GOOD.

That means you’re learning something.

Why Wishing Us Well Is Actually A Problem

You’re probably sitting, staring at the screen, dumbfounded by how being kind could ever be a problem. Trust me, I get it. It sounds ludicrous, but hear me out here for just a second.

Every time you tell a chronically ill person you hope they “get better soon,” we are reminded yet again of our disability and its permanence. Chronic illnesses don’t “get better,” they typically just gradually get worse over the course of our lives.

Here’s the thing. You only see us in specific settings, while we are masking, trying to hold everything together so no one else gets uncomfortable around us. We are constantly accommodating everyone else when they should be accommodating us.

What you don’t see is the hundreds of doctors’ visits, constant blood tests, imaging, check-ups, the never-ending new diagnoses - the list is long. You don’t see the million different prescriptions, refilled like clockwork, so we don’t crash out. You don’t see the struggle to get adequate pain relief in a country that views suffering as a badge of honor. Whoever suffers most ‘wins.’ We are not okay. Trust me.

We know the ins and outs of our illnesses, the things we can and cannot do in life, the dreams we were forced to wake from, and haunting echoes of the life we expected but were on the wrong timeline. I often think of what I would be doing in a parallel universe. Am I out there somewhere, dancing professionally, starring in music videos, going on world tours? Am I a veterinarian, an advocate, a mentor?

In this universe, I’m just tired. Is there a universe I can get a free trial of, or something? One in which my life is essentially the same, but I actually have my career back, no car accident, no chronic illnesses. I would be unstoppable in the animal field if I had a body that was supportive instead of constantly tearing itself down - literally attacking itself for no good reason at all.

Photo by engin akyurt / Unsplash

What You Should Say, Instead

There are so many ways in which you can choose to respond. Instead of offering a ‘feel better soon,’ leave that phrase at home. Bring along your empathy and your helping hands, let us proceed at our own pace, and offer assistance if you see us struggle - we won’t tell you we need help, so just step in. I promise, help is always appreciated. We just aren’t used to getting any, so we’ve stopped asking for it.

See, people talk all the time about bringing awareness to chronic illness, breaking the stigma, & showing the world the faces behind the diagnoses, but they rarely ever walk that walk, unless they’re walking something back. Follow-through is rare, because it turns out no one actually wants to hear ‘your story’ if it’s a tragedy. Those are no fun. They want laugh-out-loud comedy, a whirlwind romance, a happy ending. They feel every story has one, that they deserve to hear them, entitled to them for some reason.

Maybe it’s the fault of fiction, or maybe it’s simply the human urge to look away when something makes us uncomfortable rather than confronting hard questions and realities head on. People don’t want to hear them. I think some of it is fear - if they acknowledge never-ending pain and eternal illness exist, then they’d have to admit it could happen to them, too. Fear is a very compelling force for people, especially of the unknown.

Regardless of how uncomfortable my story might make someone feel, I cannot bear responsibility for that burden. Sitting in discomfort signals learning important - hard, but important - lessons that change the fiber of our minds, showing us a better way to approach conflicts later. ​

So, the next time you’re around your chronically ill friends, family members, co-workers, simply tell them you’re there for them if they need you. Tell them you have their back through everything, no matter how difficult it may be to bear witness to the reality they live in.

So, How Can You Accommodate Us?

Start with asking how we are feeling using words like, “Is today a good day or a bad day?” or a fun little “Hey, where are you on the scale from Shit to Shittiest today?” Joking around is welcomed by some, myself included. The way to my heart is with a dark joke. Results may vary for that, though, so tread lightly.

Another thing you can do is simply ask how we are feeling at the moment and if there is anything you could do that may help. If we are in a work setting, and it’s possible to turn lights off, that’s something that could be helpful. Maybe a dark, quiet room to sit in when we just need a breather every once in a while throughout the day.

For those of us who aren’t holding down a full time job right now, checking in on us is always appreciated. It always makes my whole week for someone to text me just to ask how I’m doing. I will always return the sentiment, of course, but it’s nice to have someone go out of their way to check up on me. My own family, outside of my husband and daughter, doesn’t do that.

One more thing you can do? Stand up for us if you see or hear something. We are quite accustomed to sussing people out, finding those who seek to discredit our ability at every corner because we are ill, but we can always use someone behind the scenes looking out for us.

Key Takeaways:

1. Chronic illness means FOREVER.

2. No more “Get better soon.”

3. More “Is there anything I can do?” (There typically isn’t, but you asking is greatly appreciated.)

4. More asking us if we want to hang out at home. We do. We absolutely could use some company.

5. More asking us to Netflix and chill, and I mean actually watch Netflix and chill. Give us a good recommendation and then binge it with us!

6. Just be supportive and considerate of our disabilities. Have our backs, and we’ll have yours. We’re probably some of the most loyal people you’ll ever meet.

Thank you so much for reading! If you made it this far, leave me a comment down below! Tell me your experiences with people constantly telling you to ‘get better’ despite the numerous times you’ve explained that’s not how it works.

To read more on a wide array of topics, please visit my personal site, here:

A Daily Dose

If you would like to become a paid subscriber, please do so there! 👆🏼

Story time. Buckle up, buttercups, it’s gonna be an anger-inducing ride if you’re also someone who suffers from excrutiatingly painful chronic illnesses.

I have been very vocal and honest about my 2025 car accident and what it’s done to my life, career, and body. What I haven’t been as vocal about is the fact that my husband and I tried a social experiment with doctors over the time I’ve been fighting to be heard and taken seriously.

The Kind of Care I Receive From Doctors

A few months after my accident, I was still having immensely painful days that I could not make it through without relief. There was simply no way. It was miserable and completely intolerable, so I begrudgingly went to the ER, knowing what was likely to happen. When I got there, my husband helped me in by holding me up so I wasn’t putting much weight on my feet until we got to a wheelchair.

The nurse came in and asked what was going on, and he had the doctor with him. I was shaking uncontrollably and bawling - I couldn’t get much out in the way of words because it hurt so badly. He offered me 1 Norco after telling him I had already taken some, and it did nothing. I complied, and waited until they came back 15 to 20 minutes later asking how I felt. I said I felt no differently, so the nurse asked me what typically works. I hadn’t been on narcotics in years before my accident, so I struggled to tell him, “It honestly depends - I don’t really know what might work.”

The nurse told that to the doctor, and he then offered me “something to calm down.” I was perfectly calm, just painful. I didn’t need a fucking anxiety medication, for god’s sake. I knew, then, that I wasn’t going to be receiving any care. The doctor refused to even come in the room, glued to his fucking Cowboys game so he could watch them lose for the umpteenth time - so important.

As my husband was trying to help me get out of bed and to the car, the doctor looked me straight in the face and ignored me when I said “thanks for nothing.” My husband had to hold me back from walloping his ass as he walked past, because I was so angry. Just another misogynist who thinks women are hysterical and everything they experience is anxiety. I am so sick to death of it.

So, we decided to have my husband go to the ER for 1 disc herniation. ONE. Mind you, my spine is herniated at all levels, including every single cervical disc. I also have multitudes of other issues, and it was blatantly clear I was in pain. I rarely ever even cry when I hurt because I’m so used to it. I was bawling.

The Kind of Care My Husband Receives From Doctors

He walks into the ER with a fake limp, is in there for maybe 15 to 30 minutes, and walks out with a script for Hydrocodone, the very same opiate I struggle to even get prescribed by my pain doctor every month. Tell me how that makes sense. Tell me how any of that is fair treatment. It’s not. And tell me why his story is one paragraph, and mine is 4 times the length.

It’s very simple.

Women are not treated equally by doctors, and I’m sick of it. We have to start speaking out more, louder. We have to start letting people know, far and wide, how doctors are treating chronically ill women, especially. And BIPOC individuals experience even more discrimination than non-BIPOC people do. This has to stop.

Say it with me.

Pain control is suicide prevention.

Thank you so much for reading! I really appreciate you being here. 💜

I live a good bit of my life in bed, with my dogs. There are so many days I can’t bring myself to do much, other than scroll the internet and watch trash TV. Sitting up hurts, regardless of back support. It’s excruciating just to sit on the couch.

My hips are displaced, but apparently ‘not displaced enough’ for anyone to acknowledge how incredibly painful it is having my bones misaligned, rubbing into each other. I just want to know what doctors find to be an acceptable amount of pain, and what the threshold is for them to do something about it?

I have tried everything under the sun; you name it, I’ve tried it, grasping at anything that may improve my life, even iust a little. I tried exercise, physical therapy, I lost a ton of weight, I went to therapy, I tried yoga, pilates, cardio. All of it is too painful after my car accident and I sadly can’t do them much anymore. I actually really miss working out. It’s something I have always enjoyed.

But of course, for doctors, it’s all due to anxiety, my weight, my posture - ​​everything but the actual issue. Getting doctors to take me seriously as a petite woman is like trying to climb a wall with absolutely nothing to hold onto. It’s pointless. I find myself dreading every new doctor I have to see, because it’s always the same old song and dance.

I want my life back. I want the version of me who was excited to get up each day just to go to work. I wanted to work? And now I’m so burnt out from running myself ragged then suddenly being halted that I don’t even know how I was getting up and going to work 4 days out of the week, 12 hour shifts plus one weekend a month seems impossible now, mentally, not just physically.

Unfortunately, I think that version of me died on February 7, 2025, when an off-duty cop careened into my vehicle as I was at a full stop, going at least 50 mph. I’m so surprised there wasn’t more damage on the Nissan, but that bitch is a baddie, and she did a great job of protecting me from even more harm, so I’m incredibly grateful. And let me just say - the Wagoneer I was driving as a rental while she got fixed? Awful. I’m so sorry. It was absolutely horrible and I hated it with every fiber of my being, even being several tens of thousands more expensive than my Pathfinder. 😬 Do not recommend, personally, not that you asked.

Being home has made me realize just how much I missed my family. I missed my daughter, my husband, my baby dogs. They’re all so incredibly important to me, and I’m so lucky to be able to call them all mine. I knew I was working a lot, which made me exhausted by the weekend, but I didn’t realize just how much time I’d lost with them. But I still miss vet med. I’d probably go back, if I could - with a less demanding schedule.

I don’t think I could kick it anymore with a four day, 12 hour shift schedule every single week. My body and mind have completely readjusted to having an infinite amount of family time, my body is worn and tired, and it would be very difficult to give it up again. But I could use the money. I can’t even make my car payment now, and I don’t really know what we are going to do. It’s our only vehicle.

My days are now relegated to my bed for much of the day because sitting hurts, standing hurts - even lying down hurts, but it’s significantly less. I feel like I’m trapped, doomed back to my bed like I was before I got well enough to work. I promised myself I wouldn’t let myself get there again. So much for keeping that pact.

But I can’t let it get me down. I can’t let it make me give up on life, on trying to find a way to bring in income while staying at home, writing in bed where I’m safe and comfortable, and I can be alone with my dogs and the word swirling through my mind, begging to be let out. I have to keep going for not only my family, but for myself.

I owe it to myself to keep living, and keep fighting through the pain.

If you enjoyed this, please consider subscribing - paid, if able - to help me continue this work after becoming fully disabled due to a car accident and chronic illnesses.

www.adailydosewithcammy.com

My parents were top fans of corporal punishment, doling out spankings, whoopings, like they were going out of style, daily, and for every little thing. My tone was wrong. Spanking. My words were rude. Spanking. I was too direct. Spanking. I cried too long. Spanking. I got upset over something they decided I shouldn’t be upset by. Spanking. It didn’t really matter. Always spanking. Spanking. Spanking.

My poor butt was worn raw from the amount of whoopings I received each week, and I couldn’t figure out what I was doing that was so inherently wrong. I never got much of an explanation for a spanking, just anger. Anger has always been my parents’ love language. I thought if I chose to have kids, I’d raise them differently.

When I got pregnant with my daughter at 17, it certainly wasn’t planned. However, I quickly started to get really excited about having a little one. My husband is, and always has been, an amazing partner and father, so I knew I wouldn’t have to worry about him ditching me halfway through the pregnancy.

When our daughter was born, we unfortunately followed my parents’ lead. We did spank for a while when she was a child, and I’ve regretted it every day of my life. She was never spanked anywhere near as hard as my parents did me, but it was hard enough for it to hurt her, and no hitting is ever okay, no matter how “soft.” By the time she was around 6, we had ditched spanking entirely, realizing how damaging it can actually be for the child after reading a published study.

I immediately stopped spanking that same day, and encouraged my sister to stop spanking her children, but they are still spanking her at 17 years old. It’s fucking weird, and it’s disturbing, and it’s wrong. Kids don’t need spankings, they need direction and guidance. They need help understanding when they do something wrong, and why it’s not okay for them to do it. They don’t need to be smacked into submission. You aren’t actually teaching your child anything other than he or she should fear you - and they will fear you.

It finally dawned on me that I was psychologically damaged, but I was too involved, too close to my parents for me to really see it. I have a lot of trauma from all of those whoopings. They escalated far past just spankings, into slaps and throwing me across the floor. I could never do that to my daughter. She is 16, nearly 17, and I have such a strong bond with her because I stopped spanking and started actually parenting.

The problem with kids today isn’t that they need a spanking. They need attention. They need involvement, they need compassion, love, restraint, patience…I could go on. Parents don’t want to do the hard parts anymore, they just want a quick fix and for their child to leave them alone. That’s not conducive to raising a functional human being capable of contributing to society in any meaningful way.

I chose to tell my daughter that she could come to me with anything, and actually meant it. She can come to me with the most heinous shit I’ve ever heard, and yeah, I’m gonna turn her ass in, but I’m also going to listen and hear her out with empathy for what she’s feeling. That’s what kids need. They need to be listened to, heard, and understood. They need someone they can come to on their absolute worst day and know their parent is going to pick up their mood when they get home.

Don’t be your kid’s friend. Be their confidant. Be their safe space. Be the person they can come to with absolutely anything, knowing that you will always have their back. I can be my daughter’s friend when she’s an adult and no longer needs my daily guidance for every little thing she does. I look forward to having that relationship, but for now, I am SO good with where we are right now.

Thank you for reading! If you’d like to read more, please consider subscribing - paid, if able - at my personal site, here:

www.adailydosewithcammy.com

“Agghhhhhhh” my mother screeched in pain, trying to hold it together enough to make it to the hospital for delivery. A little head falls right into the vaginal canal, ready to burst out at any moment. The cloth seats sink in terror, knowing full well what’s about to happen to their brand-new, squeaky-clean upholstery. “Faster, *Dan! She’s about to come out on her own! I’m not gonna make it!” Dad screams from the front, “I’m going as fast as I can, Brenda! Calm down and stop yelling at me, for Christ’s sake.” Even in utero, I was impatient, never wanting to miss a thing.

My mother had just been to the hospital earlier that day, telling them she was in labor. However, she was dismissed and told that it was just Braxton Hicks. Well, she hopped into a warm shower not long after she’d gotten back home, and pop! Her water broke right then and there. Well, so much for her cramps just being Braxton Hicks - she was in active labor and quickly running out of time to get back to that hospital for her doctor, a good 20 to 30 minutes away.

Surprise! I didn’t wait. I came shooting out like a slip-n’-slide covered with soap right in the parking lot of the wrong hospital. I was promptly whisked away from mom, just so they could make sure I wasn’t contaminated from the environment I arrived in. That birth set the stage for the rest of my life - I was different; a problem child. To add insult to injury, I was also an infant who was difficult to console. It’s likely I had colic and acid reflux, but that wasn’t as well-known or understood like it is today.

I also found out within the past couple of years that I have both ADHD and Autism, which would have been wonderful to have known before age 34. It also would have explained a lot, including my family’s incessant need to misunderstand me in every way physically possible. My mom got frustrated with me a lot as a small child and constantly overcorrected in response. Same with dad - he has always been much more violent, and much less likely to give a shit when he hurt me.

Nevertheless, I was attached at my mother’s hip. I didn’t want to go anywhere, be anywhere, do anything - without her. I would bawl when she left me with my sister, panicking about whether mom would make it home safely or I’d be one parent down, and then it’d just be dad...Oh, god, was that thought terrifying. He never tried to understand me, and he never will. He doesn’t care enough to. He has his golden daughter and her children, and that’s all he needs.

I thought my relationship with my mom was different. Was she abusive, too? Absolutely. Was she - seemingly - more willing to hear me out, understand where I was coming from? Also yes. At least, I thought. My mom and I have had some really great times together, with some really amazing bonding experiences that I will always be grateful for. We had girls’ nights, days when I’d give her a manicure, play with her hair, do her makeup, watch a movie...whatever we decided didn’t really matter. I was just happy to spend time with her.

As much as I love my mom, she’s also always been very negative about anything I do, with the exception, maybe, of my veterinary medicine career. I think everything else I had done was ‘just a job’ to her, not exactly ‘successful.’ I think I finally made my parents proud for once with my vet med career. That all changed when I got in my car accident. Then, instead of being supportive, she became negative all over again.

In the time that I’ve been out of work, relegated to weekend duties once a month, when able, I’ve done a lot of soul-searching and reevaluating my life. I’ve had no choice but to do so, because my body likely won’t be able to handle being a vet tech ever again. I’ve also come to be able to tell my mom a lot of the things I had been terrified to say - I’m not religious, being one of them. That didn’t go over well, and she started telling people, including my niece, that my daughter is going to go to hell. Who does that? To a teenager, no less?

It was my mother being taken to the hospital without my knowledge, her nearly dying without my knowledge, and then her not standing up for me after the fact when I was hurt, having been left out of the loop for nearly TWO days. First, she understood why I was mad and agreed with me, then all of a sudden, she swapped her opinion on me. Dad made me out to be the bad guy, told me I was going to end up sad and alone, all because I sent him a text that simply told him not to “ever fucking leave me out like that again.”

This man cusses like a sailor, but decided me using the f word in that moment was just so disrespectful - nevermind him and my sister leaving me out of the loop entirely. Apparently, that’s not disrespectful. He just wanted to be a goddamn victim, as usual, instead of taking accountability for anything ever. All I wanted was an apology. That’s it. He could admit he was wrong to my mother, but not me. Still not a word to me, other than a text saying Happy Birthday on June 18th. No “I’m sorry I left you out. I’m sorry I brought your daughter into this by guilting her. I’m sorry I didn’t apologize because I’m too narcissistic to admit when I’m wrong.”

No, that’ll never happen. Instead, he brought mom to his side, maybe even using her hemiplegic migraines and their effect on her brain - they are like mini strokes every time, according to her doctor - to manipulate her. Either that, or my mom has never been who I thought she was, and she has never been my friend at all - never even loved me. She sealed the deal on our relationship recently by trying to accuse my husband of trying to murder me, as payback for me being honest about how I felt about the abuse both as a child and an adult.

That man would never harm a hair on my head. He’s not got a violent or murderous bone in his body. She just wanted to sow doubt in my mind about my marriage, the one thing I have always been sure of, and the one thing that has made me the happiest and given me the most wonderful daughter. Lucky for me, I know my husband and what he’s capable of. He isn’t capable of trying to kill me by putting pills in my frozen Slurpee. I was overmedicated and having major psychological reactions at the time, and my husband actually took that cup away from me. He had told me about it...a couple of years ago, maybe?

I likely either put them in there because of the medication or I accidentally dropped them in there...or I was trying to off myself. I was incredibly depressed, looking for answers and diagnoses but getting none. If she had truly been my best friend, she would have notified my husband of what was happening when he was at work so that he could step in and get me help. Instead, she let me essentially put my daughter in danger so that she could have my daughter to herself. I’m not a fucking idiot. I know damn well she thinks I fucked up raising her because she’s not religious, she’s gay - and no, mom, that’s not a phase - and she’s me made over. Not sure what she expected...

In the process of her and dad’s bullshit, they’ve managed to do nothing but push my daughter away. Texting her about how awful I am, how I just hate them, and I just lie about how they’ve treated me is not the way to win her over, considering I make myself an actual parent who makes myself approachable with absolutely anything. I may have been told I could tell my parents anything, but all that got me was getting called a whore.

I actually provide a safe space for my daughter, and I will provide friendship when appropriate - when she’s an adult and doesn’t need her mom as much anymore. I have given her the space to be herself without shaming her for it, because there’s nothing for her to be ashamed of - there was nothing for me to be ashamed of, either. There still isn’t, and I refuse to be backed into a corner and made to feel guilty for spending the short period of time I’m given on this earth to live the way I want to, not the way I’m told to.

A true best friend would have always been supportive and gentle, even when telling me I’m wrong. A true best friend would have never tried to make me turn my back on the partner she spent decades raving about. A true best friend wouldn’t tell people I’m going to hell behind my back - same for my daughter. A true best friend wouldn’t still be making me the black sheep of the family at the ripe old age of 35. Thanks for ruining my birthday, by the way, if you’re reading this. Doubt you are, because none of you even read the article I asked you to. What a surprise.

If you enjoyed this article, please consider supporting the site by becoming a paid subscriber! All benefits are listed here:

adailydosewithcammy.com

“How selfish, so self-centered,” they say.

But, is it really?

Let’s get really, truly, brutally honest. I have quite literally never met a single suicidal soul who wasn’t considering their loved ones in the moments before an attempt. I’ve never met a soul who wasn’t suicidal, in part, because of how much of a burden they have felt they are to their family.

That’s the main crux of it for a lot of people, actually. It’s the deep sorrow of thinking everyone around you would be better off without you. Depression clouds judgment, making the irrational seem rational. But the decision to leave this world is not inherently selfish. It’s misguided; it’s thinking no matter how much your family loves you, you’re holding them back.

No one wants to go through life feeling like they are the reason family didn’t get to fo or see things, have experiences, money, things, if they weren’t having to pay for all our doctor bills.​ We are in an insane amount of medical debt because of all the hospital visits, scans, tests, appointments, surgeries, medications, the list goes on. I wouldn’t be surprised if my medical debt topped a million dollars. It wouldn’t be a shock at all. The shock would actually be if it were lower.

The thing about being called a warrior all the time is that I simply don’t want to be. I would much rather be a softie who doesn’t experience much pain. I would rather be dancing again, rather than having to give that up. I’d rather be working in veterinary surgeries again, rather than also having to give that up. Every dream I make come true, I lose because my body betrays me. It not only affects me, it’s also affecting my family because I now have no income, save for my one paid subscriber whom I appreciate so much, and I don’t know if that will change any time soon, or at all.

I just want to be a normal person, and I don’t think I have ever been that. I’m Autistic, I have ADHD, OCD, GAD, and a multitude of painful chronic illnesses, and I feel ignored and invisible to doctors. I feel like they all look right through me, and don’t even see my humanity. They just see me as a number, another appointment, another steroid injection candidate to further line their pockets. If I can’t be normal, I’d love to have doctors who seem to give a shit. I have one. He’s a rare breed who has saved my life and the lives of family members multiple times. He was the only one to listen to me when I said I was in horrific amounts of pain.

The pain wraps around me day in and day out like a boa constrictor, squeezing the life out of me slowly, but surely. It’s unbearable, but I must bear it - I have to, because it’s the life I’ve been given. As much as I don’t want to be a warrior, I am because I have no other choice. I’d get nowhere walking around crying out in pain 24/7. They would probably throw me into a mental hospital rather than do anything for my pain. Women are just emotional, after all.

I genuinely just want to live a life with less pain. I know it will never be completely gone, but I also know it can be managed. I don’t think it’s too much to ask for chronic pain patients to get pain relief that is actually sufficient, regardless of any chance of addiction.

People in pain need analgesics. Would you rather give us pain relief that we aren’t even likely to be addicted to as implied, or have us commit suicide because we literally cannot take the pain anymore? I personally would rather take my chances with the medication, but what do I know? It’s just my life.

If you’d like to read more about other topics, consider becoming a paid subscriber here:

A Daily Dose

I was Autistic with ADHD, OCD and a host of other mental and physical ailments neither of you seemed to believe I had, even after diagnosis; or if I had it, it wasn't that bad, or that big of a deal...but it was. No one in the family ever took the time to understand me at all, nor has anyone acknowledged the hard fucking work I've done unpacking the trauma of growing up in your home and vowing never to perpetuate that kind of harm on my daughter.

You both seem to have the misconception that you can turn my own family against me; the family I have built and nourished, despite your bad examples. I chose to structure my family differently for a very good reason: I refused to continue the cycle of abuse. On this side, that shit ends with me, & you can never take that accomplishment away from me.

My daughter is very much like me, except she is me, fully unmasked, unapologetic, & 10000% more confident in her convictions than even I was toward you two and you think she's going to put up with the horrible things you say to and about her mother? You know, the one who accepts her fully for who she is, rather than hoping and praying in the back of my mind that her being gay is 'just a phase?'

Well, she comes by it honestly, because I am pansexual, I just never told you. You seem to think I have been some bad influence on her, 'poisoning her mind' when it comes to the two of you. If anything, she's the bad influence on me, because she showed me the strength to not only come out to this family, but also, I don't have to continue following your religion, and I don't want to. I never have. I TRIED to believe in God and the Bible, but I'm sorry. It, and many of its believers, just come off like a lot of mysogy​nistic, 'Rules for thee, not for me' bullshit to me, and I no longer have time for it. Life is short, and I want to spend it doing life my way.

All that should really matter for either of you is that I am safe, happy, and loved. I learned that was never going to be the case as soon as you tried to tell me my own husband, the only one who has ever loved me for me, attempted to murder me by putting pills in my drink 12 years ago. No, mom. I was incredibly suicidal, overprescribed multiple meds - including Topamax, which made my memory shit - and I was in and out of it.

I don't remember much of that time before I went to the hospital and got my medications properly prescribed. I do know that my husband doesn't have a murderous bone in his body, and that I probably put those pills in my own drink - which he took from me, mind you. He has never even yelled at me. Never. The man even drove you to your hair appointment while you trash talked me and told him I'm not Autistic, I'm 'just bipolar.' A. Stop villainizing people who DO have bipolar disorder and B. Stop telling people you know better than the PSYCHIATRISTS who diagnosed me.

Honestly, mom, all you did was make me think you tried to kill me. I think you resented me. Maybe it was because I got pregnant in high school. I don't know. It's not like I set out to plan a baby at 17. Or maybe it was because I had a psychological reaction to medication over 12 years ago that made me hallucinate and have other issues that you never mentioned to my husband so he could step in and help.

It would have given you an opportunity to step in and take over to 'parent her right.' Well, at least, that's probably what you think would happen, but at this point, he's unwilling to set foot in the same rooms with you. He's disgusted by the levels you've stooped to, as am I. And he would never have let you parent her. He already knew and was on board with you not watching her at all if you weren't going to abide by our no spanking rule, amongst other rules, anyway.

In your quest to see her more, you have done nothing but push my daughter away from not me, but you. When my own father is telling her I'm a liar about the abuse he inflicted on me, she's not going to just take his side. She has seen me SOBBING on the floor throughout this entire ordeal, all because neither of you can be adults and take accountability for doing some really fucked up shit when I was a kid, and you have continued to do it to me as a grown adult.

That's another thing. I am a grown adult. I do not need your permission for jack shit. I also don't need you infantilizing me or my husband because, again, we are GROWNASS ADULTS. 35. Thirty fucking five. Not 5. I can make my own decisions, my own choices, my own way of life, and all you should have to say is how happy you are for me that I have such an amazing husband and daughter.

I guess that's just too hard. Honestly, this is probably still on me for having any faith in the two of you to do the right thing in the first place. Mom, you sat and ​watched as my father beat the shit out of me multiple times. You watched him pick me up and toss me to the floor, and then conveniently 'forgot.' Yeah, of course you did, because then you'd have to admit you were a fucking accomplice.

You protect dad at all costs, and it's sad. He treats you like gum on the bottom of his shoe, and yet, you still flock to him. You still act like he's not an adult capable of washing his own clothes, for gods sake. That's not a husband, it's a manchild, and you are his mother.

Dad, you need to learn how to take accountability. You really, really do. If you could just admit when you're wrong and apologize to me, not just admit it to my mother, I wouldn't have to go no contact. You're abusive, abrasive, and you need a fucking reality check. You should be caring for mom, not the other way around. You are able bodied while she is absolutely not. You should be doting on her because she fucking doted on your lazy ass for decades.

I'm so tired of the narrative that I have to respect you because you provided for the family. No, the hell I don't. You never respected me, so why should I respect you? You go behind my back and talk shit about me, even in texts to my daughter, and you expect me to be okay with that? You expect me to just deal with it and keep subjecting myself to your inability to accept responsibility when you hurt people.

I don't know why I thought I was exempt from your shit-talking, mom, but I did, until you did it to my husband and he told me straight up. He and I are a team; one that actually works together, and you can't take that away from me with your lies. You're jealous. I get it. He's a fucking catch and handsome as hell. The whole package. But it's not my fault you married an asshole.

I hope that half-assed lie was worth losing your daughter, son-in-law, and possibly even your granddaughter. Tread lightly with that one. She's ruthless. I've taught her well. ☺️

The Vacation Illusion

For most people, packing takes less than an hour, the airport is a loud but easily manageable overstimulation, and a new bed is just a new adventure in a faraway land. For the chronically ill, it’s a totally different world. Rushing to get packing done the day before takes me literally all day due to the necessary mini pharmacy, the airport is an absolute sensory nightmare, and a new bed is a whole set of new aches and pains that compound upon themselves each morning you wake in it.

Here is how our family trip to the beach in 2012 played out, with 1 chronically ill person:

Leigha* tumbles out of bed, eager to make the long drive to Corpus Christi and take the Selena Quintanilla tour. It’s our first vacation as our own little family unit, and a sense of pride flitters through the air - palpable, tangible. “1.2.3.1.2.3. click click click. 1.2.3.1.2.3. click click click. The door handle is going to loosen and fall off one of these days from the ritualistic abuse of my twisting. My husband emerges from the house holding a holy grail of snacks, chipper and ready to go. A few overfilled suitcases are tossed in and secured, followed by the snacks, and finally, myself.

I pull the car door shut, and we take off; we’re running late, as usual. What even IS time, anyway? God, I’m already dripping with sweat; gotta turn that air up. Why is it so LOW?! And who moved my fan setup 2 centimeters?!

And that’s just the first few moments of being in the car. We hadn’t even started driving yet! One thing is certain: People who are chronically ill, like myself, might be going on a vacation, but we aren’t really experiencing any less pain; we’re just experiencing it in another part of the world. Whether by boat, car, train, or plane...I will always carry it with me, woefully ensnared by its presence amongst even the most thrilling of situations.

The Ever-Present Plus One

I may not want to take my illnesses with me, but uh...I don’t exactly get a choice here. So, I have to adjust and make myself as comfortable as possible, and hope I don’t run into any trouble - but stay prepared, just in case.

It’s in the synapses of my nerves, the fiber of my being, the betrayal by my own personal vessel. I grew this thing myself once they cut the cord! Seriously, though, this pain isn’t something I can sleep, rest, or even wish away. It’s something I will taxi alongside me for my entire life.

• Preparatory Tax - time spent researching the most accessible attractions, as well as the nearest Urgent Care and hospital, just in case.

  • My motto: You can never be too prepared - unless you go overboard and quite literally pack your entire closet

• The Post-Travel Hangover - If you’re anything like me, after you’ve traveled, you end up getting sick as a dog. It’s the inevitable flare-up after activity.

• Energy Budget - Sometimes, a morning event - yes, even a short one - can mean spending the rest of the afternoon holed up in bed nursing whatever body parts are causing the most trouble.

What Can a “Getaway” Be, Realistically, For Us?

Because we know all too well that pain doesn’t take a vacation when we do, as much as I wish it did, how can we make the best of the time we get with our families? I know exactly how much it sucks to be left on the sidelines for everything because you just can’t. I know how it feels to have to return to the hotel for rest while everyone else continues the party like they’re 21 again. It’s not fair, but it is the hand we were given, and it’s what we do with it that shows our character.

Because we have been together for nearly two decades, my husband and I can tell when the other person is in pain just by watching their gait. We know the walk of one another so well that we can instantly sense the bad poker gait. This means he knows what should be my limits, as well as how much further I will typically take it to make sure everyone keeps enjoying the activity for as long as they’d like - I am a glutton for punishment, what else can I say?

For this reason, future trips will have daily limitations. I don’t want to keep pushing myself so far that I am either useless for half the trip, useless the entire way home...or both!

• Just because the pain doesn’t stop when we get to our destination, that doesn’t mean we have to be miserable the entire trip!

• Limiting daily activities can help space things out for you and keep you from causing yourself more stress and anguish by trying to fit a million things in one day, then doing that for several more.

• If you’re going on, say, a 5 day trip to Orlando, Florida, and you want to see all the big theme parks and everything within them...If that’s what you set out to do, you will likely:

• A. Not make it without collapsing in the middle of the walkway at some point

• B. Get to go into all of the parks, but not see much of any of them

• C. Get into one park, and leave disappointed

• D. Both A and B OR both B and C

• So, instead of going through several different parks each day, pick one park per day. You may not get to see everything this trip, but you can spend a leisurely day wandering around a park all day, every day. What’s not to love? Just make sure you bring some emergency painkillers.

How You Should Be Traveling

COMING SOON: Free Travel Tool with your subscription, exclusively here on my site! 🤫👇🏼Be on the lookout for that here:

I Love Free Shit!

Do me a favor, and make sure you give this a like, then share when you’ve finished reading this!

If you’re running around like a chicken with its head cut off, you’re doing it wrong. There is no reason to stress that much over packing for a few days away from home, even with small children in tow. You just need to tailor your itinerary to your accommodation needs. For example, I would likely have to be in my wheelchair if my family and I went to a large event, so I would need to prep to arrange necessary accommodations well before arriving.

If you’re worried about “bumming out” the rest of the group because you aren’t holding up, and need to rest, you shouldn’t be. I’m officially in my “I don’t give a fuck” era, and you should be, too. If the people around you cannot make some simple changes to make you more comfortable without feeling totally inconvenienced, they probably aren’t worth being around to begin with. So, here’s my advice that, once again, no one asked for:

• Don’t return to work the day after getting home: Give yourself a day to rest and recover before trying to expend energy you don’t even have. I have always called it a “buffer,” but you can call it whatever you’d like!

• Easy as Pie Itinerary: Don’t schedule more than ONE activity each day, and make sure even it is flexible, just in case. A lot of places will do several shows back to back, so that everyone gets a chance to watch. Take advantage of that wiggle room!

• Make a Grab Bag: Stuff this motherfucker with all of your essentials for comfort and relief; medications, lotions, rubs, creams, good pillows/my pillows, a heating pad, blanket, & any other odds and ends you deem important enough to be your carry-on, if you fly.

I hope the checklist is helpful, as well as these basic changes that just might make your next vacation travel time a little smoother and more bearable. Have a wonderful summer if we share seasons; wishing you safe and happy travels! 💜

Are you traveling this summer? Did you already go? What’s your absolute MUST HAVE for every single trip, as in you would die if you forgot it? Let me know in the comments below!

• For me, I guess it would have to be my medications - all of them. 👀 Is that illegal? Feels illegal. In my defense, it’s quite dangerous to go cold turkey on a majority of my scripts. 🤷🏼‍♀️😝

Welcome to the Valley!

Since Disney Dreamlight Valley went into Early Release September 6, 2022, it has enraptured me with its casual and enchanting art style, lovable cast of characters, and challenging, charming puzzles to help complete missions and save the Valley from a chorus of villains.

It started humbly, initially planned to be Free-To-Play, with the classic toons being featured first. Frolicking with Daisy, harvesting with Minnie, and fishing with Goofy filled my days with glee, all culminating in rewards given in elaborate Star Paths. Buggy but ultimately a blast, DDV persisted and triumphed to a full release on December 5, 2023.

Every few months, there is a decently sized update, completely free. Then, there is often a large DLC you can purchase each year that typically includes a completely new territory with multiple new biomes. With these updates, there is always a new Star Path, bringing with it numerous brand-new premium items to earn by completing tasks around the valley and what I like to call its ‘sister locations.’

Each week, there is a photo contest called DreamSnaps, for which you’re given a theme, and you must take the best photo representation of that theme possible. On Wednesdays, promptly at 8 am, the shop resets, along with the DreamSnap prompt. Real-money currency in the game, called Moonstones, is the prize each week for DreamSnaps. You can receive as little as 300 for your submission or as much as 4,000, which is the coveted top tier.

I’ve gotten 4k twice now; I just started actually trying on DreamSnaps fairly recently because I didn’t realize you could get that many Moonstones for it without having to be number 1 on the ranking board. Silly me. I’ve spent a lot on Moonstones in the past when I could afford to...and now I know I didn’t even have to. I could have been Snappin’ Dreams for 4k this whole time.🙄

What I’m getting at is, there is always something to do, and if you do happen to run out of quests and tasks, there’s always something new premiering just around the corner. I’ve spent hundreds of hours building, styling, and making my Valley feel like home - only to demolish it all and start over.

It has absolutely become my hyperfixation that I feel like I cannot live without, but honestly, I’m okay with that. I could be addicted to crack, instead. 🤷🏼‍♀️

Getting Through The Trauma of A Car Accident

In February of 2025, I was in a car accident that changed my life forever. It took my ability to perform at work, my strength, and my capacity to walk for long stretches without issue, then threw it all on the ground and trampled it to death. My role as a veterinary technician was taken, just like that. I had worked toward that role for over 2 years before landing it, and then in the blink of an eye, it was gone.

I’ve always suffered from depression, ever since I can remember, so this was no different. I wanted to scream and yell at the universe for giving, then taking it right back. It seemed like the world was playing a cruel joke on me, allowing me to take 3 steps forward, then forcing me 5 giant leaps back. I joke around a lot about it, but I do wonder, sometimes, if someone cursed the Native women in my family in particular. Nothing would surprise me at this point.

In the midst of a stellar case of depression weighing down my every thought, I picked up Dreamlight Valley and booted it up, ready to escape into a world of adventure, completely different from my own. It offered me my childhood in a packaged deal - Stitch, Pocahontas, Daisy, Mickey, Minnie...the list goes on, all priceless to those of us who grew up with them as our staples.

By its full release, DDV was chock full of quests, activities, and characters, and that’s only continued for the past couple of years. We’ve been given new realms based on the worlds the characters hail from, and new characters to save from them. If I want to have a relaxing day doing nothing but hoarding crafting materials, I can do that. If I want to go questing all day long? I can do that, as long as I haven’t run out of quests - that will take a long while with all the expansions, likely even if you don’t purchase the DLC.

Along with a peaceful meadow to relax in, DDV brought me companionship when I felt alone. My husband was dealing with the death of his father and wasn’t fully checked in to our marriage this last year, so I spent a lot of time with my Switch, holed up in our room because I felt like no one wanted to be around me, especially after the horrible conversation I had with my mother recently. I push people away because I’m afraid of getting hurt. My valley characters can’t hurt me, nor can they judge.

I’ve realized now that DDV has been a way for my mind to forget the pain of what’s been happening in my real life, and it’s become one of my absolute favorite games of all time. It’s a no-fuss, no-stress, no-gimmick, raucous good time, and I crave a simpler time in life when I could just be a kid experiencing these characters for the first time.

That’s what it really all boils down to, isn’t it?

It’s the magic of Disney we all felt as children, and many of us would love to feel that spark again. I think Dreamlight Valley has been that spark for me, personally. Even on days when I am doing nothing of substance, just chilling around the house, I boot up DDV, and I am instantly transported back to childhood memories and decor of my dreams.

Basically, Disney Dreamlight Valley has kidnapped me, and held me hostage - and I don’t want to be saved. I’m having a fucking blast in my Valley right now.

For animal care and veterinary medical information, consider upgrading your subscription to Premium Select, my top-shelf stash! You will get animal care advice delivered straight to your inbox at least once weekly, as well as access to my animal care Discord chat, in which you can ask me anything about your pets, and I will advise to the best of my ability, within my realm of practice. I cannot offer medical advice, other than basics, such as core and optional vaccinations and heartworm prevention.

Go To A Daily Dose For More!

Lately, I have noticed that people on social media are trying their very best to avoid being mistaken as one of us - disabled - and it’s genuinely heartbreaking. No one wants to admit that even Autism is a disability. People want to argue and say they don’t feel debilitated by it, so that meant it wasn’t an actual disability, but that couldn’t be further from the truth.

Part of the criteria for meeting the standards for Autism diagnosis is being disabled - it’s right there in the diagnostics. It must cause a level of disability. Any chronic illness, amputations, elderly folks struggling to get around on their own two feet these days - they’re all disabled.

Refusing to admit when you are wrong keeps you from holding yourself accountable and halts progression in its tracks. However, so many will double down if you push back to tell them that they do, in fact, meet the category of disabled. Why is it that everyone is so ashamed of disability? It’s not a dirty word. It doesn’t mean you’re stupid, ignorant, or any other accusatory or derogatory descriptors. It simply means you are not able to do certain things in the same way others are.

My daughter is Autistic - as am I - and she was really hung up on the fact that she was being put in what is called “Special Education.” She felt like it made her seem silly and incapable, even though she worked her ass off to maintain her grades as high as possible and keep up with the workload. It turns out it wasn’t anything but the name that was bothering her. “Special Education” can carry with it a somewhat negative tone, and she thought it was essentially punishment for not doing well enough in her classes.

That wasn’t actually the case. Her counselor and teachers decided it would be best for her going forward, so that she had full access to a whole team of people for the next year. So, last year was her first year under the Special Education umbrella, and the accommodations seem to have helped her immensely. In the end, she learned there is no shame in being in Special Education, and the same applies to disabled adults. There is no shame. So let it go.

I can understand not wanting to admit to yourself that you desperately need accommodations, but I can guarantee you will regret not asking for them in the first place once you finally get them. Swallow your pride and admit it.

Say it with me.

I am disabled, and that’s okay.

One more time!

I am disabled, and that’s okay!

If you would like to read more about what’s going on in the world or need pet advice, visit my website for many more articles and subscription tiers. If you would like to donate to help me continue writing, my Cashapp is $ChronicallyCammy and Venmo is @ChronicallyCammy. Thank you!

www.adailydose.com

Are you searching for a community?

Join my new Discord group for the chronically ill, disabled, neurodivergent, etc. here! It is free - forever. 👇🏼

Join The X Factors!

Are your doctors constantly telling you all your problems are in your head?

Mine, too. I have news for you. They’re full of shit.

Even with incredibly well-documented proof of multiple ailments and injuries over the past 35 years I’ve been on this planet, I still get dismissed by doctors - sometimes even the ones who made those diagnoses. It’s a level of frustration I am so tired of carrying, and I see so many other patients getting the same treatment. It makes me angry seeing that it’s such a universal problem. Even hundreds of men on Threads were telling me that they are often ignored and dismissed when they come in with issues as well.

Why are doctors so cold and uncaring? I wish I knew.

What I do know is that there is a shortage of doctors in the United States, particularly primary care doctors, and that’s absolutely affecting wait times and availability. However, it doesn’t account for the callousness that so many doctors exude today. When I was younger, sure, I was brushed off and told I couldn’t possibly have the illnesses I did, in fact, end up being diagnosed with. However, my pain was controlled. I wasn’t having to stick to 1 pill at a time just twice a day, expecting that to be sufficient relief for pain that I would describe as 8 out of 10 on a good day.

Don’t get me started on bad days.

I know that the “war on drugs” has changed a lot for the medical field and placed a ton of restrictions on doctors instead of addressing any of the actual issues at hand, which can explain the lack of doctors willing to prescribe anything stronger than Tylenol 3, but again, cannot explain the uncaring demeanor.

My question is, at what point do doctors decide how much pain is “enough” pain for it to be bad enough to require stronger relief than anything found OTC? Why is that for them to decide? How do they know how badly I’m hurting at any given time simply by looking at me? Patients who suffer from daily pain build a tolerance to it, much like you would to a medication. Over time, we adjust to the new levels of pain we rise to, and you begin to see it less and less on our faces or when we move. We mask well enough to make people think we are fine, because that’s what’s expected of us. We are told to simply get over it and deal with the pain like a big girl.

What if I don’t want to be a fucking big girl anymore? I want to whine and cry and bitch and moan because is fucking HURTS. So why is that not allowed?

If I were to go into a hospital hysterical like that, you know what they’d do?

They would ship me off to a psych ward.

I wish that were a joke. It’s not.

My point is, doctors are not exactly at their peak right now, and many of us are getting the result: shitty ones.

So, if you’re being told that it’s all in your head, but you have been researching for months, trying to find an explanation that would explain away all those random symptoms that have been culminating into a diagnosis, formulating slowly, but surely, just out of a doctor’s detection, but well within yours...

It’s not all in your head.

Say it with me. It’s not all in your head.

If you aren’t being heard, seek help elsewhere. There are good doctors out there who will do whatever it takes to find the root cause of your issues, and they are worth finding, worth holding out hope for, worth the world in gold to you when you get that big, beautiful D - for diagnosis, of course. 🤪

Keep searching for answers. Google can absolutely be your worst enemy - but it can also become your best friend. I know it’s come in clutch for me multiple times when I didn’t know where to turn. It was able to piece together symptoms I hadn’t even thought about because they may have been minor or less common, and therefore not at the top of my mind.

I haven’t been wrong about a diagnosis yet. Not one.

I don’t think you’re wrong right now, either. So keep searching until you find what you think could be the answer, then look for a specialist who works in diagnosing it to find out for sure. Don’t stop until you get your diagnosis, whatever it may be.

I believe you.

For animal care and veterinary medical information, consider upgrading your subscription to Gold! You will get animal care advice delivered straight to your inbox at least once weekly, as well as access to my animal care Discord chat, in which you can ask me anything about your pets, and I will advise to the best of my ability, within my realm of practice. I cannot offer medical advice, other than basics, such as core and optional vaccinations and heartworm prevention.

Join Pet Posse by subscribing to Gold!

The Stigma We Bear

Chronic pain patients often get told that they are overreacting, they aren’t in ‘that much’ pain, and that their feelings and symptoms are completely invalid. We get told that our bloodwork came back normal, so there’s nothing wrong, yet we can feel our bodies raging from within. We get told we’re “too young” or “too this” and “too that” rather than having our symptoms and experiences validated and working with us to find the answers we are desperately seeking.

Doctors are supposed to be doing no harm, but actively harm people in constant debilitating pain. The way they refuse to dole out opiates at all, even though they are often the only relief we ever get, just furthers the stigma against us, so people call us drug-seekers and addicts when that couldn’t be further from the truth. We simply want relief from the agony that we bear every second of every day.

To be perfectly honest, I would rather risk dying of an opiate overdose than go without any kind of pain relief. It is genuine torture living every day in so much pain that it hurts to move. It hurts to breathe. It hurts to exist. Yet, doctors want to hold our pain to some threshold, some minimum amount of acceptable pain. I don’t think any amount of constant pain is acceptable. Why are we just allowing people to suffer simply because people think that all narcotic use, even when prescribed responsibly, is bad?

It’s okay to prescribe them for intense pain after surgery or during procedures, but I guess when you live with pain on a daily basis, doctors seem to forget that large amounts of pain are unbearable, even when you look like you’re handling it well. We get incredibly stoic when we endure the misery for years on end.

Because narcotics have become so stigmatized, pain patients are struggling to get any kind of proper relief. Then, if we are prescribed, we end up having to jump through hoops to get the pharmacists to fill them. The war on drugs has never been real. The war on narcotics like Norco and Morphine has never been real. It’s a bunch of bullshit meant to keep pain relief out of the hands of citizens, even when those citizens are in dire need. The biggest problem in drugs right now is Fentanyl, and no doctors are handing that shit out like candy.

So, why are pain patients punished instead? Fentanyl is still on the streets while we go like clockwork to appointments and pee in cups to prove we didn’t sell them, even though no true pain patient would give up their one line of relief. Ever. We are not searching streets for any “fix” we can find. We are searching for answers, compassion, and yes - relief.

Is that so fucking hard to comprehend? Is it really too much to ask?

I don’t think it is.

So, What? We Should Just Die, Then?

Genuinely, this goes through many of our heads multiple times a week, I’m sure. I know it does mine.

Pain is a huge driver of suicide. It’s a huge component of so much depression, loneliness, and despair. It gets unbearable living in a body that doesn’t work as intended, and no one believes you when you tell them you’re absolutely miserable and can’t take it anymore.

They wait until we actually go through with it, and then they say, “Oh, maybe we should have done more.”

They should do more. I understand that doctors are overloaded with patients. Chronic pain patients are also often overloaded with doctors, because we are so often in pain from chronic illnesses. We are tired, we are scared, and we are begging to be treated like human beings with feelings. I want to be treated like I actually matter, rather than just a number on a list of patients. Is that too much?

Is it too much to read my full chart instead of repeatedly asking me questions that I’ve painfully written on your dozens of papers that you forced me to fill out on top of the paperwork I already filled out on the internet? I don’t think that’s asking too much.

If more doctors would take the time to actively listen and formulate a legitimate plan with options and choices, I think we would have better experiences overall. However, that never seems to fucking happen because so many doctors are, ironically, too egotistical to put others before themselves.

We end up losing so many people simply because they can’t take the pain anymore. It’s senseless and avoidable with...say it with me! PROPER PAIN CONTROL.

Doctors are constantly throwing medications at us...as long as they aren’t pain relief. Why is that less dangerous than just giving me a medication that actually makes my life a little more bearable? I was once on twice the recommended dose of Topamax, which was very dangerous, but no one said a word - not a pharmacist, not another doctor, no one - until I researched it and realized how overprescribed I’d been. I could barely formulate full sentences and constantly forgot simple words like CAR. How is that less dangerous than just giving me pain relief?

I don’t think I’ll ever understand that.

And why do we keep being told there’s nothing doctors can do when we see celebrities with constant miraculous recovery or the ability to still perform for years, decades even, despite incredibly painful ailments most of us with similar issues cannot do? Money can’t buy happiness, apparently, but I clearly see it can buy more options from doctors that us peasants certainly aren’t privy to.

So, when does the fight end? Are we ever going to actually be heard, or will we continue to fade into the darkness when we can’t go on any longer? I really don’t know, and I’ve lost a ton of hope in the process. As much as I wanted to believe that I could eventually get back to work in veterinary medicine, or at least back to some kind of full-time work, I don’t think my very well-documented illnesses and injuries are being taken seriously enough for that ever to happen.

I take my life a day at a time, even hour by hour most days. I try to focus on my family and loved ones, my writing, and making sure I do my best to stay mentally as fit as possible...but the darkness creeps in, and I have to actively push it away each time. I shouldn’t have to beg my doctors to believe me. I have nothing to gain by being this ill or in this much pain. It has ruined my life in endless ways and I fucking hate it. I would do just about anything to NOT have to endure all of this, but doctors are determined to ignore that fact from so many of us, and I’m so fucking tired.

Thank you for reading! If you want to support my ability to continue writing, please consider subscribing to Silver or Gold. I offer lots of perks, listed at sign-up!

As always, stay happy and healthy, always be kind, but take no shit.

For animal care and veterinary medical information, consider subscribing to Gold! You will get animal care advice delivered straight to your inbox at least once weekly, as well as access to my animal care Discord chat, in which you can ask me anything about your pets, and I will advise to the best of my ability, within my realm of practice. I cannot offer medical advice, other than basics, such as core and optional vaccinations and heartworm prevention.

Join Pet Posse Here!

Disclaimer: I started out wanting to write a piece about going no contact, how to navigate that, yadda yadda yadda, but a different story emerged instead, and as much as it scares me to share it, I think I need to. I need to get it off my chest and stop protecting everyone around me while never stopping for a second to protect myself. Now that I have finally spoken my mind, including to my parents, I need to let it go...let it drift away into the abyss as it leaves my troubled mind. This piece ended up being more of a directed letter toward the end, and it includes a lot of discussion about abuse, so please protect yourself if you need to. It doesn't hurt my feelings.

My parents are upset because they say my writing makes them look bad…I’m just telling my own experiences growing up in their household. It’s not really about them at all; it’s about me. I need to find people who actually want me around, not parents who bitch about me behind my back, and a sister who doesn’t invite my friends over to tell them I lied about the abusive household, knowing damn well she got some of it, too. I have a better familial relationship with friends I’ve known since middle school - the ones who truly know me and my character.

See, it turns out that the way I speak is apparently what defines me. The fact that I use cuss words a lot defines me as a terrible person. It defines me as mean, hateful, and just plain awful - go ask my mom, she’ll tell you all about it. But then she’s gonna give you a sob story about how her MIL did this kind of shit to her.

Well, Ma, you went no contact with Grandma because of it, so why the hell are you confused that I have now done the same? Because rules for thee not for me? Like, hello? Hypocrisy is calling. My nervous system cannot be around people who admit they’ve only had me around because they’re obligated to anymore.

I have always felt how much my family disliked me, but I didn’t realize my mom was a fucking liar, too. That’s the part that really gets me. She was painting herself as a goodie goodie who does the right thing, right before trying to lure me back in with news about her dogs because she knows that’s what gets me every time - Right mom? It’s my love for those dogs - and then trying to cause rifts in my incredibly happy marriage because you’re jealous that you married an asshole and I didn’t. Genuinely insane.

Not sure why you thought that was going to get me to crawl back to you, and especially since my fucking 16-year-old heard just about everything. So great job fucking her up, thinking we were about to divorce, too. Thanks. She now thinks you’re a manipulative woman who cannot be trusted. That’s not my fault, it’s yours.

I refuse to be made the villain of anyone’s story at this point. I am done trying to please everyone, and it not be enough. It’s NEVER going to be enough for certain people, and that’s okay. It’s time for me to completely unmask and stop caring what anyone thinks because I am a grown-ass adult and I don’t need my parents’ permission to do what I want in life - and it’s ableist as fuck for them to assume I do. I’m done being treated like a literal toddler when I have a nearly grown-ass daughter. I’m. Done.

Now, I can absolutely be a villain if you’d like me to. I’m actually quite great at it when I try on people who have fucked with me. It’s done, it’s over, I need you to leave me alone right now, and stop trying to get my daughter to go against me or her father. You have done nothing but push her away, while performing to her like you give a single shit about me. You also made an enemy out of the son-in-law who did so much for you to be kind all the fucking time, any time you asked. He has made it very clear he will never step into the same room as you again. Again, not my fault, but yours.

It’s funny, mom, you pointed out the gaslighting I was experiencing at my old kennel job with a horrific boss, and how bad it was, but yet you turn around less than 2 years later and pull the same type of stunt. Anyone trying to push me away from my husband to get me crawling back, especially to some hoity toity Christian bullshit life, it’s not fucking happening. You will have to pry that beautiful soul out of my cold, dead hands because he is the only relationship I have ever had that was good for me - good for both of us.

And honestly, mom, you accusing my husband makes me think you were the one who tried to kill me. It sure as hell wasn’t the man helping me stand on my own two feet, washing and dyeing my hair when I need help, and being the most incredible father and husband I’ve ever met. I’m sorry that dad has shown you a life of abuse, but that’s not my fault, either.

I tried to save you multiple times. You didn’t want to listen, and you stuck up for that man every damn time. Well, okay then, mom. Have your husband, and lose your daughter. I hope he’s worth it when he’s belittling the hell out of you day in and out because you’re disabled and he’s too fucking lazy to put his own clothes in the wash or make a sandwich. Or, you know, complain when you had a severe emergency, during which you nearly died, and he just had to clean up the mess. How fucking disgusting that he didn’t care about you more than the mess he decided was just too much of a chore and too gross and too hard. Weaponized incompetence, ma. Look that shit up.

He’s a fucking petulant toddler who would quite literally sell - or abandon like he did Jovi - your fucking dogs if you passed, and I am done pretending like he’s not a giant mound of shit for the things he says and does to the people and animals around him. He may have outsiders fooled, but we all fucking know better. Stop fucking screaming at your dogs, asshole, and take them outside and on walks for fuck’s sake. Your heeler is fucking calcified. CALCIFIED throughout her spine….And would you guess whose fault that is…

Yours. Not mine.

- - - - - -

You may want to skip my posts if you hate them. 😝

Also, this article does speak a bit about mass killers and incels. Reader discretion advised.

The World Wide Web: Friend or Enemy?

I have noticed a trend as the internet has become increasingly heavily relied upon - one that’s puzzled me more each day. The world has opened up, now seemingly so accessible for many people, while also managing to be, somehow, made incredibly small for others. It breeds adventurers and loners alike, some searching for the world outside while others forge plans in secret, hoping for a chance to get their names in headlines. It’s both enlightening and scary, a short kiss of fate, but yet a monster away.

Americans have made our voices dominate the screens for decades now, imposing and overstepping boundaries everywhere we go. We have distributed our ‘culture’ far and wide, without any regard for future consequences. We have become known as a very poorly structured joke. I feel pretty confident in saying we wouldn’t even have the same president right now if the internet had never been invented. The culture of greed and capitalism that we have fostered and cultivated for ourselves has been the catalyst for so much that is wrong right now, and it feels like life just dances on around me, nauseated as I’m disconnected by emotional whiplash.

Seriously, is anyone seeing the babies still being bombed, shot, stabbed to death, often in their parents’ arms? I can assure you, they are still there, but the Wicked Witch of the West’s algorithms have gone quiet, and Meta is silencing protesters with every click. Palestine is wrestling for its lifeblood as settlers strip its people of all they once had. In Ukraine, the land is still being bastardized by Russians who always seem to need more. Lebanon, Iran, Syria - the list keeps stacking up, and we keep waiting for something in this country to change before we’re all nuked to oblivion with the wholly incapable Slitheens in the White House. At this point, I’d absolutely believe Dr. Who shows were documentaries, no questions asked. That’d probably be just a normal Tuesday in that gold-encrusted ballroom by now.

Sign up for A Daily Dose

President Trump is just a symptom of the plague, a puppet for the growing number of white people, predominantly, who are hateful toward anyone they deem inferior to themselves. They will spit at you if you aren’t Christian, scream at you if you besmirch Jesus’ name, and spew slurs at anyone of color they see, yet they will all sit quietly in the church pews every Sunday morning with their hands and ankles crossed like prim, proper ladies and gentlemen, pretending that absolves them of guilt from their activities in the days before.

In a day when lies become truths, and truths become lies, the American public has become a character reel from Idiocracy, painting us all in red, white, and blue - blood-tinged, of course. And in that day and age, the idiots are the rulers, and everyone else is trimmed to their stems by their policies. The dumb become dumber, and the rich become richer, and those in between are stuck in the middle like some nasty mixture of peanut butter and Doritos made into a sandwich, an actual fucking nightmare barrage of texture.

As the world woke up to social media and began perusing and posting on a daily basis, - swarming like moths to a flame - everyone became desperate for likes, comments, shares, engagement of some kind, and the focus of everyday people began to shift. Because now, everyone has a camera attached to their hips, not just the paparazzi, and a majority of the world has access to the internet, making fame as simple as a 5-second video of your kiddo calling ducks chickens or telling you their brother bit them that could skyrocket anyone to instant fame - and yes, that began to come with a fortune, too.

Today, instant fame is one post away, and that has made us all so much worse as people. We have become so selfish and entitled in ways I never knew possible. It’s now difficult to find someone to hold a door open when I’m rolling up in my wheelchair, not to mention being walked in front of as I roll, and getting separated from my family multiple times whenever I go into a store. The stares, glares, and comments, the whispers and pretending not to see me - they all belong to a cesspool of specific people who do not care for disabled people, and some even think we should not be in public spaces at all.

It seems like everyone has Main Character Syndrome, searching for their big break, and doing whatever it takes to get it. We have influencers whining about ‘losing themselves in the culture’ and then presenting their divorce as content, licking toilets of airplanes, and causing madness in stores as ‘pranks’ where the store workers end up being the punch line. Everyone wants to get a taste of the fortune, and there is no such thing as too far. It has afforded all of us the ability to easily see and connect with the rest of the world on levels once unimaginable, but that isn’t always eye-opening.

This isn’t the case for all, though, of course. For some individuals, the internet has become a closer of minds, and a safehold for untruths, half-truths, everything beyond and in between. It has created an area of the web so dark and discomforting that even the bravest of us won’t venture into - aptly named the Dark Web. And in that dark web, there are groups of people who aim to cause harm. They have sunk themselves into a fallacy they cannot escape without carrying out their big ‘event.’ They are the mass murderers of 4Chan and other dark web dens so troubling you wouldn’t believe any of it were true, the ones who made the digital adventure into the world of incels and angry white, racist men.

The Plague of Mass Shooters & Spree Killers

And Why They Exist

The term ‘spree killer’ was coined in the early 20th century, defined as someone who commits several murders in succession, at more than one location. The killings in Nova Scotia in 2020, during which a man dressed as a cop then went on a rampage across the area, killing 16 innocent people. These killers show up at one area, murder several innocents, then leave and relocate to do it all over again. Mass murderers are those who might, say, walk into a Walmart full of Mexicans and Mexican-Americans and randomly kill 23 people, including a mother and father with their infant son, who somehow miraculously survived, leaving a shattered and broken life ahead of him now in their absence.

The internet made it possible for these killers to gorge themselves on murder, gore, and mayhem, then replicate what they find. Horror killings like Columbine in 1999 and the massacre carried out during a midnight showing of the new Batman movie in 2012 have become blueprints for lonely, angry men who can’t regulate their emotions enough to go to fucking therapy instead of committing horrific crimes against people who did nothing to deserve any of it - they were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.

These murderers are the men we call incels - the involuntarily celibate. They can’t gain the attention of a woman in the way they want, so they take it out on anyone they can, often before taking themselves out once they’re done. They don’t have the strength or courage to face prison, because they are nothing but limp noodle-dicks who lament all day about not being able to have sex while doing nothing at all to earn it. They think they are owed it, they deserve it, it’s their right as a man. Too fucking bad, Bucko, that isn’t how it works in the real world.

It starts with the blessed boys of Christian mothers singing the song of olde - “Boys Will Be Boys” - while never muttering the word “no” when necessary. This is how we end up with men who think women owe them our bodies and our virtues simply because he was born with a penis and thinks that makes him the gods’ gift to women.

The internet has created spaces for men like this to harness their hatred for the sake of exacting their twisted fantasies on a set group of people and whoever gets in their way. These “boys who will be boys” were never taught to sit in silence with their thoughts. They were never told the word “no” during formative years, often spoiled by Mommy, well-meaning but enabling.

These men make their worlds so small they can’t see the forest for the trees because they’re focused on one small part of the picture. Instead of self-improvement, they pivot to loathing - not necessarily toward themselves, but often toward women and men that hang with them. That hate builds up further and further, simmering to the edge like the climax they so wish they could have, until finally they explode in violence, taking everything out on people they typically don’t even know...all because they haven’t had a chance to get laid yet because they are creepy Joe Goldberg types, but with much less game.

How The World Opens Up

Learning About Others Through Social Media

Now that I’ve traumatized you a bit, we can talk about something a little lighter. Think of it like instant therapy. In all the ways the internet has made the world smaller, it has opened it up in so many more. It has shown me scenes and cultures seemingly up close and personal, places and things I would likely never see in my lifetime as someone who cannot afford to travel, especially overseas. It has afforded me the knowledge of who I am and how to reconnect with my culture - I am Plains Apache, raised as white, decolonizing every day.

I don’t know that I would have been able to escape the Bible belt, hoity toity Christian attitude that I was raised to have without the access I’ve had to the internet. I have been able to completely reprogram my mindset, rejecting all the teachings of childhood church sermons that never sat quite right. The pastor would tell a misogynistic joke or maybe something a little callous, a homophobic jab or two, and a sprinkle of racism on top for shits and giggles. That was a typical Sunday morning, and then we all went home to sin some more until we shuffled back into the pews to apologize to a man who wasn’t there.

What I was seeing on social media was so much body positivity, support, inclusiveness, disability awareness, and a growing respect for other humans in a way that I hadn’t seen in a long time. There was a steady evolution of acceptance for Queer identities, and the world was beginning to relax its Medieval laws. Influencer culture hadn’t yet turned into the whirlwind it is now, and there were still relatively few people out there who had amassed millions of followers, unless they were celebrities.

However, I must have blinked, because it’s now 2026, and Donald Trump is president again; thanks to the Muskrat that somehow hasn’t ended up on the wrong end of a K-Hole and his billionaire pals who feed on the souls of humans to get their rocks off. Now the Puritans are trying to catapult us back into the Dark Ages with archaic and repressive rulers who treat women as the property of their partners. Maybe the world opened up a little bit too much, because his bullshit has been spreading, and the government has just secured $70 billion for ICE funding.

I have an enormous suspicion that the United States, as well as some countries in the Middle East, have been carefully plotting something deeply nefarious in favor of the rich. In the event that the Persimmon Pedophile were to kick off World War III, where would we all go, and what would we do? Go off the grid, start our own compounds that trade with one another, and protect their own - an actual village to raise our kids? Do we sneak off to some remote desert, find a cave, and hope we can ride out the apocalypse? Because I would be game.

Actually, I’m not so sure I want to survive an apocalypse, now that I’m considering it. Living with my chronic illnesses would be an absolute nightmare, I would have no access to Remicade, and I sure as hell am not great at gardening, so making my own medicine is probably out of the question. Hell, let’s face it. My husband is my caretaker at this point, I suffer from indescribable pain every single day, and no doctor seems to want to do anything about it anyway.....So, you know what, sure. Bring on The Apocalypse or whatever. Just don’t even give me a warning if it’s coming. I want to be blissfully at peace, unaware.✌🏼😝 I’m kidding. Mostly.

As always, thank you so much for reading, and don’t forget to leave a like and comment below if you enjoyed this article and want to see more like it!

For more reads and paid subs, visit my site:

A Daily Dose

I got pregnant during my Senior year of high school, and gave birth just a few months after graduating and turning 18. My husband and I have been lucky enough to want to remain together, and we have worked to be the best parents possible while growing up with her ourselves.

Over the past 17 years, I have learned so much about love and life, as well as how to be a better parent - always a work in progress. Now that my daughter has nearly grown to the same age I was at her birth, there is so much I can share with prospective teen - and even adult - parents.

Where We Started

My husband and I met in fifth grade, but didn’t start dating until the summer before our Senior year. We went to separate high schools in the same town. Our love story was fast and fleeting, then suddenly we were expecting a baby neither of us was prepared for. I grew up in a staunchly Christian household, and he grew up in a mostly unreligious home. We both chose to keep her, with no second thoughts. We quickly got engaged, then waited until our daughter was nearly a year old to get married.

On a hot, Texas morning in September 2009, our beautiful baby girl made her entrance into the world, and we were over the moon, but so incredibly scared. Neither of us had much experience with babies, and I was - and still am - not a big fan of children. However, I absolutely adore my own. I just don’t enjoy hearing the screaming and constant chattering of toddlers and small children or feeling their sticky hands, unless they are mine. Sue me. 🤪

Over the years, I learned how to approach situations, handle spit-ups, and tantrums, while also learning from my daughter in the process. I will always maintain that she has made me a better person, just for having her in my life. She makes me want to do and be better every day, and I hate disappointing her in any capacity. So, here are a few of the things I’ve learned while parenting that I can now share with you.

1. Let them make reasonable decisions for themselves.

A sense of autonomy is one of the most important things you can give your child.

One of the key things I tell people about being a parent is just how much she has actually taught me. Sometimes, I think everything I’ve learned from her is more than what I’ve taught - But I see that as a good thing. She is wise beyond her years and more mature and disciplined than I ever could have dreamt of being, making me unbelievably proud to be her mother every single day. I chalk a lot of that up to my and my husband’s choice to listen rather than “boss around.”

Instead of constantly telling her to do things, then answering with, “Because I said so” a million times a day, we have given her autonomy. Choice. When she disagrees with why we are upset about something, she will articulate why in a kind and non-confrontational way. Sometimes we agree and change gears, sometimes we don’t, and the discipline stands. It has become a wonderful way for us to learn about each other’s thoughts and feelings, and cement a deeper bond as a family because our daughter feels both seen and heard.

Bossing your kiddos around constantly without giving reasoning doesn’t always give the intended result. Sometimes, that does nothing but make them push back harder. Instead, try listening to them. Hear them out. Let them be the decision makers occasionally, in small ways, as children, giving them a semblance of control over their lives. It teaches independence and confidence in their choices.

We don’t treat her as an object. She is her own person and deserves to be treated as such.

2. Keep Your Mind Open, Always.

Never shut down your child’s open mind. Embrace it & learn from them, instead.

Embrace your adorable little “weirdo” in whatever ways they show up. You know exactly where I’m headed with this, so don’t punk out now.

You shouldn’t be having children in the first place if you cannot handle the possibility of your child/ren being *insert ‘controversial’ identity here.* If you are not okay with your child being Queer, you are not ready to parent. You simply aren’t, and I’m not going to sugarcoat it.

Children grow up to be adults. They will make their own decisions in life, whether you like them or not, and you’re going to have to be okay with that. If you can’t muster up that much love and compassion, you have no business having children. If you are going to “other” a child you are not fully in agreeance with, you are setting yourself up for a retirement full of no contact.

Let your children be who they are and, again, embrace them in whatever way they show up.

3. Almost nothing is ever that big a deal.

In other words, there is never a reason to put hands on your child or diminish their shine in any way. There is never a good reason to harm your children.

Don’t sweat all the small stuff. Sure, it’s cliche, but that’s because it’s right. Getting upset over every little thing as a parent is a surefire way to make a child unsure of themselves. They will think they are never enough, that they can never do or be enough for their parents, because there will always be a “but.”

If you are that upset by something your child has done, there better be a damn good reason for it. It better not be something as trivial as forgetting to clean up their room one day when you asked. I’ve been there. Is it frustrating? Sure, I want my daughter to be able to execute a task when I’ve asked. However, am I going to bitch and moan and lament to her that she never does anything I ask and punish her for it? Absolutely not. There’s just no use crying over a dash of spilled milk.

Clean up the mess and move on peacefully.

4. Encouragement and support go a long way.

So does time spent doing something your child enjoys.

If your child is a big fan of a show, a movie, a band - you name it - you’d better fucking support them through it. There is no hobby my child can bring me that I will not participate in if she asks. I want to learn all about what she loves and enjoys, and spend time nourishing that. Maybe one of those hobbies will eventually turn into a career with that encouragement. You can truly make or break their confidence based on how and when you show up in their lives and interests.

If your 10 year old kid really likes Spongebob, let them watch Spongebob, and watch an episode or two with them.

If your 16 year old is really into K-Pop, learn some K-Pop. Maybe you’ll find something you enjoy as well!

Take them to concerts, movies, fun events. Know their interests and support them, and make your relationship with them your top priority. It’s all about creating an unbreakable bond through unconditional love and mutual understanding. Your kids are not your playthings, your dolls, your property. They are an entire human being with their own thoughts, hopes, and dreams...and that’s OKAY. They do not need to be a “mini me” or carbon copy of their parents. They just need to be themselves. Let them.

I don’t know all there is to know about being a parent, but I do know these efforts can help you create a supportive and loving environment. Be kind. Be safe. And don’t forget to leave me a like and comment below if you enjoyed the article! 💜

If you want to read more from me about pet care and what is going on in the world, consider subscribing to my Silver or Gold tiers on my personal site, here:

Upgrade your subscription here!

Disclaimer:

Look. Cuss words are like the sprinkles on my red velvet cupcake, so don’t ruin it for me, all right? If you’re on the prudish side, this probably isn’t the best space for you, and that’s fine! Just slowly back away, and I promise you won’t have any word cupcakes hurled at you as you go. I cuss in peace. 💜✌🏼

Aspiring doctors are taught - yes, taught while in medical school - to dismiss and label women with derogatory initials symbolizing the levels of “hysteria” the so-called “problematic women” are purported to have.

Yes, you did read that correctly. Medical students are being trained to dismiss women who are painful, sick, often emotional - AKA patients doctors don’t want to deal with because it’s too complicated for them to conjure up any amount of tangible empathy for the people they hate most: women. A couple of weeks ago, I posted a question on Threads asking for doctors to give me an honest answer to the age-old question:

“Why do so many of you consistently belittle and diminish the pain women go through, especially when it comes to reproductive health and chronic, invisible illness?”

The only doctors who could or would answer me with a modicum of integrity or good faith at all were those who also deal with chronic illness. Many of them stated that they, too, are ignored by their colleagues! So, is it an empathy problem? Are thousands of doctors simply missing a sensitivity chip, as Jen Aniston might say? Whatever the cause, I decided it was my mission to figure it out.

Enter the research phase:

In July of 2025, less than a year before I decided to write this article, Psychology Today published an article written by Susan B. Trachman, M.D., titled, “She’s Not Imagining It: The Continuing Medical Dismissal of Women.” In it, Susan mentions a recent survey for women aged 25 to 34, asking whether they felt dismissed by the healthcare professionals they make appointments with. An eye-watering 93% of women recalled that, yes, they had felt dismissed. That is ninety-three percent, 7 away from 100% for those of you who suck at math like me. No worries, I’ve got ya covered. I even made sure to have my husband check my ‘girl math.’ 🤪 Just kidding. Istg, I’m kidding. Please don’t click away. 😝

Anyway, I think anyone with eyeballs can plainly see that it is an outrageously high percentage. So, intrigued, I kept reading.

According to Trachman, many of these women reported being told their symptoms were stress-related, or the ever-popular “You’re too young for insert non-age-related illness here.“ I distinctly remember having one phrase drilled into my head during my time in school, working on my technician’s license. “Age is not an illness.” So, why is it that veterinary professionals can comprehend this, but human medical professionals often can not?

Then, you add in the fact that women, especially those of Color, have been severely underrepresented in research, and that there is still a nonsensical belief that women are disproportionately emotional and hysterical, ‘hormonal,’ if you will, compared to men. Of course, this is just the answer you get when you ask men. When you ask women, the perspective difference is strikingly clear. Men get pampered and babied, tested and imaged with care, while in contrast, women are discarded in the hallways, waiting in a bed with no privacy as everyone stares at us, crying in pain. Healthcare workers whiz past with not a peep, leaving us feeling empty and nonexistent.

I’ve been there - I can still smell, see, and hear everything that went on around me as I lay miserably in a too-small cot on wheels in a corner near the nurse’s station. Bubbly baby giggles popped by screeches, hushed murmurs, an occasional pregnant pause followed by incessant beeping...the hours dragged along, their claws slashing through my body as I wept, desperately requiring attention, peace, quiet - answers. I’d eventually run out of tears because no one was listening as the day disappeared, just ignoring, tolerating, neglecting. There have been several times I was treated like a liar, even a doctor refusing to treat me without ever performing an examination. The reason? I was “faking,” according to her - “wasting time and resources,” she squawked at me with beady eyes and a bad attitude.

Meanwhile, men are treated like royalty in healthcare, able to parade around like they own the place and have medications and tests thrown at them, because “We can’t have a hard-working family provider staying down and out, now, can we?”

It’s fine if the woman gets the brunt of disability thrust onto her with no offered solutions, though, sure. Make her continue caring for any kids at home alone, too. She can handle it, no biggie. 🙄But PUMP. THE. BRAKES. if big boy over here stubs his fuckin’ toe, okay? We’ve got to assemble the troops and mourn his forlorn days of old, whence his pinky toe didst point the right way.

Here is the article, if you’d like to read it:

Psychology Today

So, then I started looking deeper, into further studies about women, including those about how men feel about women, which really piqued my incessant need to keep poking the fucking bear - because I knew the answers. I knew the outcome, as it was written ALL over the walls the whole time. We all know the goddamn answer.

Men. fucking. hate. us.

That’s it. That’s the magic key that unravels with it everything they hate about us and what they fantasize about doing to us without boundaries - without laws. What a partner would do in the middle of the night after drugging us unconscious in our own homes, men we married, thinking they actually LOVED us, but no. It was never that - never love for us. For a terrifyingly large portion of men, what they actually love is control over us. They want us quiet and compliant.

This obviously spills into medical school and healthcare environments. Instead of listening to women and taking what we say at face value, we are being analyzed and meticulously judged from the moment we roll through the ER doors. We are ignored and disbelieved, minimized and belittled because doctors think their paychecks determine the size of their dicks when they should be focused on the impact they’ve made on their patients, and whether it’s positive.

I think some of these doctors, men in particular, get off on making women upset. I genuinely think some are abusing their positions of power in dark and disturbing ways, and the medical field far too often turns a blind eye. I’ve seen entirely too many doctors and nurses “of death” to trust that everyone in a hospital has good intentions - in fact, I know not all of them do.

So, knowing this, imagine my surprise as I’m scrolling along through social media and stumble upon a doctor’s post mentioning what some might call ‘shorthand’ for patients who come through their doors - HUMAN patients, mind you. Apparently, doctors have certain abbreviations used to label patients, especially those who are female. They are derogatory and disgusting, so please click away now if that’s triggering for you. You won’t hurt my feelings at all. 💜

💡Any doctor using these abbreviations in 20-fucking-26 is an asshole not worth your time, so if you happen to witness your doctor using them, fire them. Don’t give them another dime or second of your time.

TW: Nope, it doesn’t mean “trigger warning” here. It is a trigger. TW means “trainwreck.” This describes a patient with an extensive medical history, a long list of medications, or one who is generally difficult to diagnose.

While this abbreviation can be given to any patient of any gender, it is most commonly given to chronically ill women, and it’s certainly not a term of endearment.

The Three F’s: This means “Fat, Fertile, Female.” It’s a “cute” little alliteration device meant to remind doctors of the risk factors for gallbladder disease. Yeah. FAT. FERTILE. FEMALE.

Grotesque. I think people smart enough to become doctors can be clever enough to come up with something a HELL of a lot less derogatory.

GOMER: You might recoil at this one. “Get Out of My Emergency Room.” Not kidding, not fucking with you. It’s often aimed at chronic, or “untreatable,” patients who “simply take up resources.” 🙄😮‍💨 I really hope this one stuck to fictional usage, rather than spreading to the mainstream: IRL.

Finally, I have PIA: This bears a striking resemblance to PITA because it means the same fucking thing. This name is given to patients deemed difficult or demanding.

Don’t get me wrong, I understand that there are patients who are a little less than savory and heavy on violence. I understand the need to be tough and have thick skin, and always be on guard. What I don’t understand is applying derogatory name systems for human beings who have come to the emergency room in need of your care, whether or not you find it necessary. They found it necessary, so just do your fucking job because you get paid either way, and it’s what you’re there for.

Personally, if I were to hear or see my doctor calling me or anyone else such names, I would be reporting them to the board and changing doctors. It’s unprofessional, and there is no reason for it. Treat patients with the dignity you’d like to be treated with, or seek a new career. That’s where I’m at with this, because anyone who can downplay the suffering of humans to derogatory alliterative devices is not the kind of compassionate person I want caring for me.

If these doctors are coming up with whole systems of demeaning their patients without them knowing, what else might they be doing to pare down or even prolong their suffering? It creates a slippery slope, and dehumanizing patients in other ways becomes an option. You have to lack empathy in some capacity to use these terms, but especially to use them against sick and painful individuals in a fucking emergency room.

We all deserve so much better.

If it’s difficult for you, I want you to pledge to stand up for yourself the next time you hear one of your doctors say something rude, demeaning, or derogatory. Don’t just sit there and let them say what they want, unrivaled. You know your body better than anyone, so don’t hold back when a doctor tries to tell you otherwise. I promise I’ll do the same with mine. I have struggled with this myself simply because I don’t want to get labeled, but they’re already labeling us! So, why should I care?

Stay strong, actually do no harm, but take no shit. We’re in this together. 💜✊🏼

If you want to read more from me on a wide array of topics, consider becoming a paid subscriber on my personal site! I dive into animal care and world news, and offer pet advice and a future book club!

A Daily Dose

!

I began experiencing debilitating pain at age 15. I’d mastered what, in dance, we call a C Jump, and was getting ready for competition season with the rest of the team. I’d always been painful growing up, but this? This was completely different. I felt - and heard - a loud snap in my spine, and doubled over in pain immediately. It was like nothing I’d ever experienced before, and I expected it to heal eventually, the pain diminishing with time, but that didn’t end up being the case for me. The pain built and compounded upon itself as time went on, and I’ve experienced car accidents and other injuries in the meantime, adding to it.

Now, after years of working with animals, I spend the entirety of my days at home with my husband, dogs, and teenage daughter, writing articles, playing video games, and wondering if the pain I experience daily will ever stay lower than a 9/10 on the pain scale after a car accident left me fully, likely permanently, disabled and without a daily job gaining an income to contribute to my family. And now, even as I hit my mid-30s, I am still being treated as though I am too young to be experiencing any of it, resigned to 3 Norco a day supposed to control daily pain that’s worse than childbirth - I’ve experienced both, so I feel confident as hell saying that. I thought, with the addition of double-digit herniations as well as bursitis, tendinitis, and Osteoarthritis from hip dysplasia that hadn’t been found prior, that I would finally be listened to and taken seriously.

Subscribe to my personal site- Bronze is free!

Instead, I’ve spent time researching where I can go to receive better care, who might be the right specialist for me, and much more, on my own. I’ve wasted my time arguing with starry-eyed doctors and NPs who tell me I “shouldn’t hurt this much,“ oblivious to the fact that some people do experience intense pain constantly, even with medication. I’ve hassled with many a pharmacist who doesn’t want to fill the medications I am prescribed every single month, like clockwork. It’s become an issue that plays out each month, despite having taken Norco for years and always getting it filled at the same location every time.

Unfortunately, it seems the healthcare system doesn’t want us to be pain-free. They would rather we suffer needlessly, pushed past the point of no return, than help us live a somewhat normal life. Acting as though those of us who are dependent upon our pain medication are the same as those who are addicted and will often do anything, including hurting others, to get it, is offensive. That should never be the immediate response to a woman in chronic pain, and it’s honestly disturbing that it’s the first thought for anyone at all, especially chronic pain & ER doctors. If my husband can walk in with 1 herniated disc and walk out with a script for a full bottle of Norco, Toradol, and Baclofen, but I get ignored while my husband basically carries me in, and has to help me talk through the pain...there’s a fucking problem.

The way a doctor treats us has the power to make or break us. It can push us past the brink when we are hovering just before the edge. This morning, I had the heartbreaking displeasure of reading, on Threads, the story of a mother who couldn’t take it anymore. She was being given Tramadol that no longer worked, and she couldn’t keep living in the misery she’d been forced to for so long. It struck a nerve in me, and set me on a mission, because, to be frank...

I can relate.

Here is the honest fucking truth. That has almost been me more than once. Several times, I’ve wanted to leave this earth to rid my family of my burdens. I have felt on more than one occasion that nothing would ever improve, and that I would be nothing but a gigantic drain on the family funds, instead. What’s the point of sending my family into debt when every day of my life is filled with misery because I can’t take a single breath without sharp, excrutiating pain? Isn’t that worse than making them endure my misery every day, too?

Maureen Salamon, Executive Editor of Harvard Women’s Health Watch, wrote less than one short year ago about the gender bias that still leaves women hanging in the medical system today. Knowing doctors are taught to problem solve, Maureen states the quiet part out loud - “But if they can’t find anything wrong, they tend to think it’s either a psychological or emotional problem and may dismiss it. It’s not warranted, but it still happens.” We, as young women, are told that pain is “normal” starting when we get our periods as adolescents. Alas, it’s not normal, and still, medical professionals refuse to grasp the concept that women experience pain differently from men, and menstruation isn’t actually meant to be horrifyingly painful.

As Maureen states, “[Women are] always trying to balance their lived experience with not wanting to be a burden, because their perception is that if they are, their care will be worse.” I’ve experienced this and know it to be true. I was going to a pain specialist for several years, and never had any issues with pain medications. I showed up like clockwork for my urine tests and checkups, but I voiced my opinion once, and he got irate. My crime, in this scenario? I asked if I could swap back from Robaxin to Flexeril because I felt like my body had stopped responding to Robaxin after being on it for a long while. I often have to switch up meds for effectiveness. This is completely normal, and I have no clue what his problem was. He was even the one who had swapped them before!

Read the article here!

Instead of answering like a rational human being, he lashed out at me like I was trying to raid his office for crack, and told me it was best I get a new doctor. HAPPILY after that outburst, my dude. Joyously. I called the doctor an asshole for his hissy fit and left, knowing that it may come back to haunt me with my next doctor. Luckily, it didn’t, but I still don’t receive enough adequate pain relief to get out of my bed for longer than an hour or two. The doctor I go to is great at injections and other procedures, but doesn’t like to prescribe anything stronger than Norco, which is like regular Tylenol to me, at this point. It does nothing for my pain and is harsh on the liver, so I’d rather be taking a pain medication without the acetaminophen included.

Incidents and doctors like this are, unfortunately, not rare. Every day, women deal with the repercussions of science never taking the time to fully comprehend the beauty, the strength, and the hidden dangers of our bodies. And women are still dying because of it. A McKinsey Health Institute article from 2024 claims, “The women’s health gap equates to 75 million years of life lost due to poor health or early death per year, the equivalent of seven days per woman per year.” The lack of proper medical care is killing women, whether it be by having illness steal time from our lives, or by suicide, and I was sickened to see those numbers staring at me in harsh black and white.

Read the article here!

We are losing so many beautiful souls because the medical system has a problem with listening to women. It has a problem taking any of us seriously, regardless of any extensively documented ailments that have been proven time and time again. Why can’t doctors just listen and try to come up with answers with us instead of forcing us to do all the footwork ourselves, only to be belittled until we finally prove them wrong? They never end up apologizing, though, to no one’s surprise.

We must stand up for and support one another through our struggles. No one can pull us out of a funk better than someone also suffering from it. We just get each other. We are incredibly strong - stronger than we may give ourselves credit for - and we deserve high-quality lives, even when we are chronically ill. Women are in danger in multiple ways in this political climate, and the healthcare system is more than willing to continue carrying the torch for the patriarchy like it always has. Until science properly includes the female experience, we will continue to be neglected and left to suffer alone, because “we never really studied the female body,” and boy, does it fucking show.

If you are interested in joining a community of chronically ill women and allies, consider subscribing! I have three tiers, starting at free, and I’d love to see you in the support group I am currently working on! All announcements for that will be on my personal website, here:

Subscribe to A Daily Dose!

Let me know if any links got messed up in the transfer from my site! 💜

Growing up in North Texas means growing up deep in the heart of the Bible Belt, and rather than staunchly holding up your pants, it chokes you. Slowly, surely, the belt tightens, and the worn leather splits in silent protest, eager to escape its own abuse. In a world that’s supposed to cater to the “chosen” Christians, the cries of women echo, unrelenting, yet unanswered. Children are to be seen - but not heard. Where, then, lies their joy?

As an undiagnosed Autistic person with ADHD, this metaphorical belt was squeezing the lifeblood out of me, but I had no safe way to express how I was feeling. My parents were strict and resorted to carrying out corporal punishment first, and asking questions later, if at all. I would often scream in protest of sitting in a car seat, going to a store, and being placed into a basket.

My parents thought I was just being difficult, but I was an infant, a toddler, a literal baby. How could I possibly know how to manipulate a grown adult? I was simply uncomfortable but lacked the words to convey that. I screamed if the tongue in my shoes didn’t sit just right, or the seam of the sock hit the roof of the shoe uncomfortably. Instead of realizing there was something “wrong” or different about me, I was deemed a “bad seed,” a “problem child.”

As a young child, I really struggled to fit in with other children and play their imaginative games. My younger self did not see the point in socializing when I could spend my time doing things I actually enjoy, like playing video games, reading books, or playing out an imaginative solo game, rather than being ostracized by my peers. This is a trait or habit (however you choose to define it) that I still possess today. I was even born into a family that didn’t seem to want me, and if they did, they had a very strange way of showing it.

My sister, Brittany*, is nearly 7 years older than I am. She made it abundantly clear that she did not want a sibling. Period. I was the one who stole our mom’s and dad’s attention from her, and that made me Brittany’s Enemy No. 1. In return, she was mine. I was forced to weather her punches and learned to toss a little lightning back her way. We grew into adulthood, competing…But, deep down, I really didn’t want to compete. I would have much preferred a sister, a confidant, a friend in the turmoil of our shared home life. Unfortunately, instead of being a source of comfort, my sibling was an added source of condemnation.

Brittany would make ‘jokes’ and ‘poke fun’ at me constantly, but it was often for things I couldn’t control: Autistic traits. It also seemed incredibly condescending and rude, making it difficult for me to cope. It was laughing at me for taking something literally, calling me stupid for not understanding something the first time, and ‘throwing a fit’ over every ‘inconvenience’ - and so much more. We just had no idea what the hell Autism was, or that it even existed. It wasn’t until we had a big falling out as adults that her criticism and condescension of me died down, and we were able to reconcile. Our relationship has evolved past our childhoods; we have come to understand each other better, and I am grateful for that.

Throughout my childhood, most days were a knockdown, drag-out, WWE-style match in our house. If my parents weren’t screaming at us or each other, they were practicing their version of the Quiet Game: AKA silent treatment, complete with killer glares and slights so icy I often thought someone let a draft in before realizing - Dad would have already yelled at us if that had been the case. This is the man who would scream at us if we left the door open for longer than it took to step outside, or for just touching “his” walls with “oily hands.”

When it came to both parents, if we fought back at all, we got punished much, much worse. That was always the threat, and I was too stupid stubborn to listen. For example, a “funny” story my mother used to tell was about when she would pop my leg for saying or doing something she didn’t like. I learned to pop her right back. ‘An eye for an eye,’ essentially. She didn’t care much for the fact that I had formed that decision, and would pop me harder each time in a violent twist on playing patty cake. She thought I was being vindictive and evil because I was laughing. I was a toddler. I thought it was a game.

In reality, I was doing what she herself (and dad) had modeled for me. There was also a moment when I called my Barbie a “bitch” because I couldn’t get her clothes to fit over her breasts and butt, and it frustrated me. The word just slipped out, and I likely didn’t really know what it meant, but I got popped for that, too. In defense of Little Me, at least I used the word in the correct context. I should have gotten partial credit for that. In all seriousness, I was adopting my father’s vocabulary, but of course, I was punished for it anyway. Again, I was a toddler or very young child.

As we got older, Brittany and I grew further and further apart. We had wrestling matches of our own, laced with icy insults meant to cause the most drastic amounts of harm to our opponent as possible. After all, it’s what we had seen our parents do. It’s the only way we knew to handle conflict. ‘They started it, you finish it,’ as Mom always said. Funny how that never applied to arguments with her or Dad. Because we had learned to be vindictive toward one another, that played out in certain scenarios with friends and classmates during my childhood. I will always remember an incident that haunts me.

I had a good friend in Elementary school whose mother knew mine. She and her sister grew up with an incredibly close bond, and little me was very jealous. In class one year, a teacher had a little treasure chest that she would fill with little toys and trinkets (you know, before all of those fun party favors got exorbitantly expensive). When we earned enough stars or points, we could choose something from the chest. At one point, probably the end of the year, she ended up tossing everything out and allowing several of us to come up at once. I had heard my friend say she wanted to grab a bracelet for her sister, and I grabbed it in a fit of jealousy. To this day, I still wish I could go back and give it to her instead. I knew it was bad; it made me feel bad, and I should have acknowledged it.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have the wisdom or courage in elementary school to recognize that what I was feeling was likely a knee-jerk reaction to my sister’s and others’ prior ostracism toward me, correct the action, and apologize. I sat there and made myself feel guilty for possessing the bracelet rather than just fessing up and giving it to her. I could have learned a really important lesson that day: Admit when you cause harm and apologize, and people are much more likely to be understanding of your mistakes. Unfortunately, it took me many more years to fully learn that lesson. That’s another story for another day.

Once I had made it to middle school, Brittany was on her way out of the house. She had completed her high school diploma and was off to the University of North Texas, the first in the family ever to make it to college. She made sure we were all well aware of that fact and emphasized it pretty consistently. I thought my sister’s move would create a better environment for me, but in reality, it only made the situation worse. My parents, who never truly understood me in the first place, then lacked the distraction of having a second child to take the heat off my personal indiscretions and perceived fuck-ups.

Because I absolutely loathed traditional PE and its predictability or lack thereof, depending on the coach, I searched for another way to earn my physical education credits. I landed on “dance,” or “drill team,” in Southern speak, as a possibility. It counted as a PE credit as well as Fine Arts, which sounded to me, at the time, like “early graduation.” (Unfortunately for me, that was not the case.)

Brittany had been in competitive dance for years, and it was so much better than being in cheerleading, in my naive, petty mind. The only hang-up was that my sister didn’t make the Varsity team her Sophomore year, and I would have eventually been up for the same tryouts if I kept dancing through high school…until our small town decided to build a new school. I found the prospect of a new high school to be a relief. I didn’t need any other reasons for her to resent me.

Still, I worried that, even if I made a completely different varsity team, it could create even more turmoil between siblings who already had a rivalry I’m not sure either of us ever truly wanted. I think if I asked Brittany today, she would probably say our parents encouraged feelings of competition by seemingly expecting more from one child than from the other. She has voiced the pressure of feeling as if she could never make mistakes, whereas I could, but I’m not sure she has ever truly listened to my side of the story to know that I was feeling much the same way about our parents’ treatment of her.

I went ahead and chose drill team as my PE elective, despite any hang-ups. The double credit as a Fine Art was too good for me to pass up. This is where my ADHD and Autism were really able to go unnoticed, even though I was crying out for anyone, at home or otherwise, to listen. I made good grades, and it would seem I had “a lot of friends,” but really, I just had a team of girls who had to be around me whether they liked me or not, and had to pretend to, regardless, in the name of “T-E-A-M-W-O-R-K.”

Toward the end of my 7th-grade year, I started thinking about officer tryouts. I was getting the hang of this “dance” thing, and I wanted to see if I could take things further. I was getting great feedback from both the coach and officers who were one year older, so I decided to try out for Lieutenant. I felt like I had finally found something I was actually really good at, with a chance of being great. I felt like I was starting to belong a little more in the world I didn’t understand. I had a built-in group of friends on a team, and there was no awkward search for others in each class if I had a fellow drill teamer in it, as long as we got along well.

I could always feel when certain girls didn’t care for me or thought I was rude, annoying, heartless, uncaring, bitchy, snobby…the list goes on, really. I’ve heard them all, but I didn’t fit in with some of the girls on the team (and, honestly, most of the other girls at the school). I existed as their entertainment because I fell a lot and made goofy jokes, not to befriend outside of school. As much as I tried to be accepted, unless it was a team-sanctioned event or with my core group of friends, I was typically left out of most of the “extra” extracurricular activities.

I didn’t know how to compose myself in groups, even when I knew them well, and that got me left out of a lot of invitations. Even my core friend group would often do things together and leave me out. I don’t know if anything nefarious was meant, but I do remember feeling hurt. I also understood I wasn’t super outgoing, and my parents were strict, so maybe that contributed. Generally, I just felt like most people didn’t really want to be around me, my family included.

What most of my teammates, friends, and classmates didn’t know or comprehend was that I was incredibly depressed throughout my entire middle and high school careers, especially with everything going on at home. I was able to play it off like I wasn’t absolutely miserable every second of every day just existing, being forced to attend school with a bunch of people with whom I shared a mutual dislike: myself. I’ve always had a decent sense of when people are unsure of or distrustful of me, as well as when they are manipulating me or straight dislike me. Still, I don’t always listen when my intuition is putting its feelers out, noticing patterns and predicting outcomes.

Share Cammy's Chronicles

I ended up becoming a Lieutenant in 8th grade and going on to make the Varsity team at the new high school. Still, that time ended up being fraught with physical injury and emotional damage (another sign of my neurodivergence). Dance is an incredibly cutthroat and competitive sport, and that often includes members of your own team actively working against you. We all wanted the same part: front and center. Sometimes, on rare occasions, it wasn’t the Captain up front, and those of us in the kick line would get a chance to show off.

There is bound to be competition and resentment between girls in large groups, even among the best of friends. It can be hard to stomach when the person you would normally vent to is the one who is better at something than you and has earned the spot you wanted - especially when you grow up undiagnosed and ostracized. I had to learn to accept that I couldn’t land every role every time, and that was okay. I never lashed out about not getting a specific part, but I always felt a sharp sting. It was the ache of not feeling good enough, for my parents, for myself; of not being picked…again.

For the new high school, the town was split in two: one half would attend the initial high school, and the other would attend the new one. This gets a little confusing, but bear with me. There was a small school (formerly the first high school in town) used for Freshmen only that was converted into a middle school, and students leaving 9th grade attended the new school along with those of us entering the Freshman class. All in all, there were only two classes in the first year the school was open, and then it filled up from there. My Junior year was the first year the school ever had all 4.

Right off the bat, my Freshman year was off to a shit great start. I fractured my left ankle while performing double pirouettes, one by one, in a line across the floor of the dance room. I didn’t know it then, but this was another telltale sign of neurodivergence. (And chronic illness, but that’s, again, for another, longer story.) I have always been incredibly clumsy, tripping over my own feet.

However, when I danced, I somehow managed to balance gracefully, for the most part. I only messed up once while performing in the entirety of my time dancing, and that was because my jazz pants were too long. I’m still salty about it because I had asked for help shortening them, and no one did. My best friend’s mother got the entire performance on tape, including my “WHOOOOOP” from me slipping and falling onto my ass. To my credit, I somehow recovered quickly and got back into the routine to finish it.

Because I was good at the sport and always arrived at practices and performances on time, I was ignored when I was trying to get evaluated because I thought I might have ADHD. I “couldn’t possibly have it” because I wasn’t hyper enough for that, and could focus on practice to get the job done. It was simply something I enjoyed. It was worth making myself uncomfortable to do it. Anything I deemed not worth my time, I struggled to do. However, if I really enjoy something, I can lose hours upon hours enveloping myself in it. This made it incredibly hard to see my neurodivergence for the untrained eye.

Throughout the remainder of my dance career, until I was forced to quit due to injury/illness during my Junior year, I continued to push myself as hard as possible to be the very best. I competed to the best of my ability, despite the immense pain I started experiencing near the end of Sophomore year from what I thought, at the time, was just a spinal injury. I found out recently, at 34, that it was my hips because I have hip dysplasia, and I had been performing C jumps constantly for performances. I’ve provided a photo for reference. One morning in practice, I felt a sharp snap and pop, and that’s the last time I remember not being in pain. I can’t tell you what that feels like anymore, though.

Once my doctor told me I had to either give up dancing or find a new doctor, I quit the team. I knew I didn’t have a choice anymore and it was only going to worsen with time, because they had found arthritis. I ended up getting pregnant my Senior year (my husband and I have now been married nearly 16 years) and graduated in 2009 without any diagnoses other than depression. That last year was pretty lonely, as almost all of my friends were still on the team. My classes didn’t have many of my old teammates in them, either, so I lost touch with most of them not long after I left. They were all busy, and I understood that. I used to be the same way.

As an adult, I have struggled to share my feelings, make friends, carry on conversations with acquaintances, hold a job without getting burnt out, name my emotions, or let anyone in. It wasn’t until my daughter got diagnosed with ADHD and Autism that I realized I should probably get tested, too. I finally received my official diagnoses at 32 and 34, respectively, and I am doing the work to find myself and what I truly want in life. It’s as if I have entered the arena of the final boss, and finding myself defeats it. I was in a car accident about a year ago that has left me unable to continue my work as a veterinary technician, so I am searching for a happy medium that allows me to do something I enjoy. It’s time for new beginnings, and I’m excited to see where my dreams take me next.

*Names have been changed to protect identities.

If you liked this article, please consider subscribing. I will be discussing more about my life and dealing with chronic illnesses as well as covering interesting news cases and writing my own poetry and fiction.

Subscribe now

If you want to support my ability to do this work, please consider buying me a Ko-Fi or sending a donation to my CashApp. This is my sole form of income at the moment while I wait to see if I am approved for disability, and every amount helps. Thank you so much!

CashApp: $ChronicallyCammy

Buy me a Ko-Fi