so stressed i forgot to make a title

CN: moar codeine drama, discrimination, mentions of suicidal ideation, discussion of gendered medical issues


I have to admit that I have been procrastinating about finding a new doctor. Well, for the first week it was just not in my power. Last week I had to prioritise the gynaecologist. This week is my first chance to actually go and put myself in front of someone and say ‘halp’ and in all likelihood get knocked back.


The gynaecologist last week did not go well. It was forty minutes of questions where I wasn’t allowed to finish my answers (like seriously, I would type half of it, “i can’t read it”, I would fix it, then next question even though like I’d said half a sentence and was not done) before I even had a chance to pass over my letter that I’d written in advance…


… You know what, I was telling someone about this once, and they were like “you know, you should write a letter and take it to them!” and I was like “seriously, really? i already did that.” And you know? It still doesn’t work. …

Continue reading so stressed i forgot to make a title


With a Whimper, not even a sound

CN: moar chronic pain vs codeine discussion, discrimination, 


So as you know, codeine was shoved off onto prescription only as of February of this year. That was five months ago. I told you at the time that a previously considerate GP turned into a threatening ‘you really only have anxiety’ monster after a single telephone consultation with the state rehab people, because “the head doctor” said people only take codeine because it hides anxiety and pain will go away with mental health treatment. You know I was lucky enough to find a new GP, who initially gave me not a small amount of grief, but settled into prescribing me just-under-two-weeks worth every two weeks and didn’t ask where I made up the rest. You know he found something actually wrong, for which I’m going through testing, waiting, and more waiting.


You may have even gathered that things were looking better for me – I was establishing a new routine, I wasn’t terrified of going to the doctor because I didn’t know if I’d get a script or have to fight for it or go through another unwanted, traumatic test in order to get it.


Today, when I left the room, the receptionist kept offering me tissues and then, instead of letting me type to her, shoved me off into a private room and locked me in.


Clearly, something changed.


Continue reading With a Whimper, not even a sound

Broken is broken

Contains SPOILERS for the BBC show ‘Broken’

I’m going to cut all of this, because seriously, this show has so many triggers in like, four hours (so far), that like, it’s hit the red exit button for everyone I know. Everyone. And in my view, some of it was entirely unnecessary or unnecessarily explicit. But! So under the jump there will be the TW, because apparently some people got past the first five minutes without putting all the pieces together and I do know at least one person who hasn’t even watched those.

Continue reading Broken is broken

Emetic Early Warning System

TW: disordered eating, PTSD, conversion disorder, chronic pain, people being sucky, assault and implied assault/battery


I don’t know how to condense this into a content warning, so if I have missed anything I need to put in please let me know. I think this post is more me putting my thoughts in order and getting them out of my head so I can move on.


So last week I talked about how important routine is and why messing with it can be detrimental, and about subdrop, vaguely. The takeaway was that I was not in an emotional place to be making decisions.


So I ended up quitting therapy just after that, didn’t I? Continue reading Emetic Early Warning System

Being Too Visible

TW: disordered eating, medical professionals being sucky, gender biases, religious discrimination, workplace harassment, self harm

So, the reason I knew I could no longer stay at oldwork wasn’t that I was sick of every day being assessed on what I wore – how conservative-professional-female it was, how many times I had worn that dress before (there was a spreadsheet involved, I believe), are you sure you should be wearing those heels – or that I went from being overworked by doing my supervisor’s job (illegal) as well as mine and half of the department’s, to being the receptionist and assigned more work “because that’s what you need”… as if working for the man who actively prevented me getting the work I already had done so that he could harass me about being spiritual and Catholic, or whatever else was on his mind that day, and who whistled at me when he wanted my attention, is what I needed. Or anyone needs. Ever. It wasn’t that the one time I went in on my day off, dressed as myself, that the level supervisor followed me around, measuring my skirt and going “is that really professional”… on a public holiday, when the office was closed.

“I am here on my day off, and I had plans already;” I said. “I’m dressing comfortably today.”

Comfortably being a minidress and boots and enough chains to secure a trailer. But still.


Continue reading Being Too Visible

I Get The Weird People So You Don’t Have To

TW: rude people, sexual harassment, gender issues/presentation and dysphoria, suicidal ideation


You know, today was meant to be a twee little post about how I didn’t realise I started getting so many piercings during the period when I had to dress conservative business formal female, but I read an article about how some people with gender dysphoria get piercings and/or other body modifications to anchor themselves and get some ownership back over their bodies, brought to you by the panic attack sparked entirely by the fact that one of the gem ends on my angel bites fell out, not to be found again. I went to my piercer, who is going to try to get me a new one, and got a couple of other issues looked at, since my piercings on my right side, the one that’s affected by the hemiplegia, are all either swelling, leaking abnormally, or just being contrarily painful. (That pain is like an, ‘oh, hey, it exists’, in comparison to normal pain, btw.)


Instead, I experienced a series of events that made that post seem, well, twee.


First was the risking hellfire to acquire medication. I did get it, but to do so I had to put up with the pharmacist literally yelling at me (raised voice and everything) for three minutes about “this is for your own good so you don’t end up in hospital or dead”. Now. As you know, I don’t do talking, so basically, I go in with a note that’s way too simple, because I learned very early on it’s easier to just say one thing, rather than expect them to actually listen. So he had my note, which is just like ‘I have a migraine’. And he’s going on about how the medication can cause migraines. I saw the whole thing beginning to happen, and had my phone ready to type, and I started signing to him, and he raised his voice even more and ignored me.

“Back pain doesn’t cause migraines. You said it’s a migraine. I’ve been around a long time and I know all the stories.”

Because, you know, assuming things without actually listening to anyone is the best way to get someone the best medication, or something.

These are some of the assumptions he probably made:

  • addict
  • lying
  • not actually in pain

I took the liberty of looking up ‘can back pain cause migraines’, and got a ton of hits. I didn’t read them all, because it is kind of a well-established thing that back issues and head pain can be related, because of how the spinal cord connects to the brain stem. I also got an actual article by a real live doctor about how clinically significant back pain and chronic headaches and/or migraines have a rather higher rate of comorbidity, and possibly share either a root cause or one directly affects the other. So, it’s not like I can’t have both, right? (Check it out here.)

Coupled with the fact that I very obviously limp and was wearing my corset on the outside, well.


It’s not the first time he’s done it either, but he’s strange, in that he’ll go on, but still give it to me, rather than the ones who just go ‘it’s too soon’ and if I try to sign to them, say if I don’t leave they will call the police. (And, literally, I’m standing there, leaning on the counter because that’s easier than standing, signing ‘headache’ and ‘mute’. Sometimes I can’t hear because of the aura, but that’s about the worst of it. I don’t understand it at all.)


So basically, he went off on someone who was literally in pain, actually requiring pain relief, because you know, not having pain relief is worse for the brain than having it, because of how pain, especially chronic pain, affects the brain, and said it was for their own good. Without, you know, checking to see if they were actually sick or not. Which I am. Even my parents believe me now, and my mum is the “well if you go for a walk every day everything will be fixed” kind of person.


I haven’t decided whether to complain or not, yet; if I complain, I may push them to cut me off entirely, but at the same time, to go from zero to 100 on the ‘barriers to service’ is just sucky customer service.


And then, of course, the whole dead part. That’s just a wonderful thing to say to someone who spends a good portion of time on the ‘at least the pain will stop’ side of the suicidal line.



And then, well, I went to my piercer, and while she knows that I greatly dislike being uneven, I’m still uneven, because one side has a plain ball and one side does not.


And then I realised I was stuck in teh city for two hours and I’d left my knitting at home, and I was just unstable enough that not having something to do with my hands was a bad thing, so I went and bought more needles and more yarn. And then I went to my actual appointment, and then I was walking back to the car, and I kept hearing grunting noises, and it turns out that someone was following me and masturbating.


Good thing I never drive directly anywhere, huh? I like, make it ten minutes and then have to stop, because sitting is excruciating (yes, even with pain relief, because it’s relief, not preventative). I don’t do more than two times in a row, otherwise it doesn’t subside for long enough for me to be functional at the other end. (That’s why I can’t get to certain appointments – if the train doesn’t go there, I don’t go there. Not that, you know, the trains here are very reliable or anything, but I tried buses again and I still get spikes from buses, so.) So I stopped, got takeaway, and then somehow managed to get green lights all the way home, which took exactly ten minutes.


I think I will write to the pharmacy. I won’t do it now, because my parents left this morning, and I want to actually sit on the floor without the floor killing that one nerve in my leg, which means I have to put everything back in the lounge, which then means another round of higher pain from all the moving. Tomorrow will do, and I think I will frame it as recklessness – by assuming one thing, he neglected to provide the correct advice, therefore reckless to the possibility that he could have done something to actually help. I mean, like, in the last six months, only one pharmacist has recommended anything else, and then she got her supervisor to come and yell at me when I signed that it made me throw up (her supervisor was like “I know you can’t hear, honey, but we can’t give you anything”). I know, paracetamol allergies aren’t as common, but honestly, I’ve had it diagnosed twice (I get a rebound headache after I throw it up and I get a big rash on my face). I have a documented reaction to lactose in medication, the time my GP was like ‘oh it’s not that much you can’t react to it’ and then was like ‘um, whoops’ when I went back with swelling and fever – after one dose. I have tried triptans, but because my primary migraine is hemiplegic, they only made it worse. I had four weeks of constant aura because I wasn’t allowed to stop until the script ran out and I had to go to three different pharmacies because none of them kept enough to fill it.


I’m not sure why anyone thinks I want to be like this – in constant pain, counting the hours until I can have another tablet and get maybe an hour where I can do things without crying. I had to get my dad to cut me a wrist brace, because I couldn’t work the scissors, and I made mashed potato for lunch – it was meant to be pancakes, but I couldn’t work the flipper, because my wrist was that bad… on my good side. Instead of having severe pain for one or two days that subsides to a barely noticeable ache, I have the pelvic-ovarian-groin-depends-who-is-talking-pain all the time, at a warm, redwhite ache that, when I sit, stretch the wrong way, move, you know, do stuff, turns whitewhite and sharp. I haven’t not had back pain since the surgery, when before if I had four days rest I could do without the tablets. That, too, is worse if I do anything.

(I have yet to hear of purely neurological pain being triggered by physical activity. If the best explanation is ‘the nerves misfire’, then the nerves should misfire at any time, not directly correlating with position and exertion, but if someone corrects me and then fixes it I would seriously be happy to learn a new thing there.)

I know, if I am not in pain, I do not need the tablets. I don’t think anyone else does, or wants to.


So we’re back to this very different fundamental thing – it’s easier for people to stick labels on something that they don’t understand rather than try to understand it. It’s easier for the pharmacist to yell at me and assume I’m looking for a high than it is for him to take ten minutes to have a conversation with me and ascertain that I am actually in pain that prevents me doing things, and be polite about it, because that’s what’s in his mind at the moment. It’s easier for him to do that because I am visibly identified with a subculture that people look down on, because of my piercings and because I don’t treat my corsets as underwear. It’s easier for people to blame me, because I’m one person they don’t know much about, rather than say ‘the system is failing here’, because we’re meant to trust the system and that it will look after us. There is still a gender bias in diagnosis, too – from autism to migraines to chronic pain, people who appear female get sent off with ‘depression’ and ‘anxiety’ a lot more, until it’s too late and many end up with permanent damage, if not a self-fulfilling diagnosis brought on by being misdiagnosed and/or undertreated. Then there’s people who have mental health diagnoses and/or are neuroatypical beinng ignored or dismissed when they go ‘no, this is an actual problem, please fix it’, which is where I’m at.


I don’t do labels, generally. People come out to me and I look at them and say ‘no, you’re a person – that’s not all of who you are’. Once someone puts a label on you, they don’t take it off, because that’s how people’s brains are meant to work – big filing systems. Mine doesn’t work like that – I remember people by context. Usually, actually, it’s their hair. My singing teacher is the way his hair curls at the point where his neck meets his shoulder, and sticks there when it’s wet. My dad is his beard. My mum has a bob. My brother’s hair is the same colour as mine. My grandmother used to sit at our kitchen table as she got a home perm, and I learned about the different kinds of comb as I watched the curlers come out.


Now, miraculously, I get four whole days at home. Once I put my stuffs back, I can rest for four whole days. I have enough tablets to get through the entire long weekend without going out.

First time in… a month. Ish. Yeah. Six weeks. I have three meals in the fridge, so I don’t have to cook for at least two of those. It’s going to be amazing.

But not enough.


I feel like going back to the pharmacy and being like ‘it’s been a week now may I have my meds please’ and seeing what happens. That would be amusing to me.

But, you know, I can’t help but notice that having to randomly go out to get more and prepare to fight for it every time is actually corresponding with more pain, and needing to function through more pain. I used to be able to get enough for a few weeks at a time and then just stumble out for appointments and necessities. And, you know, rest.


But at least he yelled at me and not someone who couldn’t see straight through it. The end result? I have even less trust in pharmacists than before. And they want to be the front line and take the pressure off GPs? Yeah, no.If your healthcare system is such that entire classes of professionals are overworked, you need to fix the system, not yell at the patients for being sick.


Excuse me, I need to stop sitting now.




It’s not just an overlocker

TW: self harm, emotional abuse


My parents are coming back in a month. Mum made it very clear they can’t afford to stay in a hotel. I was very lucky to be cast in a movement piece that could be customised for my particular braind of disability. Under the guise of “coming up to see your show” they are ensuring that I will have to quit, because it is very clear that having them here will prevent me from being able to participate.


I have DSPS. They have to be in bed by 11pm. I normally go to bed at 6am. That’s eight or nine hours, by the time they sit around drinking, fold out the bed, sit around drinking, that I can’t use my television, my kitchen, my laundry… I am stuck in my sleep room or my room, and I can’t put on music (I need music). I can’t sleep when they’re here, because if I do, I get up to find things have been rearranged and occasionally that strangers have been in the house. The day/night/day before they come is invariably spent curled up somewhere, bawling my eyes out and reminding myself of all the reasons why barricading the door is bad and I have to be good.


Naturally, the house wasn’t clean when they got here. “I will help,” Mum said, and I tried to stop her. Instead, she rearranged my kitchen, making things harder. Then she walked out. She came up again a few hours later, asked what she could do, and then walked out. I didn’t finish doing the dishes until well after I had also had to cook tea.

“I’m sorry I didn’t help, I feel bad.” Mum said. Dad took half the recycling down. Two days later they asked about the rest.

“Don’t bother,” I typed. Because, really, what does it matter if I’ve already spent half the time walking on empty PET bottles if they have a neat room to live in. I sure as hell don’t want them in here, where I stash everything I don’t want coated in nicotine and passes as objectionable.


Naturally, Mum ‘forgot’ that she’d promised to let me get takeout. She started planning meals, then complained that she’s “not this organised at home” when I pointed out, again, the meal plan stuck on the front of the fridge. I’ve been making a meal plan every time they come for two years now, since Mum chucked a fit about cooking because she “never gets a break”. Now I don’t, and I don’t even have an oven, and I went two visits without any food at all because I wasn’t included in her meals. She decided on having lunch out before the show, bought meat and complained that the cheese wasn’t nice. Then she shoved the meat in the fridge, then watched me running around the house trying to find it. “Obviously you’re looking for something,” she said.

She didn’t think, she said, after confessing she put it in the fridge without it even being wrapped. I’m vegan. I am vegan because meat makes me violently ill, I’m anaphylactic to dairy (so of course she brings her own dairy milk from home, as well), and when I started cutting things out (after being forced to eat them until I moved out), I started reacting to everything else. They can’t even keep the dishes separate, so I have to wash their dishes in disinfectant to keep contamination to a minimum.

“It’s very nice,” she said about tofu scramble, entirely forgetting that she’s had it before. Not like I asked.


Same like every time I was dressed in outside clothes. “That looks nice.” I didn’t ask. My outfit is not up for comment.


Tuesday we went into the mall. Mum kept running off. Dad had to chase her once. Another time I did, and I had to grab her jumper and pull her back. She says it’s because she can’t hear. Instead of staying with me, she can be 20 or 30 metres away while I’m waiting outside a store. I tried to take them back to the car and they wouldn’t get in the lift. “I thought you didn’t want to go,” she said. Then they told me they got lost trying to find the car on their own, because I hadn’t shown them the lift.

We went for fish and chips, and I was so grateful that the fish and chip shop people know me, because we ate there and they brought out two plates of chips, so that I could have chips which weren’t served with their fish. I nearly cried.

“How do they know you, though?” they kept asking. Never mind that we’ve been going there for twenty years.


Wednesday we had the show. I had prepared as best I could. I managed to convince them to prebook parking and explained how it worked. We took a picnic instead of eating at home first, so it was very rushed, as I had booked the carpark later to accommodate, knowing it would be very busy there and that the earliest I would be able to leave, given that I had actual work to do prior, was 11am. Eat lunch, go in, park, go to show, sneak in snacks.

Except I went to put the serviettes, cutlery, and bags for the snacks in the bag, and the bag was gone. We ended up in the city, only able to eat half of lunch, because there was no way to cut the apple and no serviettes for the blueberry danish. The bags had been snatched from me when we got out of the car, too, so I had to arrange them as I limped, one starletto stuck on the bottom of the car, my wallet left on the back seat, while I was being yelled at for limping and being in pain. I ended up taking my shoes off to walk, because without the starlettos the heels got caught in each gap in the footpath.

“We need to eat now; we don’t have time,” I tried to say.

“Let’s go eat on the river! It’s so nice today!” And so, I had to sit outside, the sunlight stabbing my head.

When we got inside, finally, Mum ran off again. I found the very last seat and tried to arrange everything. Every time I put something on the floor, my Dad grabbed it and put it on the chair or on the table.

“No, Dad, I’m sorting, I need them down here.”

It took Mum half an hour to get a coffee. “I didn’t think it would be so busy,” she said. “I’m going to complain.”

You wanted to go to a matinee because you thought it would be less stressful.


Then I got yelled at in the show. Turns out, unsurprisingly, that a show that spends ten minutes establishing that people don’t like to be called by a whistle is rather triggering for someone who had to walk out of their previous employment, in part, because one of their direct supervisors used to call them by whistling.

“Stop moving,” I was told. Never mind that I’d already scratched through the skin on my hand, and I couldn’t have my snacks because the picnic meant I’d had to make a show of eating, while in my corset, and Mum had staked mine out for her own anyway. We were in the front row, so I couldn’t do anything else with my hands or I’d distract the performers.


“Oh, you left your wallet in the car too!” Mum said, when we finally got back to the car, after we’d stood around waiting for her to finish smoking. Despite it being illegal to smoke within three metres of a covered bus stop, you know. “We could have come back!”

We didn’t have time, because you wanted a picnic. And Dad had decided to have someone come inspect the garage door, and broke it, because he decided I (despite being perfectly capable for the four months they refused to have it fixed) wasn’t able to put it up myself. Also, that it didn’t need to be unlocked first.

But you know. I looked nice, whatever.

Then I had to remind then that they’d promised takeout. “That was so nice! That was so easy!” they said after. But I was exhausted from reminding them, again, of how to order, that it was possible to order… I put on a miniseries, and fell asleep on the floor, having argued about where I would get to lie down, because Dad now also refuses to sit on the couch, and won’t move his chair to see the TV. It was the only peaceful sleep I got all week, and only because somehow my brain sees Sean Bean as safe and I always sleep through everything he does.  We were going to finish it the next day.


I made the mistake of showing Dad the overlocker I’d bought. He promised, when my handbags all broke, months ago, that he would bring up his overlocker and fix them. I bought one on sale, so he wouldn’t have to bring it, and then he could FINALLY show me how to thread it and I could line things properly rather than spend three hours hand-sewing lining on everything. So when I got up on Thursday, after getting an hour more sleep, he’d taken it outside, unpacked it, and set it up on the picnic table.  Outside, you know, where there’s sun. He took my fabric, a 1m remnant meant for lining glasses cases, and started making corset bags. Without me. And he finished two, entirely too large and along the wrong grain, without the ribbon channel, before he tried to interrupt me cooking lunch to ask if they were what I wanted.

wanted to spend time with him, like when I was little, and he would make one half to show me and then I would make the other half. I wanted him to show me how to thread the machine instead of teaching myself from YouTube and the instruction book (which is now missing, thank you). I was going to set up the table inside and put on Sean Bean and it was going to be a Good Day.

Ended up my day off was an emergency trip to Spotlight, because he needed the sewing machine as well, and in getting it out, managed to lose half my thread and my special red buttons, which magically, I needed, because Mum wanted a gift for my uncle. And, because I had asked and before Dad started, he had not cut me a square for lining the glasses case I was making, I needed new lining as well.


When I got back, the overlocker was packed up, and Mum and Dad were fixing the toilet, because Dad finally noticed it was broken, and Mum had finally snapped and made him do it. Or something. So much for Sean Bean; I ended up chucking on an anime just to make sound, and that’s when everyone sat down to watch it – except it was yaoi. Yeah.


Then Mum got upset because my favourite player was injured and dropped from the team since she’d come up especially to watch him, and then that we lost. I was upset that I’d spent half the day making a blueberry bread pudding, soaking it in rice milk and everything, only for Mum to refuse to eat it because it was “too hard” and that they’d decided to eat their very not vegan pizza off plates rather than paper towelling, so I had to run around washing up as well. I would get them their own plates and cutlery, but they’d either not use it, or wash it all together anyway.


They left on Friday. Mum started crying, because she didn’t want to leave. I hadn’t been able to sleep. I kept hearing them in my head. I was hallucinating them, little versions of them walking on my desk as I tried to write. It is still so cold in here, because I had to have all the windows open for the smoke. Mum had yelled at me for that too; I had one window a little bit open and she had trouble closing it. She couldn’t find Dad, and wouldn’t ask me, even though she saw me open it.


The absolute most hurtful thing from Mum was when she was complaining about Dad. I’m in the middle of whatever domestic they have going, all the time.

“He’s like you,” she said. “He can’t adjust to losing his job. He won’t even talk to anyone from work, even to be polite.”

Because my brain disorder, disproportionately presenting because of PTSD from being systemically bullied, a situation which she repeatedly told me was my fault and she wouldn’t help me leave, is comparable to whatever my dad’s got going on? It’s not even hereditary. She says she can’t cope with him either, but refuses to leave.


I have a very tiny amount left in savings, enough for food for two months. If they can’t afford a hotel, if that’s their excuse, I will book them a room and go without food. They won’t take it, though.


Meanwhile, I’m being sent for a psych eval for disability. I need to prove my PTSD is bad, so they’re sending me to a psychologist, who probably has no idea how my brain is actually broken. They sent me a letter about it. I hid the letter before my parents came, so they wouldn’t find out and insist on staying “to be supportive”. (They’ve done that before actually. I had a psych eval for workers comp, the psychologist yelled at me for not being able to talk, then was very contrite when he realised that I wasn’t just faking it, and suddenly, the next time I had an appointment they were here. To be supportive. And they were rather pissed when I chose not to attend. Or rather, their presence made attending need more spoons than I had. Like performing will.) Now, of course, because I hid it while I was having a massive breakdown, I don’t know where it is, so I don’t know where the appointment is. Funnily enough, all the searches I have tried have no record of the psychologist. It’s not in my online services account as a mandatory appointment. But, the letter was very carefully vaguely threatening – if I don’t go, I don’t get disability. If I don’t get disability, I’m not eligible for priority government housing. I can’t access emergency housing because to do that I have to call them using a paid phone number, which I can only do with the relay, who yell at me for not being fast enough and then harass me all night if I end the call.


When I was making food today I saw the corset bags and started crying. I tried to unpick them, but I ended up having to cut the seaming off. The fabric is now useless for anything, because it’s cut to such a weird size. I tried to get the overlocker out, but it’s stuck in the foam, the book is missing, and I have to remind myself that I went without food for two weeks to buy it so that I don’t smash it. I don’t want it in the house, because it’s a ball of dark negative energy. I tried to put it outside, but then I kept thinking ‘what if it rains it’s too expensive to get rained on’. I was keeping it in the garage, but I have to put the bin out, and it was on top of the bin.


But I don’t want it in the house. I don’t want to look at it. It’s contaminated, for me, because it was meant to be mine and instead my dad was just like ‘oh shiny! i want to play!’ and took it and now it’s set up for him, the same way I can’t use the sewing machine because ‘there’s a trick to it’ because instead of threading it, the thread has to be pulled in some arcane way that puts more tension on it. I suppose I should be grateful he left it threaded, except the threads are so tangled from the spindles being removed and shoved in a box under foam and then thrown around when I tried to get it out, that it needs to be rethreaded.


And now that the book is gone, I literally have no way of working out how to fix it.


Except, you know, waiting a month for them to come back and mess things up some more. Which is, obviously, the very last thing I need.


Now, of course, I have to go to the psychiatrist tomorrow. He will tell me it’s not so bad, express confusion that I’m not getting better because I’m not at work anymore, even though the actual situation is ongoing. He will offer to have his secretary call to find out the psych eval appointment for me, because he doesn’t know that she hates me and is a rather insensitive person (she yelled at me for forgetting my glasses, after making me drop everything to sign the forms, while I was picking up my bag first because trying to put a broken bag over your shoulder is ten times harder when you’re holding two pairs of glasses, an mp3 player, and a teddy bear – literally less than a minute after I put them down in the first place, after not being able to sit for one minute to put anything even in my pocket. And! She yelled at me for arriving while she wasn’t there. Seriously.) or understand that the problem is that it’s at 11am and that I had to hide the letter in the first place. He will also yell at me for not going to the neurologist appointment, which I was never informed about in the first place.

Then, on Tuesday, I have to go to class, put up with my teacher complaining about other students, and asking how everything went.


And of course, being here isn’t as comforting when I go to get something and it’s not there because I had to hide it/put it away/it was moved for me because “it was in the way”/they were just here.


Mum broke my blocking board which I made especially for the blanket she demanded – a 160cm x 160cm monstrosity I’ve been working on for a year already. I finished another square to put on it, after I spent half an hour fixing it and sliding the squares on the new needles.

“You finished another one!”

Yes, Dad, it’s so obvious you don’t even need to comment on it.


I have been crying for four hours straight now. I don’t know what else I can do. I’m sure it all seems so little to everyone else. It all adds up, though. My brother moved to Germany to get away from it. I had plans for London. Unfortunately, they make you pass a medical exam and have employment and a ton of savings before you move there, to prove that you won’t need any assistance. My brain means I will need the NHS. Bye bye London.