#dog neurologist

[petpetisy]

How Much Does A Dog Neurologist Cost Without Insurance in 2024? Answer is Really Shocking!

As a devoted pet owner, you might worry about the cost of seeing a neurologist for your dog. Without insurance, the price can be a big concern. But what exactly will you have to pay for a dog neurologist without insurance? Table of ContentsKey TakeawaysSeverity of the Pet’s ConditionType of Medical Services RequiredGeographic Location of the NeurologistExperience of the NeurologistWhat Do Dog…

[catopti]

Storm bringer chuuya is my favorite chuuya fit

[elvenferretots]

A six hour ride in the crate, and he's able to zonk out in his travel cage in the busy hotel in minutes. This is what makes it worth it to take the time to appropriately socialize and crate train more than just dogs.

[golden-girl-daisy]

It’s her last full day today. 💔

[whoslaurapalmer]

related: most of my life is me going 'is this feeling my sinuses being stupid. is this a tourettes feeling. is this a panic and anxiety feeling' and I must inform you it is usually all three at once. they ALL make me panic!!!!!!!

[shehungers]

LUCID

sleep paralysis demon x reader | 18+ | 3k

you're a chronic insomniac desperately searching for relief. your best friend and neurologist makes a suggestion to participate in a sleep study utilizing a new drug still in the testing phase. without any other options, you agree, and the first night of the study, you awaken in the middle of the night thinking it didn't work....

story warnings; dark content; dubcon; somnophilia, hair pulling, choking, "invisible hands", some culturally sensitive discussion, implications of unethical medical practice, mc is implied to have a messy past, details of insomnia, unsettling + dark imagery, detail heavy, probs inaccurate depictions of a sleep study, roughly proofread. I'm also aware that most "sleep doctors" are pulmonologists—fight me👊🏻

reposted from my deleted blog theoxenfree.

this is a concept piece for a larger project—incubus phenomenon. would appreciate it if you'd leave feedback + reblog!!

Children at your daycare liked to draw you fanciful pictures of the other lives they lived in their dreams during afternoon nap time. You were shown orange tabby cats with green eyes garbed in full-plates of knight’s armor, brandishing a fish sword against a foe to save the world.

Most often, they dreamed of their families and drew bright, brave versions of themselves holding hands with a parent, a sibling, a bipedal family dog with an electric collar. A few of the children never smiled in their self-portraits.

The proportions of everything were always silly: gigantic tree trunks with tiny, green bundles sitting atop of them, three enormous fruits supported by brittle vines and growth in bushes, cats and dogs with ears as tall as their bodies, Mom with purple skin instead of brown, Big Sis looking particularly volatile with a theratrically large snarl. Despite this, the children beamed in pride whenever yesterday's drawings would come down off the wall to be replaced with the new.

For some of these kids, this was their own equivalent of having art hung on a refrigerator; to you, it evoked dull, thready jealousy because they were in possession so simple, so biologically normal to them and everyone else around them that to be incapable of the same thing was, surely, a major defect.

Sleep was already a treasure you were seldom allotted the pleasure of greedily surrendering to, but to dream sounded like a terrifying experience to you altogether. It took work; a stringent routine of warm showers (hot and scalding water was forbidden), with an array of chalky, dissolvable tabs and shower gels and shampoos and moisturizers and essential oil dehumidifiers and soy candles and hot tea and special pillow sleep spray you’d seen in an online ad while thumbing through socials.

It took pajamas that were loose, soft but not silky, it took a satin bonnet and a satin eye covering (the kind with pockets for your eyelashes to move), comforters soused in lavender spray meant to magically work out the tightness in your shoulders and calves without the need of paying for a masseuse’s bony elbow. It took purchasing a battery-operated alarm clock to wake yourself for work so you could shut off your phone and leave it plugged into the wall downstairs.

You'd nearly forgotten—you couldn't have sugar after half past six, you had to stagger your water consumption after that time as well because the urge to piss would keep you awake for hours after the fact. The television needed to be off once you finished putting away dishes after dinner.

If you were lucky, this would work and you'd sleep a total of two or three hours uninterrupted—never fully tipping over the edge of wakefulness into deep sleep, but enough to keep yourself going during the day, grocery shop, wrangle the small children, scrape at a bar, get dicked down into your mattress every now and then, and visit Sujay for your usual appointments.

“How do you feel about trying something different?” he always gestured to one of the modern-looking armchairs upholstered in teal polyester before bringing you a tea of some sort. Today was a floral white tea with a spoonful of honey. “Ah, my friend, I worry for you. We've done so many studies, we've tried so many different things. Does none of it help? At all?”

“Not really.” you admitted after a sip, singing your tongue once and placing aside the cup and saucer pair. “I don't know if I can keep doing this until the day I die, Sujay. What do you recommend next?”

Dr. Sujay Patel was your neurologist, an utterly brilliant man, and a close friend from your early university days. Despite the rest of your friend group falling apart, pulled in separate directions by the strings of fate and temptation of money, you'd managed to stay in contact with Sujay throughout grad school. There'd been an intermission, probably a period of two years, where you'd forgotten he even existed.

You were out making a disaster of your life on sleepless, drunken benders because you hoped enough alcohol would either knock you out or kill you. The normal distractions came with it: your entire family dynamic corroding and combusting, an ex getting too big for their britches, and a roommate suspiciously eager to rally behind that ex.

Sujay came back into the picture following a nasty incident of alcohol poisoning that left you bedridden in the hospital for a week. You had decided then, in that uncomfortable bed with their starchy, crunchy white sheets and the bathroom being too far away to simply get up and walk to, that you'd abstain from alcohol forevermore.

He'd seen you in a state of soul-weary disarray not long after you were discharged and had decided to take you on as a patient.

“Now, you have a choice here, just remember that.” Sujay sat adjacent to you in the exact chair you were in. He wasn't daunted by the heat from his tea and took some time with it, whether to savor the subtle notes of it or to consider his words, you weren't sure. “But, a colleague of mine at a… pharmaceutical company has been working to get an experimental sedative into some studies. Testing periods, I guess you could say.”

You're convinced by his dedication to his tea to pick up yours again. “Does it work?”

“As of now, one-hundred percent of those who have participated have reported high-efficacy, or at least have claimed it to be effective in some manner.” His mustache moved as he sipped. You drank as well. “I think you should submit to the study and if you're accepted into one of the control groups—commit to it. We're running out of options otherwise. I don't want you to start mixing up your own cocktail of things. All it takes is the wrong thing once, y'know?”

The chair groaned while you adjusted your weight in it. You sighed. “Would that once be such a bad thing, though? At least I could sleep.”

“I'm a doctor,” Sujay looked over his square-rimmed glasses at you, forehead wrinkles enormous, whites of his eyes showing more than the hazel of his irises. “Behave yourself.”

“Fine.” Mesmerized by the stray tea leaves that had managed to escape the metal ball steeper, you said, “tell me what I need to do.”

Sujay had sent you away that day with a whole host of follow-up appointments and a glowing review to his colleague in hopes of skipping the line as much as possible. Sometimes, it was beneficial to have friends in high places, especially when that means you get a call two days later for preliminary, formal interviews and an offer to participate in said study once clearances came through and your blood work came back as desired.

A month to the day when Sujay first mentioned the possibility of a magical cure all to your relentless insomnia, you were brought into a minimally furnished room—the standard, bland cookie cutter type that hadn't an ounce of personality—dotted from head-to-toe in stickers for neuromonitoring, heart rhythm, and whatever else they fancied, you supposed.

It was only after you had changed into your soft, but not too soft, pajamas and covered in wires that you were handed a tiny purple pill. The color of it was obviously a dissolvable casing and food coloring, but what amazed you was the fact a drug this small was meant to induce the best sleep of your life.

“Take the pill, drink at least four ounces of water, and lie supine.” The technologists outside your room, speaking into an intercom, elaborated afterward that they wanted you to stay on your back while you slept. You didn't bother to point out that you weren't stupid—just tired. “We understand that not everyone finds this position comfortable, but to receive adequate results and to measure your vitals at all times, we ask that you try your best.”

You weren't going to hassle them about this and did precisely as they instructed. Shoved the pill down the back of your throat, drank the bottled water, and tried to get comfortable on your back.

You closed your eyes.

A part of you wondered why you had assented to Sujay’s suggestion so easily, especially where everything else had failed. He was one hell of a friend, and had always been that way for you, but as a doctor, you wondered if two years of cheating through medical school, so as to not royally piss off his parents and be disowned for failing, was finally catching up with him somewhat.

You recalled being startled when he told you he hadn’t married yet and didn't intend to as some deep-rooted act of spite against his family and the traditions they had held over his head all his life. Traditions that had been weaponized against him, rather than supplement his life as an extension of his history, of the things he loved, of a chance to explore more of himself.

You had listened wordlessly the entire time he spoke about it, still sipping on his tea, the results from your latest brain scan clamped to a clipboard on his lap—

This wasn't working.

This was so stupid.

You opened your eyes and sat up in the stiff bed, carefully maneuvering your fingers around your orbital bone to force away the puffiness and exhaustion still lingering behind them. It was only as you rubbed your eyes that you noticed your face was empty of cold stickers and a thousand wires. You didn't hear distant blips in the machine measuring your heart rate, nor track the voices of anyone outside your door.

The room was still the same—the outdated, bulky dresser with claw feet, a few gray chairs you could buy on display in a window somewhere, a low oval table, a bedside table for your glass of water and a crisp, neatly folded change of clothes for the next day.

It was only unusual that you were bare of the technologist’s monitoring equipment and sitting amid an unfaltering, deep silence that amplified the sounds of your very existence. Your slow breaths with a quickening heartbeat, blood pumping in your ears, and the coarse rustle of bedsheets as you shifted around the mattress to bring some sense to what was going on.

Would the technologists have come into the room and removed everything from your body without waking you? More miraculously, without you rousing and throwing your hands on them for touching you first?

“Maybe the drug worked?” you had to consider the possibility, even though it still felt as far-fetched as the holistic medicine practitioners online telling you that an herbal cleansing juice could regenerate organs entirely. “Did I actually sleep? I don't remember dreaming, though. Aren't I supposed to dream?”

You looked to the one, single-paned window across the bedroom to spy how far along the morning had progressed, but found yourself sucking in and holding in a breath instead.

There, standing in your view of the outside, was the silhouette of a tall man. Everything about him was indistinguishable aside from the depth of darkness that made him up. Within the confines of the dim room, alight by a single lamp with an amber bulb that seemed to weaken by the second, this man stood apart from the shadows as something deeper, blacker, but corporeal.

He was every bit a part of the dark as much as he wasn't. And you couldn't tell if he was fading you or turned to look out the window at the parking lot two stories below.

“Hi—hello. Are—are you one of the techs?” you had finally let out that breath, now focusing on gauging the guy’s level of sociability, and by extension, his friendliness and the likelihood of him lunging at you. “I, uh, just would've really appreciated it if someone had woken me up before taking off the stickers.”

You were able to see out the window from the gaps around his body, taking note that it was still dark. Very dark. Beyond that, nothing else was discernible from where you sat and what he blocked.

The study wouldn't have finished yet.

Those techs would've taken precaution to wake you up if something had happened.

“Am I asleep?” you asked the wordlese man. “Am I dreaming now? Are you a dream? Is that what it's like?

You never imagined that there could be so much lucidity within a dream, a level of consciousness so similar to a state of wakefulness. When you thought about moving, you could perfectly flex your fingers, curl your toes into the high-pile carpet underfoot, touch the airy fabric covering your body and feel it touching you in turn.

How normal was this really, though? No one had ever told you about dreams like this. Theirs were always fragmented and discombobulated, just like the kids in daycare who drew pictures of pig astronauts and flame extinguishing spatulas. You knew of a rare few in the population capable of controlling their dreams, steering the outcome in the direction they pleased, but even those people were overrode by their own brains.

This was something completely different.

You became especially convinced of this when you thought the stifled air suddenly shifted with a light breeze, a soft whoosh in your ear. A chill erupted over you, making your skin burst with goose flesh, your brain chasing a shiver down your spine as if cold fingers stroked you all the way down the length of it. Those same fingers stayed low, hovering across your lower back before pushing into you, arching you down onto the mattress.

That freedom you thought you had only moments ago was gone, stolen by this invisible hand on your body that was rounding to you and reaching for your chest. Until now, you thought this had simply been a part of the dream—something you had believed to be in control in when the reality was much different—but, as the buttons on your sleep shirt unfastened before your eyes, the thin layers opening you to the cold, inky air, you weren't sure what to think, to do.

Another hand joined the first with long, heavy fingers to knead at your body and take your pants off of your hips until you were fully exposed to the darkness and the thing still dwelling within the room. It hadn't moved an inch since you'd noticed it a while ago; it never became any clearer, any more defined in the clothes or wore, and trying to look upon its face only filled you with puzzlement and dread.

The large hands were so cold despite all their movement on your hot skin, all of the work they did to start riling you up and making you moan. One of them groped your chest, felt your throat, squeezed your jaw as though to force your gaze at one point in particular (the ceiling), pushed apart your lips to dip into your mouth and wet its fingers on your tongue.

You did so as it was the only thing you could do freely right now.

Those fingers, covered in your spit, caressed you between your legs, stroking you in motions neither gentle or harsh. The muscles in your thighs flinched, stomach tightening, your throat vibrating to produce a moan smothered by the second hand circling your throat, gripping firmly enough where you could breathe, but just barely.

The thing couldn’t stop your thoughts, as much as it seemed to try, so it took to interrupting them—distracting you but squeezing your neck, yanking your head back into the pillow by your hair, adjusting itself to thrust multiple fingers into your body, burying them to the knuckle.

You tried to win this war of willpower by thinking about Sujay and his mustache and his stupid glasses. They were green, sometimes blue; seldom did he like the tortoiseshell look.

The thing lunged at your neck again, this time taking you underside the jaw and forced your head back into the pillow while it fucked you deeper on three fingers.

You wanted to make a sound; a moan, a scream, a torturous whimper or pleasure for the way your body was rocked on the bed, creaking with the weight of a pair combined and not just how it appeared. Your nostrils flared, heart rate at an uneasy high, breaths stuck in the column of your throat behind the hand holding it.

The pressure continued to stack higher and higher, building to such a point where you knew you were about to lose it, unravel, praying that this thing would grant you the kindness of fucking you out of your orgasm.

Your abdomen was wound tight, your groin ached terribly, and your thighs started to shake. Behind your eyes, the kaleidoscopic wheels of color intermingled with the darkness and it all slowly burned to white.

And then—

“Good morning!” you were being shaken awake by one of the technologists, a middle-aged woman with blue eyeliner. she didn't expect for you to jolt upright, stick straight, and launch the covers off of your body. “Oh—hey, honey, you alright? We’re done until tonight. How do you feel?”

You were slow to respond to her, occupied by the morning light filtering in through the window across the bedroom. She gave you some time to gather your bearings and took her time removing the stickers and wires from your skin, suggesting you spend some time really scrubbing in the shower later to get off all the adhesive.

“How about now, honey?” she pulled the last sticker and wire combination off of your shoulder. “You with us?”

You didn't know how to answer that, especially not with how damp you felt inside your thighs.

[orphiclovers]

fave yjh moments from yoo mia side story:

he can't drive. we know this as he is driven to work by his manager(s) and takes a taxi home.

he reads a lot of parenting books. also visits parenting forums and worries about raising yoo mia correctly

his Thing about food. it's one third eating disorder, one third paranoia and one third genuinely seeing the world through a lens of food metaphors.

shin yoosung looks him in the eye once and he immediately thinks thats the nicest anyone's ever been to him.

compulsively reads hate comments about himself. says it doesnt bother him when it very clearly does.

the obvious brain damage he isnt acknowledging. constantly tormented by visions (seizures + hallucinations). has both long-term and short-term memory loss issues. experiences a whole ass psychotic break. hes like that dog in a burning house comic saying this is fine. yoo joonghyuk go to a neurologist im begging you!!!

[thebibliosphere]

So, I found a b2 supplement I can take and not react to the fillers (Thorne brand, not sponsored), and after taking it for a month, I've noticed it does seem to have an effect on my migraines.

I'm still getting 1-3 migraines a month when my hormones fluctuate, but I have noticed a significant reduction in pain since I started taking the b2. Brain fog is still a nightmare (see Migraine Daddy post 😂), but the pain is more of a normal headache and not dropping me to the floor.

Supposedly you don't see significant results until you've been on a high dose of b2 for about 3-4 months (my neurologist suggested 400mg), but given that I am actually deficient in b2 thanks to my MCAS, fixing the deficiency seems to be helping by itself.

So who knows, maybe in a few months, I'll see better results.

I know I really need to be taking a methylated B complex at this point, but they all have biotin in them, and any increase in my biotin intake just makes me sick as a dog. I thought at first it was because it was a histamine liberator, but so is methyl folate/folic acid and I've been able to tolerate that okay. Idk. Bodies are weird.

[offensiunculaee]

eddie helps you through the worst migraine you've ever had

part two of my mini migraine series!

cw: migraines (duh), crying, hospital mention

author's note: this is a retelling of the worst migraine I ever had. I'm thankful that I wrote it all down for my neurologist because those notes really helped me. And again, thank you @munson-blurbs and @corroded-hellfire for reading this through and telling me how it looked.

For all things considered, your day had started off pretty good. 

It was the first real spring day so you both decided to take a walk around town and did some shopping. Eddie stopped at the local game shop and picked up some new miniatures for Hellfire and you grabbed a new pair of dice, a beautiful set with koi fish that caught your eye immediately. Yogi almost knocked over a display with his tail from how hard he was wagging it. After that you all got lunch and ate outside, enjoying the buzz of the downtown area. The weather was perfect, allowing you to finally go out without a sweatshirt and all the trees and flowers were blooming. 

On the way home, you stopped by the local dog park and let Yogi off his leash to really tire him out. You and Eddie sat down on a bench and watched him run around in circles and play with other dogs. There were multiple times where the dog would run over to you with a tennis ball in his mouth. You weren’t sure where he got it from but you still threw it for him. Other times he’d just come over and jump up on either one of you to get some love from you guys. Soon he would be too big to comfortably hold on your lap so it was important to cherish these little moments while you still could. Once Yogi jumped off and ran to chase another dog, Eddie leaned over to whisper, “He’s definitely your kid, he always needs attention” into your ear. You turn to him and scoff before punching him in the arm. 

“Shut up! He’s my kid? He’s got your energy levels and chaotic personality!” Your boyfriend leans back in with a chuckle to wrap an arm around you, rubbing one of your arms to stave off the chill that hit you both from the breeze. The wind was blowing Eddie’s hair around and the afternoon sun was starting to shine onto both of you, making his beautiful brown eyes almost glow. 

Eddie stops to think for a moment before responding, “Well, he snores like you.” 

You raise your eyebrows at the accusation but immediately hit back with, “Ok well he has your eyes and hair color. Can’t deny that, can we?” The metalhead sits there for a moment in contemplation, trying to come up with some witty response that could surely beat yours. His eyebrows are knitted and his mouth tightens into a thin line. 

The barking from all the dogs around fills the silence as Eddie spends a solid ten or fifteen seconds thinking before he replies, “Ok, you got me there… but he’s still your son! You’re the one who brought him home!”

A hand reaches up to scratch at his head after you roll your eyes and he just rests his head on your shoulder. You all spend a total of 45 minutes there, just enjoying each other's company like you always do and letting Yogi exhaust himself. He sends a video of Yogi play-fighting with a much larger German Shepherd to Uncle Wayne with the caption ‘your grand-nephew’, earning a laugh from both of you when he promptly replies ‘that child is 100% yours’.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The walk home wasn’t too difficult apart from a faint throbbing on the right side of your head - it’s not entirely unusual but it’s still uncomfortable.. You attribute the pain to the sun that was shining in your face for the better part of an hour and possible dehydration so Eddie graciously lends you his sunglasses, seeing as you left yours at home and, in his words, “They look much better on you anyway.” He takes note of your change in behavior, initially seeming very upbeat and talkative, but you get more quiet as the walk goes on. Fifteen minutes and two Excedrin later, you two finally arrive home and Yogi jumps onto the couch for his much-needed afternoon nap. Eddie is hanging up the dog’s leash after opening some of the windows to let in some fresh air. While he’s doing that, you shuffle past him and go into your bedroom and into the top drawer of your bedside table. He hears you moving bottles around until you pull out the large bottle of Advil to pop two blue pills into your mouth followed by a gulp of water. The pain has intensified and spread from beyond the side of your head and down to your forehead. It’s also making you feel lightheaded so you decide it’s best to just lay down for a bit before it gets any worse. You silently approach him from behind, the sound of your slippered feet the only sign of your approach and as you place a light kiss on his cheek. He instinctively turns around to look at you, smiling at first until he gets a good look at your face. He sees one of your eyes has begun to droop and you seem less lively than before, only giving him a forced smile that he has learned to see right through. His hands cradle your face, his own now marred with concern. You break the silence with a strained, “I’m going to go lay down for a while, I’m not feeling good.” Eddie nods in understanding and follows you to the bedroom where you’ve already drawn the blackout curtains shut. 

The first thing you do is change out of your clothes and once you’ve climbed back into bed you take another pill, something much stronger that you tend to reserve for your more intense episodes. Eddie is standing there at the foot of the bed and asks, “Do you want to be alone or do you want me to stay with you?” If this were earlier on in your relationship, Eddie might assume you wanted him there with him because you’d asked him previously, but he learned that sometimes you’d rather be alone while you wait for the attack to subside. It was nothing against him, it was just that you weren’t feeling good and didn’t want him to see you in that state all the time. This time you shake your head no and put your head down on the pillow. You’re suddenly hit with the scent of Eddie, a mix of his sandalwood scented shampoo, his cologne, and even a little bit of his aftershave. It’s the perfect combination of scents that always put you at ease so you scoot closer to his side of the bed to take it all in.

Thirty minutes pass and you aren’t feeling any better. In fact, you’re starting to feel worse. The pain has increased to the point that you’re now hyperventilating and whimpering. The pain is less throbbing and more of a sharp, stabbing sensation. You remember a headache that made you shoot out of bed and almost scream, feeling like someone just took an icepick and shoved it into the front of your head. It lasted maybe 15 seconds but you had never felt pain like that before. Your doctor said you should have gone to the hospital for that, claiming it could have been a possible aneurysm. Well, this migraine was somehow worse than that. Your whimpering soon turned to crying. It’s quiet at first, inaudible to Eddie reading over in the living room with Yogi’s head on his lap. You’re about an hour and a half into the attack where you can no longer take the pain alone and call out, “Eddie?”, but the closed door prevents him from hearing it. You try again, this time louder and trembling, “EDDIE PLEASE I NEED YOU”.

Eddie jumps up out of his place on the couch, accidentally waking the slumbering dog up in the process. His book is abandoned as he rushes into the bedroom and over to your trembling form. Your eyes are wide open with tears. You’re laying on your side in the fetal position, clutching at the bedsheets. Your boyfriend crawls onto the bed so he’s hovering over you. You don’t move your head but at least you make eye contact with him, your voice still quivering and still increasing in volume as you beg him to make the pain stop. Eddie is shushing you and attempting to get you to control your breathing and eventually calm down, but that only turns into you hyperventilating more. The hyperventilating only makes the pain worse which in turn makes you cry again which makes your head throb even more. It’s an endless cycle which neither of you know how to stop. The bed creaks as Eddie moves to partially lay beside you so your eyes meet. He takes one of your hands and squeezes it, cooing, “Sweetpea, you need to calm down. Crying is only going to make it worse.” 

You immediately yell back, “I KNOW!” before groaning and rolling onto your back with your face in your hands. Eddie is dumbfounded. He has never seen you like this before. Hell, in all the time he’s been with you while you had migraines he barely even saw you cry let alone become hysterical.

His thoughts are interrupted by your wavering voice again. “Eddie I can’t feel my leg, why can’t I feel my leg.” His face turns from worried to scared, shooting up right away. He wasn’t a doctor, but that did not sound normal. This was a completely new symptom. Seconds later, you cry out, “Eddie I can’t feel my arm either please help me.” He doesn’t say anything, instead getting up off the bed and rushing to your drawer to grab another pill. He grabs your water and manages to help you take the pill and drink it in hopes that maybe a second pill will do the trick. Eddie watches you and goes over his options in his head. Does he call your mom? She gets migraines too, so maybe she knows what to do. Maybe your neurologist? No, he doubts they’ll be able to do anything. He realizes there’s only one real option, one you’ve turned down every time your migraines get really bad.

“Honey, do you want to go to the hospital?”

You shake your head in between sobs and Eddie immediately takes action. He gets you your sandals, the easiest shoes for him to  get on your feet, and helps you up. You’re wobbling with tears running down your face. As you’re about to leave the bedroom, he briefly lets go of you to rush over to the table next to the front door and grab his sunglasses from before. He places them on you and you thank him with a sniffle. Once you two are steps away from the front door, you hesitate. Eddie looks at you with worry and you say, “I… I don’t have a bra on.” Eddie has to remind you that the doctors don’t care and goes back to helping you move. The two of you make your way out the door as fast as you can go, which isn’t much considering your condition. In a moment of panic, Eddie picks you up in his arms and rushes through the halls of the apartment complex and out to the nearest exit. He’s thanking every god there is that you two managed to snag parking spots so close to the entrance. He yanks the passenger side door open and puts you in and buckles you up. He’s in the driver's seat seconds later and begins haphazardly pulling out of the parking spot and towards the exit. Eddie’s mind is filled with potential scenarios on what's going on. Was this a seizure? Your neurologist had you tested for that last year and nothing came up. What if it’s a stroke? A brain bleed? He’s so distracted by his anxieties and getting to the hospital that he doesn’t notice your breathing start to even out and your posture fix itself. You aren’t crying or hyperventilating at all. About thirty seconds into the drive with the exit in sight, you look up and calmly tell him, “It’s over.”

Eddie slams his foot on the break and goes, “WHAT?” and looks at you with bewilderment. He looks past the sunglasses you’re wearing and sees how you seem to have made a completely full recovery. All the medication you took seems to have kicked in all at once. Your mind is clear and it’s like the attack never even happened. “Wait, so do you still need to go to the hospital?” All you do is shake your head and he lets out a giant sigh of relief, no longer clutching the steering wheel and hangs his head now as he begins to calm down and let himself catch his breath. You both sit there and process everything that just happened. Without a word, Eddie turns the car around and drives back to the parking spot. This time you’re able to get out on your own and meet Eddie at the front of the car. He pulls you in for a tight hug. Muffled by your shirt, he says,

“Never do that again, please. I thought you were dying.”

Your face is buried in his chest, and he only hears ‘mm-hmm’ before you let go of him and take off the sunglasses to look up at him. He’s inspecting your face again. You still don’t look the way you did before the attack but you’ve got more life in your eyes. Your eyelids are still drooping but now you just look tired. 

You rub at your eyes and mumble, “Can we go back inside?”

Eddie nods and wraps his arm around you, letting you lean on him as you two walk back into the building. He clocks how drowsy you’re getting - this is normal, something he sees every time you get a migraine. The two of you return to your apartment without speaking with you, taking the lead upon entry and going back to bed. Eddie follows close behind and this time joins you, holding you close and pressing a kiss to your forehead. He was exhausted by the whole event and fell asleep shortly after you did. The only noise that echoed through the apartment was the sound of his snoring and the snoring coming from Yogi the next room over.

[doberbutts]

@corvus--caurinus

Yup! Per my neurologist, before the mid/late 00s the medical community was sort of, uh, unconcerned about so-called "minor" concussions, because the symptoms didn't seem to last longer than a few seconds and thus it was treated as a non-issue. Most parents didn't take their kids to the doctor for them and the few who did were told to let the kid rest for a day and then get back to life as normal.

Then a breakthrough study happened and revealed there is no such thing as a "mild" concussion. All concussions are concussions and all concussions are brain injuries. And all concussions run an exponentially higher risk of increasingly dangerous and life-affecting symptoms as you knock your brain around more and more. And with each subsequent concussion, you run the serious risk of these symptoms becoming permenant brain damage. Turns out, your brain does not actually like to be jumbled around in there, who knew.

The white flash is usually caused by one of two things: a jarring motion in your retinas (not a concussion) or the impact of your brain banging against the fluids and other matter inside of your skull (that's a concussion). Same if you "see stars"- the "stars" are the damaged nerves that just banged into something firing off electrical impulses trying to figure out how to cope with what just happened. And of course if you hit your head or are shaken to the point of losing consciousness, that's your brain's equivilant of the computer that, when smacked, turns itself off. All of these are concussions, and while it may seem like knocking yourself out should result in a worse concussion than just seeing stars, brains don't always follow that rule. All of these concussions will eventually stack on top of each other and will cause a major TBI once you hit your head a little too hard or perhaps even just one too many times.

So when he said "okay so you were never *treated* for a concussion but have you ever had this happen after hitting your head?" well... yes, actually. I was hit in the head by a thrown baseball bat (accidentally) in gym class and promptly took a nap. I was awake and otherwise fine in a few minutes so besides being sent home that day and having a large bruise/egg nothing really happened. I was doing flips on the gymnastic bars and lost my grip and whacked my head against the ground and, you guessed it, was unconscious. By the time my friends got the recess teacher over I was already awake and just a little dazed- again they sent me home but that's it. I fell through one of those dome monkey bars at a playground with my mom and hit the ground head/neck first. This was before the age of cell phones so Mom told me she was trying to figure out what to do about her very unresponsive child in the middle of the park (it's dangerous to move someone who may have broken their back/neck but she also can't just leave me laying on the ground to knock on someone's door to call 911) when I woke up and outside of a stiff neck seemed "quiet but fine".

In fairness according to my neuro there's not really much a doctor *could* have done medically as I bounced back without any problems except maybe have me take it easy for a couple weeks (I'd've died of boredom with no stimulation) but it still should have been noted that each of those were concussions. Then the amount of times that I've been dazed or saw lights... too many to count. I work with high energy dogs in an impact sport, they headbutt me or punch me or knock me to the ground all the time. I was an active kid and an athlete prior to my heart acting up, so sport-related injuries just sort of come with the package and that includes knocks on the head.

But sitting in his office and hearing him say that, and then recovering from the TBI and examining what it's done to my life... it made me realize how much people take for granted. It just takes one too many knocks on the head. He said the major thing he regrets as an older neurologist is that for a very long time, most of his practicing career and certainly a significant portion of my own life, no one really cared about concussions. But the line between concussion and TBI is very blurred, because in truth a concussion *is* a brain injury, and at some point you will concuss yourself much much worse than you were expecting due to the buildup of damage from not taking hitting your head seriously.

The best way to think of it is breaking your ankle. A broken ankle is a broken ankle, there's no such thing as a "mild" broken ankle. But there are grades of severity- a hairline fracture on a single bone is a broken ankle, but recovery time and process are relatively straightforward in most cases. Completely shattering multiple bones on the other hand significantly lengthens recovery time and the process is significantly more involved with a risk of further complications. If you keep doing whatever it is that gave you a hairline fracture, one day you won't be so lucky, and you will completely shatter the whole joint assembley.

That's how concussions are. Those cute little knocks that cause a white flash and nothing else? That's a warning to stop doing that and be more careful. You get to hobble around in a boot for a while to think about your choices leading up to this point. Knocking yourself out? Well you've snapped a bone. You get a cast and some crutches. Full blown TBI? Congrats, the whole ankle is fucked and you need major surgery now.

[lapdogchase]

apparently at the end of my dog's last neurology appointment she saw like several of the neurologists crowding around the one way window to look in the room bc they all wanted to see him. my boy's famous... he's a star...

[brettanomycroft]

Signals from Somewhere Else

After episode 22 of Protocol, there’s one thing (okay, maybe two things) that everyone is going to be talking about. But I don’t want to talk about that thing (yet. Okay, I lied, it might come up). Instead, I want to dive into some of the implications of this week’s case and how they might relate FR3-D1 [Error], and even Isaac Newton.

Spoilers for TMAGP episodes 21 and 22 below the cut. CW: we’re gonna talk about the brain stuff; probably overuse of the words “fleshy” and “wet” by I blame AJN for that.

Our case in this episode, graciously recounted by Peepaw Augustus, focuses on real-life German psychiatrist and neurologist Hans Berger, whose work led to the invention of the EEG and furthered our understanding of how brainwaves work. The experiment described in the case mirrors actual experiments that Berger completed while working at the University of Jena, including experimentation on a subject with a deformity that allowed easy access to the brain and the placement of silver wires under the scalp to measure electrical activity. Even Berger’s disappointing initial results seem to be in line with history.

Like in real life, the cosmic horrors of this case begin when Berger takes a little depression nap.

The description of “an ocean, deep and unforgiving… full of dark secrets” creates a striking image to be sure, but what’s more interesting to me here is what he recalls next: the “radio signals, invisible and unknowable.” Berger laments that it’s a “shame these two things would never meet,” and then proceeds to enable such a thing to happen, whether he realizes it or not.

He wakes up and is immediately “inspired” to alter the setup he is using to record Herr Schmidt’s brain activity. While Berger is unable to explain how he came up with the idea (we could tell him: it was The Horrors, bud), he transforms his recording device (an early version of an EEG) into a two-way wireless telegraph, using poor Herr Schmidt’s brain as the receiver for the very radio waves that, perhaps, were never meant to make contact with the world below. Berger sent a politely phrased request into the void, and the void screamed back.

Who or what was on the other side can only be guessed at. Was it John/Martin/Jonah, individually or Frankensteined into some horrid chimerical conscience (please read this great post and have your heart broken like me)? Was it The Fears of the Archives-verse, recombined and tossed about like naughty pears in a pear wiggler? Or was it something or someone else entirely? I’m leaning towards JMJ, in parts or as a whole, specifically because I suspect that Hans Berger’s strange (and wetly explosive, thanks Alexander J. Newell) discovery provides a clue to how [Error] and possibly FR3-D1 operate.

Let’s start with [Error]. Here’s what we know about them so far:

They were locked up in tunnels or a basement space under the Archivist’s office at the Manchester Magnus Institute

Something about them causes people, dead and alive, to recount their fears or horrible things that have happened to them (I am not using the word compel here, even though it is used in the transcript for episode 21, and that is on purpose)

They seem very invested in getting the entire story out (this is, admittedly, speculation, as it’s unclear as to whether “THERE IS MORE” is in reference to more victims or more of Gwen’s story)

They have some really weird dogs

I’ve seen a lot of folks speculate that [Error] is or was the Head Archivist in the Protocol universe, and I’ve also seen a lot of folks speculate that [Error] is or was John (and therefore also The Archivist). I think either of these could be true, but more than anything, I think [Error] is a high-powered antenna with the ability to turn the people around them into speakers. Or maybe Speakers? I do love a good capitalization.

What if the “esteemed brethren” of The Magnus Institute were all too aware of the unusual results of Berger’s experimentation, and hoped to tap into the unusual consciousness(es) floating around in the radio waves and ether of the universe by creating their own version? Perhaps they thought they could create a direct conduit (think almost like a psychic medium) through a person, someone who might be able to communicate with whatever is out there and be able to relay its/their esoteric knowledge to help further the Institute’s goals of “Universal Transmutation.” We know already that the Institute was interested in doppelgangers and perhaps alternate universes and that they had a lot of irons in the fire (the Millenium Dome, the gifted child programme, Welling’s Mutare Materia research program, the various outreach centres), so it would hardly be surprising if they were also experimenting in communicating with “the beyond” to try and gain more knowledge.

And maybe it worked. Maybe they were able to create or transmute someone into an antenna, capable of receiving these strange signals, except these mixed signals were too powerful and ultimately took over. Perhaps [Error] is the natural consequence of who or whatever was speaking to Berger finally getting “OUT.” And if who or whatever was speaking to Berger happened to include the fractured consciousness of a hungry Archivist, well then, we have an interesting case for [Error]. [Error], whether or not they were an/The Archivist in this universe, could now be directed by the desires of The Archivist, channeling The Archivist’s thoughts and abilities but with a power greater than that we ever saw in John (or, perhaps, the same power but completely unrestrained by his remaining humanity). Or [Error] could be channeling The Fears themselves, bringing parts of them through not unlike they were brought through in The Magnus Archives.

Either way, I doubt that creating a connection between whatever was out there and the physical world led to the results the Institute was hoping for.

[Error] is receiving the signal to feed, but the signal coming through is so loud and so powerful that instead of politely asking to snack on some horror stories, coming into contact with them instead allows them to pick up on a person’s horrible experience and forces them to broadcast it to the world. It’s possible that, upon creating [Error] or losing control of [Error], those at The Magnus Institute locked them up and cut them off from the dangerous signal they were receiving… Sam accidentally poking a big hole in the floor (and the alchemical signals inscribed in it) could have reestablished the connection between [Error] and the force guiding them.

Now let’s talk about FR3-D1. We know that FR3-D1so far is that it

Is a “bespoke” internet software developed sometime in the mid-90s, apparently designed to search the internet for spooky stuff

Has German source code

Crashes, constantly, much to Colin’s dismay (? Or maybe he’s helping those crashes along to stop it from listening in… but that’s a theory for another time)

Has, within the last year or so of Sam joining the O.I.A.R., started running a text-to-speech program that reads certain cases out in one of three voices, two of which are familiar to anyone who has listened to The Magnus Archives

Occasionally has some unusual .JMJ errors

Seems to be “targeting” Sam with specific cases related to The Magnus Institute

Is believed to be “listening in” by Colin, Alice, and Sam (which is supported by what we know as the audience)

Has been working “better” since Colin has been on mandatory mental health leave

May have some connection to the Stasi, the secret police force of Communist East Germany before the fall of the USSR

Is assumed (by us as the audience) to have some kind of sentience

There are some other items (notably the spreadsheets found in the ARG that appear to be from or connected to FR3-D1and the emails Sam and Gwen have received) that could be connected to FR3-D1 but have not yet been confirmed. Yet aspects of FR3-D1 do seem to share some commonality with [Error], namely a level of sentience and the ability to locate the stories of people who have had horrifying supernatural encounters.

My speculation here is that FR3-D1 and [Error] were both constructed using the same premise or with the same goal in mind: to receive and channel the signals of entities or consciousnesses existing in or coming from “Somewhere Else”: FR3-D1 through a supernaturally or alchemically conceived software program, and [Error] through a supernaturally or alchemically conceived transmutation on a living human.

If this proves to be the case, then the results seem… distinct, albeit with the potential to be equally dangerous. FR3-D1 is more “controllable” and could potentially be better able to separate out the signals being received, manifesting as “Augustus,” “Chester,” and “Norris.” Now these “three” could still be part of homunculus-esque JohnMartinJonah consciousness, but perhaps the computer program is a little more stable and delineated than the fleshy wet mess of the human brain, and therefore what remains of each individual consciousness is able to act more distinctly and independently. In contrast, [Error] (and their fleshy wet mess of human brain) is receiving the signals all mixed and jumbled together, with no failsafes to keep them from “overloading” or being entirely taken over by The Horrors or JMJ or The JMJ Horrors. Given their spectral descriptions, it’s possible that fleshy human brain and body couldn’t take it anymore and, pun intended, gave up the ghost.  

[Error] could be, in some ways, a bodiless, mindless soul acting on a confused mess of instinct and hunger; FR3-D1 is then, perhaps, the elevated mind, in (more) control but disconnected from a body and perhaps from a soul. Given the heavy influence of alchemy in The Magnus Protocol and the importance in alchemy of the number three, the Tria Prima, and the balance of mind, body, and soul, there may be a third entity we have yet to meet who, like FR3-D1 and [Error], are tuned into these signals from beyond and is eager to reunite with the rest… or perhaps FR3-D1 and [Error] are looking for a body of their own to inhabit and find balance (Sam, anyone?).

I feel like I myself am beginning to mix the signals I started with, but before I attempt to wrap this up, I do briefly want to throw one more piece of spaghetti on the wall, because I think it’ll wind up being something: the mention, specifically, of the silver wire the Berger used in his experiment.

It was Dr. Caton who recommended that Berger use the silver wire, as silver is known for being an effective conductor of electricity. Silver also holds importance as one of the seven metals of alchemy and as a possible base metal in the creation of a Philosopher’s Stone. Perhaps equally important here is that the Diana’s Tree, also known as the Arbor Philosophorum, is created using a solution including silver (or more accurately, silver nitrate) and mercury (one of the elements in the Tria Prima)… yep, the (sort of) same spooky tree created by Newton in TMAGP 19, where Newton gave his dog an existential crisis and Robert Hooke was like “burn it all down.” The conclusion we could draw here is that silver is used in both TMAGP 19 and TMAGP 22 to connect organic life to the unseeable Knowledge of some other plane… with potentially disastrous effects.

Whether it ends up being the case that FR3-D1 and [Error] are big antennas wirelessly receiving The Horrors or I’m totally off base, it seems pretty clear that Hans Berger “tuned in” to an unusual—and dangerous—signal, and what’s more, enabled that signal to connect with the Protocol world in a way that likely never should have happened.

[fatkish]

It is a medical condition but you eventually grow out of it, there is no need for a medical bracelet or a service dog but sometimes there is a need for checks up at the neurologist

It happens when youre stressed out or under big emotions or just in a room where is a bad flow of fresh air (like theres a lot of people in the same room)

I would prefer if you would write it when theyre (and reader) are students but do like you feel would be the best

(sorry for my poor english if theres some mistakes😥😥)

Bakugou, Shoto and Izuku x Fainting Spell Reader

Bakugou:

The only one who didn’t panic since he suspected that the reader merely fainted and brought her to the nurses office

Whenever people are starting to stress the reader out, he yells telling people to shut up

Would likely force Kaminari to go dumb if it’ll calm the reader down

Carries sound cancellation headphones that he’ll put on the readers head and plays music on them

If the reader misses class due to a spell, he’ll let the reader copy his notes from class

Shoto:

First time it happened he internally panicked thinking he somehow caused the reader to faint and thought he might be cursed

Carries a pillow on him at all times for when the reader faints

Always keeps an eye on the reader and uses his quirks to cool them down or warm them up

Carries water and snacks for the reader for when they wake up

Let’s the reader take a nap on his shoulder whenever they’re tired

Izuku:

First time it happened poor boy was freaking out and terrified

Went home and researched everything there is to know about the topic

Whenever the reader is in a situation where they might faint, Izuku pulls them outside and helps them calm down (even though he’s a nervous wreck)

Tries telling bad jokes to calm the reader down in stressful situations

Discreetly tracks the reader’s spells and notes down everything that occurs when they faint so that he can predict when they may happen

He has a separate notebook for the reader that he takes notes in for them

(Sorry if it’s short, I’ll be adding to it as things come to me)

[ringmaster-pixie]

(woah more people??)

all of them but pixie and liz are dead.//

Name: Joey Morley (available for asks via oujia!- aka just the ask thing lolol. Also if you wanna send an rp starter clarify if u mean dead or alive- this applies for everyone that says “oujia” or was listed on the oujia post :3)

Relation: Little brother

Age: 5

Quote: “Why is Pixie always so sad, mama? Is it because of her orange juice?”

Pose context: Running away from pixie (trying to kill him).

Job: amateur baseball player

VC: Rudolph (nose covered)

Extra info: Oddly mature for his age!

Theme song: Remember You

Text color: red

Name: Gina Dystru Morley (oujia)

Relation: Mom

Age: 33

Quote: “Pixie, don’t make this harder than it has to be. Drink the medicine.”

Pose context: See quote (I’m not mad…)

Job: Stay at home, devoted follower of Artemis

VC: Kristen Bell

Extra info: Family’s most devoted follower of Artemis

Theme Song: My Alcoholic Friends

Text color: Blue

Name: Dr. Tree Christian (Tree) (oujia)

Relation: Therapist (Mom’s secret lover)

Age: 36

Quote: “I need you to listen to me, pixie. This isn’t healthy, nor is it normal.”

Pose context: Either resting his head on his hand in stress/disappointment, or thinking of what he’s gonna do about pixie

Job: Therapist

VC: Stanford Pines

Extra info: Former alcoholic, pixie’s gonna change the “former” part.

Theme song: I love you like an alcoholic

Text color: Green

Name: Archibald “Archie” Morley (oujia)

Relation: Father

Age: 30

Quote: “And then I just add this, and… and then it explodes. That’s… haha… NOT supposed to happen!”

Pose context: Watching everyone walk away after the divorce (…just disappointed.)

Job: Neurologist… that’s definitely it nothing else

VC: Micheal kovach

Extra info: amateur singer/songwriter/guitarist

Theme song: Weird Science (Oingo Boingo)

Text color: bold blue

Name: Lola Perrlev (oujia)

Relation: Childhood BFF

Age: 9

Quote: “Well, I think your circus stories are cool and stuff! It could use a dog character or two though…”

Pose context: See quote above

Job: Student

VC: Molly Blyndeff

Extra info: LOVES dogs

Theme song: Army Dreamers

Text color: Pink

Name: Pixie Morley (not available for asks yet)

Relation: N/A

Age: 10

Quote: “I DONT CARE IF YOU HURT ME! You’re hurting THEM. You’ll feel the same, soon enough.”

Pose context: Thinking of ideas

Job: N/A

VC: Spinel (or me)

Extra info: “Active imagination”

Theme song: Entropy

Text color: bold white/black

Name: Pixie  ̶M̶o̶r̶l̶e̶y̶ (runs account)

Age: 13 forever :]

Quote: “Im practically an adult. And I bet I make more money than you anyways so ZIP IT! Anyways time to go sing wicked! HUUAAHAAOAOA-🎶”

Job: PFC’s ringmaster

VC: Spinel (or me)

Extra Info: Her vision is staticky and glitchy

Theme Song: My ordinary life / fine

Text color: Bold red

Name: 3l¡z∆b3th (@its-weird-el)

Relation: ???

Age: ??? “22”

Quote: “You can never really be free, kid. Not even I am! I have the author, and you have me!”

Job: God of weirdness, protector

VC: jinx / me with effects and stuff

Extra info: She’s in contr- [REDACTED]

Theme song: Labyrinth x Mind Electric https://open.spotify.com/episode/4CaIK2aOzWnN9GhkHKnZaL?si=kiGvQIsGQWymKbXr4_kOnA, Jax toy

Text color: bold and gold!

[morganbritton132]

Re: the privacy issue

At any point does Eddie start to think about a bodyguard?

When Eddie’s touring, he has a bodyguard.

It was a stipulation that the label had when signing the band because at that point, they were pretty infamous for being run out of town. It turns out that the people with the loudest opinions about devil music are often the ones holding rocks, and they aren’t much swayed by Eddie’s dropped charges or his governor issued public apology.

“The label is investing with you,” CC’s first manager, Pete, used to say, “It’s about time you boys start investin’ in ya’selves and don’t get killed.”

So, they got a bodyguard.

His name was Daniel. He was the biggest guy Eddie’s ever seen, could take a punch like a champ, and never once realized in the two national tours and one world tour that half the band was queer. Corroded Coffin’s main hobby was seeing how quick they could ditch him.

Eddie has only brought getting a bodyguard off-tour a few times and each and every one of those times has ended in a fight.

Eddie brought up getting a bodyguard after he impulsively decided to come out publicly during an acceptance speech at the MTV music awards and paparazzi camped outside of their building. He brought it up when an overzealous fan pushed their way into Eddie’s orbit and nearly knocked Steve into the road.

He mentioned it after they got a letter in the mail with a picture of their apartment’s front door and a threat. He even suggested it after their move to the suburbs was met with the word MURDERER spraypainted across the front of their house, and it’s a fight. It’s an argument.

Eddie brings it up and Steve shuts it down. He is scrubbing red paint off the front of their new house and he tells Eddie, “If that’s what you need to feel safe than I think you should get one, but that’s not why you’re bring it up.”

“I still live here when I’m not here,” Eddie says back, spraying at the slur written on the sidewalk with the water hose. “Someone could come here looking for me and find you. Then what? Is it a crime to want to know that you’re safe when I’m gone?”

“What exactly do you think you’re going to do if you are here?” Steve asks and rolls his eyes when Eddie shoots him a look. “It’s not a crime, but I’m not being a prisoner in my own home to make you comfortable, Ed.”

It’s not said but Eddie knows the undertone in Steve’s voice. Steve doesn’t want a babysitter and Eddie’s never been able to make a good case of why a bodyguard is not that. The conversation tends to tip into an argument so he doesn’t press it further than that, he just cleans Chrissy’s name off their front steps.

Steve bumps his shoulder a few minutes later and tells him, “We have a friend that can explode someone’s head with her mind. If I need help, I’ll call El.”

“Or Nance.”

“Or Nance.”

Eddie hasn’t brought up getting a bodyguard in years but after the video at the neurologist, he thinks that there may be a case. Not for protection, but privacy. Steve laughs at him. He actually laughs and he asks, “So, what? We’re entitled assholes that smash people’s phones at the grocery store now?”

“When they’re taking a video of you crying.”

“Of course they’re going to take videos, Eddie. It’s going to be me, you, the dog, and Jim, the eight-foot bodybuilder buying a frozen pizza when you have munchies. That’s just more reason for people to be looking at us.”

[dailydoseofselfcare]

Things I have learned about epilepsy from my own experiences:

- does your head hurt because you had a seizure or because you’re about to have another seizure

- you get laughed at if you ask for non-caffeinated (non alcoholic) drinks basically everywhere. You have to make your own silly little drinks at home. Thanks Starbucks for giving me a caffeinated drink when I was very specific about no caffeine and then was laughed at when I asked for water. I had a grand mal seizure after that.

- “just go to a doctor! Go to the ER!” I got told last time I went to the ER that I was faking it despite having a diagnosed seizure disorder and then they billed me $2,000

- “go to a neurologist!” The soonest appointment is in 6 months

- well you’re just “emotional” I am having. Seizures. I am having grand mal seizures. I am not emotional.

- “why can’t you work? It doesn’t impact your life that much.” No employer is going to let me be brain dead most of the day from seizures, or call out as much as I need to for doctors appointments.

- “I think you’re just trying to avoid work and be lazy at home.” Do you know what I would give right now to be able to drive to the fucking store for some groceries. I am actively making Christmas presents already because I have nothing to do.

- “get a seizure dog! Then you can go places!” Please for the love of god do research on how much they cost and how often people with service animals are harassed. Also I still wouldn’t be able to drive.

I am fucking. Tired. Of this shit.

Reminder not to tag flashing things as epilepsy on this website.