#psychiatry match

[a-soul-like-you]

What I love about my program

1. High volume = stronger psychiatrist

2. Severe pathology = you'll be comfortable with anything that comes through your door bc you've treated the sickest of the sick

3. Very early autonomy = transition to moonlighting is basically seamless

4. Crazy moonlighting opportunities = able to triple your salary or make even more (we can moonlight in PGY-2!)

5. Strong faculty and PD support = great working environment, better learning, help with finding jobs

Really loving my program. It's got some real negatives too, but God really niced me boy. He answered my prayers and even over-delivered 😊

[vriskarlmarx]

.

[queeranarchism]

This is going to be a bit of an emotional, exhausted rant. I spend some time on anti-psychiatry work again and it's a fresh, painful reminder that there are still marginalized communities whose experiences are almost entirely unacknowledged by the vast majority of what we might call 'social justice' movements.

Like, I'm lucky by comparison. There's a lot of transphobia out there but when I argue for my right to exist and to not be stripped of my human rights simply because I'm trans, that narrative is familiar to many people, and will be agreed with by some percentage of the population in even the most conservative towns and in some places it will be agreed with by the majority.

But when someone argues that people experiencing mania or psychosis should be allowed to exist and should not be stripped of their autonomy and drugged against their will simply because they experience the world in a way that doesn't match most people's observations... crickets. It's rare to meet just one person who understands and agrees, even in activist spaces.

I've seen activists and even anarchists call the cops on people in mania or psychosis, claiming it 'protects' them, without a shred of awareness how many of the people murdered by cops in my country are people in mental distress. Without a shred of awareness that someone arrested for being 'mentally confused' can be held for days in isolation, denied access to a lawyer, submitted to literal torture. Having done both prison support and institutionalization support, I can say without a moment of doubt that I'd choose 70 days in prison over 7 days in forced psychiatric care. And yet activists incarcerate their 'crazy' comrades.

But I doubt whether it will achieve anything to sum up these horrors when most people refuse to listen to the victims of psychiatry and refer instead to the 'expertise' of psychiatrists who have never had to experience any of these things. Smart insightful activists who, on any other topic, would let the oppressed speak for their own experiences, don't listen when it comes to this population and instead let the powerful and privileged define that 'protection' means, no matter how many of their victims testify how abusive and traumatizing it is.

It makes me feel so angry and so so scared on behalf of the people who have to deal with this. And when I think honestly about how mental health, like physical health, is a thing that we can not fully control, that we can lose control of, it makes me so scared for myself. Would my activist community - the people I've trusted with my life and have fought alongside during some of the most difficult experiences of our lives - would they call the cops on me and have me incarcerated in the worst way if they thought I was 'crazy'? I can't say for sure that they wouldn't. And that's horrifying.

[mindblowingscience]

In the future, getting help for depression might involve a quick brain scan to find the most effective treatment for you. An analysis of brain activity during rest and while undertaking specific tasks among a large group of people with depression and anxiety has identified six distinct types of brain activity patterns, symptoms, and responses to treatment. The team from the US and Australia who conducted the study also determined treatments that are more likely to work for some of these categories. This means doctors could potentially match patients with the best therapies based on how their brains function. "The dominant 'one-size-fits-all' diagnostic approach in psychiatry leads to cycling through treatment options by trial and error," Stanford University neuroscientist Leonardo Tozzi and colleagues write in their published paper, "which is lengthy, expensive and frustrating, with 30–40 percent of patients not achieving remission after trying one treatment."

Continue Reading.

[abbyromanoff]

BREAKING POINT

PAIRINGS: Natasha Romanoff x autistic!reader

WORD COUNT: 1811

WARNINGS: fluff, angst, mentions of break ups, happy ending, R has autism, stressful moments, think that’s all :)

NO ONE IS PERMITTED TO STEAL, COPY, OR REBLOG MY WORK AS THEIR OWN!!

Nat’s footsteps seemed to be blocked from your ears, your mouths constant quivering being the only of the five senses that could work. You couldn’t stop picking the skin at your nails, causing blood to slowly arise from the flesh. And your fists continued to squeeze the sheets beneath you, but none of this seemed to register through your mind. No, the only recurring thought was the worry, the same worry you had been desperately trying to rid yourself of. After multiple months of therapy, psychiatry, medication, none of it worked. The only person who could help wasn’t you, it was the girl who chose you; your girlfriend.

She was your best friend, your keeper, and your lover. But she wasn’t here, not anymore. The large fight the two of you fell victim to seemed to cause your fall and the astronomical break-up. Nobody saw it coming, you two were a match made in heaven. But that didn’t seem to stop it from happening, and you found yourself desperately trying to fill the hole she left from only a week later. After the separation, Nat found herself arriving in the quinjet as she was forcibly given a mission with her heavy heart. She knew she could do it, but deep down she also knew she couldn’t; it felt like a constant battle between her sensibility and her idiotic nature.

But the entire time there was only one person on her mind: you. Not the enemies, not her teammates, not herself, but you. You always failed to leave her mind, even in times when it was not quite appropriate. She was determined to make it up to you some way or another, she knew she had to be with you again. She was hopeless without you, she didn’t know what to do with herself. But you always seemed to know, and that’s one thing she loved so dearly about you. Now that she was unable to sleep beside you, instead sleeping with the guilt of losing you, she felt lost.

“Y/N?” The voice startled you, your legs instinctively tightening against your chest for protection, your eyes only widening as you saw the woman you wished to see. But you were in her room, with her blankets, and the realization caused you to rush to your feet. You began fixing the bed but felt hands fall to your waist, causing your movements to falter before you quickly picked up from where you were.

“Y/N,” You sighed, and Nat’s frown deepened hearing the crack in your breath. She turned you effortlessly in her hold, her breathing turning ragged as she took in your expression. Your eyes were heavy from the tears and tiredness, your lip was bitten through and had dried drips of blood. Your smile was no longer visible, but she could see deep down how happy you were to be with her, you always failed to hide it.

“Look at me,” When you refused to complete her request, she spoke once more. “Please?” You sniffled before turning to look up at her, your eyes falling anywhere but in line with hers. That wasn’t unusual for you, but she still grew concerned.

“Can you tell me what’s going on?” You shrugged your shoulders, feeling as though weights were holding them down. You brought your head to the side again, but she tilted it back with a warm smile. She couldn���t truly smile seeing your saddened look, but she tried for you.

“I don’t know.” You weakly spoke, tears beginning to return to your drying cheeks as you felt your body growing in size. Your entire being felt so heavy, yet you weren’t. You were a normal, healthy size, but you felt as though you weighed ten tons.

“Do you want to sit down? Yeah, just sit, baby, you’re okay.” The nickname sent shivers down your spine, but you were unable to react, only leaning your head against her arms that found your shoulders.

“You don’t need to talk just yet, just breathe with me.” She drew circles on your skin as you watched her lips, your gaze constantly changing but she continued to praise your willingness to follow her directions. Moments later she was sat next to you, and she could tell you were now calmer than before.

“Do you want to talk about it?” You shrugged once again, and she chuckled softly. Her lips pressed onto your forehead, and her hand played with your hair while the other drew shapes across your thigh.

“Is it about us?” You shrugged.

“Is it about someone else?” You shrugged.

“Is it about work?” You shrugged.

“I just- I don’t know how to explain it.” Those were the first real words she heard you speak, and hearing your voice brought more relief than she imagined.

“Well, give it a shot and I can see if I understand.” You looked down at your fidgeting hands, a smile threatening to creep across your face as hers laid on top of yours.

“I had this really good plan, everything was all written down and memorized and I- I would’ve done everything and I would’ve been okay and I wouldn’t even have to spend time thinking about something else because I would be so busy. But then my alarm didn’t go off and I woke up late and I just felt so tired. I wanted to sleep and sleep and sleep but I knew I couldn’t, but I didn’t have any energy to get up! And then I went to grab a bowl and- and the dishes weren’t even done like I asked and my favorite cereal was gone so I didn’t know what to eat because I always eat that. And then I had training but there was this constant like, I don’t know, buzzing sound that was like a bug or something and no one but me could hear it, I felt crazy. And Steve just kept talking and talking and then I just snapped and started yelling at him, but I didn’t mean to! And I just ran out and I came in here because your blankets are really soft and they feel nicer than mine and I like to play with them but I realized I can’t be in your room once you came in and I freaked out, I didn’t know what to do.” You released a deep breath when meeting the end of your rant, your posture failing to land straight as you forced yourself not to sob. You were so close, you could feel your throat beginning to tighten, but you didn’t want to in front of Nat, not now.

“You’re always welcome in here, love.” She paused. “Can I ask you something?” You nodded, finding yourself unable to speak.

“That ‘something else’ you were trying to get your mind off of, what was it?” You continued to show a lack of response, and she could tell you weren’t going to.

“Was it me?” A small nod came from you after what felt like ages of waiting. She sighed, biting her lip and cursing to herself.

“I’m sorry, I- I know it’s not your fault-“

“No, it is. I’m so sorry, love, I’ve been so stressed lately and I didn’t know how to let it out, one thing about the Red Room is that they don’t teach you how to handle things well unless it involves fists. But that’s no excuse, I shouldn’t have taken it out on you or have let it ruin our relationship. I want to work on this, but first I want to take care of you, is that okay?” You agreed hesitantly, and she soon got to work. She knew you were too weak to bathe, so she planned to help you when you were more energized after resting. She led you to lay down on her bed, putting the blankets over you and grabbing a sweatshirt of hers. She helped you put it on before handing you the stuffed animal you loved so dearly. You had it since when you were a child, and it seemed to be your comfort on lonely and sad nights.

“Is it okay if I lay next to you?”

“Yes, please.” She giggled at your politeness and allowed herself to follow her steps. She asked Jarvis to turn down all lights and shades to create a dim room for you, you always loved having that darkness. The light often hurt your eyes and caused headaches, so she did as much as possible to belittle that.

“How about this: tomorrow afternoon, when we finish eating and training and getting in some work, we’ll take some time to help you work on an easier and less stressful schedule, yeah? And maybe we can ask your therapist if she’s willing to see the both of us for a few sessions, so we can work on anything that’s affecting our relationship. And I’ll be with you every step of the way, I promise.” She held out her pinky, causing you to instantly interlace yours with hers. She grinned, and you let your head rest on her shoulder as your arm went across her stomach. The plushie rested between you two as she left a kiss to its soft fur before kissing your lips in a slow, passionate manner.

“I’m sorry I can be a lot, Natty, I don’t mean to be.” Silence followed before the rustling of sheets was heard, causing you to lift your head while she looked down at you.

“You’re never too much for me, you’re just perfect.” You smiled softly in response.

“Nat?” She hummed, signaling for you to continue. “You’re perfect to me, too, you know.” Her lips turned upwards, and she felt her heartbeat rising as a blush ran to her face.

“I’m glad we can agree on that. Now go to bed, and when we wake up we can have a nice bath and maybe do some coloring?” It was more of a question than a statement, but she knew you’d say yes without a question.

“Can we also finish that documentary? Oh, and our puzzle! Or the Legos! And we can make cookies too, but they have to be chocolate chip.” She chuckled meaningfully, and her eyes began to close as her voice grew deeper as the tiredness from her mission began catching up to her.

“We can do whatever you want, sweetheart. Like I said, I’d do anything for you, even if it’s cookies and shows and puzzles and legos and coloring and baths.” She led on, causing your excitement to grow. You left a kiss on her cheek before bringing your body impossibly closer to her. Your warmth made her feel a sense of comfort that no one could describe as anything other than pure love.

“Sleep well, baby bear.”

“Sleep well, momma bear.”

—-

I would like to say before I receive any hate that I personally have autism myself and this is what I personally see as one of my struggles and I thought I’d write it

[the-hopeless-haze]

Let’s Spend the Night Together

Chapter 3 of If You Want It, You Can Bleed on Me

Greg House x Reader

Word count: 6.5k ??? what did I do

NSFW - smut

“Where does she live?” Greg asks James.

“If I tell you, am I assisting you in a crime?” James asks in response, barely looking up from his desk.

“I’m sure she told you about our date later.”

James huffs in frustration, finally looking up at him. “You’re insufferable.”

“Did you like her? Is that it?” Greg questions, trying to get to the bottom of his friend’s snarky behavior. Not that this wasn’t the usual from him. It was one of the things Greg loved about him, that he was always a little fed up with him, always preemptively aggravated, always in a state of annoyance. It was harder to piss someone off that was always a little pissed with him at baseline.

“Is that what you think? Because if that’s the reason you’re taking her out… you’re more fucked than I thought.”

“The correct answer would have been, ‘no, Greg, I do not want to sleep with her because I am married’ but we’ll go with that.”

James sighs, looking up at him. “Yes. She’s very attractive. But no, I had no intention of entertaining her.”

“Then what’s your issue?”

“Because I don’t know why you’re doing this. You sick of your prostitutes?”

Greg scoffs. “This isn’t about sex.”

“It’s not? I’m mistaken then, because you were flirting with her, made comments about her body, called her to your office…”

“Okay,” he corrects. “It’s not just about sex.”

“Are you trying to tell me you want to date her without saying the words? Because if so… congratulations.”

“No. I want to figure her out.”

“Just look in her chart. Save both of you the trouble.”

“It’s no fun if I learn all the answers at once.”

“Do you ever wonder why you’re single?” James asks.

“Do you ever wonder why you’re unhappily married?” Greg counters. “And. About that. Either her psychiatry training gave her some leg-up here or you tipped her off. She went through her files already. All that she left was a med list.”

“You already looked?” James asks, incredulous.

“Yeah. No birth control. Wonder what that’s about? Propranolol. Maybe some blood pressure issue… she’s young for that and that’s not first line. Idiopathic tachycardia? Maybe. Anxiety?”

“She can’t have an interesting med list. Stop looking for zebras. She’s barely thirty.”

“No birth control and barely thirty? Either she’s not getting any or she’s tied her tubes already.”

“Or… if she does have a blood pressure issue she can’t be on it. Or she has an IUD. Actually… don’t drag me into this.”

“Lamotrigine. Seizures. Bipolar disorder. What’s more likely?”

“lamotrigine isn’t the first-line med for either. Maybe you’ll have to talk to her.”

Greg rolls his eyes. “No fun. Hey… she’s on Vicodin.”

“A match made in hell,” Wilson grumbles, running his hands over his face.

“Well. She was. Eight years ago.”

“Most people don’t stay on it indefinitely.”

“Why would she leave that on there? It’s just these three meds.”

“Don’t you have an actual patient?”

He shrugs. “I need her address. I’m picking her up in three hours.”

“At least buy her dinner. Do not just bring her to your apartment.”

“I can’t learn anything if I just have sex with her. I mean, I’ll definitely learn some things, but…”

“Well, I don’t have her address.”

“You’ve got to have her address. You hired her.”

“Nope. I’m not her direct supervisor since she’s a consult. You’d have to talk to the head of psychiatry or Cuddy. And no. I’m not losing my job searching for it.”

“She took it out of her medical records,” he says, shaking his head, but he’s smiling. “I guess she likes to play.”

——————

“So let me get this straight. You want me to risk the safety of one of my employees so you can drive by her apartment?”

Greg looks at Cuddy for a moment, as if he’s  actually thinking about her summary of his request and he nods. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

Sighing, she says, “I shouldn’t be shocked you live the rest of your life like you practice medicine, but I don’t care about the results here. The answer is no, House.”

“It’ll be worth your while.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“Because… if I get laid I’m in a better mood which means I’m less likely to cause you issues.”

“Right. Hm. Surprising, but that didn’t persuade me.”

“Have you met her?”

“Is that supposed to convince me?” she asks, looking up at him for a second.

He shrugs. “I don’t know. She does work in psychiatry. For someone who constantly loves to tell me I have a drug problem and there’s something wrong with me I’d think you’d want to make sure this relationship runs smoothly.”

She rolls her eyes at him. “I feel like you and I both know you’re not doing this for the emotional healing.”

“I won’t be doing anything if no one gives me her address,” he grumbles. He doesn’t tell her but for once he can’t believe how stupid he was that he fell for that, that he thought you might be interested.

“Hm. Well. I’m busy, House.”

He walks out without a word, heading back to his office. It’s 7:00.

Well. Alone again. Not much different than the last night or the night before that.

And he knows he could have Cameron. She’s been not so subtle in trying to get his attention, and yes, he certainly didn’t help matters by telling her she’s beautiful. Sure. But she isn’t… she’s not what he wants. He doesn’t need someone to take him on like a charity case.

You… you were fucking with him. And it’s fair, maybe he even deserves it. Maybe you got off on this, being a Walmart version of a femme-fatale, wounding men’s egos, seeing which ones would chase you and which ones would give up after a little pain.

Doesn’t really ease the sting of the ache of rejection, though. That you’d brush him off that easy, leave him without an avenue to reach you.

Sighing, he turns on the TV, trying and failing to focus on the screen, but you’d taken over his mind like a case he was on the brink of solving and just couldn’t get there.

8:15. He gets a page from your number. “YOURE LATE”. It reads.

Well. Screw that. He still had a way to reach you after all.

Possibly.

Smiling to himself, he calls down to the psych ward, asking for you. You’re not there, they say, but they’ll be happy to transfer him to your extension if you’re still in the building.

“I thought hookers took pride in their punctuality,” you say when you answer the phone.

“You’re kind of a bitch, huh?” He asks, trying not to let his chuckle be so audible in the receiver.

“You keep Wilson around. You love bitches.”

“Funny. Would’ve thought you’d been swooning, begging him to leave his wife by now.”

“I’m not so easily charmed.”

“Those big brown eyes don’t do it for you?”

“Sounds like they do it for you. Something you want to tell me, Gregory?”

“Don’t ever call me that,” he sighs.

“Not going to deny the gay allegations but you’ll draw the line at me calling you by your first name? What gives, House?”

“You can call me Greg.”

“Wow, could I? What an honor that we’re on first name basis.”

“Not many get the privilege.”

“Still haven’t denied the gay allegation.”

“Don’t really see the point. You’ll believe what you believe regardless.”

“Wow. Truly. A disaster of a man in all other regards but you’re comfortable in your sexuality? Greg is 1 for 0.”

“I have one male best friend and I’ve been single for five years. I embrace the gay jokes at this point.”

“Five years?”

“Yeah. It’s been a while for you too, huh?”

“What makes you so sure?”

“No reason,” he lies.

“Right.”

“You’re single now.”

“Moved here less than a year ago. Haven’t really had the chance to meet people.”

“Okay. What hellhole did you crawl out of to willingly move to Jersey?”

“Maybe I just like Frank Sinatra.”

“He’s dead. You didn’t come here for something. You left something and you came here to make sure whatever it was didn’t follow you.”

“Is this really the date you had in mind?” you ask.

“Nice deflection.”

“I just moved. No story there.”

“Also. Almost a year? And no one’s asked you out?”

“I can say no, you know.”

“You didn’t say no to me.”

“Maybe I should’ve.”

“Cold. Come down here. I’ll walk you out to my car.”

————-

“Ah. The bitch arrives,” he says, looking you up and down again, not hiding his checking you out. You’d changed, red blouse with a leather jacket and most likely the same black slacks you were wearing earlier. “Not quite slutty enough.”

“Could say the same for you. Where’s the assless chaps?”

“I could never pull that off,” he says. “You could, though.”

He’d changed, too, a button down with slacks for once instead of jeans... at Wilson’s nagging of course.

“Here,” he says, handing you a bouquet of flowers he thought for a second were going to wilt away at his desk.

“Flowers? don’t tell me you went all out. Maybe you’re not as much of a disaster as I thought.”

“I shouldn’t give them to you since you stood me, a cripple, up.”

“Stood you up? You didn’t come get me.”

“You never told me where to get you. Ergo… you stood me up.”

“You were supposed to figure it out.”

“Yeah. Right. Wilson didn’t know and Cuddy wouldn’t put out. And you knew I wouldn’t figure it out. That’s why you stayed here.”

“You actually asked Cuddy?”

“What? I’ve asked her for much worse.”

You shake your head, smiling. “Falling head over heels for me already, Greg?”

“Puzzles are no fun if you can’t figure out the answer.” He doesn’t say that the unsolved cases haunt him, nag him and he sees them where they’re not.

One day he knows you’ll haunt him, too. One day, when you leave, when he pushes this until it breaks.

“Mm. Try harder then,” you say.

“You gave me an unsolvable puzzle.”

“Mm. Not really. You gave it to yourself. You said you were picking me up at my place. I stayed here and gave you the easy way out.”

“You could’ve left it—“ he cuts himself off, lest he incriminate himself.

“Left it where, Greg?” you ask, bemused.

“Nowhere.”

“Right,” you laugh. “So what opiate do you pop constantly?”

“You don’t know?”

“No.”

“Funny.”

“Why would that be funny, Greg?”

“Let me sleep with you first.”

“Absolutely not,” you say, grinning at him.

“Well, I shouldn’t have thought you’d be easy if you’ve put me through hell just to take you out,” he sighs.

“Don’t think I’ll leave you completely wanting, though,” you say, reaching out to touch his face, his stubble scratching your hand pleasantly, a shiver running down your spine. You run your thumb over his bottom lip gently.

Tentatively, he reaches out for you, too, copying your movements, hand on your cheek, thumb over your lips, but then your tongue darts out to run over the pad of his thumb and he thinks he might die right there. “Dirty girl,” he chuckles, smirking.

“Mm. You’re pretty, Greg,” you say, with enough sincerity he almost believes you’re not bullshitting him.

“Pretty? That’s a first.”

“Like no one’s ever told you.”

“Maybe ten years ago.”

“Mm. It’s those eyes,” you say, stepping a little closer to him, letting your breath mingle with his, snaking your hand around the back of his neck. Your lips almost touch, once, twice, wordlessly. “You gonna kiss me or not, Greg?”

You expect him to be rougher but he’s soft, testing the waters, lips still barely touching yours until he gives in, gives you what you want, kisses you like he means it. God, it’s been too long, and you missed it, the thrill of kissing somebody new, and you can feel his anticipation, electricity from your skin to his.

“Come on,” he says, breaking away from you after a few minutes. “I said I’d take you to dinner.”

———

“So what is it? Percs?” you ask once you’ve been seated and get waters. It’s a nice place he chose, somewhere a little out of the way, mostly serving Italian fare and seafood. It’s where men who haven’t been on a date in a while would choose to bring a woman, you figure.

“Percs? You do some time on the street?” he asks.

“So what if I did?” you counter.

He shakes his head. “Not your story. I’m not buying that.”

“Fine. Used to work at an addiction treatment facility when I was a nurse. Everyone calls them percs, though. Not exactly some down low street name.”

“It’s Vicodin.”

“Nasty drug,” you say.

“Really? I think they’re yummy.”

“You would.”

“What’s your personal aversion to them? They take you on a bad date?”

“Got them prescribed after a motorcycle accident. Didn’t agree with me.”

“Hm. You driving?”

“No.”

“What’d you break?”

“My leg.”

“Which one?”

“Right femur.”

Wilson was going to have a field day. Match made in hell, alright. Wilson’s personal hell, that is.

“Femurs are hard to break.”

“When your partner is drunk and doesn’t care about anything it’s not that hard,” you say, shrugging your shoulders. “Lucky I didn’t die. I mean, not that I cared so much then.”

“Partner? What were you, 19?”

“22,” you say, silently cursing yourself for not just saying boyfriend.

“Did they not make it?”

You look at him questioningly but don’t say anything about his use of the gender neutral. You don’t want to have that conversation tonight. “No. Life support for a couple weeks until they pulled it.”

“Hm. So that wasn’t the reason you left.”

“No. There was no reason. I just needed a change of scenery.”

“Right,” he says. “Jersey isn’t usually the place people pick for a change of scenery.”

“How’d you end up here, then?”

“There was a job opening,” he answers.

“You were running away from something, too.”

“No, I was running to something. I needed a place to hire me and Cuddy was the only one insane enough to take me on at that point.”

“You’ve always been discourteous and unprofessional?”

“Those are my middle names,” he snarks.

There’s a natural break in the conversation as the waiter comes back to take orders. Greg takes notice of what you order, a baked scrod, certainly not the least expensive thing you could have ordered but not the most, either. It’s an assessment of how you value yourself, he thinks. Average. Average is boring.

Or you could just like scrod, he supposes.

“Why are you single?” he asks.

“I don’t know. Life was busy. Didn’t have time for relationships,” you say, shrugging. “Why are you?”

“Myriad of reasons.”

“Give me one.”

“My leg,” he responds indignantly.

“What happened to it?” you ask.”

“That’s a second date conversation.”

"You're in pain."

"How'd you know?" He asks sarcastically.

"Was it the cane? The Vicodin?"

'I think it was your charming personality.

Anyway. If you're going to cite your leg as a reason you're single, I'd love to know why."

"I was with someone when it happened. It's a long story."

"We've got nothing but time,” you say.

"You really won't sleep with me if I don't tell you?" House asks.

"Nope. Keep pushing me and I never will.

Tell me."

House sighs dramatically. "I had an infarction in my thigh muscle. No one knew what it was, I diagnosed it, but... so much of the muscle was dead already. I didn't want an amputation, I wanted a bypass. I didn't care about the pain. I just wanted to be able to use my leg. I asked them to put me under sedation to cope with the pain at the time... and the woman I was with decided it would be a good idea to remove the dead muscle completely."

"You made her your medical proxy?”

"Mm. Stupid decision on my part,” he says.

"Any medical background?"

"Nope."

"Then yes. Stupid decision,” you agree.

"I'm sure you've made plenty of stupid decisions. Getting on that motorcycle, for one,” he says, adding a jab at the end so to help heal his wounded ego a little.

"We all make mistakes. It's human. So... what's the reason now? You resent people who can walk without pain so you don't get close to anybody? It interferes with sex? You feel like no woman would want to deal with it long term?"

House sighs and rolls his eyes. "Do you really think it interferes with sex? Is that what you're worried about?"

"No. I'm asking if that's what you-"

"No. You see me as a potential sexual partner, correct?"

"I never said that."

"We're going with it. You ask me as if you're posing the question to me... but you're projecting."

"And you're deflecting. I asked you three questions and you didn't answer one" you point out.

"No. It doesn't interfere with sex, at least not to the point where you have to worry if I

can get you off or not. Whenever you decide to spread your legs for me... you'll see."

You feel your cheeks redden a little and cough. "I asked you two other questions."

"They weren't what you were getting at."

"Entertain me."

"No. It's not that I resent people. Am I jealous? Sometimes. I'd love to know what it's like to wake up in the morning without pain. But I'm not going to wake up every morning wanting to kill my partner because she jogs every morning and I can't."

"Is it because you've been able to accept it?

Was it an issue with your girlfriend at the time, coming to terms with it?"

"What do you think?"

"Yes."

Greg shrugs. “Not hard to put that together. I bet I could get a psychiatric nursing degree too.”

"Third question? You feel like no woman would want to deal with it?"

"Mm. Or she'd want to deal with it for the wrong reasons, take me on like I'm a charity case. That's unattractive for an abundance of reasons. You could go that way, I think, or you used to."

"You think I'm taking you on as a charity case? You pursued me.”

"You agreed. You didn't think for a second,

'well, he's a cripple, I'd better at least give him a shot'?"

"Your leg is not the reason I am here," you say firmly.

"What is it then, my deep blue eyes? This big, thick cane? My ray of sunshine personality?"

You chuckle. "It's your drive. You barely knew me, decided I was interesting and pursued me without abandon. That is attractive."

"You're not curious as to why you?"

"Little tits and ass, as Keith Richards would say?" You ask. "I'm used to being objectified. Pretty privilege is a thing. I'm sure you have noticed that yourself. If there's something deeper, enlighten me."

"Well, you are attractive, there's no doubting that. But I intend to find out why you're in the medical field, and psychiatry at that. It's like Cameron, on my team. You're gorgeous enough to have become an actress, marry a millionaire. Something happened to you to make you choose this."

"Did you take Cameron out until you figured what her deal was?"

"No. Cameron pities me. I have no interest in her that way."

"Well. Why do you assume brilliant minds reside only in unattractive faces? Why do you assume I worked my ass off to get here because of some past trauma when this could have just been a goal of mine like it could've been if I wasn't as hot as you think l am?”

"Okay. Then why did you choose psychiatry?"

"That's a second date conversation." You quip.

He smiles wryly at you. "You coaxed my issue out of me. Come on."

“I hold fast to my principles. You're weak,” you say, grinning back. “Why are you a doctor, then, hm?”

“I’m not a beautiful woman.”

“Right…” you say. “Chase is pretty. Foreman is too, you know. Either of them could’ve done something easier.”

“Chase is trying desperately to fill his father’s shoes. His father was a doctor, and well, you know how that story goes. And Foreman is an overcoming adversity case. He could’ve been a hood rat. He was on that path.”

“You know… women just started to be able to open credit cards in 1971. Maybe I don’t want to have to rely on a man to make a living.”

“No. Believe me, I get that. My point was there’s easier ways to make money. You chose the hard way,” he says. “And unpopular way. People become doctors and they fantasize about cutting people open and diagnosing infections, not getting hit and restraining children.”

“Your hypothesis is stupid. Maybe I don’t want to be an actor or model… or an infectious disease specialist,” you say. “And I think we’re all damaged. All of us. No one gets out unscathed.”

“No one just chooses psychiatry because it’s such a good time.”

“They do when it can make them ridiculous money without as many hardships as medical school. I could be using my degree to write suboxone scripts and make more than I’m making right now. I know a lot of people who went back for that.”

“Proving my point. Why are you doing things the hard way?”

“You take on the most difficult cases across the country, cases no one else can solve. You’re doing things the hard way, too. Why? Because the easy way is boring.”

Greg smiles at that. “Fair enough.”

“Yeah. Fair enough.”

—————

You don’t quite know how you got here. Or well, you do. Greg asked you to come back to his place for drinks, and you agreed, and you should’ve known better but it’s been years and you can’t really care too much when his warm body is underneath you, his tongue down your throat, his hands everywhere he can reach.

“How bad are you hurting?” you ask him, breathlessly.

“I’m fine. Don’t worry,” he whispers back, reaching a hand back to touch your chin. “What do you want to come of tonight?”

“Let’s just see where this leads us,” you say, leaning back to kiss him again.

But he stops you, gentle pressure on your jaw to prevent you from closing the space between your lips. “I need to know what you want.”

You sigh, pressing your elbow in his chest as leverage to lift yourself off him, and you sit next to his feet on the other side of the couch. “Why are you asking?”

“Because I don’t want this to head somewhere we can’t get back from. Move over,” he says, and winces, moving his legs back over to sit beside you again.

“It wasn’t sexual trauma,” you huff, aggravated. “You can say I’m damaged all you want but that doesn’t mean you have to treat me like glass.”

“I tried to take your shirt off and you pushed me away but you kept kissing me. What do you want?”

“What do you want?” You ask, glaring at him.

Truth was, you were using him, maybe just like he was using you. You hadn’t had the opportunity to make quite as bad of a decision as sleeping with the man in front of you in a long time. And as bad decisions go, he wasn’t so terrible anyway. You like him so far, you think he’s attractive. But you know Wilson is right, that he might drag you down to places you haven’t been in a long time.

Still.

It’s been a while since you’ve felt something. You want the hating yourself in the morning for giving yourself away so soon, you want the walk of shame as he drives you back to the hospital where you left your car, you want to revel in the fact that Greg will be telling people how you were in bed, bragging that he got you in between his sheets. You want the dopamine hit and the subsequent crash.

You spent so long getting healthy but you had to keep everyone at arm’s length to do it. It was probably the worst idea to try to get close to someone else who also isolated people and couldn’t even be healthy then.

Why didn’t he just want it to be easy? Just fuck you and be done with it, continue if it’s convenient and worth the effort. Easy is boring, sure, but sex isn’t boring even if it’s easy (if so, he wouldn’t be seeing hookers, would he?). And you know he wants to fuck you, but why he wants to make it difficult… it’s beyond your reach at this moment.

“I want… I don’t know,” he admits, because he doesn’t.

Prostitutes were one thing. Vulnerability there didn’t really matter. They were doing a job and they didn’t even take a second glance at his leg. As long as they were getting paid. If he wanted attention drawn to it, they’d kiss it red with their lipstick but because he tells them to leave it alone… they do.

Sleeping with somebody new… it’s so much harder. It’s so much easier with someone you know. Or someone you don’t have an obligation to know.

With an aim to please rather than take, he doesn’t know how he’d perform.

Looking at his face, reading the ambivalence there, it suddenly clicks. If Wilson knew the truth, if you really are the first woman since his injury, there’s a lot of insecurity in being seen.

And you know all about being seen.

It’s easy to come off with bravado and arrogance but when you’re actually in the situation, when you’re called to be vulnerable… it’s something else entirely.

“Do you want to have sex with me?” you ask quietly.

“Yes. God yes,” he affirms, nodding his head. “Don’t take tonight as an indication.”

“It’s okay. I understand,” you say, nodding.

“That doesn’t mean… that doesn’t mean I can’t help you get off.”

You raise an eyebrow at him. “That’s still sex.”

Scoffing, he rolls his eyes. “If you’re in high school.”

“What do you think lesbians do?”

He raises his eyebrows, chucking a little. “Are you a lesbian?”

“You wish,” you laugh. “Say you could be the one that changed me.”

“I would. Except people don’t change.”

“Yeah. They do. They change all the time,” you counter, shrugging your shoulders. “Every day, every hour, every moment… it changes you. They’re minuscule changes, changes you don’t see immediately, but you look back a decade and then it clicks.”

“Right. Maybe. But fundamentally people don’t change. The parts change, but the whole never does.”

You want to say that he has been changed, that his leg injury changed him, that he holds so steadfast to that belief that people never change so he can convince himself he was always this miserable. Sure, you get the feeling he was fucked before, but this did change him. Made him worse. Made him push people away.

You don’t say that, though. You know deep down he knows it and doesn’t want to face it.

“Do you want to have sex with me?” he asks, insecurity creeping in, and he doesn’t know why this is so difficult or why he cares at all. He could pay for what he wanted, live his hedonistic lifestyle and not have to worry if the woman in front of him wanted to fuck him or not.

You aren’t boring.

But that’s not true, anyway, that’s not why he keeps people at arms length. Routine medical cases are boring, but people aren’t. It’s why he went through all the files he could of the applicants for his team, trying to pick the combination that would interest him the most, play off each other in ways he could live vicariously through. They weren’t the most deserving, or the most academically gifted, they were the most interesting. It’s why he loves gossip, loves knowing about things that don’t concern him, always living life like it’s a spectator sport and he’s got front row seats.

It’s always the people that love to watch that hate to be seen.

“I could be convinced,” you say, in that bitchy tone he knows hes going to love to hate. You soften; though, turn to him, your hair falling a little in your face, kiss him gently on the mouth.

Greg responds in kind, deepening the kiss, his hands tangling in your hair, pulling lightly before traveling to your breasts, kneading your flesh through your shirt.

“Could you be convinced to have lesbian sex with me right now?” he asks.

You’d burst out laughing if you also weren’t so admittedly and ashamedly turned on right now. “Yeah. Sure. Think you’d have an easier time in bed though.”

“You treat me like all your girls?” he asks, a glint in his eye, and oh, there’s the being seen. You’re not a fan, either. You’re surprised he’s not being forthright about what he no doubt is putting together, but ultimately you’re thankful.

“A slut’s a slut,” you quip as he leans back in, his mouth barely touching yours and he chuckles against your skin.

“You really are a bitch.”

“Mm,” you agree, closing the distance between you again, pulling him to stand up with you, letting him lean on you as he puts weight on it again.

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, without thinking, never one to apologize for his actions but never one to let his disability affect others, either.

“It’s okay, Greg,” you whisper. “I got you.”

“No, I’ll go get—“

You stop him, holding his jaw gently in your hand. “It’s okay.”

Empathy. Not sympathy.

You had been here, in a way. Femur fractures take a good six months to heal. You walked half a year in his shoes on the same medication he was on.

Now it all clicks, what James had done, keeping you two apart to bring you together, doing something by not doing anything, letting it all happen by chance. He had been patient enough to let time do most of the work, something Greg could never do, but something that ultimately worked in his favor.

It’s okay. We all need someone we can lean on. If you want it, you can lean on me.

You still lived a life without pain.

Greg hates it, hates it all, and if you had had just the slightest twinge of force, the slightest indication that you were saying it was okay just to say something he would’ve told you to get out. He hates the way it kills intimacy, makes him older, more decrepit, makes him dependent, in a way. There’s certain things he can never do, or that he’d need help to do, and it’s something a woman would leave him for.

It’s something a woman did leave him for.

He wants to hug you, but that would feel too much, too intimate, too soon, so he kisses you again instead, and then the two of you hobble on to his bedroom. It hurts. God, it hurts, aches like it always does, maybe more so—the last pill he took was at dinner, but you make it, helping him ease onto the bed and wasting no time, knowing he was insecure, wasting no time to prove you still wanted him, mouth on his, your legs straddling his good thigh, moving on to his neck, laving your tongue over his skin, biting gently, unbuttoning the top buttons of his shirt.

“Hey,” Greg says, stopping your hand’s ministrations.

“I’m only taking your shirt off,” you assure him. “I won’t go further than that.”

“Fine. Not much to see there, either,” he mutters.

“I like tits,” you blurt without thinking. Jesus Christ. You have to stop doing that.

“Yeah,” he says, chuckling. “Sure you do. Good thing mine are bigger than Cuddy’s.”

“They absolutely are not.”

“You familiar with their size?”

You stop yourself just in time before you say “I wish.”

He lets you finish, helping you take his shirt off, take his undershirt off, shivering as you kiss down the length of his torso to the top of his pants. “I’ll show you mine,” you say, unbuttoning your pants and slipping them off, throwing them on the floor haphazardly. You move over so he can see the scar down the side of your leg, deep gash where they cut you open, you were a month away from a nursing license and you were in the OR, someone’s patient before you could ever be on the side you studied for.

You were lucky, they kept saying. You didn’t feel lucky at all.

Tentatively, his hand comes to touch your skin and you nod, silent agreement that he could touch. He’s gentle even though he doesn’t need to be, touching carefully, tracing the line of the scar up and down, hard keloid under his skin.

“This isn’t what you don’t want me to see,” Greg says.

“Hm?”

“Your upper body. That’s why you didn’t want me to take your shirt off.”

Oh. Yeah. That.

“I don’t care,” you lie.

“Yes, you do,” he counters immediately, looking at you knowingly. “Why are you lying?”

You sigh, pulling him back to you, kissing him hard, hoping he’ll shut up if you don’t give him the chance to speak. “Just touch me already.”

It would be so much easier if he just fucked you, fucked you over, fucked you up all within the course of a month. You get the feeling right now, as your tongue is down his throat and you’re letting out moans against his lips you try to suppress as his fingers enter you, stretch you out, reach angles you couldn’t reach by yourself, you get the feeling this is going to be for the long haul. Not that he’s necessarily going to be down on one knee, but that he’s going to drag out hurting you like he’s dragging his fingers against your walls, drawing you closer and closer to the edge but never quite bringing you there.

“You okay?” you ask him, breathless, head hazy, you just want him, want him closer than this, want him deep in you.

“Shh,” Greg whispers, almost a little irritated. “I’m busy right now.”

You can’t really focus on coming up with a retort because he starts rubbing your clit and as you tilt your head back into the pillows, he starts biting at the flesh he can now easily access, starting gentle but then applying more pressure with his teeth, smirking as you whimper.

Sweat trickles down your back and you wish this was different, but he’s naked from the waist up and you’re unclothed from the waist down, and it’s stupid, you know it’s dumb, that you’re letting this man fuck you with his fingers before you let him see you fully naked. It’s not like no one has before. It’s just a conversation you don’t want to have again.

Still. All this is making you a little too hot to be half-clothed.

Greg wonders why he let you in at all. Why he went through the trouble, bought you dinner, why he’s trying to get you off right now. Maybe it’s to fuck with James. Sure, it was originally, but now he feels like it was James who fucked with him, set him up, used predictable behaviors to create a predictable outcome. Still. If you’d been professional with him instead of giving him crassness right back, he would’ve decided to make your life a living hell instead of getting you in between his sheets. Either way, he was going to make someone miserable.

Himself, first and foremost.

Not that he can really be miserable right now. It’s not terrible being needed in this sense, he’s remembering.

You weren’t like Stacy, though, not here. You’re louder, not in a patronizing way where you exaggerate your moans to try and stroke a man’s ego, but it’s like you genuinely can’t hold yourself back. It’s hot. It’s unreserved. It’s… passionate in a way Stacy just wasn’t. She loved him, he knows that, but when things got hard and he got mean instead of fighting back she got cold and walked away.

Not that he can glean exactly how you’d be in an argument from how you act in bed, but he has a feeling you don’t let go of things easily.

And… well. Takes one to know one.

Who would give in, though?

His relationship with Stacy worked before his leg because Stacy would accommodate, she would compromise herself for him. It’s why his friendship with James works now. Sure. Both of them gave him some pushback — it’s not like they in good conscience could let him get away with all the things he wanted to do. And eventually he pushed Stacy until she broke.

You, though? You don’t seem like you shatter easily. If anything you seem like you’d harden like a scar, healing over stronger, uglier, thicker, nothing really hurting you because you’d just put more walls up. You’d fight him to the bitter end.

And you know, maybe he wants that. Someone he’s not afraid to push too far because he knows you’ll push right back the second he gets even an inch.

All he really knows is your vague med list, that you got into a motorcycle accident almost a decade ago, and that you chose to be a psychiatric provider among all other things you could have been. And yet… he feels like he can glean much more.

All he really knows in this moment is that you’re coming apart under his fingers, gripping his forearm with your hands as he drags out your orgasm, trying to get him away from your now overstimulated cunt.

“She comes in colors everywhere,” he mutters, smirking lazily at you, dragging his fingers out of you, finally, then brings them to his mouth, sucking slowly on each one.

You scoff at his comment, but just as quickly he sees the light turn green again and you straddle his left thigh, coming to kiss his mouth, hard, bare cunt against his slacks and he can’t help it, he’s thinking about you wrecking them, thinking about your wet pussy on what could’ve been his bare thigh… and he groans despite himself, in pain, yes, but also pleasure - and he’s pulling you closer by the collar of your shirt, and he begins to remember why men put themselves through what could very well be the potential torture of dating a woman.

It’s just so much better when it’s with someone you know. Or… someone you need to know everything about, need to memorize like they’re an extension of yourself.

You’re not soulmates. It’s not love. It’s not romance, like James would decree.

You won’t fix him. He sure as hell won’t fix you.

But you’ll do something to each other, alright.

[willgrahamsadface]

At the end of S01E04 ("Oeuf") when Alana finds Abigail at Hannibal's house, and she enters the dining room asking "You were expecting me?", Hannibal should have answered:

Meaning that he had all the thing pulled out for Will to be there and play family, drugging Abigail in order for her to see them as her mum and dad. Will at this point identifies as Garrett Jacob Hobbs, so he would be the father. Which leaves Hannibal to be the mother, one of the central themes of this episode.

Not just for Abigail: earlier, when Hannibal asked Will about his family, he found out Will has never experienced a mother figure. That could represent an explanation of why Will feels so drawn towards Hannibal's attentions, like showing up with homemade breakfast at Will's motel room, taking care of his dogs (and he lives in Baltimore, so more than an hour drive - a normal thing to ask your psychiatrist), or the affectionate and indulgent way Hannibal reacts to Will's naughty child behaviour ("I don't find you that interesting", "How does it make you feel?", "Some lazy psychiatry, Doctor"). Not to mention everything Hannibal does after discovering Will was abandoned by his mother (all the reassuring, touching, the chicken soup, etc.).

But he's not actually trying to deceive him. That's the way Hannibal shows his real affection: cooking, caring for, protecting (as he did with Mischa), enveloping the object of his attention in an unconditional - and toxic - bubble of love, like there's no one else in the world he cares about. An exclusive love, that tolerates no external intrusions.

And that's why Will, an introvert person that basically trusts no one, ends seeking Hannibal's comfort in every stressful situation, showing up at his house or office at inappropriate times of the day anannounced just because he feels confused about his actions (after kissing Alana) or worried (the sleepwalking episode). Sometimes even unconsciously.

Who do we trust so much? Someone we know that will love us unconditionally, without judging us: a mother. Will's need is perfectly matched with Hannibal's attachment pattern.

[please-let-this-work-oh-my-god]

Girl why are you doing the :3 don't you have a(n illegal) psychiatry office to run

Also

Her Udimo matches with Isolde's!! They are so unbelievably lesbian

[antisisyphus]

i like seeing ppl (rightfully) talk abt how mbti/love languages/etc are all bogus & then see them have ~discourse abt self dxing/mixing & matching dxs/ and ppl who refuse (or cannot)fall in the boxes psychiatry makes.

notions of discrete categories of people that tell us truths abt who they are/how they opperate are bogus! unless its in the dsm5! then its real and true!

[a-soul-like-you]

I MATCHED INTO PSYCHIATRY GUYS!!!!!

[mariacallous]

AUSTIN, Texas (AP) — The Texas Supreme Court upheld the state’s ban on gender-affirming care for transgender youths Friday, rejecting pleas from parents that it violates their right to decide on and seek medical care for their children.

The 8-1 ruling from the all-Republican court leaves in place a law that has been in effect since Sept. 1, 2023. Texas is the largest of at least 25 states that have adopted laws restricting or banning gender-affirming medical care for transgender minors.

The Texas law prevents transgender people under 18 from accessing hormone therapies, puberty blockers and transition surgeries, though surgical procedures are rarely performed on children. Children who had already started the medications had to taper off their use.

“We conclude the Legislature made a permissible, rational policy choice to limit the types of available medical procedures for children, particularly in light of the relative nascency of both gender dysphoria and its various modes of treatment and the Legislature’s express constitutional authority to regulate the practice of medicine,” Justice Rebeca Aizpuru Huddle wrote in the court’s decision.

The lawsuit that challenged the Texas law argued it devastates transgender teens who are unable to obtain critical treatment recommended by their physicians and parents. The Williams Institute at the UCLA School of Law estimates about 29,800 people ages 13-17 in Texas identify as transgender.

The only justice dissenting with Friday’s ruling said the Texas Supreme Court was allowing the state to “legislate away fundamental parental rights.”

“The State’s categorical statutory prohibition prevents these parents, and many others, from developing individualized treatment plans for their children in consultation with their physicians, even the children for whom treatment could be lifesaving,” Justice Debra Lehrmann wrote in a dissenting opinion. “The law is not only cruel — it is unconstitutional.”

A lower court had ruled the law unconstitutional, but it was allowed to take effect while the state Supreme Court considered the case.

Texas’ Republican attorney general, Ken Paxton, vowed in a post on the social platform X after the ruling that his office “will use every tool at our disposal to ensure that doctors and medical institutions follow the law.”

Advocates criticized the ruling.

“It is impossible to overstate the devastating impact of this ruling on Texas transgender youth and the families that love and support them,” said Karen Loewy, senior counsel and director of Constitutional Law Practice at Lambda Legal, which was among the groups that sued the state on behalf of doctors and families.

“Our government shouldn’t deprive trans youth of the health care that they need to survive and thrive,” said Ash Hall, policy and advocacy strategist for LGBTQIA+ rights at ACLU of Texas. “Texas politicians�� obsession with attacking trans kids and their families is needlessly cruel.”

The law includes exemptions for children experiencing early puberty or who have “a medically verifiable genetic disorder of sex development.”

Such exemptions underscore the law’s discriminatory nature, said Dr. Jack Drescher, a psychiatry professor at Columbia University who edited the section about gender dysphoria in the American Psychiatric Association’s diagnostic manual. Gender dysphoria is the psychological distress experienced by those whose gender expression does not match their gender identity and is a required diagnosis before treatments can begin.

“They’re saying if you’re not a transgender child and you need these drugs, you can have them, but if you’re a transgender child who might benefit from these drugs, then sorry, you have to move to another state,” Drescher said.

The restrictions on health care are part of a larger backlash against transgender rights, touching on everything from bathroom access to participation in sports. Former President Donald Trump has vowed to pursue other measures that would restrict the rights of transgender people if he wins the November election, including a ban on gender-affirming care for minors at the federal level.

As more states move to enforce health care restrictions, families of transgender youths are increasingly forced to travel out of state for the care they need at clinics with growing waiting lists. At least 13 states have laws protecting care for transgender minors.

Most of the states that have passed restrictions face lawsuits, and the U.S. Supreme Court recently agreed to hear an appeal from the Biden administration attempting to block state bans on gender-affirming care. The case before the high court involves a Tennessee law that restricts puberty blockers and hormone therapy for transgender minors, similar to the Texas law.

Gender-affirming care for transgender youths is supported by major medical organizations, including the American Medical Association, the American Academy of Pediatrics, the American Psychiatric Association and the Endocrine Society.

In a concurring opinion, one justice dismissed the position of the medical groups.

“The fact that expert witnesses or influential interest groups like the American Psychiatric Association disagree with the Legislature’s judgment is entirely irrelevant to the constitutional question,” Justice James Blacklock wrote. “The Texas Constitution authorizes the Legislature to regulate ‘practitioners of medicine.’”

Texas officials defended the law as necessary to protect children and noted a myriad of other restrictions for minors on tattoos, alcohol, tobacco and certain over-the-counter drugs.

Several doctors who treat transgender children testified in a lower court hearing that patients risk deteriorating mental health, which could possibly lead to suicide, if they are denied safe and effective treatment.

The ban was signed by Republican Gov. Greg Abbott, the first governor to order the investigation of families of transgender minors who receive gender-affirming care.

[covid-safer-hotties]

Also preserved on our archive

They are also at higher risk of depression, anxiety and insomnia

COVID-19 survivors show signs of significant cognitive deficits which could become dementia even a year after having the virus 1 . They also have an increased risk of depression, anxiety and disrupted sleep.

People who have had COVID-19 should be subjected to close monitoring and regular check-ups to ensure early detection of cognitive impairment and timely therapeutic interventions, says a team of researchers at the Bangur Institute of Neurosciences in Kolkata.

Previous research has suggested that the coronavirus may enter the brain through the olfactory system but little is known about how the virus affects the brain.

To find out, the scientists, led by Atanu Biswas and Madhushree Chakrabarty, did brain scans and assessed the mental health of COVID survivors using phone and in-person interviews. They then matched these with a control group of people who had not contracted COVID.

The team, which included researchers at the Indian Statistical Institute in Kolkata and the Burdwan Medical College in Purba Bardhaman, found that more than 80% of people tested reported at least one of four symptoms – depression, anxiety, stress and insomnia – ranging from mild to severe.

Patients with higher socioeconomic status experienced less anxiety. At least 6.1% of the patients were diagnosed with mild cognitive impairment and 4% developed dementia.

More than 60% of the patients experienced a loss of taste and smell during the active phase of the infection. This could alter the function of brain areas linked to cognitive ability and emotional well-being, the researchers say.

doi: doi.org/10.1038/d44151-024-00168-7 www.frontiersin.org/journals/psychiatry/articles/10.3389/fpsyt.2024.1370085/full

[drdemonprince]

i’d love to know your perspective on the substack essay “of course people make up disabilities” that freddie deboer just posted today (09/30) if you felt inspired to write about it. no worries if you’d rather not of course! i appreciate your work very much (and i’m expecting to agree with your perspective on this topic wayyy more than with freddie’s btw)

This would make SUCH a good livestream topic to be honest. That would allow me & others to really go through the weeds of it and be appropriately nuanced.

I have several thoughts about it, which I'll just bullet point here:

One of Freddy's big issues whenever he discusses the neurodiversity movement is that he still presumes the pathology model is always correct and appropriate, and should be applied to even how neurodivergent people experience being themselves. This means that throughout his piece, he describes the massive uptick in people identifying as "systems" as there being this very sudden, very large increase in what used to be a very rare and debilitating disorder, DID -- but that's conflating a bunch of different communities into one. Not everyone who identifies as a system identifies as DID. Not everyone who identifies as a system exhibits or even claims to exhibit the symptoms of DID outlined in the DSM. Lots of people who identify as systems are median systems or are heavily masked, which means they don't look anything like what psychiatry has typically understood DID to be, nor does it match with the pop cultural stereotypes. Obviously these are many people who would not be captured by a DID diagnosis in the past. And just like many Autistics who were not diagnosed in the past, many people who were not diagnosed with DID but do identify as having DID argue that the diagnostic process for the disorder up to this point has been highly limited and biased. Of all the conditions in the DSM, DID is the one MOST attached to a small cluster of diagnosticians -- most people practicing psychiatry and psychology have no expertise in it, and NEVER diagnose it because they don't know anything about it. And so obviously, a lot of people have slipped through the cracks, if we view DID as a real, useful clinical label. Furthermore, talking about oneself as being a system serves a variety of functions, and not everyone who identifies as being a system (or even as having DID) sees themselves as debilitated by it. So Freddy's concern that a huge contingent of people are suddenly claiming to be debilitated by a severe disorder is just misrepresenting what a large number of these people are saying about themselves, and how the diagnostic process for DID works.

Freddy takes it as a given that some kind of apparatus for investigating disability claims is necessary, because people lie. He provides no support for this assertion. I'm happy to allow that of course, sometimes human beings lie (or fool themselves), but we don't have any evidence that people doing this places some massive strain on the social welfare system. We have every reason to believe that like most other humans, disabled people are motivated to feel capable, challenged, and engaged, and we know that disability benefits are meager and come with conditions that trap a person in poverty for life -- so why are we worried about too many people accessing disability services? It's an absurd claim for a leftist to make, but then again, many Marxist do have this kind of shitty attitude toward disability, and carry within them the presumption that people need to get stronger and should be pushed to work, so. It's of a piece with that.

I do see some merit to Freddy's observation that disability and one's self-conception as disabled is often a shadowy, shape-shifting thing -- some days you convince yourself you really do have this disability, other days you are kind of rounding up the truth, other days you don't know at all -- but this is because of the subjective nature of how these conditions are defined and measured, and because of the inherent value judgement that psychiatry makes of anyone who appears to be operating differently as somehow inferior or "sick," even if it can't explain how or why they are. I don't understand how he can openly explore just how difficult it can be to figure out whether you are a system (or Autistic, or struggling with bipolar, as he was for years before he got a handle on it) and then conclude that these categories can be assigned to others with full objectivity. He seems to think individuals CANNOT know our own mental health status categorically but that psychiatrists infallibly can? That there is some objective truth to the question of whether a person is DiD or Autistic or whatever else that can be easily determined -- and he's a smart enough and data driven enough guy to go figure out that's not the case. Psychiatrists exhibit frighteningly low inter-rater reliability in their diagnoses!! Diagnostic standards change over time, and are applied differently to different groups of people! Symptoms come and go! How we explain what is going on inside of us is culturally influenced! How could he not understand how complex this all is?

His anecdote about lots of young women suddenly using canes is so needlessly cheap. He's a better writer than this. Why might a lot more young people be physically disabled all of a sudden? Something about a pandemic maybe?? Does he not know POTS is a common side-effect of long COVID? Among many other conditions that would require using a cane?

I do agree with him that sometimes people do fake conditions to make money from fundraising online, or for the attention! Yes, undeniably, it happens! We're on tumblr, we remember the Hatsune Miku binder girl pretending she had HIV. Scammers exist. Fantasists exist. And people who tend to make up elaborate lies about themselves and their lives are typically SUFFERING -- even if we concede that some girls on tiktok are faking having DID (I am happy to concede that, yes, it happens), if someone goes to great and repeated lengths to create false alters and produce endless content about their condition to an audience of thousands, they're obviously struggling in some way most of the time. For some maybe it's some dispassionate grift. Sure. Whatever. It does happen! But in Freddy's own framing, we are talking about a lot of people who are only half-willfully self-deluding, and desperate for attention online -- so would he say they are faking DID but are clearly mentally ill in some other way? Or does he think they just need to toughen up and stop thinking these irrational things about themselves entirely? How does he think that would work? Being so miserable and confused about yourself that you convince yourself that you have a disorder that you do not have and orienting your whole life around that doesn't sound like a person Freddy would call "well." So are they lying? Still not mentally ill? Or mentally ill in a slipperier way, where the way that you think and feel affects the way that you think and feel about yourself, which helps to create your new reality, which then is true for you? If you think you're DID, feel like you're DID, act like you're DID, are debilitated like someone who has DID, are you not DID?

Freddy seems to think of mental illness diagnostic categories as far more contained and distinct than they actually are. Trauma symptoms can morph into OCD, attachment dysfunction can look like Borderline at one moment and then Bipolar the next, Autistic people can become eating disordered for Autism reasons, and people who are desperate for acceptance can take up cutting and then just have a cutting problem. there is no brain scan or genetic test that can definitively tell you which one of these disorders you have, because they are only defined through self-report and observation, and our behavior and feelings continually keeps changing. And so it's useless to talk about what the rates of any given disorder "should be" because there is no objective metric for that, and there is no objective, set in stone standard for what any disorder really is. The eating disorder rate has certainly changed over time as a product of all manner of cultural influences -- was that a bunch of people faking it for attention too?

I really struggle to understand why Freddy, a Marxist, has refused to engage with Marxist critiques of psychiatry at all whatsoever. SO many excellent books have come out on the subject in recent years, from Micha Fraiser-Carroll's Mad World to Robert Chapman's Empire of Normality. He seems, for his own reasons, to be heavily invested in the pathology paradigm and to view regular people as completely lacking meaningful insight into their own mental states, and those with forma diagnoses as utterly incapable of determining what is best for themselves (while also arguing that people with such diagnoses should always be held accountable for their actions). It's frustrating because I like to read his perspective on many topics, even when I disagree with him, but I can't find his work challenging or interesting here because he's so steadfastly incurious about the scholarship that goes against his own pre-conceived notions, so he ends up writing rants on the subject that feel at once earnestly felt but ignorant and reactionary.

[nshtn]

NSHTN Personality Sheet! (aka Incendiary Dano Riddler, or Incendi)

Music Vibes to Match > Ambience: 3 Tonal Tracks without Lyrics SHE - DIGITAL AMBIENT DESIGNS - BOOT DBOKEY - ASMR TOPRE KEYBOARD [LEOPOLD FC660C 45g] MINDFULNESS ON MONDAYS - CALMING UNDERGROUND LAKE Negative: 5 Tracks with Lyrics and 'Negative' Themes KEYGEN CHURCH - NEL NOME DEL CODICE

MY LIFE WITH THE THRILL KILL KULT - THE DEVIL DOES DRUGS

AYESHA EROTICA - SYNTHETIC [Slowed + Reverb]

VIENNA TENG - THE HYMN OF ACXIOM

KASANE TETO COVER - AISHITE! AISHITE! AISHITE!

>>Footnotes:

|BUSDRIVER - EAT RICH

|AESOP ROCK - DOG AT THE DOOR

|LAURA LES - HAUNTED

Positive: 5 Tracks with Lyrics and 'Positive' Themes BUSDRIVER - NEW AQUARIUM

OR[G]Y - OPTICON

COMBICHRIST - THIS SHIT WILL F C U K YOU UP

GABEMTNZ - GLITCH IN YOUR HEART

KAYLA RAE - MAD?

>>Footnotes:

|POWERCYAN - DISCIPLES OF THE NIGHT

|DORIAN ELECTRA - DADDY LIKE!

|DUAL CORE - HOSTAGE DOWN

Favorite Foods > Three comfort, three healthy, three high class Comfort: - Poptarts - Pizza - Goldfish Healthy: - Carrots - Steamed Zucchini - Sweet Potato Fries High Class: - Salmon with Lump Crab - Hambone Pea Soup with Herbs - Herb-Roasted Multicolor Potatoes

Political affiliation, beliefs overview > How do these beliefs affect their daily life? General Far left anarchosocialist. Anti 'three letter associations'. Pseudoskeptic. Atheist. 'Positive' Strong believer in personal freedoms. Water and housing should be mandatory for all. Workers should unionize. All people deserve plenty of time off to handle their needs. Government is shackles. 'Negative' - get spicy A bit of a tech bro. Poses a legible threat to people with power. Anti-psychiatry with an unfair bias to doctors. Overly-positive outlook on deeply illicit substances (also uses them). Anti-theocratic, headache to people who are religious. Privacy paranoid.

Personality > What words describe them? Contemplative, intelligent, shy, hypomanic, paranoid, unstable, obsessive, hyper-empathetic, witty, cynical, touch-deprived.

Game Vibes > Five games that have their vibe NIGHTDIVE - SYSTEM SHOCK DRIZZLY BEAR - HACKMUD CREATURES LABS - CREATURES: DOCKING STATION FACEPUNCH - GARRY'S MOD CHUCKLEFISH - STARBOUND

Collage Vibes > Cite your sources! Square image board collage.

img: herbs | vines | latte | code 1 | code 2 | keys

tagging: @danosrosegarden @sweetums0kitty

[contemplatingoutlander]

The children who remember their past lives

I've known for some time about the qualitative research done regarding young children who seem to recall past lives. Of course such research cannot provide the empirical evidence that double-blind controlled studies can provide, but it nonetheless raises some provocative questions. This is a gift����link, so you can read all of the article, even if you don't subscribe to The Washington Post. Below are some excerpts from the article:

Two-year-old Aija had invented plenty of fictional characters before, but her parents — Ross, a musician, and Marie, a psychologist — noticed right away that Nina was different.... From the time Aija learned how to talk, she talked about Nina, and her descriptions were remarkably consistent. Aija told her parents that Nina played piano, and she loved dancing, and she favored the color pink (Aija emphatically did not). When Aija spoke as Nina, in the first person, Aija’s demeanor changed: Her voice was sweeter and higher-pitched, her affect more gentle and polite than what Marie and Ross typically expected from their rambunctious toddler. [...] It all seemed more curious than concerning — until one afternoon in the early spring of 2021, when Marie came to believe that there was something more to Nina. That day, Marie recalls, she and Aija were playing together in their living room, enacting little scenes with toy figurines. Then Aija suddenly turned to her mother and said, “Nina has numbers on her arm, and they make her sad.” Marie’s mind raced. “What did you say?” she asked her daughter, willing her voice to remain calm. “Nina has numbers on her arm, and they make her sad,” Aija said again, pointing to the inside of her forearm. Then she added: “Nina misses her family. Nina was taken away from her family.” [...] Marie knows how this story might sound, and she is exceedingly careful about sharing it. Marie also knows that she is not alone — that since the 1960s,more than 2,200 children from across the world have described apparent recollections from a previous life, all documented in a database maintained by the Division of Perceptual Studies within the Department of Psychiatry and Neurobehavioral Sciences at the University of Virginia School of Medicine. Sometimes a child presents enough identifying information for relatives or researchers to pinpoint a deceased person, but that level of specificity is elusive; about a third of the cases in the database do not include such a match. [...] Certain consistent patterns have emerged: The most pronounced and convincing cases, Stevenson and Tucker both found, tend to occur in children between the ages of 2 and 6. They might suddenly describe places they have never been, people they have never met, sometimes using words or phrases that seem beyond their vocabulary. Nightmares or sleep disturbances are occasionally reported. Many of these children are highly verbal, and start speaking earlier than their peers. Their descriptions of past-life recollections often fade away entirely by the time the child turns 7 or 8.