#because cymbalta did the exact same thing to me | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

talkethtothehandeth · 10 months

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Where the fuck did people read “your conditions aren’t as bad so you should shut the fuck up” ANYWHERE on the post of you saying how conditions are different and aren’t always able to be compared because some people genuinely have it worse but that doesn’t mean less severe conditions aren’t bad and don’t come with ease

also you and morg aren’t the same, you don’t have a metal spine and you don’t post about his on your own anyway? What the fuck?

Oh you mean this post?

I don’t get why it’s so hard to understand that “some people have it worse than you and your experiences might be related (like my osteoarthritis compared to someone’s rheumatoid arthritis) but it doesn’t mean that they’re the exact same” isn’t the same as “people have it worse, shut up it isn’t that bad and you don’t have a voice here ever” I’ve had to take diclofenac, toradol, tramodol, cymbalta and celebrex to manage just my arthritis pain. Some people have to take weekly injections to slow their spine from fusing together because of their arthritis. It isn’t the same thing.

honestly you’re not gonna stop someone from saying things they think/know are true, and I’m not even the one saying it. I’m sure people are saying the same damn thing just more “meaner” than me because they’re sick of being called shitty things for saying their truth. I get it, and I don’t get offended by it because it has nothing to do with me. Their reality doesn’t affect mine, it doesn’t make me clutch my pearls because I’m aware that two people’s experiences won’t ever be fully comparable.

And the reality is one disabled person, no matter the shared experiences of another, will have limitations for what they truly understand about other disabled people.

Also morg and I are mutuals, so we share opinions but his words aren’t mine and mine have nothing to do with him unless specifically stated; no one from my blog (or anyone) should be attacking him just because they think he’s mean for being very understandably upset that people automatically assume that every single disabled person has the right to talk over him about his own struggles that so many people don’t understand and no one that has an issue with what he posts on his own blog should blur the lines between me and him as our own individual person (no one should try to do that ever, with any blog), I literally know as much as he shares on here, we live across the country from eachother, I know zilch, nada except for what I’m able to read. Why? Because he isn’t me!!

I don’t understand the spine thing, I don’t understand my moms struggles with her Harrington rod in her back, and I don’t understand the pins in morgs spine

so why the hell would I sit here and berate him and tell him “I know exactly how it is because I have arthritis and my pain is literally the same” like???

#sorry to bring you into this morg #also I know it’s more than just pins I’m not trying to minimize #asks #anon #cripple punk

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arson-but-medicated · 2 years

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today is april 20th, 2022, at 10:46 am.

Just took my Cymbalta. I also took my Seroquel last night and surprisingly it didn't completely fuck me over! I still fell asleep at midnight and woke back up at 5am, but I was able to go back to sleep and woke up only a few minutes before my alarm at 10:30am. I feel...decently well rested today. Which is nice. Might change later though if the Cymbalta has anything to say about it.

So, the main thing that I guess might be a theme today is my issue with emotions. I have a lot of them, mostly nervous, mostly angry, mostly overexcited. Usually a combination of all of those results in a lot of crying or incoherent babbling on my part. I try not to unload them on anyone but sometimes I can't help myself. Soon, wouldn't you know it, I'm watching myself cry and whine about shit that could get fixed if I would just calm the fuck down. I explain the stupid shit I do like this usually:

Imagine you are sitting in the viewing area of an operating theater. One of those cold, bright open ones that you see in scary medical films and TV. You are watching an exact copy of yourself performing surgery on a new patient every time you're performing a new task. And that copy of yourself is fucking it up badly. You yell and yell at it because you know what you should actually be doing. You know how to do this task, you know how to do this surgery. You've studied it and watched yourself ruin this surgery again and again and again but you can never enter the operating room yourself for... whatever reason. The surgery is done and fails or is passed by some strange miracle (usually someone else stepping to help your copy), and the copy comes up to you with a smile like it thinks it just did a surgery that would be praised by peers for centuries. Like it performed medical magic. You tell it everything it did wrong and how to do it better but it just shrugs and says "well, I did my best." And you pause. And you laugh. And you wrap strong, betrayed hands around its neck until it's choking so hard you can hardly breathe yourself.

You're made to watch this for eternity because it doesn't ever listen to you. You aren't sure whether it's forgetting or deliberately ignoring you because it's easier to call yourself a mistake and that you "did your best" when you could be trying so much harder. But trying harder requires work. Work you don't have the spoons for. Work you don't have the time for. Work you don't have the money for. But by all means, you should fucking have these things. But because you're so shit at surgery, you don't. It's a cycle you'll never break and you're doomed to watch yourself make the same fucking mistakes over and over again. And it's pathetic.

And when someone else talks about failing their surgeries or laments about it, I get so bitter. I can't listen to them. It's so hard dealing with other people's emotions because you're in the middle of surgery yourself and god!!! you!! just!! ruin!!! everything!!!

And I think the worst part about this post is that I hardly felt anything while typing this. The Cymbalta must have kicked in. Also South Park discourse. Pog.

Anyways, today should be fun. I wanna go swimming.

End post, 11:26am.

Blaze it lol

#04/20/2022 #med update #negative #morning moment #funny weed day haha

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theautumnarchive · 7 years

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Dysphoria can suck it

This past week, I've been really struggling with dysphoria. A huge part of transitioning, at least for me, has been dealing with this constant nagging voice in the back of my head that tells me I'm lying or that I'll never really be a man. It's one of those things that you can say is a result of society's views of the trans community or something like that, but having some rational explanation for it doesn't make that voice any quieter. On Thursday, I came out to everyone at work. I posted a big thing on Facebook the week prior - which was really nerve-wracking, but turned out overwhelmingly positive - so a lot of my co-workers already knew, but there are a handful of older guys who are decidedly not Facebook friends of mine. My boss and I decided that the best way to get this over with was to have a nonmandatory meeting at the end of the day. All day long, I'm freaking out about this meeting. There's only one person who I think will react badly - he's a Vietnam vet, a proud trump supporter, known to be very anti-lgbtqa+ - and I am dreading it. It turns out, though, that I never needed to worry about him. Instead, it was friendly fire that destroyed me. The maintenance man is an older dude who looks a touch like Red Green and has a proud dad vibe every time I finish a carpentry project at work. I love this guy; he's absolutely one of my favorite people at work. When I see him on Thursday, he says that he's heard I'd like to be called something else now and asks what it is. The other maintenance man asks why I'm changing it and Red says, "because that's what he wants to be called." Hell yeah, right? I'm elated. Brian is with me and he's amazed and thrilled for me. I almost forget about the meeting later because, if Red is unquestionably on-board, then that's pretty damn good. But, I felt too safe. A friendly debate about whether men can have vaginal bacteriosis went south pretty quickly when I tried to explain that some men can, indeed, because having a vagina doesn't necessarily make you a woman. I'm living proof, right there in front of him, and he's acknowledged my pronouns and defended them to his co-worker. Evidently, though, his support of me and his approval of the concept in blunt terms are not a package deal. What started as an amusing story from Brian quickly devolved into Red telling us that, "it doesn't matter what you think you feel like. If you have a vagina, you are not a man." Ladies and gentlemen, having people that I care about feel their heart of hearts that I am not and will never be a man has been my utmost fear with this process. Having someone I care about say that they support me and then adamantly telling me to my face that "what I think I feel like" is wrong because I don't have the requisite parts is soul-crushing. This situation was made all the more devastating by the presence of Brian - sweet, supportive, wonderful Brian - who doesn't know how to react and whom I have been afraid to tell that I am stupid in love with because I'm worried he will say the exact thing that Red just said. Unfortunately, on our way to the fort to find Red, I did tell him (a half-truth, because I couldn't get the word love out), and he doesn't feel the same. That would have been alright, honestly, but now I am just hearing Red say that over and over and my brain jumps into overdrive and tells me, "hey, you know why he doesn't like you back... He doesn't think you're a man, either." Cue panic. Brian and I took our lunch breaks because we'd put in a lot of work ripping out the walkway to the fort already and it's over a hundred degrees outside with the humidity and all the while I'm trying to regulate my breathing and not cry in front of these people. When we got to the building where our lunch breaks usually are, my brain just shut down. I held that panic down for as long as I could, but walking into the Messer House was like running out of batteries. I had just enough energy to get an ice pack for my neck, and then I walked into the ballroom and laid down on the floor in the corner and cried. I cried and cried and cried and my breath was choppy and my muscles were tensing and I couldn't stop thinking and that's how Brian found me. You guys, I appreciate this guy so much for sitting there with me and trying to distract me and calm me down and eventually just laying there next to me so people wouldn't ask what I was doing, but my panic brain wasn't having it. Eventually all I could hear was Red's words coming out of Brian's mouth. I just shattered, right there on the floor at work, dressed like a 1700s carpenter, dehydrated and covered in sweat and dirt and tears and snot, laying next to my best friend who is doing his absolute best to keep me safe and sane. I eventually told him why Red's choice of words was so especially upsetting. I know he felt awful, but I'm not upset with him if he feels that way. He's entitled to be attracted to whatever he likes, and that's fine, but, again, rational logic doesn't quiet the little voice. Brian stayed with me all day at work after that. We went to see Marlena in the Spanish House so I could get my phone and text Julian, which helped, because Julian knows everything and has been there before. Brian sat next to me at the meeting at the end of the day and made eye contact every time I looked in his direction so I could stay calm. When Red walked in, I tapped Brian's elbow and he pushed it out so I could drum my fingers on it until I calmed down again. The meeting was fine, all told, but I was so on edge that my voice wavered at the end and I almost cried. The rest of the day was a weird haze. We played through this epic battle in the D&D group, but it was so hard to focus and I just wanted to sleep. The next day was the real kicker, though. I woke up from a nightmare where I killed my brother's baby (thank you, cymbalta) and my body was so sore from tensing up that I could barely move my arms. I sat around useless for a few hours until I got the energy to shower, which actually helped. But then I had to get dressed. I didn't want to wear a binder because my chest was sore, but having to wear a sports bra was upsetting, so I put a tank top over it, but my chest is too big, and I saw myself in the mirror and got so frustrated with my reflection that I broke down. I threw on a bunch of layers and drove to town to call my mom and find Julian, because he told me that if I was still feeling terrible that he'd come over and we could watch a movie. Mom helped a little - although she had a lot of family news that made me sad, but it didn't trigger my panic - but I should've just stayed on the phone with her. I finally got in touch with J only to have him say that he wasn't up to hang out. Y'all, I was a mess that day, and I needed him, and I couldn't handle that text. Hating yourself for what you look like and what parts you have is awful, but adding in that one of your best friends can't be bothered to be there for you is devastating. I'm not sure if it's sadder to break down on the floor of the Messer House or in my car in the parking lot of Publix, but neither of them are experiences I'd like to repeat. But, y'all, there is always a light in the darkness. I don't know what higher power is responsible for putting Brian on this earth and in my life, but holy crap, thank you. This poor guy babysat me for an entire day after that conversation with Red only to have me text him the next day, right when he's getting off work, asking him to "please talk me off the ledge." I dumped out everything messing me up and he sat there in the grass next to me in the Waffle House parking lot getting roasted by the sun and eaten my mosquitos until I calmed down. Pecan waffles are pretty good medicine, too. After that, I went home and resolved to be better. Dysphoria sucks and eats at you, but you have to move past it. You have to find something to do or someone to talk to so you aren't thinking about it or so that you can address it in a constructive way. Brian is my guardian angel, but he's also a person with his own problems and stress and needs, and the best way I can show him how much I appreciate his support is by getting better. There will be people for the rest of my life who tell me that I'm not a man. Maybe Brian will be one of those people, although he would never tell me that or say it out loud. Maybe. But it doesn't matter. I know what I am. I know who I was always supposed to be and who I am becoming. This journey is long and arduous and stressful, but it is worth it. For every person who wants to tear me down, there are two who are proud and excited for me. My mother loves me, my brothers are happy for me and weren't surprised. My friends back home in Louisiana and in Kansas were all excited and supportive. My undergrad professors sent me really sweet messages of encouragement. The people I love here have been amazing from the start. Who cares about the people who don't want to learn or who spew hate or try to tear you down? The people who matter have my back.

#dysphoria #long post #Oh boy my bad #coming out #I don't know #I hope if people are reading this that it helps some of you #if y'all are struggling I am here for you

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