remembering why I stopped going to the doctor years ago. So far it's gone like this: I went to a doctor someone recommended, they gave me the inhaler I needed at least (wish I could've just gone and bought myself the meds I knew I needed but nooooo), diagnosed another issue I needed help with, and referred me. The next doctor cost more money to tell me that the first doctor was right, but that I needed to see another doctor to confirm. That doctor said actually the last two doctors were wrong, but didn't have a clue what was actually going on. "Like idk maybe try CAT scans or something? Doctor no. 2 will call you back to follow up." Dr 2 has not called. Oh, and let's not forget the third doctor did a bunch of tests that hurt like hell and they had the nerve to interrogate me about 'why I was so down.' I hate it when doctors ask me that. I DUNNO BUB maybe I hate wasting all my time and money being processed like a slab of meat by scammy medical institutions that never actually help me?! Also I filled in your stupid form and admitted I had depression—what did you expect? They don't even read those damn things I swear. So now I've spent over $200 and wasted a total of about 10 hours running around town just to be exactly where I was before I talked to a doctor. It's so goddamn useless. Last time I spent $600 to get told I had bad knees and needed a surgery I couldn't afford. I already knew that! Now I've got another appointment this morning and I called the office (wasted 10 minutes just getting past the answering robot) to ask about the fasting the doctor told me to do for bloodwork—only to be told this wasn't an appointment for that. no no, this is just a 'follow up'. WHY?! So she can double check that I didn't die of an asthma attack in the meantime? I swear if I drive through houston traffic for 2 hours and pay another $25 just for this person to ask me how I've been breathing lately I'm done. I'm done. I'm dropping the whole thing. I'm just gonna accept that it's my lot in life to live like a 14th century peasant and hope I die of natural causes. I'll find some leeches in the creek and take some weird herbs and hope for the best. I don't even know what's going on with the insurance company because they emailed me asking me to pay another $25 copay for an appointment I already paid $50 for in person, so now I've gotta waste time and precious energy calling them to make sure there wasn't a stupid mistake, and if they say there wasn't then I just have to accept the extortion. And I've gotta keep signing all the stupid forms every time saying I'll pay I'll pay I'll pay. For WHAT? If I can never get actual medical care that fixes or alleviates the problems I'm dealing with what the hell am I paying for?! If I went to any other business and paid for a service and they failed to provide it I could demand to have my money back! But these hacks get to be like "well if you don't want to sign over your entire bank account enjoy your free human right to suffer and die lol." My elbow hurts like hell from writing this and half my hand is numb but the gods only know why. Anyway, here I go, off to spend another 2 hours and at least $25 but probably more than that on some more bullshit.
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Ordering at a Restaurant Without a Menu: The Challenge of Navigating Disability Services as a Late-Diagnosed Adult
Some people with disabilities, especially those of us diagnosed as teenagers and adults, spend our lives puzzling out how our brains work and what makes them function at their best.
It’s not just that we lack accurate information. Understandably, those around us assume we are neurotypical by default, and give us inaccurate information. We then have to realize it doesn’t fit us and unlearn it.
Sometimes, we have to do so while being told that other people understand our brains better than we do.
(Yes, that experience affects our self-concept and self-esteem, but that’s a topic for another post).
When we finally have access to accommodations, we are expected to know and ask for exactly what we need.
That expectation is unrealistic.
One might expect that folks whose job consists of supporting people with disabilities (such as university Disability Services staff) would start by explaining what they do. They could easily provide a list of all the services they offer and say, “here are all the ways we help people. Do any of these things sound like they could help you? Do you have any questions or suggestions?” In my experience, otherwise helpful support people don’t, even when asked directly.
That’s like going to a doctor in some obscure medical specialty who expected you to know everything about what they do and insisted you tell them what treatments or medication you need. Or -- since disabilities aren’t necessarily diseases -- it’s like going to a restaurant without a menu and being told to ask for what you want, with no guidance as to what they can actually make or whether they can accommodate your diet.
That’s absurd to begin with. All the more so when a significant portion of the people they work with have never received services and have been left alone to figure out their needs.
(Yes, enough late-diagnosed, never-accommodated people have shown up at disability services offices by now for them to know we exist).
Here’s a possible fix: offer coaching on how to discover your needs, navigate the service system, and ask for support. It might not even be hard; some disability services offices at universities already offer ADHD coaching.
...
Have you dealt with this frustrating situation? How would you fix it?
10/18/2022
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I think we need to start putting Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD/EUPD) under the microscope
I think it's high time we really get into it
Let's stop faffing about and get real
Like why do men get diagnosed with C-PTSD but women with the same experiences and symptoms get BPD
Or, hmm, I dunno, maybe why women who are undiagnosed neurodivergent are continually misdiagnosed with BPD without a moments consideration that it could be something else at play
Or how the diagnosis is given so quickly on assumption
It's almost like...
I dunno man
Anyone remember that period in the history of psychology where women who were dealing with trauma from abuse and/or sexual assault and the like were said to have "hysteria"
Ykno how they'd have one conversation with a psych and the psych would be like, "hmm, female, emotionally unstable, difficulties communicating, fragile sense of self. Oh yes yes, hysterical"
RING ANY BELLS!? ANYONE!?
As someone who was misdiagnosed with EUPD/BPD at 21 after one conversation with zero investigation. Who also later discovered they have adhd (diagnosed at 26) and autism (undiagnosed/dismissed due to adhd etc.). I find it pretty fucken sus that all these women are given this bullshit catch all diagnosis that labels them a problem and places the blame entirely on the flaw within themselves and then just... left to it.
I've been a part of BPD groups. I've seen those women. I've seen how the diagnosis has NOT helped them. I've seen how their symptoms have worsened. How hopeless they feel. How they try and try to do or be better but can't seem to get the hang of it.
And I've seen how many of them really need help dealing with their trauma, their symptoms of C-PTSD. I've seen how so many of them have had difficulties with parents friends and partners, always being misunderstood and the problem, almost like... hmm I don't fucken know - neurodivergent people maybe!
Honestly, to anyone who has been given the diagnosis of borderline. I urge you to investigate. Dig deeper. Do your own research. Look into the stats on misdiagnosis (I promise you, they are staggering!) Look at what conditions/disorders are often mistaken for borderline. Just do yourself a favour and question this label. Investigate.
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I am crippled. I am a cripple. A richer, stronger, harsher word than disabled. It takes my experiences and the way people look through me and it forces them into an unignorable word, a slur I pick up and reclaim. I am crippled; I am sick; I am disabled. No matter what word I use, I am destined for this fate. For the rest of my life, I will struggle with my body, with my thoughts, with my mind, with my heart. For the rest of my life, I will oscillate between sick and well, suicidal and stable. I am destined for a life of in-betweens, urges to walk in the cold of night to a highway an hour out. They diagnosed a fifteen year old with an incurable, painful, depressing disease, and said off you fucking fuck! Box breathe through the pain! What a fucking joke.
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