this is for my lost therapy

anonymous asked:

oh my goddd what happened with owlturd and sixpenceee

Owlturd apparently lost their fucking mind after someone called them a “milquetoast,” on a post that revealed some controversial political beliefs. Sixpenceee tried to take advantage of mentally ill tumblr bloggers by requesting $30 for email “therapy,” sessions, despite being completely unqualified and without medical licensure.

aryaryagi  asked:

i think in the dsm for generalized anxiety it says that you have to meet the criteria for at least 6 months?? so my question is—if you have it for a period of 6+ months but then it goes away another 6 months bc of a change in your environment or something, does that mean that you no longer have gad according to the dsm? even if the internal factors and reasons behind it were never addressed or resolved in therapy or by yourself?

yes. DSM diagnosis is about current symptoms, not underlying causes. DSM diagnoses are also not meant to be life-long, which I think sometimes gets lost in translation. 

Camren at a Couple Therapy
  • Therapist: So let's start by-
  • Camila: I have questions for you...
  • Therapist: That's a good start. Camila go ahead.
  • Camila: Do you care?
  • Lauren: Of course I do! When I wake up all alone. And I'm thinking of your skin I remember, I remember what you told me.
  • Camila: Then why did you leave me here to burn?
  • Therapist: Okay maybe we should start with a less intense conversation. Lauren do you want to say something?
  • Lauren: She's never listening, she says it's innocent. She doesn't let me have control anymore.
  • Camila: What are you talking about? I gave you all of me. My blood, my sweat, my heart, and my tears.
  • Lauren: Well, I'm tired. I must've crossed a line, I must've lost my mind.
  • Camila: I was there Lauren, I was there, when no one was.
  • Lauren: I know. I miss the memories replaying in my head.
  • Camila: And your voice, it was the most familiar sound but it sounds so dangerous to me now.
  • Lauren: I'm sorry you have to feel that way. I miss the thought of a forever, you and me.
  • Camila: But now you're gone and I'm here. Is it my fault? How do I fix it?
  • Therapist: Time is up! What a productive session. I'll see you both next Wednesday. Great progress Camren!

I’m the asexual who was sent to conversion therapy as a young teen.

I’m the asexual who thought they were messed up, and broken, and all alone.

I’m the asexual who was told by people who I thought were my friends that God didn’t approve of my ‘alternative’ lifestyle.

I’m the asexual who felt lost in the clothing isles because I didn’t want to look ‘sexy’.

I’m the asexual that struggles with depression, fear, and inadequacy.

I’m the asexual that is being blocked off from resources. Or that you want out of the LGBTQ+ community.

I’m the asexual who is being negatively affected by the ace discourse.

I’m the asexual facing erasure, invalidation, and hate.

Please consider this.

Aphobia exists.

If you don’t believe it does then you may very well be contributing to it.

Please think of the people you are effecting.

Be kind.

Be compassionate.


I’m sitting on the floor and crying my eyes off. I feel so alone, does anyone even realise my struggle is real? that i’m in so much mental pain, standing on the edge of the cliff. Thinking about jumping, ending it all.
Not a medication or therapy can make me better. I hug my mom and say nothing, I can’t hurt her again, I just want to be with her a little longer.
I’m so scared, so physically and mentally exhausted. I sit under the shower because my legs are too weak for standing.
I’m so full of bad thoughts, full of anxiety and pain. I let part of it out with the blood, but it’s not helping. I’m trapped and so lost.

And again this writing will just fade away, get lost between other messages. And it will mean nothing

Okay so I’m all for Damien getting his ass kicked, but what breaks my heart about this episode is Caleb losing the control he spent so long trying to achieve. Caleb is a kind and sweet boy, who has been scared of hurting others from the start. He had only lost his temper once since starting therapy with Dr. Bright (the school dance incident), and afterwards he said “I’m not dangerous, I promise.” because losing control and being perceived as a threat is what scared Caleb about his ability. I mean, this kid takes herbal tea in flasks to parties not to lose his head and drink! He has spent so long going to therapy, doing exercises, trying to control his anger, trying not to get overwhelmed by negative emotions, and coming such a long way from where he started -only for it all to be taken away by Damien now. 

I know that the situation called for it, and Adam (and maybe the others) would have gotten hurt otherwise. I even think Damien deserved it, if we’re being honest here, but I hate that it had to happen at the cost of Caleb’s hard work to reach the point he was at. I’m not sure how this incident will affect Caleb’s progress or his emotional and mental well-being, but I’m worried about whatever consequences it will have. And most of all I hate Damien so so much for making Caleb do something he was scared of doing for so long. 


anonymous said: Lockscreens for The Beach, Cinderblock Garden, Runaways, Let It Roll, or Lost In Stereo? (No rush tho <3)

all time low inspired lock screens pt. 3/?? requested by anonymous. I threw in a ‘therapy’ lock screen because  I very much like having an even number :) please like/reblog is you use/save any of them! 

on the may 15th fansign, mental health, darkness, and hope

on May 15, 2015, during 화양연화 Pt. 1 I went to BTS’ fansign at Sinchon and had a conversation with Namjoon that I, at the time, chose not to reveal for personal reasons. at that time, because of that decision, there were a lot of people who criticized me—people accused me of saying something mean to him, accused me of hiding some secret relationship between us, called me a slut, etc. I didn’t say anything about it at the time because it seemed pointless, but now that 화양연화 has come to an end for real, and following the release of YOU NEVER WALK ALONE—plus, the upcoming 2 year anniversary of this extremely fateful conversation (lol)—I have decided to write about it, if only to explain a little of why I feel such a connection to the concept and so people will understand why I kept it private for so long.

I just want to go ahead and give people some warning: it’s not only a post about BTS. it’s a post about my life, and it contains a lot of sensitive material, like self-harm, suicidal ideation, and drug use. please bear that in mind if you decide to read it, I don’t want anyone to be upset by that content.

Keep reading

Captain America Civil War Review Containing Spoilers and Emotions

Score: 8.5/10

Handsome strong big fight. Big boys punch hard, feel hard, get hard. Hold me in your strong arms handsome America man. Hold me to your enormous pecs I want to listen to them whisper to me. I love you.

So many men. I wish I could smell them. Here is what I think they smell like

Keep reading

About Time // Part 8

Prologue | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8

Character: Jungkook x reader / Jimin x reader (feat. BTS)

Type/Genre/words: Angst, Alternate Universe (Time Travel!au, Soulmate!au) / 11,041 words

Prompts: “What if you find your soulmate… at the wrong time?” - Lauren Kate, Passion

Summary: Be careful for what you wish for, because you may never know how to deal with them once it comes true. What would you do when your wish for a second chance actually came true? But was it really a fulfilled wish? Too many questions lie when it actually happened. Were they real memories? Or perhaps a part of a past life? Was it only a dream all along? Will everything be different this time?

Warning: mentions of cancer

Originally posted by izbirakin

Keep reading

I Had This Dream, That in Another World, I Was Someone Else, Someone Not Me.

Part of my hospital chaplaincy duties is to write a reflection on how it’s going. Identities may be altered for privacy. All the writings are here.

The patient, Jerome, had a trapezoid-shaped hole in his head, and he told me it was from his son.

Jerome’s son had waited in his father’s home until he came back from work, and then he robbed him. Jerome fought back. In the struggle, his son had picked up one of those bright and shiny geode rocks the size of a torso, lifted it to the sky, and wham, in a sick, slicing arc, brought it down into his father’s head. The son was still at large. The father, after six months in physical therapy, still could not get the blood stain out of the carpet in his house. Jerome had lost his job at the oil rig; his wife had left him; his other son took two jobs to pay off the hospital bills, but one evening after dropping off his dad for PT, had been struck by a sixteen-wheeler and died on impact. 

“Chaplain, I had this dream,” Jerome said, scratching his old wound, “that in another world, I was someone else, I was someone better, that I have two sons who love me, my wife never left, I was still at the rig with the boys … I had a dream that I was someone not me. It was extraordinary. It was wo—”

He fell asleep, which he told me would happen. His brain needed to shut down when it overworked itself. A few seconds later, he woke up and apologized.

“I had this dream, chaplain. Do you ever dream that you are someone in another world, a different you?”

I visited another patient, Donnie, who weighed about 1400 pounds. His legs had been amputated and he was nearly blind. He had a neurological deficiency in which he couldn’t stop eating; he had become diabetic and was recovering from Takotsubo cardiomyopathy, or as it’s also known, broken heart syndrome.

“Chaplain, I just think,” he said, eating his third plate of pasta, “I was meant to do … something, anything. Anything. Not this. Everyone tells you that your life is meant to help people, but how the hell can I do that here? Look at me.”

In our chaplain training, we call this intrapsychic grief, the pain of losing what could’ve been and will never be. It is the loss of future, the theft of invested time. It’s not a tangible, physical loss, but an internal shipwreck, the imperceptible emotional shriek in our chest when the picture of life we had planned for so long simply dies.

Donnie, the blind, obese, bedridden man with no legs, ordered pizza for the whole floor. That was, he felt, the best he could do. I told him it was even better than that.

Another patient, Lorenzo, had been in a car accident a few days before, and he suffered anterograde amnesia. He was having trouble remembering the words he had just spoken. 

“Chap—you the chap, right?” He rocked back and forth in his bed, nearly clapping his hands in frustration. “My girlfriend is real worried about me, man, she real worried. I think I’ll be fine though, but my girlfriend, she real worried about me. I’m not worried, I think I’ll be fine, chap. You the chap, right?”

He repeated himself, perhaps, to find security in the canvas of his own assurances. His brain had resorted to a safe mode, to grip onto the word-balloons which were floating away, by constantly making new ones.

I was astounded and bewildered by how much a mass of gray pulp between our ears can determine the course of a life, and inside the soul-box of our neurology is the possibility of a hundred lifetimes, and I was angry that the tiniest neuron could so effectively demolish an entire world.

What separated me from someone else not me, except by the tiniest shred of a neuron, one misfired synapse, one slender thread of chance? 

Another patient, Tony, was telling me that he had gotten weaker and weaker in his legs until one day, on the way home, he had collapsed at the ATM and there were floating heads around him asking what was wrong, but they looked like demon faces, and he tried to kick them off but he couldn’t move anymore. Tony had some sort of encephalopathy that had caused brain lesions and he was seeing things that weren’t there.

“But you know, chap,” he said, breaking into tears, “I got this long-lost brother up in Boston, he’s my half-brother but he loves me like a full one, Mikey, this guy’s made of money and he offered me a room at his place, his house is on this fifty acre property, it’s a mansion. Can you believe it?”

I spoke with Tony’s sister, who told me that no such brother existed, and there was no room, no mansion, no fifty acres. It was a story that Tony had been telling himself for months now, when his legs began failing him. It’s all he wanted to talk about, this promised land. 

Oliver Sacks, in his book The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat, writes about disturbed patients who “confabulate,” who spin tales all day long in a constant stream of chatter. They cannot help but conjure completely made-up yarns about meeting celebrities or devising inventions or discovering something remarkable, as if the widening chasms in their brain need a desperate momentum to thrive. Or, worse, such activity drowns out the long fall of personality into the abyss, into the unrecoverable ether. One story after another tumbles over the cliff; I may be the last one to hear them. 

It is my role to honor the burial of what can never be done. It is my role to remember what will never become. It’s not just my role; you and I need this more than we think. At every turn, every choice, we die a million deaths each day. How can we stand such a thing, except to tell those stories that never had a shot?

I had this dream … 

Suddenly, Jerome, the man with the trapezoid hole in his head, nodded off again, but his eyes fluttered, like someone was still home.

… that in another world …

He spoke, but a voice that sounded thicker, more weight, more verve. He sat up taller, his eyes closed but working. I took a small step back.

… I was someone else …

Jerome’s eyes quivered and he said, “I am the man from the other world.” He smiled, just for a second. “I am a hundred lifetimes, I am one of many. I am not who I could be.”

… someone not me.

“I am a life never had. I am the man in the dream. The dream wishes he could be the man in the other. We all wish to be awake in someone else. There is no perfect dre—”

And he woke up. Jerome blinked, saw me, and he apologized for sleeping again. I wasn’t sure if I should tell him about the other voice. 

He said to me, “Chaplain, thank you.” He held my hands, his eyes alive and fiery, wet and fierce. “Thank you for listening. I have to believe my son didn’t mean it. He did the best he could with who he was. I still love my son, in this world or the next.”

I left the room shaking. I questioned if I had really seen what I thought I saw. I repeated his words in my head, I replayed the eerie twitch of his eyes, the way his body slipped into another skin, another dimension.

I wondered if I had glimpsed, even for a second, a keyhole into other possibilities, like dipping a toe into the stream of the infinite, where a son did not ruin his father, where a man missed a car by inches, where a promised land of endless acres was waiting at the other end.

I thought about how we’re always dreaming of being someone else, and the others are dreaming of each other, wishing for a world they couldn’t have.

We survive the nightmare, I think, by dreaming. To dream is to cope. It is the brain’s essential defense against itself. We create new dreams all the time, a new canvas of assurances, to wake against the intolerable. It feels like a lie: but what is hope, really, except a story we tell ourselves in the dark to light the way? If it works, who is to say otherwise? The world continues to be cruel and unfair, but we do the best we can with who we are, to dream amidst the wreckage of what no longer is, to bend with the merciless wind. To even share pizza with the whole floor.


Sometimes I don’t feel like sharing what I write
Because what I write is how I feel
And how I feel isn’t always politically correct, filled with awareness or based on statistics.
I know numbers don’t dictate emotions but there’s order in emotions too.
Somehow I feel if I share what I feel I am imposing on others what to feel,
Like what I feel is right and true and I am encouraging others to feel the same too. 
Most times what I write is the imprint of the bandages I am finally removing.
Some wounds have healed, the others are still too fresh, I am impatient
So I remove it anyway and more blood than I can lose oozes out - Dark, Infected, Impure.
I know how it is because along the way I picked up other people’s used bandages and thought it would heal me too.
But all it really did was infect me further,
With feelings that weren’t mine, facts that weren’t true.
But because I didn’t have first aid back then, I didn’t have a substitute.
I used them and they stuck for too long causing immense irritation.
When I went to remove them, there was nothing underneath that was left to be called mine.
I know people aren’t naive but when you’re drowning in an ocean of your own thoughts,
You will desperately cling onto life boats that seem safe.
But they weren’t meant for you, they were to save someone else.

A List Of Things Cashiers Wish They Could Say To Customers

1. Lazy bitch, please take your cart/basket back where you got it.

2. If you decide you don’t want something, fucking take it back yourself.

3. I don’t care how ridiculous you think it is that you need to show me your ID. 

4. No, I clearly don’t work here (as I wear a name tag with the company name on it)

5. Don’t reach over my fucking register.

6. Thanks for eating your un-purchased banana while you were shopping.

7. If you want $100 cash back, please go to the bank that’s 10 feet away.

8. So you decided not to put your produce in a plastic bag? Do you want me to tell you the last time this belt was thoroughly cleaned?

9. Don’t. Steal. My. Fucking. Pen.

10. If you’re going to pay with a check,…. wait…. what year is it?

11. My manager will tell you the same exact thing I just did.

12. The Guest Services desk is closed? Oh, that means the Guest Services desk is closed.

13. For the love of god, tell your kid to stop screwing around.

14. I don’t know what the fuck your asking about.

15. I fucking know what this is, I’m just looking for the damn PLU#.

16. “15 Items or less” means “15 items or less.”

17. “Hi, how are you?” “Plastic.” No.

18. If I don’t have a bagger, that means you should help me bag your shit.

19. If you put your money or coupons on my belt, they will definitely end up in the dirty tray under the counter.

20. If there’s somebody else’s stuff on the belt, use a god damn barricade to separate your shit from their’s.

21. Don’t tell me you have the change once I’ve already opened my fucking cash drawer.

22. Don’t ask me to throw away your trash when there’s at least twelve million trash cans around the fucking store.

23. If the product you got doesn’t match the coupon exactly, it will not work.

24. If your coupon expired twenty years ago, it will not work.

25. I could honesty give less of a shit if you found everything alright.

Fanfiction - A Lifetime of Her (Part II)

Part II – “In slow motion the blast is beautiful”


I watched as people walked in the gardens outside the hospital, struggling to distance myself from the acute sound that seemed to be permanently whistling inside my ears. It was the sound of immediately before – the universe’s cry of warning that catastrophe was imminent. I found myself trapped in that moment, long after the physical pain was gone – after weeks in the intensive care unit, I was finally starting the skin grafts on my back –, paralyzed in a life-changing moment. Doomed to stand in the frontier of what I had been and what the blast had made me become.

A couple was strolling nearby, the woman holding the bundle of their newborn baby, the man enraptured, dutifully keeping watch over a couple of celebratory balloons, announcing a perfect boy in impeccable blue.

I had seen myself in that life, before. My hand entwined with a faceless woman – her eyes mysteriously the colour of strong whiskey, enough to inebriate me with its fumes -, mindlessly walking towards a shared house, a shared life. I couldn’t fathom such a thing now – the explosion, caused by a gas leak at my apartment building at the university, had tarnish skin and dreams alike.

The breeze kept everyone outside mercifully comfortable, under an otherwise hot sun. It was only the second time I had ventured to go outside, wearing the notorious grey pajamas from the hospital, which marked me as belonging somewhere else other than sitting on a bench under the leafy tree.

The sense of disconnection from everything around me was crushing – I felt like I was standing inside a glassed cage, looking at people with normal lives, unable to find an escape to join them. Jenny and Ian visited me daily, trying their best to cheer me up and to bring me back to myself – I had no heart to tell them that only dust and fragments had remained from that man. I was alive, thankfully – but had no notion of what to do with that surprising gift.

“May I sit down?” A woman asked me. I nodded, not bothering to look at her – instead I curled more into my robe, making myself invisible, biting my bottom lip to avoid moaning with pain from the stretching skin. Breathing, moving, walking – everything came with a renewed cost, as if to remind me that my survival still demanded sacrifice.

She sat on the other end of the bench. I saw her blue sneaker dangling spiritedly on the periphery of my vision, as my nostrils were filled with the smell of rosemary and lemon.

“Excuse me.” The voice next to me said, somewhat timidly. “I could swear I know you, but can’t really figure out from where…”

I tilted my head and looked straight into the sun.

Her eyes were the exact same shade as ten years before – I would recognize them anywhere, even if I couldn’t recognize her brown curls or her tentative smile. My jaw dropped an inch, as I stared flabbergasted at the girl from the graveyard.

“You!” I babbled, nervously fumbling with the catheter, skilfully taped to my forearm by a kind nurse. “Ah – yes!” I tried to recover seeing her confused look, silently kicking myself for blurting. “We have met once – many years ago.”

“You’re the boy from the cemetery.” She said slowly, her hawk eyes studying my face. She had an adorable wrinkle of concentration between her brows. “Ellen’s son!”

“Aye.” I smiled, shyly. “I dinna think ye’d remember that.”

“Of course I do.” She nodded, offering me a kind smile. “I always pay my respects to Ellen, whenever I visit my parents.”

I couldn’t answer – my throat suddenly thick with emotion, as words and feelings nestled like a snake around my vocal chords. That she remembered her act of kindness as vividly as I did – and that she had kept watch over my mother – deeply moved me. I gave her a – I hope – grateful nod and looked away, composing the emotions that ran wild, raw and untamed, after the accident.

“Are you a patient here?” She asked. I raised my eyes to look at her again and noticed she was wearing a white uniform, akin to the nurses I was used to see, with an identification card that read “C. Beauchamp. Trainee.

“Aye.” I swallowed hard, attempting at nonchalance. “I have the pleasure of being a guest of the Burn Unit.”

“Ah.” Her eyes softened – it marvelled me how they changed so significantly, reflecting her states of mind. I was prepared to see the pity that always followed such a statement – but it never came. Her face was a mirror of sympathy and concern – but she wasn’t about to treat me as an invalid. “Good thing you’re able to come outside, then. Such a splendid day, today! I had been dreaming all morning of eating my sandwich outside.”

“Do ye work here?” I questioned, watching as she unwrapped and bit her sandwich – egg and tomato on rye bread – with a satisfaction that made my own mouth water.

“Nurse in training.” She explained, closing her eyes in delight for the utter brilliance of her simple pan. “Actually it’s my last day here.”

“I wish I could say the same.” I gave her a lopsided smile and she laughed – a bit too loud and carefree, like a delighted child. For a moment I forgot where I was and why I sat so uptight – she made me forget things. She made me remember others too – transparent things, important things, that could carve the exit from my self-imposed prison.

“The food isn’t that bad.” She joked, offering me some salt and vinegar chips that she had started to munch. Her eyes searched the plastic bracelet on my arm, easily reading my name there. “Jamie.”

“Hmmm.” I smiled, conceding at the personal treatment. “I’m afraid I miss my morning parritch…” I looked at her expectantly, waiting for her to reveal her identity in return.

Claire.” She laughed, playfully saluting me with her joined fingers like a soldier. “Nice to meet you. Again.”

We stayed in amiable silence, as she completed her picnic-style lunch and I continued to study the world around me, through the eyes of a dead-man walking. But the trees where suddenly greener again and the distant voices seemed to speak to me, teasing me but finally within my reach.

“Thank ye,” I said slowly, tapping my fingers on my leg – much thinner than usual, muscles having been consumed in the furnace of my recovery. “For not asking - about what happened.”

Claire glanced at me – I saw again the same wise-beyond-her-years look, the soul that knew pain and how to heal it, which had held me together ten years before. “I didn’t think it mattered.”

I raised my brows, surprised. “It’s all everyone wants to talk about.”

“You can tell me, if you want to.” She licked her lips for crumbs and smiled, tilting her chin to expose her face to the sun. She resembled a lazy cat, stretching under the warmth, gathering enough energy to wreak havoc afterwards. “But I know you’re here and whole and that’s enough for me.”

“Is it?” I whispered, smiling beyond myself.

“Yes.” Claire threw me an evaluating glare, like she could read into my soul and was ready to challenge the defeatist thoughts that resided there. “Is it enough for you?”

“It hasn’t been…” I admitted, brushing my unusually short hair – another thing lost during the first days in hospital care. “But perhaps I’m beginning to see things differently.”

“I’m glad.” She smiled tenderly – and she seemed truly content. For the first time in weeks I noticed my heart galloping inside my chest, strong and lively, as able to be moved and broken as ever before.

“Jamie!” Jenny waved at me from the door, calling me to get back to my room – it was time for another dose of intravenous antibiotics and physical therapy. I raised my hand in response and slowly got up – whimpering and trembling a little, to my mortification. Claire’s hand quickly came to help stabilize me, holding my chest, as if she had guessed that my back was the source of all pain.

“Ye should be a doctor.” The words burst from my mouth, sounding strangely calm and confident. “Ye’ll be a wonderful nurse – but ye could be a brilliant doctor.”

She looked surprised – an image that suited her, for it was screamed from every trembling muscle, flutter of lashes and promise of smile in the corners of her mouth. Claire’s face spoke of truth as mine spoke of loss and of gratitude to her.

I waved in short goodbye and walked away slowly, holding my crutch for support.

When the physical therapist pressed me to give more, I gritted my teeth and did it, even if cursing every generation before him inside my head. When the nurses applauded the results of the healing grafts, I allowed myself to share the happiness, instead of focusing on everything still left to be done. When the quiet night came, I closed my eyes and dared to plan a life to come.

Claire Beauchamp. The woman who seemed to appear when my need was greatest. I wished I could talk to her and tell her that I had been scared – of living and failing to be enough – but she had healed me, like new and joyous blood cast into my veins. Unfortunately, I had only her name – no phone or address I could use to contact her.

The next time I saw her, she was wearing a black dress, in the middle of a night with no stars.

When I feel lost and can’t make a decision, I just stop and get quiet … I ask myself, how does this feel? What do I want my life to be like? I try not to listen to the shoulds and the coulds, and try to get beyond expectations, peer pressure, or trying to please. (For) I believe all the answers are ultimately within us.
—  Kim Catrrell

anonymous asked:

I have a problem with remembering how to cope when things start feeling tough. it feels like my mind goes blank and i end up just laying in bed. any tips?

Hey honeybun 💕 I still experience this constantly. It’s actually normal to be tired and forgetful. People who suffer from mental illness usually have interrupted sleep cycles, our bodies are often in the fight-or-flight mode, we experience a lot of stress, and sometimes we take medication that causes fatigue. Our bodies are constantly working against our illnesses, but our brains sometimes work in favor of them. Being in a constant inner battle IS EXHAUSTING, and as human beings we all need to rest. You are not wrong for feeling this way. Please use your most non-biased judgement and make sure you are rested enough !!

Getting out of bed:

• Go easy on yourself and be kind.
• Start with something small like stretching, getting in the shower, brushing your teeth, or walking to another room in the house.
• Use positive thinking. Remind yourself that this feeling will pass, and tell yourself “I can do this. Just one step at a time, and I can get back into bed if I want to.” Reflect on your progress and personal strengths.
• Distract yourself with something you love. Play with a pet, read, listen to a positive music playlist, flip through a photo album, write in a journal, pick up your phone and call a good friend, etc.
• Bribe yourself. Treat yourself to a snack in the kitchen, change into your comfiest outfit, or take it even further by stepping out to a coffee shop for a hot drink.
• Stop trying so hard. Our effort can backfire on us and we can end up feeling worse than before. Breathe, and remember that not every day has to be productive. You are allowed to rest and take the time you need to heal.

Reminder tips:

• Keep a page in a notebook, or a digital note on your computer with your personal favourite self help ideas for when you’re feeling this way. Get creative if you want.
• Sticky notes !!! Stick ‘em everywhere. Positive words and reminders are great to have around your bedroom.
• I personally keep a binder filled with good articles, self help ideas, lists, colouring pages, therapy resources, and a ton of information on my illnesses. It’s helped me tremendously through my recovery journey and it’s one of my favourite go-to’s when I’m feeling really lost and unsure.

I hope these are somewhat helpful, darling. You’re never alone. 🌷💝

dreamnachievedvm  asked:

My fiance works for a pet medical insurance and we discuss about a session he attended yesterday about hyperthyroidism and hypothyroidism. He told me on how cats usually get hyperthyroidism and dogs get hypothyroidism. Hyperthyroidism was "curable" through the process of SX/radioactive iodine therapy yet due to cost owners elect to just treat with methimazole/thyroid drugs. I was hoping you can enlighten us with this topic and whether any thing he told me was true. Thanks a bunch! :)

You’re fiancé is about right.

If anyone is getting lost, “hypo” = not enough or too low, and “hyper” = extra or too high.

Dogs typically get hypothyroidism, where for whatever reason the body doesn’t have enough circulating thyroid hormones. There are multiple ways this can happen, but presumed immune mediated destruction of the thyroid gland is probably the most common. Dogs typically have a low circulating T4 hormone level. TSH (Thyroid Stimulating Hormone) can be high or low depending on what sort of hypothyroidism the dog has, and how long they’ve had it.

Affected dogs often show vague symptoms that are often mistaken for ‘getting old’. They may be lethargic, inactive, slow to move, prone to weight gain, develop skin issues including thickening and blackheads, and the fur on the body may shed, or become paler or more brittle.

Hypothyroidism rarely presents as an emergency, but untreated cases can result in myxoedema coma. Thyroid hormones can basically be thought of like an accelerator for the metabolism, and without them the body’s metabolism can grind to a halt. Affected dogs can have low heart rate, low respiratory rate, low body temperature, low blood pressure and low blood glucose and often have dull mentation.

Hypothyroidism (before myxoedema coma develops) is treated relatively easily by supplementing thyroid hormones as tablets, with regular monitoring to ensure the dog is not getting too much or too little.

Hyperthyroidism in cats is the opposite. Cats with this condition produce far too much thyroid hormones, so their metabolism is rapid. Affected cats are often very hungry, and eat well, but can loose huge amounts of weight. They also often have a rapid heart rate and high blood pressure. They sometime seem extra twitchy or cranky, and are reportedly prone to aggression. This can also cause hypertrophic cardiomyopathy or sudden blindness due to retinal detachment.

Affected cats sometimes present as emergency patients due to blindness or cardiac issues. They will commonly get other medical conditions, partly because these cats can be kept stable for a long period of time.

Cats can be treated with daily medication, either tablets or with a transdermal gel, and methimazole snd carbimazole are common drug choices. They can also be treated with radioactive iodine therapy, which is sort of a once off treatment. I say ‘sort of’ because while many cats appear cured, cats can also become hyperthyroid again 3, 5 or more years after treatment. Given that most cats developing this condition are already senior cats, many will simply succumb to other conditions before the hyperthyroidism has a chance to re-emerge.

Surgery is doable, but it’s not my first choice. The thyroid is very vascular, there’s the potential to accidentally remove the parathyroid glands, and there’s an awful lot of thumping big blood vessels in the neck that I would prefer not to be cutting around.

While the cost of radioactive iodine might be prohibitive for some, we often recommend using the daily medication first to ensure no renal pathology is unmasked. I’d argue that you need to treat the hyperthyroidism anyway, even if kidney disease is present, but admittedly it may not be financially worthwhile to undertake radioactive iodine therapy for a cat with a reduced life expectancy.

Radioactive iodine, or surgery, can also result in a cat who becomes hypothyroid, like a dog, needing daily supplementation.

So it’s not just costs that influence people’s decisions in these situations, but the take home message sounds right.

anonymous asked:

Could you explain how recovering from amnesia works? I know a lot of times in movies and books that people just suddenly get all their memories back. Is that how it always works? Or is that how it works in some cases? (Thank you for answering all those questions you get!)

There’s a lot of misconceptions about what amnesia actually IS. I’m going to give you just a snippet from the Mayo Clinic site on amnesia (emphasis mine): 

Isolated memory loss doesn’t affect a person’s intelligence, general knowledge, awareness, attention span, judgment, personality or identity. People with amnesia usually can understand written and spoken words and can learn skills such as bike riding or piano playing. They may understand they have a memory disorder.

As to what amnesia actually is, it’s problems making or retrieving memory. There are two types: anterograde (new memories are affected), and retrograde  (old memories are affected). There’s a really good overview from, surprisingly, Medical News Today, located here.

It’s important to know that most types of amnesia don’t affect a person’s understanding of self; they don’t forget who they are, although they may forget other people or other things. Anterograde amnesia–forming new memories–is much more likely than retrograde amnesia–affecting memories of the past.

Amnesia comes from a lot of causes. For example, I had some brief anterograde amnesia following my concussion when I was a teenager. I also had some brief anterograde amnesia following my dentist giving me an amnestic (there are a few of these, in the benzodiazepine class especially), because I am deathly afraid of dentistry, and not remembering getting dental implants is awfully convenient, you guys. Amnesia can be related to a stroke, or a head injury.(It can be an emotional response to an extremely stressful stimulus, but let’s assume it’s not, shall we? That trope is so boring, and more importantly, we can do better.).

Most people with amnesia have anterograde problems, issues storing short-term memory. For that, occupational therapy and a variety of tools, including smartphones, alarm, notebooks, etc. with reminders, can be very helpful.

Skills that have been lost from retrograde amnesia can also be replaced, again, with occupational therapy. But it takes time, and especially if they have anterograde issues as well, it can take a lot of frustrating effort to re-learn skills they already knew.

Some amnesia is brief, like from a sedative or, hopefully, a concussion. (Some people, like my friend @towertumblng​, have long term issues after concussions, so YMMV.) This might resolve quickly, or over a few weeks; the episodes I’ve had have resolved within hours, although it’s worth noting that I have significant memory gaps in the 24 hours following my head injury. (The sedation for dentistry lasted about 12 hours.)

Some people regain their memories, some never will, though it does, typically, get better. Sometimes the damage to memory is so severe that people have to live in inpatient or assisted-living facilities because of their memory loss. It’s a whole spectrum of disease out there.

I hope this was helpful with your story!

xoxo, Aunt Scripty


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