7 Signs of a Bad Doctor

7 Signs of a Bad Doctor

I’m sharing personal anecdotes along with these 7 signs of a bad doctor for a few reasons:

First, I want you to know that if you’ve got a crummy doc, you’re not alone. So many people can relate. (The hashtag #DoctorsAreDickheads existed on Twitter for a reason!)

Second, it might help you see warning signs in your own care. Maybe you just don’t like your doctor; maybe your doctor is genuinely terrible.

Remember: doctors, like anyone else, are not good just because they chose a profession of prestige and authority. They still have to be competent at what they do—just like the rest of us.

So what are the 7 signs of a bad doctor?

  1. Your Doctor Doesn’t Listen
  2. Your Doctor Blames You
  3. Your Doctor Makes You Feel Rushed
  4. Your Doctor Doesn’t Ask Clarifying Questions
  5. Your Doctor Takes It Personally When Medications and Treatments Fail
  6. Your Doctor Isn’t Personable
  7. Your Doctor has Bad Patient Reviews

7 Signs of a Bad Doctor

1. Your Doctor Doesn’t Listen

The worst doctor I ever had—The Rheumatologist from Hell™—would barely make eye contact with me. He was always scribbling something in my chart, unengaged and uttering only the perfunctory mm-hmm. At a time when I felt afraid and unsure, this was definitely not helpful.

I let his board know it, too. (Please report bad doctors whose actions cause you actual harm.)

Was he a terrible diagnostician or just bad at relating to me? Either way, I paid a significant price as a chronic pain patient, and I wonder now how many others did too. It’s a big deal and harmful—sometimes life-threatening—to be ignored. Ask me how I know.

2. Your Doctor Blames You

There were only so many times I could be told that diet and exercise were my problem before I realized the doctor was making my problem worse by taking the easy out.

As it turns out, all these years later, I’ve still never read a single article confirming that I wouldn’t have brain cancer if I’d just managed to lose 15 pounds. It’s bullshit, but it was fed to me repeatedly.

Sometimes the doctor’s admonition is what it is—fear of fat. Sometimes the extra weight is a result of disability and immobility. Sometimes food is the only scrap of comfort available precisely because no one will listen.

Me, bloated and fat from the dexamethasone, on the last day of radiation for my brain tumor. I am surrounded by my family.

The why doesn’t change this truth:

A failure to see any other possibility or acknowledge an inability to diagnose your condition in spite of an “unideal” weight is a red flag. No one knows everything, and any doctor who can’t accept their imperfection is doing patients a huge disservice.

3. Your Doctor Makes You Feel Rushed

The worst doctors I’ve had made me feel like they had somewhere else—maybe even somewhere better—to be. 

It hasn’t happened to me a lot, mostly because I’ve been waiting so long in uncomfortable chairs that I’m the one who wants out of there, fast. But when it happens, it’s not subtle. It distracts me from outlining my numerous symptoms, which I have a hard time recounting due to health-related anxieties.

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4. Your Doctor Doesn’t Ask Clarifying Questions

While I’m relaying my symptoms, I expect my doctor to ask clarifying questions. If I could diagnose myself and knew exactly what was important to share, I would probably just ask for the right tests from the start and save myself a lot of money and a lot of heartache, right?

If I say something like “this hurts” and my doctor wants to know the whens and hows of the pain, I feel much more confident that vital information is being considered. And who doesn’t want a shorter trip to diagnosis because all the facts are being considered, not just the easy ones?

Me and my husband, Dan, celebrating his birthday in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.

5.  Your Doctor Takes It Personally When Medications and Treatments Fail

I write a lot about The Rheumatologist from Hell™, but it’s because he so effortlessly did so much emotional damage that I have to work to undo all these years later. Present me wants to scream, “This isn’t about you! Don’t bill me for this crap!”

When Cymbalta (duloxetine) didn’t make me feel better, my old rheumatologist didn’t pivot or refer me to someone he thought might be able to help, he doubled down. He told me I’d hurt more if I didn’t take what he prescribed, and essentially blamed me for non-compliance before I was non-compliant.

6. Your Doctor isn’t Personable

Sometimes doctors are emotionally cold and you leave feeling less than human. These are bad doctors, no question about it. 

There is a certain level of detachment that’s completely appropriate, but if you walk away feeling less than or othered, it’s not you. More than anything I want you to know it’s not you.

7. Your Doctor has Bad Patient Reviews

A bad review isn’t necessarily a reason not to see a doctor. We all know a lot of complicated factors determine which offices we end up visiting.

Doctors and patients can have bad days, and patients might be more likely to leave complaints on review sites when that happens. We have the capacity to see reason as patients.

But if you find a lot of reviews addressing the same problems repeatedly, that’s a sign you’ve got a bad doctor. When I feel like I don’t have a choice but to see a physician with a lot of negative feedback, at least I know what I’m walking into. There’s some solace in that.

Reporting a bad doctor for me is a moral imperative. But it’s equally important to share my good experiences too. It takes me only a few minutes to let other patients know what they can expect.

Pro Tip: for reviews, search for your provider on websites like Healthgrades and Vitals.

Share You Experiences with Bad Doctors in the Comments

Those are my own personal 7 signs of a bad doctor. I’ve probably missed some helpful stuff though. Let us all know what warnings you would add to the list by leaving a comment.

PS: if you’re stuck with a bad doctor and trying to make the best of a bad situation, maybe this article will help: How to Get Your Doctor to Listen

PPS: If you need help relaxing because your doctor is lousy, try making weed butter or learning how to Zentangle! (Wink, wink.)

Don’t Let The Screen Door Hit You, 2020!

Don’t Let The Screen Door Hit You, 2020!

Welcome to 2021, everyone! It’s 32 degrees Fahrenheit and pouring sleet in Urbana, Illinois this fine New Year’s morning. The dog has already thrown up on the carpet, and I feel like there is a hole in my forehead above my left eye that’s exposed to the wintery cold. It’s an icepick headache kind of morning.

A New Year of Bullet Journaling

But I will not be daunted! I have plans for this New Year, and I will do my best to set them in motion today. Starting with the list I created for myself for the day in my new Bullet Journal.

I have made a couple of videos already about my new bullet journal on my YouTube channel (Archer and Olive Subscription Box Unboxing and January 2021 Bullet Journal Setup) but just in case you haven’t seen them, here’s the gist: I’m chronically ill and bullet journaling partly to get more done with less confusion but mostly to show myself what I can accomplish with a tumor in my head.

(By the way, I really love my Archer and Olive stuff, and I was given a referral code. If you use my link as a new customer, you get 15% off of your first purchase.)

A New Year of Coloring

For the next 365 days, it is my plan to color a GPI (general pain index) diagram every morning. I’ll be using AutoDesk Sketchbook (it’s free to download and a great program if you can’t afford Photoshop or Illustrator) so that I can just open a new file every morning, assess my pain, color in the general pain index accordingly, and tuck that information away for future reference.

Maybe I’ll learn something new about what makes me pain worse or better. Maybe I’ll be able to help my doctors understand me better. And maybe I’ll just get into the habit of being mindful of my body first thing in the morning and learn to take better care of it. Who knows what the end result will be, but I’m eager to find out.

Here’s my first day of GPI coloring. I just grabbed a diagram I found on the internet like the ones they hand out at the doctor’s office and saved it as a .tiff file. The color range I’ve chosen is snagged from thermodynamic images I found online as well. The difference is that instead of them representing temperatures like red equals hot, blue equals cold, red equals the worst pain (8-10 on the pain scale) and blue equals the least pain (1-3 on the pain scale.) Purple is zero, meaning no pain.

Colored coded GPI index of the pain levels I am feeling. Pain is most intense in my head, neck, and shoulders.

I made this diagram about two hours ago when I first woke up, and it is already outdated. Chronic pain is such a dynamic thing. When I first woke up severe pain covered about 20 percent of my body. Now we’re closer to 80%. To the point my hands are getting numb and there’s a dark red strip of red across my lower back now—about where the blue and green section meet on the posterior image above.

Dear God. Dan just took this picture of the gas grill on the patio that we regretfully forgot to cover at the end of grill season. I am going to be nursing a lot of aches today, and so I cut this blog post short. More later. Happy New Year, guys.

Metal gas grill covered in ice with knobs frozen in place and icicles hanging off of it.

How to Make Crock Pot Cannabutter: 3 Easy Steps

How to Make Crock Pot Cannabutter: 3 Easy Steps

To save almost $1,000 a year, I learned how to make crock pot cannabutter that I could use in homemade edibles. I am by no means an expert on weed butter, but I would like to share what I’ve learned.

When it comes to medical marijuana, I prefer edibles. For me, the pain-relief is more noticeable and lasts longer than with other methods of consumption. The downside? Dispensary edibles cost a small fortune. To make easy cannabutter—or weed butter—at home, follow this simple recipe.

Easy Crock Pot Cannabutter

The first time I made slow cooker cannabutter, I was overwhelmed with advice. Everyone I talked to had a different recipe, and every website was pushing a different method. My chemo brain just couldn’t handle all that. I needed a cannabutter recipe for dummies, so I whittled away until I could identify the most basic steps:

  1. Decarb the marijuana.
  2. Steep the marijuana in butter.
  3. Use the cannabutter in a recipe.

Step 1: Decarb the Marijuana

If you don’t decarb cannabis, your weed butter could be really disappointing. The THC needs to be activated by this simple process, and a few minutes in the oven will do the trick.

Materials

  • Baking sheet
  • Parchment paper
  • 6-7 grams of weed
  • Oven

Instructions

Preheat your oven to 250 °F (120 °C). Place marijuana on a parchment-lined baking sheet and bake on the middle oven rack for about 30 minutes.

FYI: Decarbing will make your house smell like weed.

Notes

Break up whole buds into smaller pieces first. This increases surface area and allows things to heat more evenly.

Some people are very particular about breaking bud, recommending you do it by hand or with a manual grinder. (Get your pieces too small and they might burn or be hard to strain later.)

But because of cancer fatigue, I’m from the School of Do Everything the Easiest Way Possible. I recommend giving whole buds a couple of quick pulses in a clean coffee or spice grinder, being careful not to overdo it.

That said, it’s even easier if you use shake. Shake is essentially just the debris left after trimming and handling buds. There’s no need to grind it because it’s already the perfect size.

Added bonus: because shake’s ugly and contains some stem pieces, it’s a lot cheaper than whole flower.

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Step 2: Steep the marijuana in butter

Materials

  • Small crock pot (1.5 to 2 quart capacity)
  • Reusable basket coffee filter
  • 3/4 c. butter

Instructions

Warm 3/4 c. (1 1/2 sticks) butter in the slow cooker on the lowest heat setting until it is completely melted.

Put the decarbed weed in the reusable filter and place the filter in the melted butter. Steep for about three hours, stirring occasionally. The butter will turn murky and green.

Turn off the crock pot and let the cannabutter cool for about an hour so. The goal is to cool it enough it won’t burn you, but not so much it becomes too thick to strain.

Lift the filter basket out of the cannabutter, letting the liquid drain completely back into the crock pot. If the cannabutter looks disgusting, you’re doing it right. Discard the used marijuana.

There may be fine bits of marijuana and really gross looking milk solids floating in your butter. To strain these, simply pour the cannabutter through the emptied filter basket and into a clean container.

After straining you’ll end up with about a 1/2 c. of cannabutter.

Strained cannabutter looks a lot like guacamole.

Cannabutter Potency and Dosing

The most important thing to keep in mind if you’re new to slow cooker cannabutter or edibles in general: YOUR MILEAGE MAY VARY. Start small, give it a couple of hours to kick in, and adjust as necessary.

Effects aren’t immediate. I usually feel them between 90 minutes and 2 hours after I’ve eaten. If, after only 15 minutes you think “this isn’t doing anything” and you keep eating more, you could end up like the cop who made pot brownies and called 911 because he thought he and his wife were dead.

Personally, I find the cannabutter I make using these ratios to be nice and potent. But then I’m really sensitive to edibles. For example, if I use cannabuter as-is on an English muffin, I will only need a pat about the size of a pea.

Shop Cannabutter Essentials

If I make a pan of brownies, I will only need a piece about the size of a mini candy bar (that’s right Mini—the smallest size, not to be confused with her big sister Fun Size).

Since I typically only take weed before bed, a 9 x 13 pan of brownies can last 9 months—no exaggeration—saving me literally a thousand dollars over dispensary prices. (Pro-tip: Cut cooled brownies into full-sized candy bar-ish portions, vac-seal, and freeze. I use a FoodSaver.)

Step 3: Use cannabutter in a recipe

Keeping it real here, my fellow dummies. Cannabutter has a distinct flavor that you might find off-putting, especially if you’re a first-timer. I think it tastes the least offensive in things like brownies and peanut butter cookies.

You can use this easy-to-make cannabutter in any recipe you want, though, not just sweet treats. If it calls for more cannabutter than you have on hand, simply make up the difference with regular butter.

When I make a 9 x 13 pan of Cannabutter Brownies, I use 1/2 c. cannabutter and 1/2 c. regular butter.

You probably already know this, but just in case you don’t: you can replace most fats in your recipes at a 1:1 ratio. So you could swap 1 c. of vegetable oil with 1 c. of melted butter (and therefore cannabutter) if you wanted. What I’m trying to say is: you can also turn that boxed brownie mix in your pantry into something SPECTACULAR.

If you found this helpful, please consider donating.

Already high? Try Zentangles. Need ideas for helping a loved one with cancer? Read on.

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How to Get Your Doctor to Listen: Tips from a Chronic Pain Patient

How to Get Your Doctor to Listen: Tips from a Chronic Pain Patient

As a patient with chronic pain who was undiagnosed and then misdiagnosed (they told me I had fibromyalgia but it was a brain tumor) for years, I learned a thing or two about how to get your doctor to listen to you.

Going through life with a misdiagnosis—or no diagnosis at all—is as hard to bear as whatever’s ailing you. Not everyone is born a self-advocate. It’s something we must learn and practice.

So here’s what I’ve learned. I sincerely hope it can help you too.

Why Your Doctor Isn’t Helping

It may be that your doctor, though well-intentioned, isn’t picking up on what you’re telling her. Or maybe you’re not communicating as clearly as is needed. Or, you know, maybe your doctor is just an asshole. (I’m telling you some of them are.) For me, it was a little bit of everything.

First, let me assure you that if you are currently facing this struggle, there’s a good chance it’s not your fault. There’s also a good chance you’re a woman. Doctors not listening to female patients is a thing, and the problem of sexism in health care is long-running and systemic.

According to Prevention, for example, women are 50% more likely than men to get a wrong diagnosis after experiencing a heart attack, and hysteria wasn’t removed from the DSM until 1980.

Nineteen-freaking-eighty!

But as the world can attest, cutting ridiculous junk from a manual doesn’t automagically remove stigma and prejudice from a profession or a populace. From psychology to surgery, health care is still plagued by crap assumptions that undermine the care of women.

And it’s not just the old white guys who are guilty of perpetuating harm—women doctors do it to women patients, families and friends do it to people they love.

We. Do. It. To. Ourselves.

My Chronic Illness Misdiagnosis

For me, the trouble started because I was a woman in my thirties presenting with chronic pain. It was generalized, meaning I hurt everywhere not just my elbow or my neck. And because the pain prevented me from being active, I was also gaining weight.

Before a single drop of blood was taken, a nurse practitioner told me I probably had fibromyalgia. I was tested for arthritis and a handful of autoimmune issues straight away, then referred to a rheumatologist the following week.

When the blood test results were wholly unremarkable, the rheumatologist presumed me to just be a pudgy, complaining woman in need of antidepressants.

Unsurprisingly, he officially diagnosed me with fibro, a condition with a unique and horrifying stigma all its own. And when his (mis)treatment plan failed to help me, he put the blame squarely on my shoulders. His demeanor toward me turned hostile, he communicated with me like I was an ignorant, troublemaking child, and he was outright belligerent when I asked him questions.

How dare a uterus-having technical writer ask if maybe Cymbalta wasn’t The Answer.

That’s when I knew without a doubt my rheumatologist was a lazy stinking misogynist, which brings me to my first bit of advice.

Tip 1: Fire All the Assholes

Yes, I know what I’m saying is very difficult to do in a lot of cases. Restrictive insurance networks, a limited number of doctors and specialists in your area, and sheer exhaustion from your chronic illness can make finding a new doctor all but impossible. But your health is the thing, and you can’t protect it if you keep leaving it in the hands of an asshole.

Cry because it’s hard and unfair. Absolutely do that. But then remember that you don’t have to solve the problem in one day. Promise yourself to look for a better option and jump at the opportunity when you find it.

Tip 2: Expect Struggles with Good Doctors Too

Not all my doctors were so lazy and horrible, but by the time I was ready to give another doctor a try, Dr. Asshole had already done his worst. The wrong diagnosis stuck to me like toilet paper to a shoe.

He was given the benefit of the doubt at every subsequent doctor appointment I had for the following two and half YEARS, and at least a dozen more MDs and PAs and NPs tried their best to persuade me I really did have fibromyalgia after his misdiagnosis.

It’s maddening if you think about it too long, but medical professionals—even fired ones—are always presumed to know more about being sick than the people who are sick. You’ll need to mentally prepare yourself for this reality before every appointment.

Tip 3: Take a Break

Meanwhile, I continued experiencing symptoms that didn’t really fit with fibro. The unexplained haunted me, and I got sicker. I surfed WebMD and Dr. Google and tried to diagnosis myself. When I asked doctors about the things I’d learned, it didn’t go well. If I wasn’t ridiculed on the exam table, I was politely ignored.

There were days when I felt like I just couldn’t do it anymore, so I didn’t. I took time off from going to appointments and even scheduling appointments until I recovered enough strength to deal with more heartache from doctors—people I was taught to trust with my life. I told myself I’d go again when I had the energy to communicate without bursting into tears.

And, yes, I did break down a few times. It’s inevitable, dear human. Don’t beat yourself up about it like I did.

Tip 4: Ask To Rule Out Diagnoses

I had infinitely more productive appointments when I stopped asking “Could it be X?” and started asking “Can we rule out X?” I don’t see why such a subtle change should matter so much, but it did.

Doctors were less likely to see me as a difficult, self-diagnoser and more likely to see me as a diagnostic partner when I asked if we could rule something out instead of confirm it. In fact, no one bothered to order a single MRI until I asked, “Can we rule out MS?”

Folks, that first MRI is how they found my brain tumor. Or, as I see it, how *I* found my brain tumor.

Tip 5: Recognize Internalized Bullshit

We can be our own worst enemy when we take in and internalize bad messages from external sources. Sexist and ableist ideals can ooze out of us without our realizing it. We can be gaslit by medical pros without seeing the harm because we’re taught to treat them as authority figures or saviors instead of trained diagnosticians paid to do a job.

Mull it over for a bit and see if you’ve fallen into traps that affect your ability to self-advocate.

  • Do you hear yourself as a reporter of facts or a complainer when you tell a doctor your symptoms?
  • Do you think all your problems would go away if you could just lose the weight?
  • Do you always think you’re sick because you’re depressed and not depressed because you’re sick?

That asshole rheumatologist I mentioned before? He’d only ever seen me fat and just assumed I was lazy and overeating. He had no idea that less than a year before I was running 5Ks on the treadmill or completing a Jillian Michaels’s Shred workout in my basement five times a week.

Still, I had to fight like hell not to let him gaslight me. He nearly had me convinced I was fat and lazy and my pain was imagined.

Tip 6: Take Someone with You

I’m as independent as the day is long, and I’ll tell you I hated bringing my husband to appointments with me at first. Not because I minded him being there, but because IT SHOULDN’T FUCKING BE NECESSARY. (Ahem, sorry. This will always be a sensitive subject for me.)

However, when I couldn’t put my own underwear on or get myself out of the bathtub anymore, I relented and asked him to join me at my next appointment. Being stubborn about it might’ve killed me, looking back on it. Anyway, having a man in the room changed the way all my doctors behaved. Some definitely more than others.

Turns out it would later become absolutely essential for Dan to attend my appointments. The point is that I probably should have asked sooner than I did, given how the world works.

Tip 7: Connect with Other Patients

I know there are patients out there with different perspectives who have learned things I haven’t. I encourage you to seek them out. There’s an entire community of doctors and patients online who are constantly sharing what they know. Seek them out.

And if all else fails—and sometimes it does—try weed.

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Fibromyalgia Misdiagnosis: Surprise, It’s a Brain Tumor

Fibromyalgia Misdiagnosis: Surprise, It’s a Brain Tumor

Whew! The past 72 hours have been utter shit for me. I’d explain why, but I’m going to tap my Tumor! sign and leave it at that. There’s something else I want to write about now: my chronic illness and my fibromyalgia misdiagnosis.

Did you know that May is Brain Cancer Awareness Month and Fibromyalgia Awareness Month? (Actually, May is the awareness month for a lot of chronic illnesses, but these two things in particular have been just about my entire life since October 2014, so they are getting top billing on my blog on this lovely May Day.)

Fibromyalgia: Misdiagnosis?

I mentioned in a previous blog post that I believe fibromyalgia was a misdiagnosis for me as opposed to a comorbidity. As I have discussed many times with family and friends, I am mostly overjoyed to have an accurate diagnosis and a real plan to get better.

However.

There’s a special kind of emotional baggage I picked up on this chronic pain path, and the only way I know to heal from it is to put it out in the universe by sharing it on my blog—where my family, friends, and even complete strangers get to read some of my most intimate thoughts.

Article: Ultimate Guide to Helping a Loved One with Brain Cancer

I have no qualms about oversharing when it comes to my well-being, in case that wasn’t already abundantly clear.

So here’s the deal. On February 2, 2017 I had fibromyalgia. Then on February 3, 2017 I officially had a six-centimeter tumor on my brain stem.

On February 2 the general consensus among my numerous doctors was that I wasn’t eating right or exercising enough. If I were, I’d experience improvement and maybe even remission of some of my symptoms.

On February 3 the general consensus among my doctors was “Holy, shit. You shouldn’t be able to do that” or “No wonder your body can’t walk, breathe, sleep, digest, or stabilize your heart rate and blood pressure like a person without a brain tumor.”

At first I was like, damn I am one tough cookie.

And then I was like, wait just a goddamn minute here.

Misdiagnosis Bottom Line: I felt the same!

I want to point out that from a purely physical experience, there was no discernible difference for me between February 2 to February 3*—even though in that 24 hours, my list of symptoms was suddenly more than validated. I wasn’t just making stuff up or being stubborn about diet and exercise, and it the fibromyalgia misdiagnosis was total crap.

Medical professionals (not speaking of specific doctors right now, just medical pros as a whole-ass community) who were previously dismissive of my chronic pain symptoms were suddenly losing their shit over how believable my reports of chronic pain and disability were.

And this is a point that I really want to drive home, so I’m going to repeat it:

The physical experience of living inside this tired, broken body didn’t change one iota for me in that time. All that changed was who believed me.

And somehow I went from being a whining, complaining exaggerator with two X-chromosomes to a human being who really had been experiencing unrelenting level-eight pain for TWO AND A HALF YEARS.

(I am so angry thinking about it! I might get over it one day, but not this day!)

charlie_brown_pain_scale

(My Spoonie friends are grabbing the box of tissues right now. They are empathizing so hard.)

(Others might not quite understand just how much emotional damage was done. That’s okay.)

It makes me angry that I wasn’t taken seriously. It makes me sad that treatment (and possibly relief) could have come just a little bit sooner for me, but instead I spent months homebound.

The lazy-ass rheumatologist that was a little too eager to diagnose me with fibromyalgia in 2014 fought me over my symptoms and complaints of weight gain, insisting that I wasn’t exercising enough.

When I told him that I’d been tracking my steps, walking to and from work, walking three laps at the park after work every night, and using my FitDesk and hand weights at home and was experiencing physical decline instead of improvement, his response was “Well, you need to start out slower and build up.”

SERIOUSLY?

That’s all the motherfucker had. I must have been doing it wrong. Could be that fibromyalgia was a misdiagnosis.

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Now that I have proof of this brain tumor (grade 2 Astrocytoma, can’t remember if I mentioned that) and I am recovering from surgery, chemotherapy, and radiation therapy, I hear admonishments not to “overdo” when I tell the doctors and nurses that I’m walking without mobility aids or putting in 30 minutes (on the lowest resistance setting, for the love of god) on my FitDesk as I try to recover.

If you don’t immediately know why both of these experiences fill me with boiling rage, I’ll tell you: NEITHER VALIDATES THAT I KNOW THE PHYSICAL LIMITS OF MY OWN DAMN BODY.

And yeah, the anger that comes with that weasels its way into my waking hours from time to time. You got a problem with that?


*I implore you to think about this before you accuse someone with a fibromylagia (misdiagnosis or diagnosis) of being an attention-seeker, a pill popper, or a conjurer of fake maladies. It hurts us all, and keeps the counterproductive stigma alive.

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