the memories didn’t stick, but I do remember my tipping point.

It was something small. The ceiling fan in my bedroom was broken. The lighting chain worked fine, but if anyone pulled the fan chain, the whole thing would stop working. I mixed up which chain was which, pulled the wrong cord, and broke it for the fourth time. 

For some reason, that was it. I lay down on my floor and cried for an hour, and while I did, my mind went to, as the kids say, a dark place. Finally, I called my mom and begged for psychiatric medication, something I had always been afraid to ask for. At the time, my parents believed that antidepressants were overprescribed, and they mocked parents that let their children take them. 

At around the same time, I was deciding what to do with my life. I was about to graduate, and I had always wanted to be a kindergarten teacher. Instead, everyone in my life pushed me towards law school. I didn’t know what to do, but I began fantasizing, not about going to law school exactly, but about being the kind of person that could go to law school. 

I knew that law school would be entail public speaking and constant conflict and the kind of work that would be hard for a person who sometimes couldn’t leave her bed. I wanted to be someone who could do all of that, but I didn’t believe I was.

Enter Donald Trump. Post-November 2016, I struggled to understand how something like that could happen, and I watched everyone else deal with it too. I began confused, moved to distraught, then returned to what I always am: angry.

January 2017 was the inauguration and shortly afterwards, the “Muslim ban.” I read the news on my bedroom floor, and there was one specific part that stuck out to me. There were pictures of lawyers flooding the airports. There was a court case headed for SCOTUS.

I suddenly realized that one group-- one very select group-- was doing what I was powerless to accomplish. I hated establishments, and there was one group that could challenge and change them. Some people could fight in the way I wanted to, and those people were lawyers.

I have a very distinct memory of looking into the bathroom mirror of my third-year apartment and thinking, “I will be miserable for the rest of my life, no matter what I do or what career I pick. I might as well be a miserable lawyer.”

So I took my antidepressants and I went to law school. I’m not going to rehash everything that happened there in this particular post, because in this topic, I don’t think it matters. The relevant part is that I went, and I had my reason why.

Sure as hell can tell you that law school wasn’t good for my health. The last three years have been, in terms of sheer stress and despair, the worst of my life. I picked up a self-harm habit, endured consistent humiliation, cycled through six different antidepressants, had horrible relationships, and developed a psychotic disorder. Don’t get me wrong, there were good things too. I met people that are important me, and beyond that, I grew. 

I know that 18 year old me would be absolutely flabbergasted by the woman I am now, cracks and flaws included. I wouldn’t say I’m healthy or okay, but I am more healthy and more okay. I’m coming out of this mess with the institutional power I wanted, and now I get to decide what to do with it. 

I was wrong three years ago when I looked in that bathroom mirror. I know now that I won’t be miserable for the rest of my life. I’m going to be happy someday, and to the parts of me that say otherwise: fuck you. I’ve learned to say it now. 

I graduated law school this week, and this month, I’ve felt better than I ever have before. I’m singing again, I dropped two medications, and suddenly, everything is so, so funny. I’ve been laughing so hard my face hurts the day after. 

This is a huge turning point in my life, so I’ve been meditating on my past. I’ve come to the conclusion that in most of the ways that matter, I won. My family has been forced to accept what I am. I became the person I wanted to be, even though I thought I wasn’t capable of that. 

I know for sure that there will be times in my life where I hit rock bottom again, and that’s not gonna be fun. It’s likely that with my mental health issues, I will always have to work harder than my peers to get the same results. That’s unfair. 

I also know that high points exist, and I will have them. I am having them, and I will again. 

I guess in recap, I know that I have deep flaws and ugly parts, but I am at peace with that. I know that I must help others, and in pursuit of that goal, I became a person I like more than the girl I used to be. 

You have exactly the same potential. I want you to know that whatever you are now, that’s not your forever. Circumstances change, and you will change too. We’re human, you and I, and that’s an exciting thing to be. 

Your worth comes from your humanity itself, both evil and good, not the things you do or the fights you win. You never have to compare yourself to others because you are exactly the same as everybody else-- no better, but certainly no worse. You’re a person. That’s enough. 

I’m telling you all those things, and as advice, I’ll say this: get angry and fight. Fight for others. You can help them, and you should. Fight for yourself. You are worthy of respect, and everyone else should give it to you. Fight yourself. Any part of you that preaches despair is wrong. 

Find the thing that makes you angry and use it. Things are fucked up! There’s a lot to be angry about. I put it this way to my classmates, now my attorney peers: you get one hill to die on. What’s your hill? Go and defend it. 

Here’s an interesting thing, anon. Your hill can be yourself. There’s nothing wrong with that. You’re right. Five years is a lot, and all the years beyond that are more. Take your antidepressants and go.

[bathunterofdevon]

Art/Animation/Video Update:

Good day everyone. 

You may or may not notice how quiet and inactive I've been lately - when I promised I would give regular updates about my renewed determination to practise art and learn to animate successfully. In the beginning, when I first started this new challenge, I was pumped up, and full of energy to start it. I made a promise that I would never give up no matter what, and always focus on getting better. And in the first 5-6 days, I did keep a level head and kept on going, with a clear goal at the end of it. But, over a relatively short time, -by day 5 I think- I became exhausted and couldn't carry on anymore. My own brain kept feeding and replaying bad memories over and over again, which left me feeling weak and spiritually broken. Eventually, I just burned out and collapsed. That was weeks ago now. Something I didn't expect to see again has returned suddenly, and with a vengeance. 

The past two weeks have been nothing short of hell for me. Realistically speaking, there is nothing wrong with me. I didn't have a rough or traumatic childhood. I haven't lost anyone close to me. I didn't break up with a long term girlfriend (never even had one to begin with). And yet, for some reasons which I feel are too complicated and awkward for me to discuss here, I've been feeling overwhelmingly cynical and bleak, like there is absolutely no point to me being alive. I feel like I have no future. And my brain is stuck in the past and I can't pull it out of there. 

 I remember feeling like this back when I was in Canada, and 3 years before that. It is strange. I don't think I have any legitimate reason to be depressed. There are so many people around the world who have really suffered terrible losses and come from real, hard and trying life circumstances. I know people who were sexually abused when they were children. I know someone who suffers from Schizophrenia, and regularly experiences headaches after being involved in an incident that gave them serious injuries in their childhood. I don't have either of those. I'm living with my family again - my Mum and Dad, and my family all love me and think the world of me. I recently started a new joj as a host and food busser for this new fancy restaurant in the town near where I live. And when people ask me what I'm feeling, I always tell them I'm fine. So everything should be okay. I'm doing all the things I ought to. I'm not old. I'm not ill. But for some reason, I'm just so sick and tired. Of virtually everything. 

I'm beginning to feel increasingly distant from my own life situation, like I'm on some kind of autopilot. Everything feels almost illusory and surreal. In a way, I wish I had some kind of real illness, like Coronavirus, or Cancer, with visible, manifest symptoms that everyone would notice. At least then there would be some kind of treatment for it. The past few days, my bedroom has slowly turned into a prison. I've become so lethargic, I haven't had breakfast in weeks. I've spent virtually entire days in my bed, and my dressing gown. I haven't even had the energy to take my dog for a walk. He is always sitting outside my bedroom door wagging his tail waiting for me to take care of him. I haven't spoken with my old school friends, or my extended family in ages, and I fear I'll never have the courage to break the mould and talk to them. And my bedroom is increasingly full of useless things that used to amuse me many years ago, but are now collecting dust. My piano is basically an ornament now - I haven't touched it in a very long time. My guitar's strings have long rusted and I haven't changed them in 7 years. I retrieved an old TV from the attic and hooked it to this laptop so I could use it as a second monitor to help with studying references while attempting digital art. But I've never even switched it on in months. My studio mic and audio interface - I suspect one or maybe both of them may be broken, but I can't even be bothered to investigate which - it just doesn't matter anymore. There are old songs from years ago that are half-finished that I wanted to finish and put on Soundcloud/maybe even Youtube, but music doesn't bring me enough joy anymore. Nothing does. 

You know–it's funny. My Gundham Tanaka video I released a year ago is becoming far more popular than I ever anticipated it would. I keep receiving new messages from newcomers telling me: 'My depression is cured' or 'this just made me feel so much better', etc etc. It's gratifying for me to hear people say things like that. But it's beginning to get a little tiring, all the same. It's a message that's just so out of tune with what I'm feeling.I just feel like a walking, rotting corpse. Even Kaede isn't making me feel happy anymore. Instead, I just feel lonely, and miss her. Speaking of which, a few weeks ago, I watched a video by Weebynewz about her execution, and I've discovered new information about it that I didn't notice before, which has made me feel a hundred times more uncomfortable. Now I feel quite sick, and even seeing the thumbnail for her execution video is enough to ruin my mood and break any focus and concentration I once had. 

I am lucky that I have online freerfs who I converse with regularly and who are always asking me if I'm okay. I'm grateful that they are there to make my daily experience marginally less shit. But these days, I rarely ever talk to them. I only respond now. I haven't got the energy to make small talk, or follow up on new developments or catch up with new memes. I know they're always looking out for me, but they are never going to get me out of this. The best they can do is stand well away from the event horizon and wait for me to force myself out of it.  

Fortunately though, for those of you who are worried about me, it's not completely bad. I have started taking medication again. You see, for a long time, I mistakenly believed you weren't supposed to take antidepressants while driving/learning to drive because they make you experience tiredness as a side-effect. Recently though, I learned that that's not technically true. You can take meds while you are driving, but the idea is that you are not supposed to drive if you feel tired, or your senses are impaired. In addition, I am looking to see if I can visit a counsellor and start having sessions. I'm kind of desperate for good news and a hope of recovery at the moment, but I guess it's still better than nothing. 

No matter what happens, I know this isn't really me. It's certainly a large part of me, but it's not all there is to my character. And frankly, I'm sick and tired of this, and I want it to stop. I want to keep entertaining all of you with silly videos. And maybe one day, I'd like to do a Q+A video/face+voice reveal, unprivate my old videos I made a decade ago, and introduce all of you to my real self. Then when that happens, I can finally move on, transcend my love of the Danganronpa franchise, and try something new. I'm not sure what that would entail. But it might be something that incorporates my love of music, anime, visual novels, and possibly writing/voice acting. 

Until that day finally comes, I'm going to remain stuck in this rut for who-knows-how-long. I won't know when the day will come, but I like to think I'll be fully aware when it has, since I'll feel totally different and refreshed. The only way I can come to terms with this long, dreary spell of melancholy is if it exists to serve some kind of purpose. And if this experience is to mean anything, then ultimately, my purpose is finally one day break free from it and discover a secret 'purpose' or 'why', or perhaps unlock a hidden potential I never knew I had all along. When that happens, then I can make my return and move on. Then my story could pick up from where I last left it. Or perhaps I can rewrite it altogether. 

I wish you all very well and sincerely hope NOBODY else in the world feels like this, 

 - Bat

[thatcnamomnwife]

Well, hello!

I really just wanted to check out this app because I don’t know anyone really who blogs here... maybe I could meet new people make friends I can chat with. I don’t work anymore and I have very little company. My ex husbands wife has come to visit and let our youngest boys play together and my family has come in and out to help keep things up in the house. I broke my leg in a car accident in October. I still can’t walk.

I laugh about it now because my two other siblings here have both been in worse car accidents and walked away with scratches. My brother was knocked unconsious and woke up and walked 2 miles home. I hit a tree to avoid hitting the back end of a truck that was stopped in a work zone and when I hit the break popped back and broke my ankle tib and fib... I knew I had broken it but was not aware of how bad it was. My EMT was wonderful in keeping me calm. I heard comments when I got to the hospital about it being really bad but I didn’t want to see the damage. They knocked me out and put me into surgery. I woke up with a fixater on my leg. The next night after I asked for pain meds 3 or 4 times in a row because the Dilaudid didn’t work, my assigned surgeon came in and examined my leg. I had compartment syndrome and needed a fasciotomy asap. so the next time I woke up I still had the fix and then my leg was completely wrapped. Every time I tried to do physical therapy I would. Bleed everywhere. I found out I had two huge gaping cuts in the side of my leg and 2 equally gaping cuts in the top of my foot. In the hospital I tried my best to keep up hope that this would all be over soon. My friends at work (I’m a CNA) got ahold of me and cheered me on the get better and come back to work soon. But here I am. It’s February and I’m still wheelchair bound and not walking. The way my surgeon fixed my leg set it to where my toes almost faced the ground and my ankle is now fixed as if its ready for a stiletto. I have worked hard to get to rotate my ankle and lift my toes a little bit and as my physical therapy has me working on the they are working on lifting this deep scar on top of my foot.

It sucks to have to depend on everyone else to get help. I can do some things on my own. But I can’t cook my own food by myself. I can do dishes actually but it’s really hard. I can move from place to place with my walker. But since I’m on one leg it’s hard and I wear out fast. I can’t go anywhere unless someone takes me. Sitting in a car is hell because I lose circulation in my leg easily. If I get annoyed with my husband or my kids get on my nerves I can’t just go outside.

I spent the first month crying. Every day. I’m not kidding. I cried even harder Every appointment because my surgeon is a straight forward kinda guy. My home health nurse came in and saw that I was cracking and she suggested I act for a low dose antidepressant and I just gave and said yea. I’m tired of crying. Well it’s worked so far. I still get mad and throw fits and cry but I think that’s just me being human and besides that anyone in the medical profession is bound be make a horrible patient.

I am a lot better now. In fact despite the fact that my leg still doesn’t work, I’m in ok spirits. I miss my job, my residents, and most of my coworkers. I worked through what I feel is the worst part of COVID in my area and I worked while I had it. I was so proud of my self for not giving up in that mess. I miss the hard work. I wanna go back but I know I will never get to run around like I did before. It just sucks.

But in the midst of this whole crap show my husband and I got married in December! It was a beautiful low cost home wedding and my family couldn’t come because they were quarantined but we had our other loved ones there. I won’t lie I looked amazing in my wedding dress and my hair and makeup was gorgeous. Nothing has changed since we got married. We are still bickering at each other but at the end of the day I love him and he loves me. We have been through it all in these 6 years and I wouldn’t have him any other way. He’s lazy. He frustrates me but he is a good man and a good dad to our son. My daughters love him. My oldest calls him dad. And he has pretty much jumped trough hoops for them since he met them. We are all a happy family and I love my life. I just don’t like where I’m at in my life.

I have 3 kids. My oldest is 14 and she’s a type 1 diabetic. Shes a hormonal teen with diabetes. We have blood sugar issues every day. Hormones raging. She recently got grounded for not doing her chores and lying about her blood checks and she lost it over not being on the phone for a few days. But damn she is smart. She wants to be a mortician when she graduates college. She passes state testing like it’s nothing. And she’s a complete music lover. She was the 18th chair in junior all region choir last year. She was the youngest in her group to get in. So I brag on her a lot. My middle child is a lot of energy and she frustrates me. She’s 10 and she’s been stuck in this stage where she acts like she doesn’t have common sense. We’ve taught her how to use the washer and dryer several times and this kid still says she don’t know how to use it. She’s the one who argues even if she knows she’s wrong she will still try to make you think she’s right. She will agree to something one minute and then get mad about it later. She will not brush her hair and she does this on purpose because she claims is a part of her personality. She also recently told me she’s bisexual. She’s a good kid though. Teachers and kids at school love her she don’t get in trouble ever. And she’s also a smart kid! She excelled in school to the highest. I’m very proud of my girls.

My son is 4 and he is a big ball of adhd. He bounces off walls and he’s very violent. We have been trying to get him evaluated so we can get him on proper meds before kindergarten but It hasn’t happened yet. But he’s also a sweet kid. He is very smart too. He knows all of his colors and can count to 10. He knows his name. But he tells you he’s 400 years old instead of 4 lol.

My mom and sister are both life savers to me. They have taken care of me through this. When I need them they are there. My brother prefers to live his own life and visit at moms with me from time to time. But I love him. I miss him.

My dad left my mom when I was 13. He caught up with my half sister. Fell in love with his ex wife and moved away. I have seen him 4 times since he left and the last time I saw him was when I was 19 and pregnant with my oldest child. He’s never met my kids in person and he’s only spoken to my oldest on the phone once. 2 years ago he disappeared after planning to come stay on my moms property to get back on his feet and get proper medical treatment. He asked our side of the family for money (like $1000) and none of us had that. So he tried to make us feel bad and then never contacted us again. I’ve heard fromy step sisters that he’s been spotted here and there but we honestly Don’t know where he is, what he’s doing and if he’s even alive. I hate to say it but it doesn’t bother me anymore. I used to break down thinking about him dying and not knowing. Now I feel different. He’s been gone most of my life now.

I also have this best friend who is more than my best friend. She’s my soul. This girl has helped me through some of the worst parts of my life. She and I don’t get to see each other very often but we are always family to each other. She and I talk almost daily. I just love her.

That’s my family though. It’s a hot mess but it’s mine and I love it. At the end of every day I am blessed because I’m loved and cared for.

[ladyofpurple]

here it is: the post Literally no one was waiting for. i'd put it under a read more thing but i'm on mobile and can't be assed to get out of bed so fuck it. we air our dirty laundry on main for the world to see like men.

so waaay back in february or something, i started seeing a psychologist again. i'd been seeing a psychologist for a while last year, but she had a private practice and got too expensive over time, so i had to stop. now, however, i finally got a referral to the public mental health offices in my county. which is nice, because norway has this neat thing that means when you go to the doctor, public health care facilities, refill prescriptions for medications you have to take daily, etc, the money you spend on those things gets recorded and after you've spent like $260, you get a free card that gets logged into your medical records and you don't have to pay for any of those things for the rest of the year.

anyway, i mentioned a couple of years back that i finally got put on antidepressants for the first time. they helped a lot, but then i just... stopped taking them. there wasn't a reason, really. i just forgot to take them one week when i was stuck in bed with a headcold, and then it was hard to get back in the habit again. i tried to get back on them off and on for a long time, but i'd inevitably just forget again. until, like, i wanna say november/early december last year? i started taking them again. there were still some slip-ups every now and then, but for the most part i took them almost every day. any gaps were no longer than two, maybe three days at the most, and those gaps were maybe once a month or so on average. averages aren't really useful in this context, but i hope you get the idea.

anyway, i finally convinced my doctor that, no, seriously, i really need to see a psychologist, i've always needed to see psychologists my whole life, seeing psychologists help me, i can't afford a private psychologist so i need a public one, and after a lot of begging and insisting on my end and a lot of hemming and hawing on her end she finally agreed to refer me. except she forgot to actually send the email she'd been typing in front of me, and then she quit, so there was a lot of confusion and time spent sorting things out until i got my first appointment.

i didn't like my psychologist at first. she was way older than i'm usually comfortable with (that's a personal me-problem that i know is irrational, and i'm not gonna go into the why but yes i'm working on it), and very blunt in an exasperated sort of way. she made me angry sometimes. she made me feel like i wasn't trying hard enough. but she helped me get shit done, so i guess she was doing something right.

in june she called in a psychiatrist to help adjust my medications, so i started taking zoloft in addition to the other medication (remeron, aka mirtazapine) that i was already taking. the mirtazapine was helping with my depression, but my anxiety was still pretty bad. the zoloft helped.

by my second appointment with my psychologist, she asked me whether i could have adhd, or if there was a history of it in my family. now, i have a lot of family with adhd (how closely related we are by blood is a bit of a mystery to me, my family tree is more like an overgrown hedge and who knows who fits where), and my grandma used to joke that the women in our family "all have a little bit of that adhd brain in us", but as far as i knew, nobody in my immediate, direct bloodline had such a diagnosis. i had my suspicions about myself, of course — i knew that not every focus or attention related problem necessarily has a specific attention disorder source, but i also knew that what i was experiencing couldn't be "normal," in the sense that if i walked into a room with 100 people in it, 86 of those people wouldn't necessarily look at a list of my symptoms and go "oh same hat." i've had add on my about me for a while now. maybe that was silly of me; i hadn't been diagnosed with it, and what i knew about the specifics of it were picked up piecemeal off the internet. you know, that super-reliable place where everyone is honest and factual all the time?

anyway, this began the process of investigating the merits of such a potential diagnosis. research was begun. questionnaires were taken. my mom was invited to one of my sessions, in which she revealed that, oh yeah, bee tee dubs, she's always suspected i have adhd. did she mention that she has also apparently always suspected ocd and that i'm autistic? no? whoops, well, she has now.

end of june i was referred to the neuropsychologist devision of the public health care place. over the course of a little over 6 weeks i went in for 2 interviews, in which i answered several questionnaires, talked about my life and childhood and traumas and what my mom had told me about her pregnancy and labor, every possible symptom i'd ever had, and was sent home with even *more* questionnaries. in addition to these, i went in for two rounds of "testing," in which i was tested on my memory, pattern recognition, reaction time, impulse control, and probably a dozen other things. i was nervous. it was exhausting. i wanted answers but was terrified of what those answers would be.

end of august, my mom came with me for the big reveal. and guess what? she was right. primary diagnosis: adhd, special emphasis on the attention deficit part. bonus diagnosis: asperger syndrome. surprise! i'm autistic, i guess.

it was hard to come to terms with. which sounds really silly, since i wouldn't have even been taking those tests if i didn't think the outcome was a possibility. and it's not like the diagnoses were surprising either. the adhd part was easier to accept, mostly because i already felt pretty confident i had it. but the asperger diagnosis was harder. having to unlearn all those ingrained ableist stereotypes and social stigmas is hard, especially when you had some you didn't even realize were there. it's very surreal to think a thought and be like "no, wait, i do that. that joke is about me." it's a very surreal and slightly upsetting experience to realize how biased you are as general rule, but especially about a facet of your own identity you weren't aware of. and the feeling of everything and nothing changing all at once. i've always been like this. a doctor telling me i have two cognitive/developmental disabilities isn't an event that magically gave me these disabilities. my brain has always worked like this. the only difference between me now and me a year ago is that i have an official, medical reason for Why now.

that's another thing: coming to terms with the idea of being "developmentally disabled." it's not like i'm suddenly a different person — i have to constantly remind myself that my brain has always been like this. but having a piece of paper confirming that i am legally entitled to special allowances in the workplace or at school because i have not one, but two "disabilities" is absolutely buckwild to me.

it makes me reevaluate my life and my past. how many situations did i make worse because i did not have the capacity or knowledge about how my own brain works to self-reflect? was i high-functioning in the past because life was simpler? was it because i subconsciously had a better handle on what works for me and what doesn't, and somewhere along the way i lost that? or was it simply because i didn't have the option to be anything other than high-functioning? it's confusing.

i also lost my spot at college. i can still reapply next year if i want, but at least now i know why i was failing out lmao

anyway, by my birthday in september we started the process of adjusting my medication again. upping my zoloft, getting me off remeron, and as of 6 weeks ago or so, beginning ritalin.

it was a rocky start, but i'm up to 60mg now. two pills in the morning, one in the afternoon. i have a goddamn alarm for 8am every day, even weekends. my sleeping is still wonky, but at least im genuinely tired by 8pm every night. the psychiatrist still wants me to try melatonin for a month (even though i told her multiple times it has never worked for me, and my problem has never been "i'm not sleepy enough"), so i'm on a whopping 2mg of melatonin for the next 30 days. norwegians are fucking WEIRD about melatonin, don't even get me started.

a slightly unexpected side-effect (on my end) of these medication changes: remeron made me gain weight. like, a lot of weight. and i was constantly hungry all the time, overeating to ridiculous amounts. why did nobody ever tell me that weight gain and metabolism changes are a side-effect of anti-depressants? i was more active this summer than i'd been in, like, three years and i just got fatter. which was incomvenient because i kept outgrowing my clothes. anyway, a side effect of ritalin is a loss of appetite and general weight loss. the combination of regularly taking ritalin and dropping remeron entirely? i eat a fraction of what i used to before, i've almost entirely stopped snacking, and i've lost 15 lbs in less than a month. i've already noticed my face is slightly slimmer now. maybe by christmas i'll be able to fit into my old tshirts again.

anyway, my psychologist quit, so i have a new one now. i've only seen her a few times, but she's veeeery different from my old one. i can't decide if i like her or not.

in the middle of all this, i've been going to the social security office as well to kind of get some of my own money, possibly help me get a job at some point in the future. my caseworker is super nice. if she's over 30 i'd be shocked. i relate to her really well, she's very helpful and understanding, and she's very patient with me and my bullshit. she's the kind of person where if we met at a party or something we could probably hang out.

anyway, she's helped me get out of the house sometimes. she introduced me to this youth club volunteer group thing called the fountain house, designed for young people who've dealt with or are currently dealing with mental illnesses and such. i hung out there yesterday and the day before and did some basic office work. it's nice. and then there's a work placement place that can either give you a job on site in one of their four departments, or help you get a job at an actual business elsewhere with more support and leniency than you might get if they just hired you off the street. i'd start in their second hand store. they clean and restore all donations they recieve, and they're super fucking cheap. i treated myself to my literal lifelong dream of owning a vintage typewriter (!!!!!) yesterday, because it's almost christmas and goddammit, i've been doing so much shit the past couple of months i deserve it. do i have space for it? not really. do i have a plan on what to use it for? no. was it heavy and miserable trekking through the snow and rain yesterday back and forth? was it worth the backache in the morning? fuck yeah it was.

a fucking lot of things are happening all at once. diagnoses, medications, lifestyle changes, work placement, social clubs, dealing with bureaucracies on all sides just so i can feel like a person again, not to mention juggling hobbies like writing and drawing and maintaining my irl friendships. i'm getting as many balls rolling as i can while i have the opportunity and mental/emotional capacity to, but i'm worried i'll burn out again. i'm stabilizing and slowly building my life back up, but jesus christ it would suck if this stupid house of cards collapsed again. but i'm tentatively optimistic. who knows, maybe it's not to late to course-correct my mistakes.

so long story short, that's why i've barely been active on tumblr for months. that's why i haven't been writing, drawing, or reading fic. it's coming along, but it's slow.

i guess the most important thing is that it's coming along at all.

[kat-feinated]

Living with anxiety

It took hitting my personal mental health rock bottom to realize that I needed help. I’ve always been an anxious person with perfectionist tendencies-I remember being five years old and my mom teasing me for being such a “worry wart”. In high school, I studied 24/7 and missed out on social opportunities because I was obsessed with getting good grades and getting into college. I was able to chill out a little in college and grad school, which were honestly less academically rigorous than my high school experience. Both college and grad school also had a ton of built-in structure, and I thrive on structure. It wasn’t until I finished school once and for all that I experienced my first panic attack and had to change a lot of things about myself and the way I was caring for my mental health.

Besides being outside of the safety net of academia for the first time, I also received news about a week after graduation that the job I had been offered (as a therapist for a private practice) was no longer being offered, not due to anything I had done but because the owner had decided to close down his practice after decades of serving the Denver Metro area. I had spent months and months writing cover letters, tweaking my resume, and interviewing for jobs in Colorado-I even had flown out from Iowa for this job interview. Suddenly, I had to start over from scratch. It was June at this point, and I was supposed to move to Denver at the end of the summer.

I was also devastated because at the time this job had seemed so perfect for me. I had just completed a year-long internship at the University of Iowa Children’s Hospital doing therapy and medical social work for children with developmental/intellectual disabilities and their families. This new job would be working as a therapist for children with these same disabilities. It seemed like the perfect fit.

I moved home to California for the summer. Even though Joshua had a job in Denver already and offered numerous times to support both of us until I could find a job in my field, I felt uncomfortable about that. I had never relied on anyone financially except for my parents, and we had never even lived together despite having dated the past 3 years.

So I moved home to my mom’s place and started over with the grueling process of applying for jobs. It’s so true what they say-finding your first job out of school is the hardest. And, because of my perfectionist tendencies I was determined that my job needed to be a “good fit” for me. In retrospect I know that there’s no such thing as a perfect job, but at the time I didn’t want to “settle” for anything.

So there were just a lot of unknowns at the time. I didn’t have a job. We didn’t have a place to live in Denver. Joshua was still in Iowa, spending all his waking hours studying for the bar exam, so he could not see how much I was struggling. I had never been out of school supporting myself financially before. Instead of feeling free and seeing life as full of endless opportunities, I felt like I was drowning.

One morning, I interviewed for a job in Boulder over skype. The interview went just fine. But that evening, as I was researching commute times from Denver to Boulder, I suddenly felt like I was having a heart attack. I thought I was dying. I couldn’t breathe, my chest felt tight and I could not stop crying. I remember my mom walking in and seeing that I was crying and asking what was wrong, and I told her that I was going crazy and was scared.

My mom was well aware that I was grappling with anxiety about the future, but didn’t realize how bad it had gotten until I had my first panic attack. Fortunately (or maybe unfortunately?) she had experienced panic attacks in the past following a traumatic car accident as well as caring for my sick and dying grandfather, so she recognized it immediately in me. She called my step-dad (a physician) who wrote me a prescription for Prozac (which is an antidepressant that can be used to treat anxiety).

I remember the first couple days of being on prozac I felt like a zombie or like I was in a perpetual fog. But within a few days or maybe weeks I felt normal. Not just normal-I felt like the best version of myself. It was like my entire life I had been white-knuckling everything-sweating and worrying about every little thing-and suddenly those things just didn’t matter anymore. I was still the same person-still a hard worker with the same goals. And don’t get me wrong, I still stress out about stuff, but I no longer feel like every little thing is a life-or-death situation. 

I’ve been on Prozac for almost 3 years now and I can honestly say it is one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. I feel like I’m the best version of myself when I’m on it. I tried once to cut my dose down about a year ago, despite my doctor insisting it would be fine for me to take it indefinitely, and I almost immediately started having insomnia (which I always had as a child) and stressing again. I quickly went back on my normal dose and have no plans to go off it anymore.

I think that because I am a mental health professional, I felt a lot of shame about going on Prozac at first. You’d think it would be the opposite-you’d think I would be more accepting and know that the stigmas about mental health and medications are stupid-but I felt like I was the one who was supposed to be mentally healthy. I was the one who was supposed to take care of people’s minds. I wasn’t supposed to be struggling with mental health myself.

My mom really helped me get over this. She told me, “One day you’ll work with someone who is going through the same thing, and you’ll have such a deeper level of empathy for them because of your experience”. And (as always) she was right. About a year ago, I met a brand new client at work. As we were going over her orientation together, she broke down in tears. Apologizing, she then explained that she felt like she couldn’t breathe, her mind was racing, and her chest was hurting. She said she was afraid she was going crazy.

“It sounds like you’re having a panic attack”, I told her. I remembered how paralyzed I had felt the first time I had one, and how I had needed my mom to take over and help. “I’m going to take you to a walk-in crisis center so you can talk to someone and get some help”.

Although Prozac has probably been the biggest game-changer for me, there are a number of other things that have helped me manage my anxiety-which I feel like is truly under control for the first time in my life. Exercise is huge-biking and walking, yoga, and weights are some of my favorites. Keeping a paper planner and creating (and checking off!) daily, weekly, monthly and yearly to-do lists makes me feel productive and in control. Writing helps-most of the stuff I write is just unintelligible blathering that never makes it on the blog! Spending time outside. Spending time with animals. Talking to family and friends. Cleaning. I’m not super into meditation, but I like to practice mindfulness in other ways-like sitting in complete silence for 10 minutes while drinking my morning coffee.

Just as we care for our physical health through eating our veggies, getting enough sleep and exercising, we MUST also take care of our minds. I’m not able to help the children and families I serve when I’m not in a good head space. If you are struggling with anxiety, depression, an eating disorder, whatever it is-do not feel ashamed. Do ask for help. Do take care of yourself. I’m sending you love and a virtual hug. It can and will get better. 

[jawnjendes]

tell me that i’m not crazy | shawn mendes

university au, shawn x goth gf

masterlist | series playlist

It's a psychological fact that you have multiple versions of yourself that you present at different times. You are not the same person in everyone's eyes.

Being self-aware and moderately narcissistic, I detected a few of those selves. Girlfriend Me: Still reserved, but letting loose. Affectionate and supportive. Less bitchy than normal. Adored by Shawn Mendes for some reason. Extended Family Me: Quiet and moody. She wants to be anywhere but here. Constantly pestered to bring someone home. Customer Service Me: Professional, but shy. Blunt and efficient. Always smiling even though she wants to die. Finally, Crazy Me: Nervous and insecure. Bursting at the seams. Wanting to talk but fears being ridiculed and rejected.

You could understand why I didn't want to tell Shawn about Luca being my coworker. He didn't ask if I still saw Luca at all, because I had told him I cut the bastard off… on a personal level. Professionally, I saw Luca 3 times a week. We work at the same car dealership. That's how we met.

It was less stressful having to see Luca at work now that I wasn't hung up on him. As long as he called me a bitch and ridiculed me constantly, I was okay. As long as I had Shawn to be kind to me, everything was fine.

It was easy for me to sit behind a desk at the window of a tiny office. I worked with three other people in this office: Stacy, the business manager who never stayed past 2 o'clock. Then there was Jason, the salesman who was always stoned. Finally, there was Luca, the other salesman who got up in everyone's business. He and Jason were very good friends outside of work, and they sat at their respective desks at the back of the office when they weren't out in the showroom entertaining customers. I was stationed at the front, being the receptionist. It was easy keeping my back to everyone else.

Being at a car dealership, I had quite a few boring responsibilities. They were all easy, and done quickly. so the only thing I had to worry about was answering the phone every so often. Most of the time, I was catching up on coursework and pretending not to listen to Jason and Luca banter.

“Imagine having a car in the twentieth century,” Jason sarcastically droned on.

“Couldn't be me,” Luca finished.

Yes, 90% of their conversations went like that. You could say my sense of humor warped a little because of them. I mean, I still find offensive jokes to be far from funny, and that was the other ten percent. I lose my one brain cell just by sitting in this office.

The phone rang just after Jason and Luca started talking about women in a vulgar manner. I quickly got annoyed by the amount of testosterone increasing in the room, so I was glad to have a distraction. I picked up the receiver and said the usual professional greeting in the cheeriest tone I could muster.

“So that's your happy voice, eh?”

Just like that, I unclenched and dropped the fake tone. “Hey, you.”

“No, no,” Shawn said, “go back to the other voice. I'm a loyal, paying customer here!”

I giggled. “Maybe later. What's up?”

“Wanted to see if you're hungry. I can pick you up on your lunch break.”

“Yes, please. I need to get out of here for a bit. I'll be ready in about an hour.”

“Perfect, I'll see you then.”

We hung up, and my cheeks were burning. I didn't realize I was beaming until I turned in my seat.

Luca and Jason had walked up next to me, clearly interested in what I had been doing. Luca had a shit eating grin on his face.

“Who was that?” he asked in the most ten-year-old sounding voice.

“Don't worry about it,” I snapped.

“Someone's got a boyfriend!”

“But bro,” Jason piped up, “she doesn't like anybody.”

I chuckled. “True. But my guy likes me, so…”

“Who is he?” Luca asked, sitting in the chair next to me. “Since when did you get a mans?”

I gave him a pointed look. “Why do you care?”

“You're just not the relationship type, y’know?” Jason answered.

“D’you loooove him?” Luca teased.

I scoffed. “Oh, now you wanna talk about my feelings? You never did before!”

Luca’s grin faltered. His face flushed.

“What does that mean?” Jason asked.

“Nothing. She's kidding.”

Oh yeah. No one ever knew about mine and Luca's office fling. It took me a while to realize it was because he was embarrassed of me. I know, what the hell was I thinking, getting involved with someone like that?

~

A typical Friday night for me consisted of skincare and watching whatever TV show I was intensely fixated on. Whether or not Shawn joined me, it was my personal recharging time. My life has gotten so mundanely stressful that I looked forward to sitting on my dorm room couch alone.

Tonight was different. Shawn was going to sing at a bar downtown, and I promised him I would go. I managed to string along my roommate, Stella, so I wouldn't be sitting at a table by myself. She was the one who brought me to Shawn's show long before he and I started dating. Stella now takes full responsibility for getting my introverted ass into a relationship.

Shawn had to get to the bar early to set up, so I showed up with Stella on my arm. We grabbed a table near the back window, away from where the band was setting up. As soon as we were sitting down, I texted Shawn to let him know I had arrived.

“So he's gotten you outta the dorm,” Stella commented, “yet you still manage to place yourself in the corner of the room.”

I shrugged. “As long as he knows I'm here.”

Stella hummed and then flagged down a waiter. She ordered a cocktail, and I stuck with water.

“Are you ever gonna let loose again?” she asked me once the waiter had gone.

“As long as I'm on antidepressants, I'm always loose,” I told her. I was very cautious about mixing alcohol with whatever pills I was putting into my body. I hadn't had a drink in months.

“Does your mans know you take antidepressants?”

“He will.” Maybe. Probably… not.

Shawn performed a few minutes later. He was insanely good at working the crowd. Then again, there were some enthusiastic fangirls standing directly in front of the stage that got everyone else into it. Can't say I blame ‘em.

I was what you call a “metal head” and also a “nerd.” I was also a “supportive goth gf,” meaning I always listened to Shawn's music when he wasn't around. I told him I lived for the slow, sad songs, especially Mercy. Secretly, I fully bopped to all of his fun, upbeat songs. Even more secretly, it brought me immense joy to see Shawn sing his heart out on stage. I was his biggest fan, though I would never tell him that. It would just go straight to his ego.

The song I loved hearing the most was Mercy. It was the first of Shawn's songs I had ever heard. It resonated with me deeply a few months ago, just after I had left Luca. I got very choked up hearing Shawn sing it in that little coffee shop. Later, when Stella introduced me, he said he had seen my face in the crowd. He knew it hit home.

We are very happy now, I swear.

I can say with confidence that the past is behind me. Now, Mercy is my favorite song because of Shawn, not the guy that came before him. I never realized how unhappy I was until I wasn't anymore. Therapy, medication, and new people made their contributions.

~

“You look so happy when you're up there,” I told Shawn once we were back at his place.

He had been beaming since we left the bar. A couple of drinks may have had something to do with that. “I am happy. I get so giddy every time I get to sing. I wish I could do it all the time.”

We sat on the couch, basking in the silence. Shawn slung his arm around me, euphoria still radiating off his whole body. I looked up at him, and I couldn't help but hug him around his middle. I felt a bit mushy.

“Proud'a you,” I told him.

Once I was in that position, Shawn took full advantage and lied us back across the couch. I was somewhat awkwardly on top of him, so I shifted my legs so I was practically straddling him. Then, I lied my head on his chest.

“Did you have fun? I saw you all the way in the back,” Shawn said.

“Yeah, I had fun. I love that you kept Mercy in the set.”

“I know it’s your favorite.”

There were things I wanted to know about that particular song when I first heard it. Of course, I didn’t want to seem nosy or interested when I first met Shawn. But now we were out in the open, and it was getting easier to do things like talk normally.

“Who hurt you so bad you had to write a song?” I asked as I sat up, still on top of him.

Shawn was smiling up at me, very aware of the position we were in. However, he still answered my question. “Actually… Mercy was about a friend of mine. He went through that.”

That was brand new information. No, seriously. I actually had to get off of Shawn’s lap to process this. “You write other people’s stories?”

He sat up and made space for me to sit next to him again. “Sometimes. This one in particular was about my friend having a complicated relationship with a girl he works with.”

I chuckled. “I know that feeling all too well.” Then, as a joke, “That guy wouldn’t happen to work at a car dealership, would he?”

“He does, actually.”

My entire body shifted away from Shawn. Okay, this was getting weird. I work at a car dealership. I had a complicated relationship with a coworker. Not to mention, Shawn was quite popular and knew people all over the area, and he was a regular at my dealership. My favorite song was slipping through my fingers.

Shawn didn’t seem too concerned. “It’s probably a coincidence, babe.”

“What’s his name, then?” I had told him quite a bit about my past relationship, apart from the guy’s name. I had so many questions.

“Luca…”

I stared at my boyfriend in utter shock, while he had a look of disbelief on his face.

“No. No way. I wrote Mercy over a year ago. Plus, he was high when he was telling me about-”

“He’s always high!” I snapped. “The only time he isn’t is when his pen runs out of whatever-the-fuck!”

I couldn’t believe it. My current boyfriend knows my ex… flame. My ex flame talked about me to my current boyfriend, before he was my boyfriend. The song that came out of it was my favorite song. If that wasn’t the most fucked up fanfic scenario ever-

Oh god. What if they had seen each other when Shawn picked me up from the dealership? What would have happened? What kind of shit would Luca had given me? What would Shawn have said to him?

“When exactly did this happen?” I asked, mildly frantic. “How long have you known him? How long have you known about me?”

“I didn’t know it was you,” Shawn said. “He always called you ‘the girl from work,’ and some other things that upset me now that you’re my girlfriend. I met Luca in one of my classes last year. Sometimes we smoked together, but I never considered him an actual friend.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “If I had known you then, and if I knew what was really going on, I wouldn’t have…”

Here I thought Luca was far too embarrassed of me to even act like I exist. I had been under the impression that he never thought of me when we weren’t in the backseat of my car. I thought all of his friends were just as bad as he was… but he knows Shawn well enough to confide in him? Or rather, Luca told Shawn I gave him such a hard time that he had to beg for mercy?

“I know you spent a lot of time being pissed at him,” Shawn told me after a while, “but he really did have feelings for you.”

I let the words sink in for a minute. “That… That is the fattest fucking load of bullshit I’ve ever heard.”

“Well, I never thought of Luca as that type of guy. He’s pretty reserved, but-”

“Still a grade A asshole. He was way different when it was me and him. Sometimes he was nice to me. Most times, he acted like I didn’t exist, and if he did, he called me a bitch or a whore or he made some rude comment about anything I was doing. He thought I was insane for trying to call him my boyfriend, but he would beg to get into my pants every few weeks. I was too emotional, too cringey, too goth, not sexy enough. I was never enough for him, so don’t tell me he ever had feelings because that’s not what I saw.”

Shawn had a sad look in his eyes. He nodded lightly.

“And worst of all, he ruined my favorite song by my favorite person.”

“I’ll write you a new one. A better one. You’ll never have to hear Mercy again.”

[tinybugnotes]

It’s May, which means it’s mental health awareness month! So - under the cut, I’m going to open up and talk about my history with mental health problems. If you want to reblog, you’re welcome to - Let’s stop the stigma and start conversations!! Trigger warnings may apply for mentions;;;

So, hello! I’m Nísa, or Bug. On May 15th, I turn twenty. I never ever thought I’d get this far, to be honest!

When I was 11, I started hurting myself, and I was diagnosed with depression and generalised anxiety disorder. I was placed into art and creative counselling, and even though I’m an artist, I never found them helpful. 

My anxiety doesn’t manifest in a ‘social anxiety’ way. In fact, I love public speaking, I love modelling and being on the catwalk, and I talk to strangers on the street. And that can make it hard for people to understand, because there’s this idea of what anxiety is. 

My anxiety is, a few examples:

My anxiety is teeth grinding in my sleep, or of constantly worrying about my health. It’s worrying that if I go to my doctor again that they’ll think I’m a hypochondriac. 

It’s ordering a taxi, and even though there was a change of plans where I could get a ride for free, spending the money on the taxi so I don’t have to call them back and cancel. 

It’s thinking about my past experiences every day and wondering if that worksheet my math teacher gave the class four years ago about ‘how to wash your hair’ while we learned probability was his way of telling me my hair was greasy.

It’s crossing the road when I don’t need to because I don’t want that person walking the opposite way to hear my breathing incase I’m breathing too loudly or heavily.

It’s some days refusing to leave the house because I feel ugly and don’t want to be seen by people. 

Alot of this stuff is stuff people don’t see, and it can make people feel confused, because... It’s not what they picture when they think of anxiety. Anxiety doesn’t always manifest in the ways you expect it.

Around age 13, I got into a very... Intense relationship, that I now know wasn’t healthy. Between myself, and someone twice my age. Their best friend was extremely toxic with me, and it was hard. The best friend, and my girlfriend, gave me a really hard time, but I was young and didn’t know how badly it was affecting me. I know, now, that these relationships weren’t healthy. And why I’ve forgiven the people involved, and apologised for my own mistakes - It was still a hard chapter in my life with a severe impact that still lingers.

I was eventually moved up to actual therapy, because counselling wasn’t working and my hurting myself was getting worse and worse. Therapy was hard. I thought I may have been suffering from BPD, but in the end it was simply hormones, medication, and my depression. However, even without the diagnosis of BPD, I was experiencing symptoms similar to it - and let me tell you, that was hard. It was a really awful time of my life.

They put me on mood stabilisers, anti-depressants, and anxiety meds. The anxiety meds were soon stopped because they caused me ‘seizure like activity’ - which I still deal with, so I know it wasn’t the meds that caused it, but rather the meds made it happen more. I stayed on my mood stabilisers but gradually weaned off them, and I’m still on my antidepressants - just a different type now!

I did try to take things further, twice. Nothing severe - each time was a misinformed attempt with not enough behind it. Thankfully!!

I was addicted to hurting myself for years - and addiction on top of, and mixed in with, mental health problems is hard. I’ve never felt more afraid and alone.

When I was diagnosed with cancer, it was... Bad enough that they thought I might not make it. And somehow, even though I went in there not wanting to be alive... That changed everything. I wanted to make my parents smile, not cry. It changed my whole outlook. I stopped hurting myself, although that was because while on chemotherapy, open wounds are extremely dangerous - and I stayed in touch with my therapist over the phone. I was almost 18 when she asked me if I felt like I needed to be transferred to the ‘adults’ therapy (what happens when you turn 18, here) and I was able to say, “No, I think I’m okay.”

I went through cancer-specific counselling, but I was very quickly discharged. And today - I’m almost four years clean of hurting myself, and although I’m still dealing with my mental health issues I have never felt more hopeful. I can’t come off my antidepressant medication, and some days I struggle. But I can tell you, for sure - it gets better. I used to think ‘everyone says that, but it never happens.’ - but now I know, for a fact, it does happen. It takes time, and it’s a matter of baby steps rather than one big leap. But things do get better.

In the summer, I wear shorts, even though my legs are scarred. I talk openly about it all, because I want to remove the stigma and help people understand. Not everyone feels comfortable being so open, and that’s completely okay. I want to be open so the people who prefer privacy still get that same sense of understanding.

I never thought I’d make it to age fifteen, but here I am - I turn twenty in 11 days (may 15th, 2019!) ❤

[pmddnutter]

Running a business with PMDD

I suffer from a condition called Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder or PMDD for short, its sometimes referred to as severe PMS although it is certainly way worse than PMS.  It has only recently (May 2019) been recognised by the World Health Organisation (WHO) as a unique condition meaning that PMDD will be considered a separate condition to severe PMS, should see more funding and research and allow doctors across the world to standardise their terms.  Hopefully leading to more diagnoses and better treatment and understanding.

The WHO defines PMDD as:

“a pattern of mood symptoms (depressed mood, irritability), somatic symptoms (lethargy, joint pain, overeating), or cognitive symptoms (concentration difficulties, forgetfulness) that begin several days before the onset of menses, start to improve within a few days after the onset of menses, and then become minimal or absent within approximately 1 week following the onset of menses.”[i]

PMDD is debilitating, it has caused women to commit suicide.  There are no specific treatments for it; for some women hormonal contraception works well, for other antidepressants, and for a handful of women only a full hysterectomy has helped.  Whatever the treatments, PMDD is different for different women – it affects us all differently.

PMDD and Me

For me PMDD is that girl in high school that was a bit two faced, smiles to your face when she needs you but when your back is turned pulled that ‘urgh’ face and rolls her eyes to her ‘real’ mates – you know the one I mean.

She is never the same though, some months she can be quite mild and meek, maybe a bit of insomnia and overeating, sometimes a bit grumpy or irritable – kinda friendly but you know that there is a storm brewing.  Other months she is in full on Bitch Mode!  She makes me believe my husband is having an affair, she makes me eat ALL DAY, she tells me I’m no good, she makes me want to get in my car and drive as far away as possible.

And when you have this whilst running your own one-man band business it’s really bloody hard!  As a small business owner hand making you own products you already question yourself pretty much daily; is my stuff any good, why do people buy it, why aren’t people buying it, shall I just jack it in and go back to ‘real’ work full time?  So, add PMDD into the mix and I feel like I’m on a rollercoaster and I bloody hate rollercoasters!

With PMDD I get these amazing times of euphoria, exciting manic times where my creativity and enthusiasm are in overdrive and OMG these times are awesome.  I come up with some of my best work during this time, my marketing strategies all just seem to work, I love being around people and go out and network loads.

But then I have to crash, and I kinda know I will but I never know how hard.  Sometimes I’ll just have a teary day, one where nothing goes right, I miss stamp literally everything and nothing I post on social media is interesting, so no one comments.  But sometimes this just lasts 1 day and I don’t even realise until my period starts that this day happened.  But other times I crash bad…  I just hate everyone and everything, my customer service goes out of the window as everyone is against me.  Why bother posting on social media as I can’t make it sound nice or enthusiastic.  I spend pretty much all day holding back the tears and my horrible attitude, I just want to stay in bed but I can’t sleep, I eat EVERYTHING in sight and I literally have to force myself to do even the most menial of tasks.

One of the very worst things about these really deep lows is that I don’t recognise myself, I am usually (for the other 2/3 weeks of the month) a really happy and enthusiastic person which is why I sometimes don’t even realise the manic days have happened until the low starts.  The lows that scare me are the ones where I don’t want to be around people, especially when you have a house to run with 2 small children and a husband and a part time job.  The ones where I just can’t seem to snap out of it, I know I’m in deep, I can’t stop myself saying some nasty things and snapping at those closest to me.  The lows where any orders I get don’t matter, they’ll probably just hate it when it arrives anyway so what’s the point making it at all.  Any messages I get I just can’t be arsed to reply as the questions are just so inane and pointless, or they’re just moaning at me for no reason – no your order that you placed 10 mins ago won’t be with you tomorrow as I have to HAND MAKE IT!  I have to stop myself replying with a message saying ‘won’t you just f*ck off already, you’ll get it when I decide you’re worthy enough to make my crappy handmade sh*t that you probably won’t like anyway and you won’t bother to leave me any feedback even if you do’ (that’s a whole other blog for another time!)

So why am I writing this blog now?

It is now December 2019 and I’ve been trying to write this since PMDD awareness month back in April 2019!  At the beginning of the month I had a plan to do some awesome posts about it, create some keyrings, maybe even raise some money.  Then it hits… why would anyone want to buy any of my keyrings, I’d be doing the cause a grave injustice in creating such shit products.  Believe me, the irony of this is not lost!  The irony of the negative thoughts is never lost once I come out the other side, and it’s this irony that delays me getting the help I need.  A few days passes and you convince yourself that it wasn’t so bad, it was just you feeling a bit blue for a day.  You get on with life, looking after the kids, bury yourself in work; the high is well and truly convincing you that you are absolutely fine and that next month won’t be so bad.  But then you notice the date, it’s a few days before you are due to ovulate and here we go again…

I went to my GP in May 2019 as the symptoms were not getting any better and asked to have the hormonal coil fitted again as it had helped me so much before I had my second baby.  It was fitted in June this year and I waited the 3 months to see if it would help, it unfortunately didn’t and in October I had one of my worst lows to date.  It was horrendous and I booked a GP appointment at 2am after being awake for nearly 48hrs, having eaten god knows how much food, drunk far too much wine and cried at every little thing I watched.  I saw my GP a couple of weeks later, obviously I was feeling much better but I am determined to get this thing sorted and she was amazing and we went through the options and I decided on trying oestrogen for the 2 weeks prior to my cycle.  I had to giggle to myself when reading the instructions; firstly because I have to rub 1 squirt of this gel into my thigh at the same time every day, and secondly because this is effectively HRT given to older ladies at the time of the change LOL!

Unfortunately, it doesn’t look like this is working for me, I’m 4 days before I am normally due on and the symptoms are back.  Definitely not as severe as the October crash but the feelings of annoyance, self-doubt and pointlessness of it all are here, my next step is perhaps anti-depressants, so I’ll book an appointment with the GP and see what the next steps are.

My battle with PMDD and keeping sane for my business continues, even as I write this I am questioning all my plans for 2020. I have/had some great ideas but that little well of anxiety is brewing up again and I’m thinking it’ll just be better/easier to scrap it all. I won’t though, I’ll step away from social media, take some time out for me (although with this comes the Mum Guilt fun) and give myself a good talking to that this will pass and next week I’ll be buzzing and posting non-stop and bugging everyone again! Until next month…

Thanks for reading,

Emma xx

For more information and guidance for PMDD please check out the MIND website here or IAPMD here, or feel free to drop me a message.

You can also download an app to track your symptoms here.

[i] https://iapmd.org/position-statements-1/2019/6/11/world-health-organization-adds-premenstrual-dysphoric-disorder-pmdd-into-the-icd-11

[edgeoftheborder]

When you know something’s wrong, but can’t say it

Growing up in an unstable setting breeds a lot of unfortunate things. Mental illness is definitely high on that list, and in a variety of ways. Sometimes it happens later in life, sure, but being a teenager and knowing something’s wrong but not being able to say it aloud is the epitome of isolating. (okay, not epitome. but it is.) I didn’t want to admit it to myself until later on, and I knew I couldn’t because of my mother (oof), but that sinking, pit in your gut feeling, when you know you’re been damaged. You know you’re not quite... right. You’re slightly broken, cracked in a very specific way and you can’t figure out which angle to approach it from. Depression, anxiety? Sure. Suicidal? Absolutely. Moody as all get out? Of course. Is it bipolar? Are the symptoms extreme enough? You can’t be that sick, shut up. But obviously it’s much worse than that, and there’s information at your finger tips to figure out what it is. To find ways to seek help, or ask friends, or.... ignore it. Completely ignore it and hope it goes away and nothing’s wrong with you. A history of self harming (attempts on my life came later), multiple destroyed friendships that you’ve managed to rekindle (and hey cool, break again... and heal again... and...) and it’s time to face that spilled milk. But where do you even start?

I don’t wanna say “lucky” but I’ve had a few friends who had extremely similar symptoms and turns out all it was is ADHD! There’s medicine, it’s treatable, it’s socially acceptable. Except it isn’t, which is why I won’t say lucky. It’s a lot of the same feelings and symptoms and extremity, but with a lot of self awareness and possible medications and help that seem readily available. (this last statement is bullshit because all three of the trifecta of these illnesses fall under that category but mine makes me need to feel special so I’m saying it like that. See? Self awareness.) I had hoped my issue was the same, and that I could fidget-spin my way out of severe mental illness. That’s a negative, comrade. 

The trifecta is such: ADHD, bipolar disorder, borderline personality disorder. There’s probably some other cousins nearby but those three are the ones I considered before my actual diagnosis, so they’re the trifecta. A happy nucleus family. No in-laws allowed. There’s certain aspects of my attention, focus, and general handling of feelings that negate the ADHD diagnosis, although I am very scattered (read: dissociative) and that led to some false hope on my end. There was also a touch of depressive/manic mood swings worsened by a shit-ton in my life that led to my bipolar belief, as well as a few episodes of psychosis in my teen years (side effect of C-PTSD, who knew?) that tipped the scales in certain ways.

I was scrolling tumblr, years ago, and came across a blog that pinpointed me in a way that was devastating but also the most exciting thing to ever happen. I wasn’t alone. Others felt like this, struggled in this way. Were assholes in that particular way that I am! And were talking about how to deal with it! It was the first time I’d ever come across the term BPD. A little old fashioned and over romanticized now, but 10 years ago, that damn blog saved my sanity. My door number three option now existed, and it was terrifying, something I never wanted to talk about or even consider... but it was comforting. Not being alone is pretty cool.

That’s part what this blog is. If you stumble across it in my journey and relate, I hope it makes you feel a little less alone. But it’s also a release for me to get out all these thoughts and feelings that I guard from my therapist, or that I miss telling her. (by accident, of course.) And if you care? Cool. Hit me up. I’m open to talk anytime, all the time. Talk therapy is kind of all we have, besides professional DPT skills and antidepressants. 

I’m Rae. I got diagnosed with BPD 11 months ago. I’ve been in therapy a year. It’s been a hell of a journey, and I’m a lot better. And it took me way too long to get this started, and maybe no one ever reads it, but I’ve got to get it out somehow.

[dermagain]

So after logging in for the first time in- honestly I wanna say a year 😟- I found a private message from someone asking me what has been helping me get better

and like an idiot I immediately accidentally deleted the message. So, sorry person that I can't message you back, but I'm gonna post this and hopefully you'll see it. I've been through a lot of major life changes in the past couple years and haven't really been on tumblr at all (sadly! I've been on a limited data plan too, so I deleted the app). I hope you've all been well in the meantime and are managing ok

This is going to be a very long post, but I'll try to break it up into paragraphs that will make it easier to skim for what you find useful. Quick warning, I'm going to be mentioning eating disorders a few times, but without going into details. First off, I'll go into a couple of the big developments in my life that are derma-relevant. A few months ago I was finally diagnosed with bipolar II, which consists mostly of depressive episodes, but has to be treated differently than unipolar depression, since antidepressants without a mood stabilizer can cause bipolar cycling. I'm now on a mood stabilizer, which is working well, and I'm finding that without bipolar cycling I have less anxiety, leading to less need for self-soothing rituals, which for me leads to less picking. If you might have an underlying condition that's exacerbating your picking, please go see a doctor/psychologist/psychiatrist if you can and haven't already. It took me several of them over several years to be taken seriously, and I'm going to follow up with a separate post with some of the details on how I finally got through to the professionals, in case that's helpful. Another change in my life is that I've relocated, moving out of state after (mostly) living where I come from into my adult years. Being away from all the places and things that pull me back into old traumas and outdated anxieties has helped A LOT. Of course, moving isn't a solution for everyone, and it requires some money and a lot of freedom, and it's stressful... my point is really just that external circumstances play a big role in how we feel and behave and it's worth making whatever positive changes you can. They won't "fix" your derma, but if you can focus on some of your other goals you may find that you're picking less. But of course, change just triggers some people, so it's very important to take what you know about yourself into account on this one. Now, to address the question I deleted, I'm gonna lay out a bunch of the strategies that were working for me before all that: I read a post by someone in the derma community several years ago recommending the book The Four Day Win by Martha Beck, and read it. I wish I remembered who suggested this or where, so I could give credit, but this was probably 5 years back and I have no idea. It's a diet book, but many of the chapters apply to reducing any behavior that you're trying to break out of, and adapt well to skin picking. I had a hard time pushing through the book because I'm extremely anti-diet and firmly believe that advocating dieting is also advocating eating disorders. Several members of my family have struggled with eating disorders, so there were times when I wanted to throw this book across the room, but ultimately I found it helpful. You can probably get a copy from your local library if you want to read it, but I'm also going to give a capsule version here of what I found helpful/adapted from the book for my own use. The premise is that instead of setting ourselves up for failure by trying to do something difficult *indefinitely* (sticking to a diet or not picking, for example), we only commit to four days at a time, and give ourselves a reward when we complete a four day cycle. The rewards, for me, were something small and concrete, usually buying myself something inexpensive that I wanted. When the four days was up, I was allowed to pick all I wanted, but then would start another four days of not picking right after. If four days is too long to manage, you can always use shorter times. I would often do 3 days, but if 2 or even 1 whole day is more realistic for you it's more important to set a very specific time and then reward yourself at the end. You have to be consistent with the reward, not giving yourself the reward anyway if you do pick, and not sacrificing it (to save money or whatever) if you do make your goal. It's like training an animal, except we are the animal we're training. Make sure your rewards aren't anything you pretty much need, since that becomes a system of punishments for not making it, and in order to work this has to be a system of rewards for doing well. It's an entirely positive system. I would sometimes get myself a larger reward if I didn't pick (or barely picked) between 3 or 4 day no-picking periods, but didn't plan ahead for that because you really need to keep your mind on the short term when doing this. If I did pick when I wasn't supposed to, I would sometimes give myself a reduced version of the original reward if I made it to the end of the original 4 days without doing it again. For instance, if I was going to buy a new set of paint brushes, I might scale it back to choosing an individual brush. Or if I felt like it was realistic, I would start another 4 days immediately after lapsing. Being as realistic as possible is important for this one. Another thing I would do is keep a log of where on my body I was picking, when, how many individual spots I was going at, and any particularly pertinent facts like an unusual mood or triggering event. I was putting it in the calendar on my phone so the time was recorded automatically, and I had a system of abbreviations that kept it easy. An entry might read "f4, a2 (blood), s4. Very anxious", which would mean I picked at 4 spots on my face, 2 on my arms to the point of drawing blood, and 4 spots on my shoulders, and that I was experiencing an unusual degree of anxiety. I would differentiate between my arms and shoulders because my shoulders are a particular problem area for me, but I also pick at my scalp sometimes, so I would indicate my scalp with an "h" for head, since "s" was shoulders. If I picked at an area enough that I couldn't say a specific number of spots, I would just say "bad", like "a2, sbad, l3" would mean I picked 2 spots on my arms and 3 on my legs and really took it out on my shoulders. Of course, you would adapt your log to what is most pertinent or useful for you. The log served a few purposes. For one, just having more awareness can be really helpful, also I would actually sometimes hold off on picking just because if I did it, I would have to acknowledge it in writing. I would sometimes stop myself in time to put down a number instead of "bad". It also makes it easier to see when you've been doing pretty well lately, and feel good about it. Prepping to pick helped too, instead of denying that I was going to do it until the very last minute and then going at it impulsively. I would get home at night or in the afternoon and wash my hands with antibacterial soap first thing, then rinse my face and put on a face mask that I could keep on for a couple hours. Its best if you can do that without being in front of a mirror, which could mean using your kitchen sink or covering your bathroom mirror. If you can't do that, try not to even glance at the mirror if you can manage. I got pretty good at keeping my eyes down completely while going through this routine. When I eventually had to rinse off the mask, if I did get sucked into picking at least my hands and face were clean and the skin on my face was in pretty good shape so the damage was minimized and the spots I picked at wouldn't flare up and get infected from getting all the dirt you pick up outside in them (gross, I know). Honey works pretty well in place of commercial face masks, cause it's a physical barrier and great for your skin, but you have to be more committed to avoiding mirrors, since you can still see your skin through honey. Besides face masks/honey, there were other physical barriers that helped. Pretty much everyone comments on this, but it bears repeating. I would wear shirts at home that were tight in the sleeves so getting at my shoulders wasn't convenient, which honestly is something I need to get back in the habit of doing. As you can probably tell from all the past-tense, I'm doing well lately, but my arms and shoulders are what I go for most when I do pick. If there were only a couple visible spots on my face, I would cover them with band-aids, and I would sometimes wear gloves at home. I've also made lists for myself of anything that's helpful, meaning both practical tips and alternatives to picking (even if they sound dumb or obvious), and information that it's helpful for me to remind myself of. I have an old list in front of me right now, and some of the suggestions on it are super simple, but were actually helpful for whatever reason. Some of them actually strike me as kind of self-shaming now, but inspired me at the time. Whatever works, I guess. Here are some of the items from the list (the not-shamey ones): Wait it out. Later is better than now. Drink some water. Have a snack. Take a nap. Put on long sleeves. Consciously remember not to do it. Turn out the lights. Watch a movie. Read a book. Listen to music. This is an outgrown coping mechanism. This is an internalization of being "picked on." I don't want to let people who have treated me unfairly manifest themselves in me. DON'T do "just one" (it's never just one). Relapse is a normal part of recovery, and it doesn't determine the future. Adherence is the goal, but near-adherence is almost as good. If I can't do 100%, I can try for 90%, or 75%. It's still worth maintaining, even if it's not perfect. No comment made by any idiot is my problem. Relax and breathe. Remember to eat, sleep, and play music. I really don't need to touch my face at all except for daily skincare. Even MH "just stopped". I'll explain that last item. It's a reference to Marya Hornbacher's memoir, Wasted. Marya had a severe eating disorder for years, to the point that it almost killed her (you may know this part, it's been a popular title for a while...) Like I said, my family history is peppered with eating disorders, so I've put in my due diligence reading up on them. She reaches the point of almost dying, and then -like some kind of miracle- she "just stops" the behavior that would otherwise have taken her life. The reason I included that as a kind of affirmation isn't because I think my picking will "just stop", but rather because it's such an extreme example of how people sometimes turn a corner in their struggles and start to get better, no matter how bleak their future looked during their darkest times. Anyway, making lists like this are helpful if you can include whatever helps YOU to remember, not what helps someone else, or only things you don't think are obvious. If it's obvious and it helps you, put it on the list. If it's not clear why exactly it's relevant but it helps you, put it on the list. Then keep your list someplace handy, like on your wall or taped to your desk, or in the back of your journal. I hope some of this helps y'all, sorry it's 5 miles long, but I wanted to include everything I could think of. Love you all. Best.

[survivingunderwater]

How Chronic Pain Taught me to Breathe Underwater

I’ve wanted to share my story for a long time. It is a small snapshot of my life with a pelvic nerve disorder that causes severe, debilitating chronic pain and has no known pathology or treatment. I realize this a long post, but you know what? People write 509 page  cookbooks about the types of flour to use baking. 

This story is not sexy, but it is real. 

It would mean the world to me if you could share this, so that together, we can promote awareness for a silent condition, and remind ourselves to never judge a book by its cover.

Read time: 20 minutes

------

For the last 13 years of my life, I have been held under the water and told to learn how to breathe.

Ten years ago, I learned that I would never have sex, and that an intimate life would be nearly impossible.

I learned that my condition would gradually worsen. I learned that over time, I would not be able to tolerate the light touch of clothing, that I’d lose control of my bladder, and that something as simple as sitting down would become unbearable. I was told that I likely couldn’t have children, a family, or even leave the house for long periods of time without complications. Physical activity would be cumbersome. I was told to give up the activities that I loved so fondly because it was further damaging a condition that was irreversible. Doctors foreshadowed that in the coming years, my nerves would become so sensitive that my skin would feel like fire. As the pain worsened, I would likely need to take antidepressants and seizure medications to pacify the inflamed nerve endings….I would be relegated to a life of loose clothes, disability permits, abstinence, and incontinence.

I learned that at best, I would live a life muted by medication. I learned that at worst, I would live a life bound to a bed, consumed by chronic pain. I could kiss goodbye to ever knowing intimate love in the way most people like to characterize it.

For a long time, I didn't even know I had a condition. I just knew that something in my body was wrong.

When I was 11 years old, I reported experiencing vaginal pain for the first time.

When I was 13, I went to a gynecologist, who told me that the pain was entirely in my head. Thinking that unregulated hormones were the source of my complaints, I was prescribed the birth control pill. I didn’t think much about it, and I assumed this would solve my problem.

When I was 15, I entered into my first real relationship. I was confused why I felt sharp, stabbing vaginal pains from something as simple as light touch, so I returned to the gynecologist. I thought this was supposed to be a pleasurable part of life. I was also confused as to why - unlike my friends - tampons were impossible to use. I asked them to examine me externally only, and we agreed that we would talk through any “next steps.”

Without warning, the gynecologist entered my vagina. The pain was so excruciating that I suddenly couldn’t see or hear. I started shaking uncontrollably and fainted. When I opened my eyes again, I screamed and pleaded for her to stop. I’ll always remember the look on her face as she rolled her eyes… as if I were overreacting, that I was weak, that I was pathetic. Was the pain actually in my head? When she stopped her exam, I could not walk.

Over the next year, I saw a number of gynecologists -- each with a different opinion on the cause of my pain.

Some said it was an injury from years of horseback riding. Some said it was a hormonal imbalance. Others said it was an unexplained genetic anomaly. Some doctors said it was possible that this was the aftermath of repressed sexual abuse. This terrified me. My mind ran wild as I imagined the possibility of my brain and body repressing a trauma too young for me to remember, and to manifest in the present as crippling nerve pain. I never recalled any abuse.

But most doctors, however, kept telling me I was imagining my pain. Their rationale: I was attempting to experience pleasure at too young of an age, and my “paranoia” about sex created muscular pain.

There was one commonality among all of my diagnoses. Whatever I was experiencing, all doctors agreed that there was no known pathology… and no cure.

When I was 16, I had a glimmer of hope. In hopes of solving the problem, doctors put me through a surgery they assumed would help. I spent a month bleeding and recovering, only to realize too late that the surgery to fix my pain had only made it worse. At this point, my nerves were damaged so badly that my pain receptors were always turned "on." Cutting through my damaged tissues and surgically stitching them back together only exacerbated the problem.

I learned that sometimes, healthcare professionals don’t know what they are doing, and adults aren’t always “right.” I became my own health advocate.

At 17, I had a breakthrough. My mom and I found a new team of doctors who validated that in fact, the pain was not in my head. It was not a hormonal imbalance, and it was not repressed sexual abuse. I was diagnosed with vulvar vestibulitis, and I would later learn I had one of the worst forms.

This is a condition where nerve endings in the vulva - and specifically, pain receptors - are permanently “turned on”. I finally felt relief knowing that my pain was validated. As a result, I thought I had a clear pathway for treatment.

I started pelvic floor physical therapy to help relax the muscles around the nerves. I was prescribed antidepressants and seizure medicine, which I refused to take. I occasionally took pain medications.

I quickly realized how women’s issues were severely undermined in healthcare. Insurance only covered a portion of my medical bills. My mother and I had to submit a detailed grievance to the Department of Public Health in order to overturn my insurance denial for continued PT, since our insurance had cancelled my coverage after a small number of sessions. Our letter was luckily a success, and a small victory amidst this journey.

I started to accept my position in life. I began practicing yoga and realized the importance of presence and perspective. I decided that maybe a life with no tampons, no sex, and no kids wasn’t so bad. 

Everyone who knew me, knew me as a happy young woman. 

I was starting to breathe underwater.

When I was 18, I realized that intimacy would continue to be a traumatic and nauseating experience, and that sex would absolutely never be part of my life.

I realized that there were unempathetic people who would try to make me feel worthless about this. 

I also learned there were people who would love me no matter what, and that who I surrounded myself with was entirely my own choice.

When I was 19, I developed anxiety from having so much constant pain, not knowing where or why it was happening, never knowing when my pain would flare, unable to escape it for weeks at a time.

For unknown reasons, I also started losing feelings in my arms and legs, which became fully numb. This lasted for a full year, and I stopped exercising. The loss of feeling scared me so much that my anxiety increased. The anxiety led to intense panic attacks, which led to more panic attacks because I was so afraid of having another panic attack (LOL). I personally thought this was brilliant that my mind went so far. I later talked to a therapist who said that I had developed this thing called panic disorder.

Eventually, I accepted this part of my life, and I realized that those who struggle with mental health truly know what it is like to suffer in silence.

When I was 20, I spent 5 months studying abroad throughout Africa and Asia, staying with local families and learning about the beauty of different cultures. Amidst the highs, I also saw starving adults breast feeding off of each other and dead bodies in the road. I met women who had experienced female genital mutilation, who almost bled to death from having their labia and clitoris mutilated by a dirty blade on the floor of a hut. The experience was so raw and unfiltered that I felt ashamed of myself for ever complaining about my pain.

I realized I had so much left to learn in life.

But with each step forward in self discovery, I felt like I took two steps back in my physical progress.

By 21, my pain took a drastic turn for the worse. I was unable to put on clothing. I threw away all of my jeans. On good days, I wore sweatpants and loose leggings. On bad days, I didn’t leave my bed, and I sat there all day with an ice pack, terrified of peeing. I threw out all of my underwear, as I was no longer able to tolerate the touch of it against my skin, which now felt like fire in an open wound.

Whenever I felt “turned on” by someone, I experienced searing clitoral and vaginal pain. It felt like an unfair punishment, and I was unsuccessful at suppressing my feelings. Women are supposed to feel strong in this sector of life, but I felt beyond traumatized. As I continued to see friends enter into relationships and have healthy, pleasurable sex lives, I could not even wipe myself after the using the bathroom due to excruciating, burning vaginal pain that never gave me a break.

By 22, I obtained a disability permit that enabled me to finish college by completing most of my coursework from my bed. On the few days that I went to class, I stood up in the back of the room, since I was in too much pain to sit.

That year, I was also diagnosed with interstitial cystitis, which causes bladder urgency and enhanced clitoral and urethral pain. The combination with vulvar vestibulitis became unbearable.

I did what anyone else in my position would do.  I found peace through dry, and often dark, humor.  

I remember my senior year as the year that I sat with an icepack on my vagina, taught myself my coursework, and barely graduated college. I also remember moments of roaring laughter. My college roommate and I made endless jokes about my vagina. We spoke in thick Southern accents and mocked college boys’ sexist comments. My roommate even dressed commando in baggy pants to make me feel less alone. We blasted Lily Allen songs, named all the cockroaches in our apartment, and made a hysterical music video about a territorial wild cat that we spontaneously adopted.

I learned that laughing at yourself adds years to your life.    On my way home from college, I was patted down at the airport. I told the TSA agent that I had vaginal pain, and that if she passed over that area, she could not use much pressure. She told me if she could not touch me, then I could not fly. I asked her to be considerate of my condition. She was not. I was too embarrassed to tell her what she had done. The pain was so unbearable that I cried the whole plane ride home and had another flare up that lasted for weeks.

By 23, I was living at home with my parents. I stopped working, and was sedentary for a full year. I sought help from doctors who didn’t have answers. I couldn't sleep through the night for months. I left the house occasionally for restorative yoga, but I could not do much, and walking and wearing clothing was completely unbearable. To this day, I credit those yoga teachers, my hilarious and supportive brother, and Always Sunny in Philadelphia for why I am still alive. For someone as active as me, being sedentary and in pain was the worst form of torture, and I didn't know if it would ever end. I was told it never would.

I spent most of my time sitting in a chair or in my bed with an ice pack. Once per day, I walked like a penguin up and down my parent’s driveway to try to exercise, but it was painful and all I felt was embarrassment.

This is where, for the first time, I began to feel truly hopeless.

Every aspect of my life was controlled by a condition to which I could not control.

Every time I started to breathe underwater, I felt I was pushed further into darkness with even more limitations.

I was pushed to my limit, and I hit the bottom very hard. 

I often thought about ending my life. I thought about how this would happen, and the aftermath. I begged to have all painful parts of my body surgically removed. I felt searing guilt as my parents uprooted their lives to dig thousands of dollars into their savings to afford my medical bills, treatments, surgical consults, gynecology appointments, and physical therapy.

...But even at the bottom, I found slow inhales and exhales.

I once again realized the only way to change my suffering was to change my outlook. I had and still have pain, but I am not identified as my pain. I decided to pour my energy into seeking love and adventure through creative, dynamic ways. My pain gave me a strength and fearlessness that was and is indescribable.

I wanted to feel all emotions and forms of life whether they were good or bad. I was completely unafraid of death.

I wanted to learn who I was inside and out and give love and beauty to everyone I met on a deeper level than sex and what society perceives as “intimacy.” 

I wanted to learn how to connect, truly connect, with people and express my sexuality in open and loving ways.

I wanted to learn secrets from people around the world in the worst conditions. I found that these people were (as stereotypical as it sounds) the happiest people,

 and that limitation is the biggest factor in creativity, invention, and success.

I would later proudly say that I too was more than happy, I was living in ecstasy. My entire life was filtered in technicolor.

My life is painful, but it is rich.

I invented clothing and found clothing that I could tolerate and still leave the house in. I found the right numbing creams and formulas to tolerate my day. I experimented with a million different diets. I went to PT regularly again and specialists who started a magnetic treatment that worked wonders, even if temporarily. I did acupuncture and regular pain management therapy. I obtained a medical marijuana card, and the CBD helped relax my muscles and loosen tension around the nerves. (Then one day, I accidentally overdosed on gummy bears, and I heard the sounds my brain makes when it has thoughts. I sat on the couch spitting out paleo bread, as one does, and I forgot when to stop chewing and start swallowing my food. Of everything I had survived until that point, this was the night that I was convinced I would die, and unfortunately at the hands of a gummy bear. Though marijuana is a miracle for some, I decided it was not my thing. I never did it again).

I used the money I had saved from working in college and teaching yoga to travel on a pathetic budget. I went skydiving and bungee jumping. I trekked up a volcano in 100 degree heat in Nicaragua, in baggy clothes, one step at a time, even though it killed me and I had a flare up afterwards. I traveled through West Africa, Southeast Asia, and Latin America. I couchsurfed for months in Europe, off of several hundred dollars. I got stuck in horrible situations where I was the only person who could get myself out, and I did. I was stalked by a man who screamed what he wanted to do with me when he finally found me alone. I was harassed. I was lost at night in the woods with nothing but a motorbike and a dead phone in the middle of Myanmar.

I slept on floors and couches and had days where I had to do absolutely nothing and was stalled by my condition. 

I met travelers who flew through monuments at record speed with massive cameras, sleeping with every local or nomad they met. But mostly, I met travelers like me, slowly making their way through untouched corners of the world. I met people who experienced unfortunate or crazy events and illnesses very young in life, and who also found a richness through cultivating perspective by traveling with a tiny backpack and a questionable budget.

I had days that were beautiful.

I learned that everything in life is temporary. Everything. 

When I was in the Czech Republic, I had the most romantic evening with a sexy Colombian man in the old square in Prague. We went drink for drink with fresh, minty mojitos and bounced life stories off of each other in a rowdy bar, where the power went out three times. We stayed out until 5 in the morning, stumbling across the Charles Bridge together, making out at every brick wall. The connection and pulse was palpable. He introduced me to something that would later change my life: salsa dancing. He wrote and recorded a song for me and sent it to me later. I fondly replay our brief and special night together in my head.

Despite my condition, I dated frequently, though I’ve never felt compelled to be in a relationship, because I don’t really feel like anyone truly understands me, and I have always been very content and happy “on my own.” A life free of modern day relationships has been anything but lonely, anything but void, and NOT AT ALL what the doctors told me my life would be living with this condition.

Maybe I cannot have sex, or experience stereotypical pleasure, but I truly believe that my sex life is one of confidence, depth, and beauty. I learned how to confidently communicate about sex and express my likes and dislikes, what I could and could not do, when I was as young as 16. I learned how to be creative in bed. I learned that there are infinite ways to be intimate with someone. I learned that intimacy must always encompass mindful intention and passion, whether it is for two hours, a one night stand, or a lifetime. I learned that “sex” without intention is scary, dull, and abusive. I learned that many men don’t know what to do if you eliminate stereotypical sex from the equation, and they think good sex embodies very minimal foreplay. I learned that this is so boring that I would rather answer my work emails.

I dated and hooked up with men. I dated and hooked up with women. I found myself attracted to people younger than me and twice my age. I quickly learned that I loved the vibe and core of who someone is more than anything else. Superficial things didn’t influence my attraction and desire for someone. I craved (and still crave) people who can feel life deeply, who can understand me and I can understand him or her. I learned that humor, empathy, understanding, and most importantly, sarcasm, were absolutely irresistible. I learned that I have a weakness for accents on men, asses on women, and all French people in general.

When I was 24, I found ways to further manage my pain: clothes that were even more tolerable and made me feel beautiful (not these massive sweatpants anymore!), creams that managed my pain, soaps that didn’t irritate me, a diet that was helpful, regular alternative treatments, maya abdominal therapy for my interstitial cystitis, and a solid physical therapy regimen. My pain was not improving, but it wasn’t getting worse. I moved to San Francisco with my brother, and started a steady job.

I also decided to let go of my fear of physical activity. I would take it easy and try something aside from light yoga and penguin hobbling on my parent’s driveway. The thing that I tried was salsa dancing.

I am not going to get into details about the number of items that need to “go right” for me to make it through a night of dancing without pain. 

Everything from my clothing choice, creams, stretches, and drink choice must all fall in the perfect equation. There are many nights where I reluctantly skip.

That being said, I wholeheartedly believe that when I found dancing, I found the love of my life.

Salsa gave me a space where I could act out my sexuality in safety. Where I could connect and love my partner in that moment, feel the music deep in my bones, and completely let go. As a follow, I could stop thinking entirely and put my brain on pause. I re-learned to trust men after many bad experiences and violations. I learned to surrender my body and soul on the dance floor, and I never cared what I looked like.

Salsa is a space reserved for old souls. There are no phones to use as a crutch, no photos to take so you can post on social media about the “great time” you’re all having. It is a space where I could truly be a woman, and have an incredibly intimate dance with someone 6 songs in a row and know that our love and connection stays on the dance floor only (most of the time. LOL.). Salsa is in every sense my therapy. It’s my drive to want to heal my body, so that I can dance every day of the week and not have all these ridiculous limitations.

I often cry of happiness when I come home from a night of dancing. 

After all of these years of pain, I am so grateful to move my legs that are sometimes numb! I am so grateful to connect with my partner. I am so grateful to feel sensual, beautiful, and loved. It changed my life, and the gratitude never ends.

Some realities that are important:

1. Pain in an area of the body that is intended to evoke immense pleasure is a constant mental test. It makes other mountains feel like small hills. Nothing compares. Not my worst fever from contracting chikungunya in Haiti. Not my worst breakup. Not the time I was evicted from my apartment, or punched in the face by a homeless man. Or the 3 times I have totaled vehicles in car accidents. Not the times I have disclosed my condition to men and, without apology, acknowledgement of my pain, or empathy, they have expressed that they are no longer interested and that they are “sorely disappointed” that they didn’t receive what they were expecting. The frequency of these interactions has made me briefly lose faith in humanity, though it has never torn at my confidence. Not surprisingly, I never experienced this reaction from women. I was only met with compassion.

2. This condition has made me realize that feminism is more important now than ever before, and I have never been so proud to be a woman.

When I was in middle school, boys teased me and told me that my acne made it look like I had bruises all over my face.

 Now I am older and that is gone, and instead I am treated as a walking sex object. When do women win? I have been grabbed, harassed, threatened, abused, and stalked.

I seldom trust being alone with a man.

Many male doctors told me the pain was entirely in my head from the start. I was told to “toughen” up. I do wonder what would have happened if a man had reported the same levels of penile pain, and if his complaints would have been taken seriously the first time.

I am a woman and am therefore expected to be a sweetheart by day and a freak in the sheets by night. I am not going to feel any less feminine or sensual because I cannot have stereotypical sex.  I am so proud to be a woman and to fight for other women in a world that still roots so strongly against us, especially in healthcare. So here I am, telling my story, in hopes that it will encourage the other “Allys” out there to tell their stories, too. “When sleeping women wake, mountains move.”  

3. I often fight stereotypes of who people “think I am” versus who I actually am. Everyone struggles with this, pain or no pain. It is one of the hurdles of being human.

I am often passed off as a blonde woman who is easily impressed, bubbly, and spacy. This feedback is quite upsetting. I can’t escape my pain. Any conversation I have with someone takes up half my brain, while the other half is trying to shift my weight or body in a way that could potentially result in less pain. This does not translate to gullible, insecure blonde person.

This translates to a strong woman who wakes up every day to the biggest fight of her life.

4. Listening to modern day complaints is exhausting. 

Complaining to me about your sex life is like me complaining about my shoes to a man who has no feet.

It is true that everyone experiences various levels of life, but it is also true that people should be mindful about what they choose to complain about or dwell on. Life is short.

5. This story is not meant to glorify pain. I have had more “low quality” days than “high quality” days in my life, and this reality sometimes kills me.  I don’t want to be in pain anymore. I don’t want to experience throbbing clitoral pain if my leggings accidentally touch my skin. Three months ago, my entire body went numb and I could not feel my legs for three weeks. I stopped dancing and worked from home a lot. I took painkillers and eventually my feeling came back.

Last week, I had so much pain that I vomited, then fainted and hit my head on the mirror. My roommate found me on the floor when she heard the thud.

This is not a normal life, but it is a life that has taught me more about living than most.

6. This isn’t a romantic story. This is not a sexy story. But it’s a real one. When I look at my life, sometimes I wonder why I am so happy all the time. It is almost annoying, and people have said that I annoy them because of how much I smile. I technically have so much to be upset about, if that’s how you want to look at it. People pity me and say that I deserve to wake up and put on a pair of underwear, and walk around without feeling stabbing pain. That I deserve to have sex and make little mini Allys one day.

They say that I deserve to experience the full spectrum of life, that I deserve love and happiness.

What is so ironic is that I more than experience the full spectrum of life, and in a way, I often pity the people who tell me this, because I feel they are missing out on so much in this world. My entire life is filtered in technicolor.

When I am happy, I am euphorically happy, perhaps because of my journey with pain.

Maybe a bizarre part of me realizes: the only way to feel ecstasy from putting two feet on the ground and standing up in the morning, is to to be sedentary with numb legs for a full year.

What if the only way to uncontrollably cry of gratitude from something as simple as 3 minutes on the dance floor is if you know what it is like to not walk at all?

What if the only way to feel complete peace is to have 7 panic attacks in a row until you end up in the ER?

What if the only reason I feel so alive is because of the year I fantasized about gluing the pedal to the floor of my car and driving straight into a wall until there were silence?

What if the steamiest sex of your life isn't through touch.

What if the piercingly deep intimacy, romance, and connections I've had with others isn't possible for people without pain?

What if breathing air feels lifeless?

I was never told that 13 years under water is where you learn, feel, and evolve into what it means to be a loving, passionate, and soulful human being.

I was never told that the darkest part of the ocean is where you learn to take your deepest breath.

---- **More text below

We live in an ironic world. People often know more about the Kardashians than they do about Malala Yousafzai. They celebrate and photograph weddings and their newborn children, but you never see professional photos taken of those who survive terminal illnesses. Who determines what is “celebration” worthy?

I want to celebrate people in the middle of the fight, not the people at the end.

I have always wanted to honor my journey with pain: my sexuality, trauma, freedom. My tenacity and power in being a woman. I’ve never had professional photos taken until one month ago, when Andrea Padilla fulfilled a dream of celebrating this journey through a boudoir and nude photoshoot. I did this photoshoot to show the rawest form of who I am in this moment of my life (we had our tricks so that I could tolerate the pain from lingerie ;)). I did not smile. This is about honoring courage, and carrying this strength with me into 2018. If I were hobbling like a penguin two years ago and spent most of my time in bed, and today I am dancing... who knows? I don’t know what can happen in the future. My life can turn in any direction at any point, and I am here to soak up each moment and learn with every step. 

My dream now is to dance salsa on the world cup stage. Life is unpredictable, but it is also boundless.

THANK YOU:

To my amazing brother, Robby: Thank you for keeping me afloat, making me laugh, saving my life and then adding years to it, spending months sleeping on the couch to take care of me, and being there for me through thick and thin, even when I gave you so many reasons not to be there. I love you more than anything in the entire world and would be nowhere near who I am today without you. You make me a better person every day and laughing together makes life beyond worth living.

Sue: Thank you so much for your prairie dog driving skills to take me to the doctors, even though you took out a tree one time and we’ve had to leave many notes on people’s doors from destroying their bumpers in the hospital parking lot with your Denali. Thanks for never giving up on me. Thanks for your endless excel sheets documenting my symptoms and calling doctors all over the world. Thanks for putting your life on hold for me. Thanks for being one of the few people who believed me from the beginning. I would never have been properly diagnosed without you.    

Dad: Thank you for sharing many poisonous moscow mules with me when in a crisis. Thank you for believing me, and for believing IN me. Thanks for listening to my TMI stories. There is no way I can ever repay you for the way you have put my health first, but I hope to make you proud.