Like even if a person is addicted to heroin or another "scary" drug, what we as a society could and SHOULD do is make sure that the heroin is as safe as it can be, and that he has the resources and knowledge required to prevent infections, injuries, overdoses and other serious health risks, and that relevant rehab, treatment, support and detox programs are available to him if/when he decides he wants to pursue them. Punishing him as a dangerous criminal for being an addict isn't going to shame him out of addiction, and that approach is genuinely far more likely to literally kill him than to actually solve the issue
119 notes
·
View notes
Wow... So they might actually outlaw self-medding for trans women here in Denmark and make estrogen and anti-androgens a controlled substance because of a bogus study that claims that self-medicating HRT *will* cause blood clots... All based on data from less than 50 trans women who've had blood clots early in life. All while literally not taking into account any of their other risk factors (substance abuse, V-Leiden, obesity, smoking, etc) and blaming it solely on their hormone treatment... Here we go backsliding on all the strides in regulation that we've made in the last decade wooooooooooo...
15 notes
·
View notes
learned helplessness, & sweeping up internal/external hurricanes
i'd say one thing we don't discuss enough with mental health is the sheer terror of having something going on that you can't really describe, or that you don't comprehend well enough to be able to explain. so as a result, you end up dealing with some of the worst mental health symptoms you've ever had simply because you cannot describe them. a therapist, no matter how good, can seldom help if they don't know it's going on; and you can't tell other people that you're distressed, because if you don't get the wording right, they'll suspect you of something else, and then you'll have worried them without even getting help for the original distress.
when i first started having intrusive thoughts, i couldn't tell they were intrusive thoughts: i had an egosyntonic disorder at the time, meaning i couldn't really tell my own will apart from this other thing that was splitting my mind into little pieces. as such, i couldn't say 'i'm having violent intrusive thoughts', since i was scared that a part of me was genuinely turning violent. the result? i could only really articulate that i felt very afraid and unsafe, but not that 'i actually have this terrible feeling that i'm not in control of my body or mind'. trying to articulate 'i know it's irrational but every time i hear this song i wrote, i think i'm going to die, so i had to delete it from my computer and wipe the backup drives'?. couldn't do it, for it was something that could have made no more sense to anyone else than it did to me.
how do you articulate that your internal monologue doesn't feel like your own? you don't. it's not something that makes sense to you, so it'll certainly sound insane to anyone else. so you push it down and desperately hope it resolves. and it does, but the experience of not being able to talk about it, of not knowing what's going on and others never being able to understand when you try to explain – it's isolating, so isolating. so you learn to cling to any morsel of emotion, of validation, that you can get, and hence you learn to be disappointed, because you have an unspeakable conundrum. you hide each bit of yourself and then resent the fact that people complied when you instructed them not to go looking, and resent those who went looking and still never quite pieced you back together. nobody hurt you and nobody pushed you away and everyone was kind, but your experience is now fragmented, and if only someone could see that, could fix that.
i had a bad year last year—my memory gave out, and i lost a sense of joy. i saw static when i closed my eyes. at the time, this was called work-related stress. and sure, i was stressed; but 12 months later, i had a moment of sheer clarity in an elevator, where i finally could describe what'd happened. not just 'i was sad'. i had felt like i hadn't existed. my entire identity had ruptured and i was trying to pilot a body that didn't recognise itself. and that was the exact summation of it all, but had i been able to see that, let alone say that, at the time? no, and as a result, i learnt to be disheartened and afraid, and what was probably depression-adjacent at least and actual depression at most got brushed off as stress. which is fair, because overpathologising isn't necessarily helpful, but when you are lonesome, and you know there could have been an answer, a consolation————
that's the problem with mental health – you can't help someone who doesn't know what's happening to them, who thus can't communicate what's happening to them, unless you can somehow guide them to work out what's going on. and that's not something most people have time to achieve. the result is that we grow isolated and resentful because we didn't get the help that never could have been (but oh, if it could have been). and you stop trusting that people will hear you. given how many mental health symptoms are marked by that sense of not knowing what's going on – intrusive thoughts, dissociation, panic, demoralisation, anxiety, psychosis, trauma, detachment, despair – then it still is quite easy in today's world to feel a sense of becoming helpless to your own unspeakable terror.
9 notes
·
View notes
|| Decided to write something under the cut. Mild trigger warning for those who are interested.
When was the last time she had slept in her bed? Her workbench was practically filled with empty coffee cups and half eaten food. She had to keep working, always. It kept her mind far too busy and left little else to focus on. It was her escape from her own demons. One of the vital organs that was supposed to be keeping her alive was also working against her.
After Chicago, things changed for Izabella. Sounds sent her into panic attacks, certain smells gave her flashbacks. Sleep was another way her body was working against her. The dreams were no safe haven for her either. Constantly barraging her with that day and the years after over and over again.
Izzy is striking the heated piece of metal with a hammer, the action sending sparks flying around her. If she kept working, she wouldn't have time for her brain to process everything. That was her goal, to distract herself long enough for her body and brain to forget.
But...it never really did, did it?
CLANG
It had been almost 12 years since Chicago, and she could still recall the events of that day with vivid clarity. Every scream, every gunshot, every lost life...she was so young back then. She had always seen the best of the world before that; always hopeful and optimistic. What happened to that girl?
She was dead.
CLANG
Just keep working...always keep working. Doesn't matter what the project is, just keep busy.
How long are you going to do this to yourself?
CLANG
Sparks are flying once again as the metal is slowly being molded into the desired shape. She's grabbing the blowtorch to reheat it to an adequate temperature. Flames gently turning the grayish metal into a beautiful crimson color.
CLANG
You can't ignore this forever.
CLANG
You're going to work yourself to death.
CLANG
Just like your family...
CLANG
Just like Canopy...
CLANG
She's slamming the hammer against the metal as hard as she can, not realizing how heavily she was breathing and the sweat dripping down her face. The hammer is being thrown across the room, slamming into a cabinet with a loud clatter. It's contents are falling onto the floor along with said hammer, the door now sporting a decent sized dent in it. Izabella is taking a moment to calm her breathing down, grabbing a somewhat clean rag and wiping her face with it.
It was time for another cup of coffee, she had more work that needed to be done after all...
2 notes
·
View notes
Like schizophrenia makes you high risk FOR FUCKING COVID. We don't know why but it's a thing. So obviously we are barely scratching the surface of the complexity of this illness like A LOT is going on behind the scenes and it's definitely not just all about seeing things or being delusional
82 notes
·
View notes
lovers in the back lot
Two young lovers so scared to be who they are. Bonth look at each other with their tired eyes.
one reed with tears the ofwdther from the joint mmcshe had to work up the courage for their kiss. Mi
The salt running down her girlfriend's face bitttefr with the years of neglect and abuse from her father. Tears that angered her lover as she kissed them of her fance.
The back lot was their safe place were they could be with each other dispute what others may say. Their story forgotten over time along with generations before them.
20 notes
·
View notes
Didnt you think watching a show about cannibalism might be bad if you have an eating disorder
it wasnt actually the show about cannibalism that triggered my eating disorder but i appreciate ur concern
3 notes
·
View notes