#i wonder who else you will get dear system anon. my brain is full of enstars characters (and leviathan from obey me but he just lives in th

[mysunshine-youremoonlight]

what they don't tell you about being a system is that sometimes your brain will spit out a mika kagehira. and now he just lives in your brain. and says weird things to you and you just have to pretend it's normal and fine when it is not (silly) (i love my mika he's funny) -🪴

forreal. just wait until you go insane abt a character and then split them 5 minutes later and go "oh. that's why." OR you go insane abt a character and split a character who is ALSO insane abt them and you suddenly understand why. (the first one happened w/ my izumi fictive. the second one was my mao)

have fun with your mika <3

[kenobster]

📝🗣️

please i just love u talking abt ur fics

From this ask game.

Ahhhh thanks so much, anon!!! I'm super flattered. :D

I'm still sloooowly working my way through the asks I have in my inbox, but this one luckily had great timing so I'm doing this one before the others. (Though maybe this isn't what you wanted, anon... in which case, my deepest condolences. XD)

🗣️ Talk about your favorite WIP

We are using this question as an excuse to talk about the Vader Mpreg AU, which is, in fact, my favorite AU, but also is convenient for another post I was gonna make today, haha.

For context, there are a few things you should know about me:

I did not watch The Rise of Skywalker until literally three or four weeks ago.

I have never written an mpreg in my life. (It's true that lizard brain craves noncon in a way that compels me to read the occasional mpreg... But while writing my own fic, I do try to keep lizard brain's demands as realistic and in character as humanly possible.)

Perhaps the most important thing to note: lizard brain always wins.

Anyway... this all started when I happened upon the RoS spoiler: "Rey is Palpatine's granddaughter" in the year of 2022. Having not watched the movie, I immediately wondered who the fuck the grandmother is (a question to which my actual RL mother ceaselessly chants "Mommy Mothmama" every time; do not ask me why.) Of course, lizard brain, being lizard brain, immediately headcanoned a dubiously consenting Darth Vader somehow being this elusive grandmother person. (The "somehow" was not important to lizard brain.)

For a year or so, I actually put off watching RoS — in small part because lizard brain didn't want its headcanons to be refuted. Fortunately for lizard brain, I have amazingly supportive friends who informed me that Rey is actually the daughter of a strand (aka a special Force clone) which was cast into the world only to hook up with some unknown female. Unfortunately for my friends, lizard brain realized that this information didn't refute its grandma!Vader headcanons at all. Quite the opposite in fact. 🙄

Thus, began the saga of lizard brain's precious Vader Mpreg AU.

In summary, Palpatine creates a synthetic uterus to host an ordinary clone of himself. Then, he implants the uterus into Vader's abdomen and fucks the shit out of him to get some perverse dark-sided Force magic going. Why, you ask? :) Well, dear anon, in order to transform this regular clone baby into a strand of course, lizard brain replies. :) :) :) To be clear, there is no creation of a vagina nor any other method to give birth. Instead, this strand baby, once ripe for the picking, is simply plucked from Vader's abdomen via c-section, and a newly prepped uterus is inserted in its place. After that, Palpatine repeats this process and all of its trial-and-error glory every nine months for the rest of Vader's life. (But don't worry; Vader will eventually flee to Obi-Wan, who is horrified to find his once-Padawan eight months pregnant.)

Honestly, excepting dubcon/noncon, this actually isn't that weird for me. Lizard brain already possesses a plethora of headcanons in which Palpatine modifies Vader's body. The uterus implanting kinda just feels like an extension of that. (For an example of these headcanons, urinary and intrarectal catheters have been installed into Vader's body, not out of medical necessity, but because it would be inconvenient for Vader to have to pee and poop while dressed in the suit. For another, maybe Palpatine put in a full-blown mechno spine replacement to eliminate bothersome nervous-system functions such as the registration of pain.)

In fact, while this body-modifying headcanoning won't enable live births or lactating breasts (for now.... please don't tempt my lizard brain), it will go beyond the uterus. :) For example... prepping Vader for sex sounds like an incredibly tiresome task, and it's not like anyone else can do it. Vader doesn't have any limbs, after all. Instead, Palpatine wonders, why not have Vader's anus be self-lubricating in way similar to that of a vagina? Why not scifi-gene-splice the shit out of that butt canal? Why the fuck not?

📝Share a snippet of an unposted WIP, with or without context.

I feel like the above AU description is pretty clinical, so I thought it would be fun to bring some emotion back to it via the use of a snippet. So, enjoy the wildly inappropriate noncon of a pregnant male villain:

At some point, he realizes the truth—that it isn't him being fucked into the mattress, face down, ass hooked on his Master's cock. Sidious isn't fucking Darth Vader or even his body. Sidious isn't even fucking Anakin Skywalker. In actuality, Sidious is fucking the uterus. The womb. The fetus. The uncast strand, the unborn infant. In actuality, Sidious is fucking himself. The truth of it has him choking on the respirator, on a dry and tearless sob, because this isn't about him, none of this was ever about him, it's about what Sidious wants, what Sidious likes, what Sidious craves. Vader is only the conduit of this ritual—far less than a pet or even a slave. Once, yes, he may have been an object of Sidious's obsession, and maybe he liked that, maybe he liked the way that Sidious took pride in what was once his greatest creation, in twisting Anakin Skywalker into this charred and rotten beast of a Sith. Because, even loveless, Sidious's pride burns value into Vader's flesh. Makes Vader feel as if he matters, as if he's worth something, as if he can live up to the magnitude of the pressure smothering him from the inside out. Punishment, after all, and pain and strife and sorrow, are their own kind of affection, ideal for the swollen carcass of need festering within his chest, and often better than the shame that blooms with praise.  Right now, as his sphincter clenches around the cock inside him, as the base of his spine shoots overwhelming pleasure upward, as a fetus kicks at its shrinking walls pressed against the mattress, Vader finds that he is being neglected. The absence of Sidious's intimacy leaves his furnace-heart chilly and black and hollow, and he chokes and sobs and chokes and sobs, and the monotonous blue-blue-blue of this bedroom becomes half-blurred and dizzy as a torrent of tears spills from his right eye's still-functioning tear duct. The thrusting crests, and tapers out. Sidious's breathing evens, but Vader's choked sobs just won't die.

I would say I'm sorry, but I am who I am lmao.

[jackdaw-kraai]

Hi! I really love your Engineer Luke verse and I was wondering if you have any writing advice about drafting, editing, and then also making the time (because I think you mentioned that at least this installment is entirely drafted, and also that you may be writing more than 50k this month? which is really really amazing and also awe inspiring) Anyways I hope you have a good day!!

Alright, anon, this took a bit of time, but I wanted to be able to give you the best answer I possibly could. 

The truth is, half the time I don’t even believe I’m a decent writer, let alone a good one, so answering this required a bit of battling with my imposter-syndrome. Because in all honesty? I largely just fuck around until I accidentally stumble upon something that could work. The Guides? Born entirely out of fucking around with @jasontoddiefor who encouraged and shamelessly enabled my crack ideas until they crystalized into something more than just crack.

So that’s where I advise to start: don’t take yourself seriously. Be crazy. Be ridiculous. Think of something utterly mad and then do it with a completely straight face. Think of something that makes you go “This is utterly ridiculous and too large for me and I won’t be able to pull it off” and then do it anyway. The Guides started as little more than crack and ridiculousness and even now, with all the plot and ideas and character studies and sheer worldbuilding poured into it, I still treat it primarily as something meant to make me happy. And what makes me happy is what the Guides are right here, right now.

Start there. With something that makes you laugh and cry and, above all else, happy. Nothing is too silly and every idea is worthy. That is your starting point.

Okay, so you’ve done that. Now what?

Well, now the actual plotting starts, and I want you to promise one thing: Keep it fun. If you aren’t having any fun working on the plot, I guarantee you you will burn out on the story even fast. Make it fun, make it wild, ignore plot holes if it means giving something up that makes you happy or patch them up with something makes you even happier. Konmari your plot and only keep what sparks joy. Talk to your friends, even if they aren’t writers, and ask if you can use them as a sounding board. Rubberduck method your plot like any good programmer does. Trust me, it does wonders. 

As for how much you need to plot, that’s up to you. I personally like to wing it and work out of my own head with only the major story beats figured out and a few scenes, and just fly by the seat of my pants in between there. I have plans for the Guides, but those are mostly the large, overarching story lines and for the rest I just let the story flow as it wills.

Now you have a plot, congrats! Let’s get to drafting. 

For that, I advise that you know how you want your story to end, how you want it to begin, and what you want to include. All those little scenes and sentences and other things you thought up? Now’s the time to start fiddling with them and figure out how to get them in. It doesn’t have to be any concrete plan, for me, personally, I just write and then realize that hey, with this written, next chapter I can do this and just do it. No thoughts, no planning, just bounding after a shiny idea like a dog after a squirrel.

If you’ve done that, it’s time to get to writing. 

For that, I give you Jackdaw’s Amazing Writing Guide: How To Write Like A Madman

-First, make sure you’ve got everything you need. In my case this is a full pot of tea (hydration), noise canceling headphones, and whatever sounds you like to write to (in my case I use tabletopaudio.com whenever I can muzzle Vader from wanting to listen to freaking Dear Theodosia again I SWEAR TO THE GODS VADER) Ahem.

-Second, set up some kind of reward system for your brain for that sweet, sweet dopamine. I use the nanowrimo website year-round because seeing all the numbers tick up makes my brain go weee! It can be stickers, sweets, anything what have you. Just something that gives immediate gratification and shows that you made tangible, visible progress.

-Third, eliminate “hard goals.” Set one wish for how much you want to write that day and be prepared to not make it. Not a goal. A wish. In my case, I wish to write 5k a day. Do whatever you feel comfortable with. I like to set a goal I know is a lot of work to get there or that I even might now reach because it keeps me focused, but something else may work for you. Set a goal that’s ridiculously easy because beating it makes you write more. Set a goal that’s moderately challenging because trying to reach it makes you write more. Set a goal that’s impossible because striving for the holy grail makes you write more. You know your brain, work with it instead of against it.

-Fourth, start writing. Just. Writing. Drink you liquids. Try to click away from your writing page as little as possible if you can make your brain work that way

-Fifth, use the reward system whenever your attention begins to drift or just because you feel like it. Wrote a chunk? Use them reward. Wrote one line? Use them rewards. Just. Whenever you feel like you need a reward. Trust me. Your brain knows better than that little shitheel voice telling you you need to “earn” it.

-Sixth, take breaks. No, seriously. Take breaks. For every twenty minutes working/writing, take a five minute break. Spent two hours working? Take a thirty minute break. It helps so much.

-Seventh, Drink your goddamn liquids. Dehydration is no bueno, and it makes for a Bad Time.

-Eight, rinse, repeat, and be proud at the end of the day of how much you’ve written, no matter how “little.” You made words! Be kind to the words, they’re only tiny and newborn, so be proud of them.

-Ninth, talk to people! Eat! Drink! Sleep! Take a walk! Take your meds! Do your fucking selfcare, you hear me? 

And for the rest, find time whenever you’re comfortable. A little time before homework and you want to write? Write! Just had a horrible zoom meeting and you’re really in the mindset to write that knockout drag-out fight your characters need to have? Write! It’s dark and cold outside but you just had dinner and you’re feeling good? Write! Just find a little time whenever, and write however much you can, and then be proud of yourself! 

You wrote! That’s huge! You made words that didn’t existed before and that’s something that deserves a pat on the back! Punch your depression/anxiety/dysmorphia/imposter-syndrome in the fucking dick with the fact that you created! You’re here! You made an impact! You’re real and amazing and you’re gonna do whatever the hell you want! 

And you’re gonna show everyone how goddamn incredible you damn well are.

Now go forth and write!

[theclaravoyant]

the right people ~ holt x kevin

As long as we’re with the right people, we can handle anything. - Amy Santiago - and also Raymond Holt, later that day.

AN ~ for the Anon who prompted: “Kevin comforting Holt when he doesn’t get the Commissioner position or celebrating with him when he does”. (And also for me, because it’s what we deserve.) This is emotional hurt/comfort so there’s some mild angst in here but it’s all wholesome I swear. Enjoy <3

Read on AO3 (~1800wd)

the right people

Kevin knew better than to wait up for Raymond on a night like this, and though he would have liked to spend the evening together – an increasing rarity in their lives of late – he could not begrudge Raymond the celebration of Peralta and Santiago’s wedding. Instead, he simply passed along his well-wishes for the newlyweds, and set peaceably enough about his evening routine. He cooked and ate tea, washed up, walked and fed Cheddar, pressed Raymond’s suit for the next day, and then retired to the lounge. There, he browsed Le Monde for a time, and then returned to his place in The Brothers Karamazov with a glass of port in his hand, ready to settle in for an evening of literary leisure.

It was at this moment that he was interrupted, and by the sound of Raymond’s keys in the door no less. Kevin glanced at the clock. It was hardly early, but still, something didn’t seem quite right.

“Raymond?” he wondered. Uncertainty tempered his joy at the thought of being able to spend the evening with Raymond after all. For a man whose friends had just celebrated their marriage, Raymond seemed awfully sullen. Kevin frowned, and set his book and drink aside. “… Is everything okay?”

Raymond did not bother to remove his coat or bag at the door, and instead headed right past Kevin and into the kitchen. Kevin leapt after him, now especially concerned that Raymond had apparently surpassed the melodramatic monologuing stage of whatever this was and had moved straight to something more drastic. Kevin’s concerns were only compounded when he found Raymond in the kitchen, having finally abandoned his coat and bag, staring deep into the soul of the microwave oven.

“Do we have ketchup?” Raymond wondered half-heartedly, watching goodness-knows-what spin around on its plate inside. There were only a few seconds to go.

“Ketchup?” Kevin’s frown deepened. “No, though if I remember correctly there is some tomato chutney in the-“

“Salt, then?”

“Top shelf, leftmost cupboard I believe. Why?” Kevin asked. “Raymond, what’s the matter? And what is…“

He trailed off when he saw the tell-tale red packaging strewn across the bench. The microwave chimed, and his stomach turned at the mere memory of the smell. Oh yes, he knew what that was.

Pizza pockets.

“Oh, no,” he objected.

“Oh, yes!” Raymond cried, raising the pizza pocket on the plate high as if it were some kind of holy punishment from ancient times. “I am a failure, Kevin, and so I shall eat the food… of failures.”

“I highly doubt that-“ Kevin began, only to find that Raymond had apparently recovered sufficiently from his initial disappointment to have re-entered the monologuing stage of… grief, or whatever this was.

“Peralta calls this his ‘comfort food,’” Raymond mused, turning the plate this way and that to study the pastry from all sides. “He assures me all will be well should I allow it to cradle me against its sodium- and preservative-filled bosom. Of course, I do doubt it, but then again, if today has taught me anything, it is that my opinion is meaningless. Everything is meaningless, except for this. This… pocket full of pizza is the only small chance at joy I have left in this world, Kevin. It is the one cheese- and bacon-filled star that remains in the black, burnt-out husk of the sky that is my career. It is… What. I. Deserve.”

Kevin could not stand idly by and untangle the net of mixed metaphors Raymond had just weaved for himself; not when, right before his very eyes, Raymond – with all the resignation of a heartbroken hero in a Shakespearean tragedy – plunged his teeth deep into the pizza pocket’s cheesy depths.

“No!” Kevin cried, knocking the plate and the rest of the pastry out of Raymond’s hands. “Don’t be ridiculous, Raymond. Why would you do this to yourself? Whatever is the matter, please tell me. It’s not about the wedding, is it? Because I already told you, I have no regrets about that.”

“No,” Holt agreed. “It’s not about the wedding. Such as it was. It is about… the job.”

“The Commissioner job?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t get it?”

Kevin blinked, flabbergasted. He was frozen in place, paralysed by confusion and no shortage of indignant fury, as Cheddar ran into the room and gleefully began licking up the cheese-and-bacon-flavoured mess he’d made. Raymond knelt to scratch Cheddar’s ears and murmur sweet nothings. Kevin’s brain ran the gauntlet of the Kubler-Ross Model.

First, denial. Could Raymond be joking? If so, it would not have been the first time he had used his subtle manner to extract humour of a practical nature. Immature though such a joke may have been about a thing like this, he was undoubtedly a little tipsy and may not have been thinking as clearly as he usually did.

Then again, the pizza pocket spoke to that well enough, and the amount of drink he had consumed had no doubt in itself been influenced by the receipt of such terrible news. It was not fair, it was simply not fair, Kevin thought. Raymond had worked impossibly hard, and fought frankly ridiculous odds, to stay with an organisation that had never cared for him. What else could the NYPD have possibly wanted Raymond to do? He could hardly have spent more early mornings or late nights at work. He could hardly have conducted himself more professionally. He could hardly have given up more than he did, or believed in the purest most idealistic heart and soul, the intended purpose as he saw it, of the NYPD any more than he did. Serve and protect. Kevin defied anyone to have done it better.

And yet, they had both seen this coming for a long time. Raymond had had to fight for every scrap of recognition, every case, every promotion he had ever received. He was a proud black man, and gay too, and not remotely ashamed of either of those facts. He had come out in the midst of the AIDS crisis and never looked back. Never backed down. He had stood up for Sergeant Jeffords, advocated for Santiago, and fought racial bias in the NYPD where ever he had found it. That had to be intimidating for an organisation chaired by white men who were comfortable in their ways, who baulked at change, who served the mission of the organisation to their own end. Maybe the other candidates for Commissioner had indeed been quality officers – Kevin knew himself better than to assume he would give any officer besides Raymond a fair assessment – but after watching his husband be systemically undermined at every turn…

The urge to march into the new Commissioner’s office and have a strongly worded discussion with him (if not an outright swordfight, which Kevin had also briefly entertained) began to fade. The inevitability of it all did sting, but Kevin realised, there was only so much he could do about it at this point. No doubt all of these thoughts, and more, had been running through Raymond’s mind ever since he’d found out about the board’s decision. It was no wonder he’d resigned himself to pizza pockets. And no matter what the reason, Kevin reminded himself, the fact remained that his husband was clearly extremely upset. Maybe he could not single-handedly fix the prison system or end mandatory sentencing, but pizza pockets? Not in his kitchen. At least that much, he could handle.

Taking a deep breath, Kevin brushed Raymond’s shoulder to regain his attention.

“Take a seat, Raymond,” he offered; for both their dignities, ignoring that Raymond was still all but curled up with Cheddar on the kitchen floor. “I have a plate for you in the oven. There is no need for you to torture yourself any further with that… ‘food’.”

Raymond sighed as well, and hefted himself off the floor with a visible effort.

“You are too good to me, my dear,” he declared, catching Kevin’s hand and squeezing it, leaning in for a brief embrace as they passed each other. “What would I do without you?”

“Experience an ischemic cerebrovascular accident, no doubt,” Kevin offered.

“No doubt indeed.” They had passed each other like orbiting planets as Raymond moved toward the dining table and Kevin toward the oven, but Raymond took his time releasing Kevin’s hand. He picked up the packet of pizza pockets from the bench, with three remaining pastries inside, and glanced over the list of ingredients on the back. To think, what he had been about to put into his body? Thank goodness for Kevin helping him see the light. Raymond dropped the box into the bin, and for the first time since reading those fateful words – we regret to inform you - a smile touched his lips. And not just because he was glad to be rid of those awful frozen pockets of pizza.

“Raymond, may I request back the use of my hand?” Kevin asked. “The plate is hot and it will be safer for both of us - and for your dinner - if I am able to use my full faculties.”

“Of course.”

Raymond released Kevin, and watched as he pulled a plate of roast cauliflower, broccoli, pumpkin, carrot, and lamb from the oven with all the grace and strength and decorum with which he had always conducted himself. The plate itself was nothing special, all of it unseasoned to perfection, and yet Raymond found himself staring rather moonishly as Kevin turned back and saw him.

“What is that look for?” Kevin wondered; flattered, if a little confused.

Raymond was thinking of what Amy had said earlier. What he himself had repeated at the bar. That as long as we’re with the right people, we can handle anything. His squad, certainly, was comprised of good people and he was proud to be their leader and their friend, but there was one ‘right person’ he had come dangerously close to overlooking tonight. How was he to convey how sorry he was, or how happy, how grateful, how loved? How could anyone bring themselves to write wedding vows at all? Then again, why did they need to, when three little words could achieve so much?

“I love you,” Raymond said.

Kevin’s expression softened.

“I love you too,” he said. Then, as they walked to the table together like it was any old Parisian street, he added: “Would you still like that salt?”

Raymond shook his head as they sat. “I don’t need it. Thank you.”

“No trouble at all, my love,” Kevin assured him. Of course, there was no need for the extraneous pet name, but after a long day, it never hurt to indulge. “No trouble at all.”

[psi-psina]

Hi. :) You don't know be but I've been following you for a little while now and since I saw your posts talking about Graves Disease I wanted to ask you about it. I'm a 19 yr old girl, and I was diagnosed with it a few months ago and started on PTU. I wanted to ask, what was your experience with doctors and medication like? You had to have your thyroid removed? I feel worried about how this is supposed to be managed long-term because my doctors can be quite dismissive. If you don't mind. :)

OH MY GOD

DEAR ANON PLEASE HEED THE FOLLOWING LEARN FROM MY MISTAKES

So this is my experience and for the LOVE OF GOD don’t let this happen to you.

I was diagnosed with graves disease at the age of 14, showing symptoms of fatigue, tremors in my hands, exophthalmos and a slight goitre. I was tested for sleep apnea before i was diagnosed. Once diagnosed, my mother took me to a naturopath rather than an endocrinologist (i was a child, i had no control over the situation PLEASE DON’T DO ANYTHING THIS STUPID) 😩. It didn’t go well. I was given a tincture of iodine and various herbs (including licorice :/), which i had to take for about 3 months. it did nothing for me and my symptoms steadily got worse until my mother had to take me back to the doctor. My blood work showed a significant worsening of my condition; my T3 & T4 were both far higher than they had been before.

I was put on Neo-Mercazole which I remained on periodically over the next 9 years. You cannot remain on thyroid suppressants indefinitely due to their nature and bastard side effects (expelling giant blood clots through your nose? horrific), which got gradually worse the longer I had to take them. I don’t know how your doctors are managing your PTU but be vigilant. You NEED to aim at getting in remission. I was monitored closely while taking NM over that first course, and then as my hormone levels returned to normal I was weened off it. I was okay for 2 years, and then relapsed when I was 17. I was put back on NM and monitored until my levels returned to “normal”, then I relapsed again when I was 20.

after this I remained on NM pretty much for the following 3 years, but it’s effectiveness started to wane and many of the diffuse symptoms (especially anxiety, palpitations, insomnia, tremors, goitre, exophthalmos etc) simply weren’t going away even when my blood work showed I was within a supposedly normal hormonal range, and I just slowly went downhill over those 3 years.

this is huge problem with regulating thyroid disorders like this, your hormones are measured only in your blood work but T3 and T4 are heavily protein-bound hormones, meaning it’s presence in your blood IS NOT always consistent with it’s presence in your other tissues, where it is able to accumulate (not indefinitely without detection, but enough to give you symptoms). Suppressants just didn’t work for me long-term. They couldn’t help my thyroid regulate my metabolism over an extended period of time, the thyroxine in my body just kept accumulating. Basically, the moment I relapsed when I was 17, I was fucked. I was not aware of this at the time, obviously. At the time I had absolutely no idea what was going on.

the events at the end of my Final Relapse that led up to my surgery were serendipitous and bizarre. I was travelling to Japan in the October (2013) for a few weeks (which i flat out should not have been doing lmao) and got an appointment with my doc because i needed to fill another script for NM before I left, because i was about to run out. So i went and got the script and then when I went to fill it at the pharmacy, I couldn’t get the NM. There was an international shortage of Neo-Mercazole and I was flying out of the country the literal next day and I couldn’t get any ANYWHERE. PTU was still available but I couldn’t get that with a script for NM either. So I had no medication for most of those three weeks.

When I got home I booked another appointment as soon as I could get one and went back to work. Got another blood test to see what was going on and finally got some PTU. A couple of days later I came down with a cold. My immune system was shot and I was struggling to do things like get out of bed and walk up stairs at this point so I called in sick to work on the monday because felt so ill, and made another doc appt for that afternoon because i needed a medical certificate.

I went in to the doctor expecting to walk out with a med certificate, and asked her about my bloodwork. She opened the bloodwork and looked at it, looked at me, then took my temperature and pulse and immediately called my endocrinologist. My T3 and T4 levels were so high they were not measurable, i was feverish and hazy and my resting heart rate was 160-170 bpm. She told me I needed to go straight to emergency because I was at risk of thyroid storm (at which point I just burst into tears lol) and she called ahead to the hospital to have me admitted immediately, and that was that. I was taken to the hospital and was monitored there for 4 days and given several medications to try to flush some of the excess thyroxine from my body to make it safe enough for them to cut my thyroid out, which happened four weeks later.

So aside from the more diffuse symptoms of anxiety, depression, insomnia, full body tremors, exhaustion, goitre and exophthalmos, I was admitted in emergency with acute symptoms like fever, tachycardia, chest pain, hypertension, muscle weakness, bloody diarrhea, peripheral edema and fuck knows what else. :/ None of these things really abated over the weeks leading up to the surgery, and I honestly can’t describe what it was like to wake up from it almost asymptomatic after dealing with these things for months and years. It was like waking up in a completely different body.

If you’re wondering how I could have let things get that bad, how i didn’t realise just how serious it was, you need to understand. You need to understand how gradually all of this happens, it built up over a period of years, and when you live with a chronic illness for that long you literally just get used to feeling like shit, so if something else shitty starts happening you’re already so tired it hardly even registers. It doesn’t strike you as particularly abnormal because it all becomes normal. That’s the most dangerous thing about it. Not to mention, the sicker you get with Graves, the less capable you are of assessing your own situation; the anxiety and exhaustion and insomnia and horrible hazy brain fog you’re in every single day make it completely impossible to think clearly.

SO THE MORAL OF THIS IS, for the love of God, be careful, and take it seriously. It is extremely serious. I did not take it seriously enough for years because I was young, active and otherwise healthy which gave me a threshold for tolerating it that was far too high. Don’t dismiss your symptoms, don’t let your doctors dismiss your symptoms, ESPECIALLY the mental symptoms. Be aware of all possible and potential symptoms so you can actually recognise them for what they are, along with all the potential side effects of PTU. 

Get blood work done EVERY THREE MONTHS. THREE MONTHS, not six, not twelve, every three months. Other thyroid disorders, you might be able to be a bit more chill about, graves you fucking cannot. You cannot.

Read and get as much information about this as you can. Heed how your diet is going to effect this, because like any endocrine disorder, it will.

Elaine Moore is useful. (Read the forums) This is useful. Reading patient forums about people’s experience with it and how they manage it is invaluable, it’s far better than reading blogs that are usually dogmatic and trying to sell you stuff. patient.info is also a good resource for information.

Make sure you have a good GP and ESPECIALLY a good endocrinologist who works WITH you. Most endo’s DO NOT specialise in thyroid disorders, most of them specialise in diabetes and only have a middling knowledge of thyroid issues. It’s absolutely crucial to find an endo who specialises in thyroid disorders. Find one, if you can. Otherwise just crowd source the information yourself, print it and take it to your doctors yourself. Because honestly, the cost of not doing that is just....not worth it.

This isn’t supposed to scare you or anything, it’s a god damn burden but there are plenty of people with Graves who achieve remission or find ways to manage it over long periods of time, it’s a highly individual disease. So I really hope you are able to do that. :) TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF.