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#ptsd

keep telling me i’m fine

nothing bad happened

maybe the reason i won’t eat is because your tongue sat too heavy in my mouth

eating my food for me i can’t swallow

like a baby bird i guess except i was 12 and you knew better

i dig my nails into my thigh until streaks of red run dry

puke and puke but the taste wont leave

i’m never clean

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sometimes i wonder why I’m pretending to be happy so hard when you’re nearby.

but other times I know.

I know that nobody wants to love the hollow shell of their partner.

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Sadly, my chronic pain is in full swing. All from the nape of my neck, to the shoulder blades, to my arms and calves, in my knees, and a migraine. 🤕 Fuck, even my face from the pressure of the migraine hurts. Even slept 10 hours and am still fatigued.

It is not so bad I need my cane to walk, but definitely may need it in the coming moments.

I can say for certain that even though I have a muscle relaxer prescribed to me, it does the bare minimum and only causes me to have an irregular heartbeat. This is definitely a turn in the opposite direction from what I had wanted it to be but shit happens. Hopefully I may be able to get up with a neurologist, if possible due to the global health pandemic. I do see my psychiatrist soon for my psychiatric conditions, which home alone, does make this worse.

Fibro flare ups can be one of the most debilitating thing to ever have happened to me, seconded from the constant panic attacks and flashbacks that cause me to be a major fall risk.

Luckily, this is my first day of three days off. Since I am a full-time college student, now moved to online courses because of the health emergency. So hopefully this flare up does not continue past these days like it is.

I do need to get some house chore stuff done, but this may set me back. 😪

I am very lucky and privileged to have a job in the food industry that keeps me, despite my chronic illness and psychiatric conditions. It has been hard to obtain any disability benefits because of my age, and I need to exhaust all options before it is considered. Which has been rough but I’ve been trying to push through it for years now.

My previous job before this, was not as kind. They had let me go in the height of my psychiatric journey. They feigned understanding what I was going through. Letting me know that it was alright if I had so many appointments in a given month. But let me go, stating that they weren’t sure they believed me, and that despite my qualifications from the community college with ServSafe certification. They stated I was no longer qualified. I disassociated constantly in the midst of food service, this had also been my first job, a sous chef also had the tendency of triggering flashbacks but because I do become selectively mute when panic attacks occur. I was never able to say how apologetic I was, that it happened like it did.

This is the thing.

Psychiatric disorders such as C-PTSD, takes an extensive amount of time to heal. Musculoskeletal disorders like Fibromyalgia, is not curable. As much as I understand that it can be hard for neurotypicals or individuals who may not have chronic illness or psychiatric conditions, to comprehensively understand what we are going through. It is important to take the time to understand those individuals and to accommodate them as seen fit. Because people like myself, who are chronically ill and still work, rely on a income even if the money produced is not great. Because it is harder for younger individuals with chronic illness to obtain any benefits. We are still individuals who need to pay bills, and are trying to get through the day as much as possible.

Which despite the fact that even my current job, is far from being perfect. I am lucky to have it. I may not get all the accomodations I need, I have fought long and hard to educate my employers and let them know what I need to survive this life.

Someone told me recently via comment, that I essentially was entitled and was not trying hard enough despite my immense obstacles, while only being paid my state’s minimum wage. I didn’t reply to them, I simply blocked them and waved goodbye. I won’t ignore the fact that while I may be privileged to have my job, don’t assume that I am not trying hard enough. It took me a year and 6 months of fake smiling, flashback induced panic attacks, and me hitting my head on the floor of my job to get me where I am now. I was solely a worker who just took phones and wrote down orders, never mind the fact that there was always a ‘Karen’ or a “Kyle” who screamed at me, cussed me, berated me, and who later once in the store would treat me like dirt. No person would later realize that I have Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, caused by years of neglect, abandonment, emotional abuse, and disdain and paranoia of confrontation, contact, and aggression. No matter how nicely I treated these customers, it is not rare to have at least a handful of people I can list at the top of my head that caused me to panic. It wasn’t until recently, finally having years of chronic pain answered with a diagnosis of Fibromyalgia, written notes to my boss about the months that have taken a psychological and physiological turn for the worse, and boom! I finally being able to do mostly cooking at the restaurant.

Don’t ever say to me or anybody else who has suffered from chronic illness who happen to be working, those with illness that may not be working but rely on a check that barely helps, or anybody suffering through hardships at their jobs period. That they are not trying.

Because I believe that all of us who suffer from these long chronic conditions that we are trying, we are doing our best, that they deserve to be believed in, that they deserve to have the quality of life that brings a smile to their faces and for a moment. That despite all of the pain they may be pushed through, they know that they are doing enough.

That is my TEDtalk.

-FriedBird 🍗🦜

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Hi! I’ve been binging your headcanons because I’m in isolation but they’ve been keeping me company! Can I request for how each of the guys reacts to/takes care of an MC with PTSD? Just because I have it and I’ve never seen a HC for it! Of course if this is upsetting for you to write by all means don’t feel pressured to write it! I hope you have a wonderful day 🌸

I had to do a little research to get the details, but I hope you were able to relate to it!

Enjoy!

MLQC Headcanon - Rely on me more

Keep reading

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I’ve spent more of my life than not wanting to be dead.

Spent years on suicide watch, I’ve never turned my phone off because I’ve been the watcher for other people, and I learned when I didn’t have anyone else to call how to drag myself forward tooth and nail anyways.

I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about death, longing for and didn’t really start pushing back with the quiet realization of wanting to live and what that want would feel like.

Not til recently.

And now, now when I’m at risk, when an incidental oopsy could get me fucking dead as a doornail, because my lungs aren’t a goddamn thing, and pneumonia has been nothing short of easy for me for years.

Now it’s paralyzingly terrifying, and I resent being scared.

So it makes me mad as hell.

Which makes me sullen and unpleasant, which makes me self-recriminate and it goes in this circle of I want to go home to I can’t go home, to I don’t want to die yet I have too many people reliant on me.

That was always the trick, see. If I isolate myself, it’s an easy warning sign, and if I’m not isolating, then it’s safe to assume I’m not high risk.

and I’m…

fucking trying. 

Gods, I am trying so damn hard to keep my chin up, maintain everyone’s sanity where I can (and they’re trying too)

and my brain keeps dropping unwanted PTSD, and it gets to a point where I’m too overwhelmed by choices on simple stuff (breakfast, workouts, casual activities) so I get pissy and exhausted and it’s too damn much.

So it goes. Guess I’m here still, might as well write.

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Y’all think it’s so simple, “she’s abusive,” no she’s fucking abused and I’m abused and we’re terrible at self worth. You want to blame it on one person because it’s so fucking easy, ain’t it? The world isn’t black and fucking white, we have a healthy relationship full of communication and understanding; what’s toxic in our lives are the shit we’ve been put through.

Y’all can excuse my rape, my years of molestation and sexual abuse, being beaten as a child, and viciously bullied at school. You can cast a blind eye on suicide attempts, running away from home, scars I’ve had so long yet never fade.

It’s easier to think in black and white, isn’t it.

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My gf and I don’t fight, we genuinely don’t. We have an argument like once a month-ish? But it’s never anything major. I don’t understand what’s going wrong, why do I feel nauseas, why am I haunted by thoughts of abandonment.

I don’t want to break up, I really don’t. What will happen, what is happening. Is the abuse she endures going to take her away from me. Why are guardians cruel, why do they beat and spit and lock their children. Her father threatens to shoot her everyday, her brother (two years her minor) physically beat her all the time to the point of serious bleeding. Why do they both throw and kick and feed toxins to her dogs. I don’t get it.

We’re doing everything right, why is our stable relationship being sabotaged by outside factors. What if I wake up one day and she doesn’t.

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A *Trauma* thing happened two weeks ago and yesterday was the first day I’d been able to not smoke weed or sleep away the pain of ptsd.

But then I’m also sitting here now smoking and feeling a bit disappointed that I can’t go longer at the moment. But it’s a day at a time, and thankfully my boyfriend is trying his best to understand how I’m feeling and we will work through this together.

I’m at the point when I freeze and he asks what’s wrong, that I can point to my head and say ‘brain’ and he’ll know I’m triggered or else need help or need space- it’s his way of knowing when to ask me for what I need and if he can help.

It’s sucks to have to go through this stuff again, but it’s nice having so much help and support by friends and loved ones.

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It’s 1986. Springtime. I’m 5 years old. Mom says there’s been an accident at a factory in a nearby country and the air outside is bad. The voice from the radio advises us to stay inside. I sit at the kitchen window and watch people in hazmat suits measuring the “radiation” (whatever that means) outside our building. I wonder how staying inside can protect us from something that’s in the air. Something invisible. How can a glass window be enough protection against something that has to be measured wearing hazmat suits? Will the dark liquid they gave us to drink really protect us against whatever has been unleashed out there? (It will. Sort of. I won’t have my thyroid removed due to cancer, as so many of my contemporaries will. But Hashimoto’s isn’t fun to live with either.)

It’s 1999. Springtime. I’m 18 years old. I’m at a hospital. I was run over by a motorcycle on my way to school. I have five broken bones, including my left leg just above the ankle. But I’m young, the doctors say, and I’ll recover quickly. Come August and I’ll be frolicking on the beach with everyone else. (I won’t. For the next 10 months the walls of my house, the walls of my bedroom, will become my world. It will take almost a year for my leg to mend and it will never be the same again. I will never be able to dance or exercise regularly, or lift heavy objects without hurting myself.)

It’s 2020. Springtime. I’m 39 years old. I’m wearing a mask and rubber gloves as I’m opening the door to the guy delivering my groceries. He’s not. When he leaves I disinfect all the packaging that can’t be removed. Toss all that can. Take the trash out. I sit at my tiny balcony trying to soak as much sunshine as I can (vitamin D helps) and wonder if everything I’m doing is going to be enough. Enough to protect me and the ones I love against this new invisible threat. (I don’t know when and how what we’re going through right now will end. I don’t know what the long term consequences will be. It’s just that it feels eerily familiar. And I don’t like it.)

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