#I fucking hate doctors and the medical field so much
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😓🤬
#I fucking hate doctors and the medical field so much#I was FINALLY starting to get on the right path#called a php place and think I know where I’m going#have a therapist I’ve been talking to here and there#I’ve been trying to get into a psych evaluation right?#called 5+ places the other day and they all had 5-8 month long waitlists#I need to get most of this shit done before June#so that ain’t gonna work#called the psych place my doctor referred me to#(would like to add that I did call this same place right after my doctor visit a few months ago and they never called me back)#so I had no hope they were even going to pick up#I was shocked when I heard someone picked up and even more shocked when they said they had an opening for fucking Wednesday#literally I felt like everything was finally aligning#I scheduled the appt for a zoom meeting at 10am#then I get a bunch of random emails saying my appointment was changed#now I have two different appointments- Wednesday and Thursday both at 9am and with a totally different doctor#so I was like???? ok guessing something happened but I didn’t think much of it - called to figure out what day it actually is#when I called to confirm they told me that I can’t be tested until I get an internal referral#I told them I did get a referral???#they looked at it and it was just a referral for depression not adhd or anything else#but then when they looked more into it they found in the notes she wanted me to get adhd testing#SO she just forgot to add it to my referral#I get people make mistakes#but this is like the 4th time something like this has happened lately#I’m just trying to be healthy#and it is fucking RIDICULOUS how incredibly hard it is to find the proper help#also the girl yesterday when I made the appointment said yes to all my questions but sounds like she doesn’t know what she’s talking about#was like ‘does this test for adhd and autism?’ ‘yeah for sure’ and then I find out they don’t even test for autism#so now I have to find a totally different person to either do both or just test for autism#either way I feel incredibly disheartened and overwhelmed and sad
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the way tumblr talks about medicine makes me wonder how many of us here actually have critical thinking skills
#stop trying to explain shit you know nothing about so you can frame it negatively for clout!!!! literally knock it off!!!#there are so many valid opinions but i don’t understand this and therefore it’s bad “ is NOT one of them actually#fuck it’s far from perfect but seeing people talk about people I work with every day as if they’re monsters is honestly so tiring#it’s just all over my dash#if you read something and it confuses you and that makes you angry#the solution is NOT to make a tumblr post flaming it with all of your misinformation and undereducated opinions#“it is batshit to base dx criteria on statistics “ NO IT IS NOT NO IT IS NOT NO IT IS NOT ARE YOU STUPID???????#THIS IS STEM LITERALLY EVERYTHING IS MATH WHAT THE HELL DO YOU M E A N ?????#literally like!!! 90% of dx criteria involves statistical probability!!!! doctors prescribe statins because you are statistically likely#to develop heart disease or endure a major cardiac event#like they calculate your disease risk based on averages and so so so much data and math and shit THAT YOU KNOW NOTHING ABOUT!!!!#so why are you complaining about it as if you do!!!!!!!!#sorry. I know it’s in good faith for the most part but. it feels like straight entitlement to constantly complain and dog on doctors#I’m a victim of medical malpractice!!! i still show respect and understand that they’re individuals. people. human beings.#who are largely trying to help others#regardless of my personal experience with others in their field#sorry this is just a vent now#i love research I love science I love medicine please stop hating on every aspect of it and my community ty#delete later#not fandom#stinky speaks
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The Mentor and The Mirror (Homelander x Reader)
700 words, similar powers!reader, gender neutral reader.
Ask prompt: What if Homelander was "given" someone, by the higher ups of Vaught, to mentor? They have powers like his, but are a bit weaker and different. What Homelander doesn't know is that they are from the lab like him.
If he found out this person grew up like him, do you think he'd be meaner or sympathetic to them?
“Someone could kill you with a sneeze. They really think you’re worth training?” He asks bitterly. You two have been out in this field for hours now, and he’s fucking over it.
Well, for the most part.
There’s something endearing and fun about teaching your pet new tricks. See, they’d told him flat out that you were his to mentor, but all he heard was you’re his. The sentence stopped there.
You’re a peculiar thing, equipped with all of his same abilities, except that you lack invulnerability. You’re a liability for crime fighting, but those fucks on the board of directors already made their choice. Besides, either he trains you or Stan will be an ever present thorn in his side. Last thing he wanted was to deal with that asshole.
“Why the fuck can’t you fly yet? Just do it,” he gestures with his hand, “like a… I don’t know, a normal person?”
“Sorry-” You blurt out, accidentally flipping upside down. “I uh, they didn’t let me practice much in the rooms growing up. Ten foot ceilings, you know?”
He blinks rapidly at that, cocking his head slightly. What rooms?
Homelander stores that little bit of information away for later, chuckling instead as you plummet to the ground and land on your ass.
You groan pitifully. This has been absolutely awful.
“I don’t think I can do it…” You murmur dejectedly, sitting upright. “It’s hard.”
Now that bothers him. No student of his is going to fail and make him look bad, and you’re certainly not going to make him have another fucking meeting with Stan. He rolls his eyes in exasperation before leaning down to lift you.
“Wh–”
You’re weightless in his arms as he spins, winding up to–
“N- NO, NO, NO!” You shout as he hurls you into the sky. You flap your arms and legs, begging your powers to work as you ascend past the clouds, further and further until the air gets thin and the world below is square patches of various greens.
“Always gotta do these things the hard way,” Homelander muses, clicking his tongue below.
You continue falling, tears spilling as you plummet faster than you can gather yourself. You see your life flash before your eyes until–
Oh.
You flex your shoulders back and suck in a breath, and suddenly…
“About fucking time!”
He’ll never admit it, but the excitement on your face and the hug you give him makes him so fucking proud of you.
Later that night, he delves into your files. Madelyn’s access codes still work, and he finds your full file with ease. Your record is squeaky clean. No past employment, no education, no family records…
There’s nothing.
And that’s how he knows.
He knows exactly what you meant earlier, and he knows exactly where you came from.
He knows because that’s how his file looks, too.
He knows because he came from there, too.
The next day, when you excel with laser practice, he’s proud, but he’s also resentful. You’re not just his student now; you’re him. You’re a physical reminder of everything he’s gone through.
He hates you for it.
But he hurts for you, too.
It breaks his heart when you pass the medical ward and shuffle closer to him.
He used to do that, but there was never anyone walking with him.
The next time you two are out in that field, he’s much more patient despite how much it grates his nerves to watch you flounder in the air again.
He looks at you and suddenly he’s back there. Remembers when the doctors would correct his mistakes with enough electrical voltage to actually hurt him.
It always made the lights flicker. Made the room smell terrible– all hot and rotten.
He hears Vogelbaum’s voice.
Not good enough, John. Do it again.
He’s angry that you clearly weren’t subjected to the same. How the fuck was that fair?
And yet…
He’s so fucking happy knowing you weren’t.
If nothing else… they clearly didn’t hurt you as much as they hurt him.
This time, when you fall, he catches you.
Just like he wished someone would have done for him.
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.°˖✧ part 2/3: neighbor!doctor!abby / neighbor!producer!reader headcanons .°˖✧
tags: NSFW!!!, sick!reader, mention of nausea and illness, hand on throat, cliffhanger, ellie appears.
i acc hate how this part turned out :( i hope it’s somewhat enjoyable, barely proofread</3 sorry :((((
PART1 — PART2 — NSFWHC — N(SFW)HC
• you successfully forced abby into a temporary truce. sort of. falling sick and losing your voice, motivation and strength left you low on groceries and medication. so you opted to sleep through the nauseating headaches and eat oatmeal for breakfast, lunch and dinner. it was bad bad.
• so bad, in fact, that you sought out abby’s help. sure, she was a seemingly pretentious, stuck up ER nurse with a mean streak and a hatred for anything fun, but she had the medical knowledge you desperately needed to get back on your feet. plus, she definitely had pain relief medication lying around her house.
• this lead to a strange deal to form between abby and you; nurse anderson agreed to get food and medicine and deliver it to you until you got better, in exchange for three weeks of peace and quiet. hesitant, but desperate, you agreed. this was a huge win for abby. all she wanted was you to be quiet, after all.
• on the first day of your deal, you didn’t let abby come inside, claiming that you were quarantining and demanding she leaves the tote bags full of groceries outside. you barely managed to pull them into your home and the heaviness made you break a sweat, causing your fever to worsen. you texted abby that you were feeling worse and she managed to convice you to come over tomorrow after work for a check up.
• the day after, a defeated patient greeted abby at the door, avoiding her questioning gaze. she sighed and entered your home with a smaller bag filled with medicine and her briefcase with equipment that her dad gifted her. abby was a keeping her side of the deal to a t, she was determined to get on your good side, hoping you’d tune your partying and constant noisiness down for good.
• upon entering your home, the blonde was stunned. bookshelves, a grand piano, papers everywhere, even a chess board. you were smarter than she gave you credit for. the woman let you lead her to your bedroom where the air was thicker and the blinds were pulled down, hiding a bed full of tissues and forgotten mugs in the dark. fuck, her condition might be worse than i thought, abby thought to herself as she stared at your messy floral sheets, or she’s lazy, which might be even worse.
• abby checked you with the care of someone who has been in the medical field for decades, taking her time with you. your temperature was high and you were shivering, claiming to be cold while burning up. abby telling you to pull your shirt up wasn’t helping your trembling state either.
“take me on a date first, w-why dontcha?”
“sorry, y/n. i don’t date neighborhood brats.”
• you pout, too tired to argue, jumping when you feel the freezing stethoscope abby placed against your bare back.
“ow, ow, ow- abby what the hell?! s’cold!”
“god, you’re such a crybaby! here-“
• abby pulled away and warmed the metal with her hot breath, rolling her eyes as she did. your pitiful appearance was only surface level, a cruel reminder to abby that you weren’t a doe-eyed, helpless girl next door she got to take care of and feed soup, much to her disappointment. her cute little face is hiding a literal devil, abby muses, listening to your irregular heartbeat.
• what abby wasn’t aware of however, was how often she thought of you as cute. it was always- “that cute brat”, “…kind of endearing if she wasn’t so annoying” or even “a handful”, complaining to manny on the phone with her darkened eyes glued to your ass, watching as you rushed past her home to catch a train. abby was getting lost in thought, her brain full of aforementioned handfulls and soft plump skin and maybe even her landing a rough spank on- fuck. no. that was wrong.
• … right?
• you, on the other hand, were wide eyed and choking on words. abby placed her warm hand on the small of your back, forcing you to straighten up. she was moving the chest piece around, occasionally telling you to breathe deeper, in a voice that your hazy mind registered as surprisingly hot.
• what really made your heartbeat skip, was her thumb rubbing your back, tracing the elastic waistband of your pajama pants and then slipping underneath to explore the hidden skin. was abby aware she was doing this?! why weren’t you saying anything?!
• … why did it feel so good?
• abby pulled your shirt down, packing away her equipment as she started to speak, offering you a final diagnosis (“you’re so dramatic, it’s just a cold”). the blonde was peeking at your shaking form from the corner of her eye, watching you pick up your tissues and mugs, trembling with barely open eyes. it may be just a cold, but you were obviously drained.
“… ugh. lay down, okay? i’ll take these downstairs.”
• abby rolled her eyes and took over cleaning up your cups. she ignored your protests as she walked downstairs to your kitchen to rinse your dirty dishes in the sink and get your dishwasher started. when she looked up, she saw a few photos on the cupboard above the sink, memories of you and your friends.
• on the one in the middle, you were hugging two girls, playfully kissing one on the cheek, caught mid laugh. her gaze softens. you were a good friend. but a horrible neighbor. for a second, abby lets herself get lost in her head, her eyes staring at the polaroids, unblinking.
• the next few days went by quickly with daily visits from abby. you started to get better, taking it easy and trying to cough quietly as to not bother your neighbor. abby was tired; december was coming up and she was unsure of her plans for the holidays. work was becoming more stressful and the ER was full of people- well, more than usual.
• abby stopped visiting as frequently when she noticed you were getting better, instead sending you wave and tell you off for not cleaning snow off your doorway or wearing a jacket she deemed to be too thin.
• until she stopped acknowledging you altogether. abby was purposefully ignoring you and you just couldn’t find out why. you were used to her eyes following you around, guarding you in some way, like some weird nurse-angel. why was she slowly becoming a ghost you could barely catch a glimpse of? had you done something wrong?
• instead of simply confronting abby, you chose to ignore her back, sending cold looks towards her whenever you crossed paths on the sidewalk. abby, on the other hand, would blush, thinking about how she saw you in only your tiny maroon panties a week ago, naked and on display in your window. since then, she couldn’t look at you, scared that you’d somehow find out that you were the reason she’s been moaning at night the past few days. seeing you on the street would make abby shut eyes shut tightly, fighting her mind as it conjured the image of your pussy and your hard nipples hidden by lacy curtains on a cold december night.
• one thing lead to another, and both of you ended up alone on christmas eve. abby swore she was just going to check on you, see if you were alright. the sight of you with puffy eyes and pouty lips, wrapped in a festive blanket made abby feel fuzzy. before she knew it, she invited you over.
• emotions running high and a somewhat romantic candlelit dinner resulted in you falling into abigail anderson’s bed. she fucked you until morning came, overstimulating you into oblivion and not letting you go until she was satisfied. and after that, she made you hot cocoa.
• despite pretending to be nonchalant, you were a goner. abby had wrapped her hand around your neck and reached down your throat to squeeze your heart. you wanted abby to be yours so bad.
• abby, however, was still hesitant to commit to you. you were the best sex she’s ever had in her life, your hot mouth and tight cunt left her aching for days after, running home to you every night after work, but did she like-like you? what if you didn’t like her back? abby was used to being non-committal, so why was she so enamored with the idea of sharing her life with you?
• this inner turmoil didn’t stop abby from eating you out on your counter top, fingerfucking you while taking a bath together, letting you grind against her thigh in her bedroom.
• god, why was everything so intimate all of a sudden? abby ground you harshly on her chiseled leg, moving your hips with force and pulling a nipple, anything just to hear you whine. with your forehead pressed against hers, you whispered “please, abby. need you-“ and she was gone. her pace quickened as she moaned “good girl, goooood girl…” over and over again. you truly were the best girl ever, abby thought, as you rode out your high on her, now wet, leg.
• sex this heavenly landed abby in your house on new years eve, attending one of your infamous (and unexpectedly fun) parties. she met your friends, dina and jesse. and… ellie. she recognized the two women- they were on one of the polaroids in your kitchen, ellie was the girl who’s cheek you were kissing.
• ellie was too close to you for abby’s liking, touching your back and brushing a finger against your lips after you took a shot of tequila. why was she telling you to “take it easy, babe”, why was she calling you babe? abby felt her blood boil as she rolled her eyes at the overly flirty tone ellie used, taking a sip of her favorite wine you made sure to get just for her.
• just when abby thought that it couldn’t get worse, ellie tried to make a move on you.
“so, y/n. any-uh, plans on who you’ll kiss tonight?”
#abby anderson#abby anderson x reader#tlou#wlw#abby anderson x y/n#abby anderson x you#abby the last of us#tlou x reader#abby tlou#abby anderson headcanons#abby anderson x female reader#abigail anderson
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TFA TEAM PRIME HUMAN REDESIGNS FINALLY
FUCK
+headcannons
Optimus: gotta stay focused
looks too old compared to his bot form.
I find it impossible for Optimus to be more than a million years old in this canon. In the least, he's older than 1000 years and since we have mfs that are canonically over 70 million years old(fagatron iykyk) compared to that, he feels like a dude in his early-to-mid-30's being the group parent.
---
-I made him more youthful, gave him curly hair, and tailored his clothing to actually look like his bot form.
-workaholic
-on the cusp of barley being able to hold his liquor
-doesn't own a pair of pajamas until Sari gets some for him
-usually forgets to put them on, but appreciates the gesture
-stays active for like, 3 days until he can't fight off sleep with work brain anymore, and unceremoniously passes out on the couch to sleep for a full 24 hours
-ratchet sighs and puts a blanket over him as per routine
-frequently checks security feed
-elf on the shelf despiser
-early morning talks with jazz and ratchet over coffee (they all wake up at 6 am)
-half thrives on caffeine and a vigorous training protocol
-is a dog person, loves German shepherds to death
David sama, pls forgive me ily very much
Ratchet: to old for this nonsense
doesn't match his body type in the slightest.
Ratchet is really old, he's got a sallow face and a gramp gut, how dare they square him. He's wayyy too angular and peachy looking.
-I gave him his luscious curves back, adding all the equipment id expect a field medic to have because he is a field medic, not a regular doctor. I changed his facial proportions, and also made his face gaunt, for that dead inside PTSD look.
---
-drinks his coffee black with brown sugar, literally drinks it piping hot
-is one of those old people who complains about noise
-confiscates bumblebee and Sari's toy cars, and puts them in a high up cabinet
-neither of them know how to bypass the child safety lock lmao
-casual clothes includes a lot- a l o t of plaid shirts, and 10 pairs of the same blue jeans
-tunes out bulkhead and prowls convos about birdwatching
-big fan of political satire dramas
-Sentinel doesn't approve
-Ratchet doesn't give a rats ass about what he thinks of course
Bumblebee: professional smart-ass
doesn't match his body type/age.
Bumblebees holoform is presented as a 10-12 year old child specifically for the fact that he's short, and the comedic relief. Total ass
I set his human age as 19-20 years old, making him more of a big brother to sari because that og model is disappointingly lackluster
---
-Bumblebee is a scrappy wisecracking punk, like an adhd kid who just got roller skates for Christmas.
-since he doesn't have wheels, I feel like he'd wear skates instead to emulate the feeling
-terrible at watching where he's going cuz he's too busy trying to show off, so ratchet makes him wear all that padding + training wheels
-legit despises the padding and training wheels
-Jealous of Blurr for mastering roller blades lmao.
-his favorite games are choose your fighter and fps
-saw ONE ancient ass assassins creed playthrough and begged ratchet to install hidden tasers in his arm bands (was denied)
-Sari used her key to do it instead
-self appointed "rizzler"
-Optimus has zero idea of what that means and thinks it's code for something dubious
-Ratchet knows what it means and thinks it's silly
-"I' was something of a rizzler myself back in my day, kid"
-bumblebee cringes
-loves summer and swimming
-wants to be the fastest thing in the sea because y'know, it's bumblebee
-is spooked from the beach for awhile cuz he saw sharks in Prowls nature documentary
-there are infact, no sharks in lake Erie
Bulkhead: big guy, bigger heart
doesn't match his body type/aspirations.
Jesus fuck he's so wide?? And his belly migrated to his shoulders?? I'm gonna be honest, I really hate this design. I feel like it contributed to the "brute strength = stupid" take that most in the fandom associates with him.
---
-Bulkhead is a SWEET. CARING. NERD YOU FOOLS. He's like the male version of a tall goth gf-
-a tall-nerdy-farm hand-physics bf, You got me fucked up.
-Its already shown that bulkhead really likes art in Addition to creating it. He hates being only seen as the "muscle" so it wouldn't make sense for him to lean into that.
-bunny slippers that him and sari made together(she provided the buttons)
-the slippers go missing sometimes (basically considered community property unless he's wearing them)
(ratchet and prowl are the main offenders)
-frequent art museum goer
-really likes watching cooking shows, but is too shy to make food himself
-Owns a ton of star maps
-Really wants a treehouse that he, bumblebee and sari can hang out in
-pillowfort enjoyer
-casually reads quantum physics at the beach
Prowl: draft dodger
Doesn't look like him at all.
Prowls holoform being a mustachioed,white, police officer was an actual jumpscare for 7 y/o me, I kid you not
---
- I know this bitch would not wear a helmet (you can't force him to) que windswept hair
-Not as much as starscreams, for obvious reasons but yk
-prowl is like one of those "shoes are a prison for your feet"
-emo hipster
-has a pet cactus named "planty"
-bumblebee heckles him for it
-can and has brought his cactus with him on early evening motorcycle rides
-the helmet is reserved for his cactus, bring your own >:(
-salad consumer
-him and jazz share custody of the cactus
-repeat victim of the cat distribution system
-ratchet has probably spent hours telling him they can't keep any animals at base
-frequent midnight picnics with jazz
-and beachcombing
-and roaming around antique stores cuz jazz wants to know what vinyl records are
-got a mug with an attempted pink chibi cat with big round shiny eyes painted onto it, courtesy of bulkhead trying to find an artsyle
-cherishes this mug to death
-has a shrine dedicated to it
#tfa#decepticons#autobots#tfa headcanons#tfa optimus prime#tfa bulkhead#tfa bumblebee#tfa ratchet#tfa prowl#AUUUUUUGH#im gonna have a pole#optimus prime#bumblebee#bulkhead#prowl#ratchet#tfa sari#sari sumdac#sari mention
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serious question but do you personally believe there is a way to approach psychiatry in a way that uplifts and upholds patient autonomy and wellness or is the entire trade essentially fucked haha. Btw this is an ask coming from a 3rd year med student—with a background of severe mental illness—who is considering a residency in psychiatry after receiving life-saving care in high school pertaining to said conditions. (I have peers who have been involuntarily hospitalized and treated horribly in psych wards, with approaches i patently disagree with, but was lucky not to experience. I don’t like modern american medicine’s approach to mental illness; “throw pills” at it to “make it go away” ie. a problem of overprescribing, inadequate and non-holistic approach to mental health, and i feel a lot of that can be attributed to the capitalistic framework. I also def agree with you that so much of what can be considered normal human responses to traumatic events/normal human suffering can be unnecessarily pathologized—a great example being the whole “chemical imbalances in the brain is the ONLY reason why im like this” argument that ive unfortunately fallen hard for when i was younger and am still currently dismantling within myself…and like dont even get me started on this field’s history of demonizing POC, women, LGBT, etc). Like i deeply love my psych rotations so far, and i utterly feel in my gut that this is the manner in which i would like to help people—a lot of whom are just like me—but im wondering if there is a way to reconcile these aspects in a way that one can feel morally okay participating within such an imperfect system, in ur opinion… ngghhhhhh i just want to be a good doctor to my patients…
(ps i love all ur writing and analysis on succession!! big fan mwah <333)
i don't mean to sound unduly pissy at you, specifically, but i do have to say: every single time i've talked about antipsych or broader criticism of medicine on this website, i immediately get a wave of responses like this, from doctors/nurses/psychs/students of the above, asking me to, like, reassure them that they're not doing something immoral or un-communist or whatever by having or pursuing these jobs. and it's honestly frustrating. why is it that these conversations get re-framed around this particular line of inquiry and medical ego-soothing? why is it that when i say "the medical encounter is not structured to protect patient autonomy or well-being," so many people hear something more along the lines of "doctors are mean and i wish they were nicer"? why is it that it's impossible to discuss the philosophical and structural violence of academic and clinical medicine without it becoming a referendum on the individual morality of doctors?
i'm choosing to read you in good faith because i think it's possible to re-re-frame this line of questioning to demonstrate to you the sorts of critiques and inquiries i find more interesting and more conducive to patient autonomy and liberation. so, let me pick apart a few lines of this ask.
"is the entire trade essentially fucked?"
if you're thinking of trying to 'reform' the project of medical psychology within existing infrastructures and institutions, then yeah, it's fucked. if you're still assuming that affective distress can only be 'treated' within this medical apparatus (despite, again, no psychiatric dx satisfying any pathologist's understanding of a 'disease' ie an aberration from 'normal' physiological functioning) then you're not challenging the things that actually make psychiatry violent. you're simply fantasising about making the violence nicer.
"I don’t like modern american medicine’s approach to mental illness; “throw pills” at it to “make it go away” ie. a problem of overprescribing, inadequate and non-holistic approach to mental health, and i feel a lot of that can be attributed to the capitalistic framework."
i hate when i talk about psychotropic drugs being marketed to patients using lies like the chemical imbalance myth, and then pushed on patients—including through outright force—by psychiatrists, and the discussion gets re-framed as one about 'overprescribing'. my problem is not with people taking drugs. i am, in fact, so pro-drugs that i think even the ones administered in a clinical setting sometimes have value. my issue is with, again, the provision of misleading or outright false information, the use of force and coercion to put patients on such drugs in order to force social conformity and employability, and the general model of medicine and medical psychology that assumes patients ought to be passive recipients of medical enlightenment rather than active participants in their own treatment who are given the agency to decide when and how to engage with any form of curative or meliorative intervention.
'holistic' medicine and psychiatry do not solve this problem! they are not a paradigm shift because they continue to locate expertise and epistemological authority with the credentialed physician, and to position patients as too sick, stupid, or helpless to do anything but receive and comply with the medical interventions. there are certainly psychotropic drugs that are demonstrably more harmful than others (antipsychotics, for example), and some that are demonstrably prescribed to patients who do not benefit from them and are even harmed by them. conversely, there are certainly forms of intervention besides pharmaceuticals that people may find helpful. but my general critique here is aimed less at haggling over specific methods of intervention, and more at the ideological and philosophical tenets of medicine that cause any interventions to be imposed by force or coercion on patients, then framed as being 'for their own good'. were suffering people given the information and autonomy to actually choose whether and how to engage in any kind of intervention, some might still choose drugs! my position here is not one of moralising drugs, but making the act of taking them one that is freely chosen and available as an option without relying on physician determination of a patient's interests over their own assessment of their needs and wants.
"so much of what can be considered normal human responses to traumatic events/normal human suffering can be unnecessarily pathologized"
true, but don't misunderstand me as saying that drugs or any other form of intervention should be forcibly withheld from those who do want them and are made fully aware of what risks and harms seeking them could entail. again, this would still be an authoritarian model; my critique is aimed at increasing patient autonomy, not at creating equally authoritarian and empowered doctors who just have slightly different treatment philosophies.
"dont even get me started on this field’s history of demonizing POC, women, LGBT, etc"
ok, framing this as "demonisation" tells me that you're not understanding that, again, this is a systemic and structural critique. it is certainly true that a great many doctors currently are, and have historically have been, outright racist, trans/misogynist, ableist, and so on. framing this as a problem of a well-intentioned discipline being corrupted by some assholes is getting it backwards. medicine attracts prejudiced people, not to mention strengthens and promotes these prejudices in its entire training and practice infrastructures, because of its underlying philosophical orientation toward enforcing 'normality' as defined by 18th-century statistics and 19th-century human sciences that explicitly place white, cis, able-bodied european men as the normal ideal that everyone else is inferior to or failing to live up to. doctors who really nicely tell you that you're too fat are still using bmi charts that come from the statistical anthropometry of adolphe quételet and the flawed actuarial calculations of metlife insurance. doctors who really nicely deny you access to transition surgery are still operating under a paradigm that gives the practitioner authority over expressions and embodiments of gender. the issue isn't 'demonisation', it's that medicine and psychiatry explicitly attempt to render judgments about who and what is 'normal' and therefore socially 'healthy', and enforce those standards on patients. this is not a promotion of patient well-being, but of social conformity.
"i deeply love my psych rotations so far, and i utterly feel in my gut that this is the manner in which i would like to help people"
let me ask you a few questions. you say that you like your psych rotations... but how do your patients feel about them? is their autonomy protected? are they in treatment by free choice, and free to leave any time they wish? are they treated as human beings with full self-determination? if you witnessed a situation in which a patient was coerced or forced into a certain treatment, or in which you were not sure whether they were consenting with full knowledge or freedom, would you feel empowered to intervene? or would doing so threaten your career by exposing you to anger and retaliation from your higher-ups? what higher-ups will you be exposed to as a resident, and then as a practicing physician? could you practice in a way that committed fully, 100%, to patient autonomy if you were working at someone else's practice, or in a hospital or clinic? could you, according to current medical guidelines, even if you had your own practice?
when you say "this is the manner in which i would like to help people", what do you mean by "this"? can you define your philosophy of treatment, and the relationship and power dynamic you want to have with any future patients? is it one in which you hold authority over them and see yourself as determining what's in their 'best interests', even over their own expressed wishes? have you connected with patient advocates, psych survivors (other than your friends), and radical psychiatrists and anti-psychiatrists who may espouse heterodox treatment philosophies that you could consider? do you think such philosophies are sufficient for protecting patient autonomy and well-being, or are they still models that position the physician's judgment and authority over that of the patient?
"im wondering if there is a way to reconcile these aspects in a way that one can feel morally okay participating within such an imperfect system"
and here is the crux of the problem with this entire ask. you are wondering how to sleep at night, if you are participating in a career you find morally distasteful. where, though, do your patients enter into that equation? do you worry about how they sleep at night, after having interacted with a system of social violence that may very well have traumatised them under the guise of providing help? why does your own guilty conscience worry you more than violations of your patients' bodies, minds, and basic self-determination?
i can't tell you whether your career path is morally acceptable to you. i don't think this type of guilt or self-flagellation is fruitful and i don't think it helps protect patients. i don't, frankly, have a handy roadmap sitting around for creating a new system of medicine and health care that rests on patient autonomy. affective distress is real, and is not something we should have to bear alone or with the risk of having violence inflicted upon us. what you need to ask yourself is: how does the medical model and establishment serve people experiencing such distress? how does it perpetuate violence against them? and how do you see yourself countering, or perpetuating, such violence as someone operating within this discipline? what would it mean to be a 'good' actor within a violent system, if you do indeed believe that such a thing is ontologically possible?
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Undercover V (Soap x GN!Reader)
undercover series masterlist - previous | next
Summary: Your stress is staying at it’s peak for the time being as you come to terms that you’re staying under a secure watch until you’re properly evaluated, under the wise eyes of John “Soap” MacTavish. Chapter five, otherwise known as “babysitting duty”.
A/N: I’m so sorry for taking literally a month for this chapter. I’m so glad you guys are still loving this series. This a bit of a humorous filler, so I apologize. Next chapter will have more story!! <3
[WARNINGS: Mentions of genocide and human trafficking, inaccurate medical stuff.]
“Truth has many shades; it is not a matter of black and white, but grey.” -Morgan Freeman.
AFTER MY WHOLE failed evaluation, they allowed me to rest again, which I’m half thankful for, half not. I got a few hours of sleep in, but not enough to feel good about. The ache of sitting in a bed for a couple days is finally beginning to kick in so much so that I can’t sleep. I woke up really early in the morning, around 3 AM. I wasn’t surprised to see the lights in my room to be off, but I was surprised to vaguely see a figure in my room which at first freaked me the fuck out, but I quickly realized was Soap. I can’t make his features out enough to see if he’s awake or not, but I don’t care.
I need to get out of this damn bed.
I move my handcuffed hand a bit to grasp onto the hospital bed railing and I begin to slowly pull myself from my bed, hissing as new aches bloom across my healing wounds. Especially my damn stomach area, fuck. I ignore the pain blooming underneath my skin and I manage to get myself into a sitting position, and I can already feel some relief hitting me once I’m not laying back against a surface. I slowly curl one of my legs up, a soft noise leaving my lips as I feel my muscles in my leg thank me for bending my leg. I hear Soap stir, but I don’t pay him any mind. He makes a “hmm?” sound as I take a slow deep breath, allowing the aches in my wounds to subside.
“What’re you doin’?” Soap grumbles out, voice thick and heavy with sleep, making him a bit hard to understand when combined with his accent. He inhales loudly as he stretches and I glance at my handcuffs. “Sitting up.” I reply curtly. Can he not fucking see??
..I forgot it’s dark in here. Anyway..
“Ya need to lay back down and rest—“ I groan. “All I’ve been doing is laying down! My back fuckin’ hurts, man! I’m tired of sitting here like a wet noodle.” Soap gets up from his seat and walks closer to me—which isn’t that far of a distance, honestly, since Soap’s chair is considerably close to my bed. I notice his gloves are still on as he puts a hand on my shoulder, which he must’ve chosen the sore shoulder because I since and shy away from his touch. “Ow.”
Soap quickly retracts his hand, wincing himself in sympathy. “Look, it’s late, aye? Why don’t ya lay down fer now, have tha’ doctors help you in the mornin’?” His eyes glance up at the clock up on the wall, squinting his eyes to look as it’s dark in here. I groan and bite my lip, silently licking and choosing my battles. He is right, it’s much better for me to wait until the doctors or nurses come and help me. I sigh and make a motion with my free hand. “Alright.”
I manage to get myself laid back onto the bed, and I keep looking at my handcuffs. I move my cuffed hand around as I look at Mohawk, gesturing to my cuffed wrist now. “Okay, tell me how truly necessary this is. It’s getting a bit tiring.” My tone is a bit.. curt, and I don’t mean it, but I’m getting antsy in this room and I fucking hate just laying here. I’m uses to being out on the field, so sitting in one place doesn’t do me much good. Soap snorts as he sits himself back in his chair and without looking, grabs his sketchbook notebook thing from where he stuffed it between my mattress and the frame of the hospital type bed. “I dinnae ken how i can say this in a nicer way but, you’re.. considered a risk of some sort by the dafties overseein’ ya.”
I blink at him for a moment and he has a sheepish look on his face, his free hand coming up behind his head and scratching it. I pretend that I know one hundred of what he said—look, sometimes Scottish accents are hard to understand. “You’re one of the ‘dafties’ overseeing me.”
“You know what I mean!” Soap grumbles. I pause for a moment and keep my eyes on him, my fingers absentmindedly drawing patterns into the fabric of my blanket. “Do you think I’m a risk, Soap?”
Soap takes a moment to look back at me, and I mean really look back at me. His eyes pierce through mine again, taking in every detail of my face—and that causes me to look away again, because it makes me feel weird. “I mean.. Maybe. If I had ta’make the final decision, I’d let ya roam, but with someone to watch over ya.” His voice is serious as he seemingly tells me the truth about what he thinks. In a way, I find comfort in his words but I also.. don’t.
It hurts to know that they consider me so unstable.
“You should go back ta’sleep.”
I don’t answer and I look down at my fingers as my index finger scratches at the corner of my thumbnail. It feels like my damn nerves are on fire. “Can’t.” I mutter, and I curse myself when my voice is barely audible. Soap seems to catch what I said, though, because his eyebrow raises in an questioning manner. “Ya haven’t even tried,” He retorts, nearly snorting. Soap wipes his eyes as I huff—he’s right, I haven’t, but I know I won’t be able to. I look over at the clock on the wall, as if I could will time to go by faster. I let out a quiet noise as I shift myself a bit, a subtle painful ache settling back into my jaw and my abdomen. Oh yeah—I’m injured. It’s not like I forgot but, I’ve been so pumped of drugs this entire time, so I haven’t felt much since waking up the first time in this bed. I try to cross my arms, but my damn hand is still handcuffed!
Oh, god fucking dammit, I wanna get out of this bed!
“Stop actin’ like a wee bairn.” Soap snorts as he glances over at me again, then back down at his sketchbook notebook thing. I should probably ask what it is. “I don’t even know what the fuck that means.” I hiss with as much venom as I can muster, which isn’t much because I’m… cuffed to a bed. God. I hate this.
“Oh, lemme translate for ya.. Stop actin’ like a baby. Better?” He questions, pencil in hand. “Sure.” I mutter. I eye the pencil. “What is that?” I ask, pointing over to his general direction. “What is what?” Soap murmurs before holding up the notebook sketchbook thing. “This? It’s a sketchbook.” Ah, okay. I don’t have to call it that super long name now. Sketchbook, it is. I nod quietly as I glance around the room, trying to find something to focus on. It’s not like they could give me my phone. I wouldn’t be surprised if Makarov took it, destroyed it maybe.
….
Makarov.
I feel my heart suddenly drop into my gut and dig deep to stay there. Makarov.. He’s one hell of a man, that’s for sure. Can I even call him a man? He’s not a human being by my standards, anyway. The things I’ve seen him do, the things I’ve seen him order others to do—me to do.. He’s the worlds single largest threat and he’s in the wind. My fingers grasp at my blanket. He is not loyal to any country, he’s not loyal to any creed—he slaughters for his own gain, he doesn’t flinch at anything. Not human trafficking, genocide, fucking hell, what am I saying?? He’s the one doing the genocide! Just the simple thought of him makes my hair stand up and I hate that. I’m going to have to expose myself to these people, what I did to seem loyal—no, I’m not going to excuse it. Yeah, sure, I did it under the guise of loyalty, but I hurt a lot of fucking people. Any regular civilian would call for my death, but what they don’t understand is that when you’re fighting a war and trying to prevent a bigger one, one that will end in M.A.D? You do what you have to do. You turn your brain off, you pull the trigger.
I don’t know what to think anymore.
Something nudges my leg which snaps me out of my daze—it’s Soap’s boot. He puts his foot back on the ground when he has my attention. His eyebrow is slightly pulled in, the outer edge of his lip is pulled tight for a moment. “Get out of yer head there, mm? Look, let’s play a little game, shall we?”
I groan and I look up at the ceiling. “I feel like I’m being babysat when you say that.” Soap grins. “Ya are. Anyway—give me a, uh.. give me a thing to draw.” I blink at his words and I decide to not point out what he just said. I grumble and shrug. “I don’t know,” I began, glancing around the room at the different medical posters plastered on the walls—one of them on a program offered to help others to quit smoking. Bet that hasn’t helped too many. “A dog.”
Soap shakes his head as I began to say those words. “No, pick somethin’ else.” I raise an eyebrow at how quick he denied my request. “No, I want you to draw a dog.” I challenge, watching the way he twirls the pencil between his fingers. “Choose somethin’ else, I’m not drawin’ a dog.” My heart monitor begins to beep faster and Soap puts his hands up defensively. “Steamin’ Jesus, gettin’ worked up over the drawing? I’ll draw ya a cat instead, calm ya tits.”
I try to cover my snort of amusement because that wasn’t even on purpose. Soap is hunched over his sketchbook and I watch his pencil wisp across the paper, and I notice an indent on Soap’s cheek, almost like he bites the inside of it or sucks on the inside as he focuses. Huh. Makes me wonder if he does that on missions, too. I turn my head again and read the clock—it’s 3:30ish, maybe 3:40 AM. I only glanced at it before looking back at Soap.
I think I’ll actually break these handcuffs and end my life by breaking off pieces of the drywall and consuming it if this is how the next few hours will be spent.
“Y’know, my L.T. told me a joke concernin’ a dog.”
L.T.? Lieutenant, I’m assuming. I don’t say anything, but I look at him. Soap looks up from his sketchbook with a grin on his face again. “Wha’has two legs and bleeds?”
“A dog,” I respond.
“Half a dog.” He corrects me.
I blink at him slowly before trying to subdue the smile appearing on my face. I’m smiling because it’s stupid. “That’s dumb.” Soap inhales through his teeth as his pencil strokes across the paper. “Oooh, don’t let my L.T. hear that, yeah? The man loves his jokes.” My eyes watch his hand holding the pencil as I speak. “So,” I begin. “Your team is.. who exactly, again? You, Price, who else?” Soap hums. “Well, there’s me—I’m a sergeant. There’s Gaz, who’s also a sergeant. You’ve met Price, he’s my cap’n, and then there’s ‘The Ghost’.” He chuckles, glancing at me for a moment. “He’s my L.T.”
“‘The Ghost’?” I question, raising an eyebrow. Sounds like a name a middle schooler puts down for their kahoot game. Soap looks back at his sketchbook. “Well, it’s just Ghost. That’s just what he goes by.”
Edgy, damn…
“Hm. That’s the 141, then?” I bite back saying something about how they waterboarded me, because I know deep down that won’t help anyone. I’m trying to not think about all the damn torture I’ve endured this year because I find it quite annoying when my chest tightens so harshly—to the point where I can’t fucking breathe. Damn panic attacks.
Soap clears his throat and grins, erasing something before swiping the eraser shavings to the side. “All done. Wanna see?” He looks at me expectantly and I motion for him to show me. Soap turns his sketchbook towards me and he’s sketched out a messy, yet well put together drawing of a cat. He drew it in just a few minutes so it isn’t the most detailed, but it’s quite amazing for the time span he drew it in. “Oh, damn,” I say in quiet awe. “I thought you were just going to.. draw a little fella, I dunno.” I wince as my jaw pulses sharp pain through my nerves and my hand instinctively shoot’s up to cup my jaw. Soap’s sharp gaze lingers where my hand is for a moment before he shuts his sketchbook and stuffs it back between the mattress and the hospital bed frame. He grunts as he stands up and leans over me, his finger pressing the red call button on the remote near my pillow. He probably noticed my pain. “Thanks,” I mumble, my hand remaining on my cheek. My eyes flutter shut as the pain begins to intensify, so much so that I don’t notice another presence beside me until they utter my name. I eyes shoot open quickly, my body tense, but I quickly relax when I see it’s a nurse. “The Sergeant here told me you’re feeling some pain. Do you mind rating it on a scale of one to ten?” The nurse murmurs. The nurse is a man with long brown hair that’s tied up neatly into a bun. He has a darker colored beard with red hairs around his mustache and lower lip, dawning square-ish glasses.
“It’s at a four right now,” I respond, glancing at my IV lines before looking at the nurse’s gloves. “It’s climbing, though.”
The nurse hums and writes down my symptoms on a sticky note. “I’m going to go get you a small dose of a narcotic for you, alright? Usually I would give you some tylenol, but you’ve had some extensive medical care.”
I blink. Oh wow. A narcotic?
Soap grins and pokes me with the eraser of his pencil. “Looks like I’ll be babysittin’ ya fer a while more, yeah?”
Fuck.
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#call of duty#call of duty mwii#cod mw2#mw2022#mw2 2022#cod#modern warfare ii#undercover⛈️🗯️#soap x reader#soap x gn!reader#soap x gn reader#john mactavish x you#john mactavish x gn!reader#john soap mactavish x reader#john soap mactavish x gn!reader#cod soap#soap cod#soap mctavish#soap mactavish#john soap mactavish#john soap mctavish x reader#john soap mactavish x you#john soap mctavish x you#john soap mctavish#modern warfare 2#modern warfare soap#cod mw soap#cod mwii#mw2 x reader#call of duty mw2
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Why is everything medical so expensive (aside from the fact they want us dead) like $1.5k to get my lungs tested, $880 for fucking blood work and my endo surgery??? My endo surgery to remove pieces of uterine tissue throughout my abdomen and off of my organs??
People say I’m lucky for being on Medicaid and receiving the bare minimum of SSI aid (I couldn’t live on it at all, I cannot save because of bills) and I am so privileged to even have these services. I am SO thankful that I can get help for free, but I am not receiving adequate care; my body is trying to, quite literally, kill me again.
I am so fucking blessed to have no medical expenses, it is something I will forever be grateful for because I’m probably never going to get off of it. I’ve been on Medicaid since I was 3 when they declared me “legally” disabled (yes, really).
Also the government is so horrible with disabled people. The only reason I have this is because my mom fought for me as a kid so hard just so I could be okay. I appreciate her always and I can’t express it enough, the level of gratitude I have for this.
I would die without having Medicaid, but I cannot get certain aids, I cannot have access to doctors unless they approve it, I cannot have any medication they don’t approve, any braces medicaid pays for fall apart and lose their stability because it stretches too much. I cannot go to doctors outside of my main hospital without a referral and approval. I cannot afford to be sick, that is the biggest problem.
Free healthcare seems like a dream, but it is not. Yes you get coverage, in exchange for only being able to have $2k at any time for any reason, not being able to marry your partner, you cannot choose a doctor on your own or where you need to get treated, you don’t have access to eye or ear care, you cannot get into a dentist because there are such few places that accept it and it is full because everyone is fucking poor which means the waiting lists are so long that by the time you’re able to see a doctor, they send you to a new one since your symptoms got worse and out of their field. There is a reason I’m on Medicaid, and it’s not because I have thousands of dollars in my bank account.
Although it is absolutely a privilege, without financial aid I would die. And I fucking hate that this is a reality for so many people. It makes my blood boil knowing we have enough resources to take better care of people, but the government literally refuses to do anything unless they think you’re bad enough. And when you are bad enough to their standards, it’s a whole other type of price to pay.
Tl;dr: people deserve low cost or free healthcare and it is incomprehensible to me how the American health system can just charge you whatever they want for whatever reason when all you want to do is live
#personal#endometriosis#I’m so thankful for this and I just wish more people had access to it#chronic pain#disabled#chronic illness#cripple punk#arthritis#ehlers danlos syndrome
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What's up with endogenic? How does that work if you don't mind my asking? Why is it a *bad* thing to some people? I understand if that's too much at once, could you point in a direction to learn more? /genuine
So some parts of the plural community think that the only way to be plural/multiple/a sysytem/have headmates is to undergo childhood trauma. This aligns with the current medical model about disordered systems, known as Dissociative Identity Disorder. The current medical model about DID was put into place by ableists and people who don't even think DID exists, in addition to scientists who think it's real.
The current medical model is not even universally accepted as the cause by all doctors, but they're having issues challenging it because the medical field is full of ableism :)
There are two main umbrella terms for plural individuals, traumagenic and endogenic. Traumagenic means your system formed as a result of trauma (be it in childhood or later) and endogenic means your system did not form as a result of trauma (it does not mean you did not experience trauma, just that it's unconnected to your systemhood).
Some traumagenic individuals who support the current medical model deny the existence of systemhood outside the bounds of being formed via childhood trauma. Therefore they think endogenic systems are fakers pretending to have DID. (Most other endos I know do not claim to have DID. I don't claim to have DID.)
This is honestly a newish thing because we have evidence of endogenic systems being active in the plural community for decades.
This is. A bare bones summary that does not go deep into the issues of sysmedicalism. But they are numerous and they do more harm to the plural community than any individual "faker" ever fucking has.
Also how being endo works for me is that I don't have any side effects from switching (common in disordered systems), I can create/delete headmates (idk how common this is for disordered systems but I have met Multiple that could do this, just not with the speed or ease I can), my status as a system is not related to trauma (I used to have DID, underwent final fusion w/o having a choice, and hated being an empty system so much I started creating headmates because being essentially a singlet sucked a lot actually.) Technically this makes me a mixed origin system, but I personally find a lot of comfort in the term endogenic and it Feels Most Correct so I use it.
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edit: i decided this would drive me nuts, but i still want to keep it in case there's something worth salvaging in the future. ignore all of this ^_^
for some reason i'm interested the idea of poke!ren beginning our friendship with that like... unintentional infantilization a lot of people do with disabled people when they're trying not to be actively ableist? not because i enjoy that LMAO ABSOLUTELY NOT -- and my pokesona is prideful as hell and would DESPISE it -- but i think it would make sense.
[cw casual ableism, infantilism of disabled ppl. also, disclaimer: i'm basing some of this loosely on my own health issues so it may not 100% apply to all disabled people. just want to keep that straight LMAO.]
most many doctors are SUPREMELY ableist, but doc!ren went into his field SPECIFICALLY to help disabled people and so focused on how best to treat each individual person according to their personalities and disabilities. sure, poke!ren's also technically both a clinical doc and researcher, but if doc!ren is like 80% clinical 20% research, poke!ren is like 10% clinical 90% research.
so poke!ren... doesn't have that knowledge. he does mostly field work and some lab work, with the rare "what do you think about this specific medical case?" appointment. he's the kind of person who hates the more vocal brands of ableism, but is consistently overbearing with his treatment of disabled people in a way that's inadvertently exhausting to deal with because "what happens if i tell him this is also ableist? will he have a fit? will he get angry or upset? will he decide disabled people are too picky if i'm not the Perfect Disabled Little Meow Meow?" so you just end up suffering through it.
therefore, he goes full "paper skin, glass bones," with me, very, "oh i can get that for you! no don't stand up, i can do that. can i cook something for you? no no no, i mean, i know you COULD, but wouldn't it be /easier/ for me to make it for you? you might hurt yourself!". 🙄
we have an evening outing in another city. it gets dark, we're not at the point where we're comfortable staying at his place together, he offers to maybe help me find a hotel, and i say "nope i've got this!" and fly away home on a Fucking Lugia.
and then he has to sit with that and realize some things.
like the fact that he has no idea who the fuck i am beyond surface level. after all, i've been carrying a legendary bird around in my back pocket and he didn't know until now, months after we first met.
like the fact that i can take care of SOME things by myself with the right "tools" or pkmn. i SOMETIMES need help, but i don't ALWAYS need help, and if i DO need help i have the option to tell him myself.
like the fact that he simply saw me as Disabled. as though i didn't have a life before or outside of Disability. i was simply the pitiable, lonely, disabled vn nerd he talks about games with.
and then he has to relearn Me from square one, and it makes our relationship so much stronger. we're able to work on our perfect balance together and build the trust that HE won't take things over for ME when I'M capable of something, and that I will let HIM know when i need HIM to do something I can't do. he has to trust that i'll let him be more doting on the days when i'm having flare-ups, but simultaneously has to respect when there are things i still want to do myself even on those worst days.
.........idk. this is a lot of words to say "god i want to be taken care of, but in a way where the other person sees me as an adult with a personality and decision-making ability and a life that's deeply AFFECTED by disability in many ways but isn't JUST disability." yk?
tbch, after writing it all out, this maaaay end up as canon..... OR it might remain a theoretical offshoot depending on how comfy i am when the Mental Movies (tm) of us finding that trust come together. poke!ren's supposed to be like. PURE escapism, so something like this honestly might hit too close to home to feel good fdhfghfg. like at least he'd end up learning that balance, which is nice... but everything leading up to it? 😬 Maybe A Bit Too Painful....
(damn. verbose king over here, wrote all of this TWICE just to say "i might throw it out" lKNMADKJFNKJDNF)
#first made this after a 'well meaning' purchase of an unsafe food brand by family the other day but it was more vitriolic kJNSJKDFN#so i forced myself to sit on it instead of vent-posting. and now the tone's MUCH nicer kjdfnkjdfn ;;;;;#📌 [ my posts. ]#✏️ [ my scenarios. ]#✨ [ oc lore. ]#🐸 [ look ahead. ]#🦔 [ used to be easy. ]#ableism -
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i was reading your post abt asab at the doctor and my brain tried to go into solution mode as it is wont to do, but i realized like. there is no solution. at least not one that isn't a complete overhaul of the medical system, including research fields.
i've been on t for a year as of tomorrow, and a few months in i noticed my adhd medication stopped working. it got so bad that when i would take it, i would have to fight to keep myself awake. i couldn't figure out what was going on and my doctor just said 'just keep taking it and maybe it'll level out.' several months later, i still felt like absolute shit when i took it to the point where i felt better when i didn't take it. i asked to up the dose but she said it would be 'too much of a shock to my system.' i eventually just stopped taking it because even though i barely function without it, i didn't function at all with it on that dose. i talked to a friend last week who is also on t and he said 'oh yeah your dose is too low. your metabolism can change on t, so it's likely you need to up your dose.' so like not only was this a situation where if i was a cis man my concerns likely would have been addressed immediately, but it was a failure of my doctor to actually understand how trans bodies on hrt work and what they need. so how exactly would having "afab" on my chart have helped??? bc there is no difference in initial dosage between male and female patients, the starting dose is usually 30mg across the board (my doc had me on 30mg initially then lowered my dose to 20mg after i lost access to it for a month??????), the thing that affected me wasn't my fucking vagina or ovaries, it was a change in my endocrine system!!!
and i feel like this heavy reliance on asab makes doctors lazy. they don't do regular blood tests, they don't test your metabolism, your hormone levels, they just assume based on the f or m what your levels should be, or they see that you're fat so they assume you have high bp, cholesterol, blood sugar, etc. (cannot tell you how many times i've had nurses take my bp numerous times bc they refused to believe it was average, and i still keep getting hounded abt my blood sugar and cholesterol despite the fact that every single test has come up normal.) like i don't think any doctor has ever even bothered giving me blood tests until i started t, they just assumed from the f on my chart and my body size. i remember getting put on metformin when i was young with no blood tests simply because i was fat, and i still have kidney issues because of it.
anyway sorry for ranting in your inbox, that was kind of all over the place, but your post just really struck a chord and reminded me how much i hate the medical system.
YEAH EXACTLY. I'm so sorry, it's just like... ARGH.
Like especially the weight problems and like... Doctors desperately want to go based off of people's ASAB and what their weight is and not what's normal for them! Same for racial assumptions, especially assumptions doctors will make about Black people and anyone who's dark-skinned and/or has natural hair.
Plus disability! Addiction! Mental health issues! They'll just make assumptions based off any other aspect of their identity - any excuse to dodge talking to the patient and treating them like they're a human being, or acting like as a doctor they're a human being rather than a god and commander.
Like, all these specific metrics rather than what the actual patient's experiences are, and what they're saying. A lot of medical professionals just think the world will end if they actually talk to and listen to one of their patients, and it's infuriating!
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MaterniTARDIS (10th Doctor x Wife)
Word count: 1,3k
Warning: Strong language, childbirth, mention of blood
A/n: Again with another request, it took me a while, but I really wanted to post something I'm happy with. I hope you like it and the person who requested asked me to name the character that would be the Doctor's wife, so this isn't part of the Galaxies of Gallifrey canon. Thank you so much for the request, lots of love 🧡
[Masterlist]
"Love… I think it's time," The Doctor warned, looking down at his wife's huge pregnancy bump.
"What? But I don't feel anything, I'm only having Braxton Hicks," Lydia mumbled.
"I'm getting our baby's telepathic field and it wants out. I'm gonna call Martha," he grabbed the cellphone his former companion had given him when she left so they could stay in contact.
Martha's eyes lit up when she saw the phone ringing with her old number. She picked it up and rolled over on her bed with a big smile.
"Hey! Long time no see!"
"Hey, we have a little situation here," the Doctor said while rubbing Lydia's belly. "My wife is having her baby any time now and we really need someone to help with that."
"Lydia is pregnant? Since when?" Martha gasped.
"Since about 38 weeks ago?"
"Why didn't you call me before?" She jumped from the bed to get her jacket and her first aid kit. "Has she been taking her vitamins? Did she do any tests for gestational diabetes? Any ultrasounds?"
"Of course… actually no… we got caught up with some business in Melissa Majoria. Then we visited 18th Century Venice, but that didn't work very well and now I owe Casanova a chicken. Then we-"
"You're so incredibly irresponsible! Pick me up right now in my room!"
It didn't take long for the familiar whirring of the TARDIS to fill the room and the blue police box to appear in the corner.
"Hey, Martha Jones!" The Doctor grinned and offered his hand to help her inside. "This room almost feels smaller… come on in, she is about ready to pop."
"No, I'm not," Lydia chuckled. "I actually feel… FUCK!"
Her voice cracked and she screamed when the first proper contraction hit. The Doctor had a smug smile, but Martha just rolled her eyes and led Lydia to one of the many rooms in the TARDIS with at least a bed.
"Just keep breathing, I don't have any epidural-" Martha murmured.
"I'LL HAVE TO GIVE BIRTH WITHOUT DRUGS?" Lydia cried. "Doctor, I hate you! I hate you, I hate you! You put this baby in me and you said a birth in the TARDIS would be ideal, I wanna KILL you!"
"Do I look like an amateur? Your husband is an alien," he pulled out a little shot in a metal syringe. "Local anesthesia from the future."
"Forget what I said, I love you," she sighed relieved when he applied the shot.
Martha positioned her in the best way possible and went down to check the cervix. She didn't have a lot of medical equipment to assist with the birth, but what they had would have to do.
The pain Lydia felt was slowly subsiding and she relaxed, focusing on the pressure on her lower stomach, while the Doctor sat by her side stroking her belly and holding her hand.
"You're not very dilated right now, it could take an hour, it could take a day… I'll try to find some tools," Martha went to the door. "Call me if anything changes."
When they were alone, the Doctor sat next to Lydia and wrapped one arm tightly around her shoulders while his other hand rested on her bump. He had a big goofy smile on his face, he couldn't wait to meet their little one.
"You look so incredibly beautiful right now," he kissed her cheek. "I love you so much, you're like a goddess to me. You can make a person in your belly, you beauty! You're so gorgeous!"
"Stop that, I'm all disheveled and covered in amniotic fluid," Lydia chuckled.
"And you've never been more beautiful. I'll miss this sexy belly of yours, I love your belly so much, but I'm glad it's not disappearing right away when the baby is born. I can rub it a while longer."
"You're weird," she snorted, but felt warm and fuzzy inside with each compliment.
"I know… I missed being a dad, you know? It's been so long."
"I'm sure wherever and whenever your children are right now, they are very proud of their father."
"For someone who believes in heaven that's very comforting… I'll choose to believe that today."
"Do you think I'm gonna be a good mother?" Lydia asked, a little insecure.
"You're gonna be brilliant! Besides, I'll be here to help, I speak baby, I can understand anything they need.
"Do you really speak baby? I always thought you were taking the piss…"
"No, I actually do. It's all about perception, anyone can do it. After being a father to so many kids, I learned a thing or two."
"Yeah? What else do you know?"
The Doctor sighed and leaned, placing his ear on Lydia's belly.
"I know that it won't take long for the baby to be born. It really wants to come out, it won't wait much longer," he moved to look under her dress and stuck a couple fingers in there. "Yeah, definitely not much longer. I can feel their little head… awww they have so much hair!"
"Ew ew, get your hand out of there!" She laughed.
"That's not what you said last night…" The Doctor teased.
"And don't be silly you can't feel our baby's head like that, it's impossible."
"Is it?"
"Yes!" Lydia laughed, no longer sure.
About an hour and a half passed before Martha returned, looking really tired from roaming the hundreds of rooms in the TARDIS in search of makeshift medical equipment.
"How are we doing? Feeling the urge to push?" She asked.
"Yeah, I have for a little while, but I was scared," Lydia explained.
"Alright, let's have a look," she said before giving the Doctor a pair of oversized scissors for him to cut the umbilical cord with. "Oh yeah, definitely dilated enough, let's start pushing, alright? I'll count to ten while you push then we have a little break to breathe and I'll count again, alright?"
"Alright," Lydia nodded, the pain wasn't too bad thanks to the anesthetics, but she could still feel the pressure of the baby fighting to come out.
Martha started to count and Lydia started to push, the Doctor held back her leg while kissing her forehead for support.
"Come on, you're so brilliant, and our baby will be just as brilliant!" The Doctor cheered her on. "Keep going, keep going! Yeah, that's my girl! I love you so much…"
"I don't think I can do this," Lydia wailed.
"Of course you can, you were genetically programmed to be able to do this, your body can do the stuff of legends, let's keep going. Just a little more, I can see the head already! I was right, a full head of hair!"
Martha shook her head and rolled her eyes before starting the countdown again. "10, 9, 8, big push now, 7, 6…"
And just like that, with one swift motion, she was able to get the baby, who started to cry almost immediately.
"Oh look, loud like their daddy," Lydia teased.
"It's a girl," Martha smiled, waving over the Doctor to cut the cord. He did so and picked up his daughter, getting blood and baby goo all over his suit, but he didn't mind.
"Look, Lyds, our girl," he cooed, placing the crying child on her mother's chest. "My new little companion!"
While Martha helped Lydia deliver the placenta, she watched them occasionally. "What will you name her?" She asked.
"Any ideas, Doc?" Lyddie asked.
"Yes, I know you want Mummy to give you milk, but do you know which name you want to have? Aham, okay," he nodded. "She has a sense of humor, she wants to be named Angel because the first time she heard our voice, we were running from weeping angels."
"Hmmm which name do you like, baby?" He looked down at his daughter and she cooed.
"You're kidding, she did not just say that," Lydia started feeding their baby.
"Cross my hearts," the Doctor chuckled. "Welcome to the world, Angel, we love you so much."
#fic request#fanfic#doctor who#10th doctor#tenth doctor#tenth doctor fanfic#10th doctor fanfic#doctor who fanfic#drabble#david tennant fanfic#oneshot
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Okay Okay here’s my Ghost getting a noncon blowjob discord ramble - gn nurse, possibly OOC on Ghost’s behalf. He’s having a rough few days (got stabbed, having PTSD symptoms from childhood).
I won’t be using the main Ghost tags cause most people there don’t seem into the dead dove.
So the 141 got a new nurse to help out at base. They're quiet at first before opening up to everyone, but it's not hard to see that they seem to have a hard time talking to Ghost. But it's Ghost, he thinks that answering "Affirmative," to a simple question constitutes as a conversation, so no one can really blame their nurse for only giving the Lt. a brief smile as they pass him in the corridors and never more.
That's until he comes back passed out from a leaking stab wound. The lads had gone out drinking, just a local bar. Ghost had had a few, and as they'd started stumbling their way back to the base (walking that far seems fun when you're hammered), he'd stopped to take a piss in an alley. Hadn't seen the guy shaking behind a skip, clutching a knife. He'd had too many, letting his guard down for once in his damn life - and now he's paying for it.
Countless missions around the world. A shitty ass childhood. Nuclear bombs going off not even mile away from him. And it's some fuckin’ back-alley nutcase that manages to get a good enough hit to kill him.
Thankfully, it doesn't actually kill him. But he does feel confused when he wakes up in the medical bay, the newest nurse prodding at his side and making him wince. They flinch as soon as they notice he's awake, as if they'd been caught doing something wrong. He notices, with relief, that he's still got a mask on. Hides the quirk of his lips at seeing them so jumpy.
"You're conscious, that's good," they mutter quietly, slinking off before he can ask how the fuck he got here. He probably yelled out when he'd been shanked, the lads coming and dealing with it and dragging his sorry arse home.
The doc comes in soon enough, gives him the lowdown. He's on bedrest for the next week. Because the knife knicked his small intestine and its a bitch to heal, along with some pain meds and steroids to get him up and rolling as soon as he can manage. Shit.
Ghost hates being stuck inside. Hates that every fucking thing he does is being monitored "for his health" and that its that nurse that has to do it because doctors don't waste their time on helping patients waddle to the loo and the other nurses are on leave since the squad were all on breaks. He hates the feeling of being high on those painkillers.
And fuck Soap and Gaz, too. Coming to visit just to tease him as Ghost's personal little tender switches out his gauze. They try to get them to join in, but they just give a tight-lipped smile before finishing up and running away again.
"The fuck you even do to them? They act like you tried to kill them once." Soap shakes his head, eyes following as the nurse disappears beyond the closing door.
"Nothing I'm aware of," Ghost huffs, shifting his hips and trying to get more comfortable, ignoring the pain in his stomach, “but at least they make a nice cup of tea.” That gets a chuckle and some jokes at his “Too English” expense.
Lying in bed all day is starting to make his body ache, he wants to be out, wants to go on the longest fucking run of his life. But every time he moves there's still that telltale sharp pain.
He's stubborn. But he's not stupid. He knows to be a good boy and follow the doc's orders, or he'll fuck himself up even worse and won't be back in the field for a long, long time.
He misses it. Misses the adrenaline of it all, the justified rage that can take over him so much it plateaus out into a calm coolness that helps him kill with all that precision. Like therapy to him, that. A fucked up form of therapy, sure. But it helps him not take it out on those that don't deserve it.
The lads leave him for the night, and he sighs as he settles in to sleep. The nurse comes back, closes the curtain around his bed and mutters quietly that they'll be back at 6am to check on him, but to press the button if he needed anything. He just nods, waiting to hear the door close before he takes the mask off and places it on the side.
He's never been one to sleep much, but he comes to prefer mornings in the bay. His body feels looser then, relaxed for reasons he can't figure out. Still, he never let him self sleep in. Never slept past 5am on a good day, and it seems tonight is no different. Ghost wakes up in the pitch-blackness of the medical bay, groaning and stiff.
Because someone's between his legs with their tongue lapping at his cock like a thirsty mutt. There's a mix of feelings bubbling in his chest. Anger, sure. Confusion. Fear that he's being sexually assaulted in his own base by an anonymous abuser. He half thinks he's dreaming, but the little licks are too sharply pleasant to be imaginary.
He stops moving as the tongue halts, the owner pausing to guess if he had woken up or not. He fakes sleep, keeping his breathing even until his assailant goes back to violating him. Slowly, his hand creeps from the mattress, finding the switch for the lamp.
He flips it on, surprised to be met with the wide stare of his nurse. Deer in the headlights, that's the look.
He doesn't speak. Isn't exactly sure what to say. It being that nurse is only confusing him more. They avoid him, always. As much as they can. Yet they're the one making his dick leak pre with the sweet attention they give.
There's a long, long period of silence as they stare each other down, a game of chicken to see if he'll pounce and start pummelling or if they'll run away before he can.
He doesn't expect them to slowly start licking again, one, two, three stripes of their tongue up and down before sucking him as far into their eager mouth as he can go.
So many things he's done. So many experiences that few things surprised him anymore, yet since the night of being stabbed he's had more new experiences than in the past, oh, 5 years at least. Not good ones, that's for sure.
His breath catches as they suck particularly hard, an odd noise coming from his throat as his mouth falls open and his hips jolt.
They don't break eye contact the entire time, and he's suddenly very aware that the mask is off. But they've already seen his face - and evidently a lot more.
His brain starts working again, patterns he hadn't realised were there falling into place. He always feels better in the mornings. More relaxed, his body pleasantly tired in that way he would get after the occasional (very rare) wank he granted himself. This isn't the first time his little helper had done this. But how hadn't he noticed-
Pain meds. They'd knocked him out right good for the night. His dose was reduced this morning.
He still doesn't know what to do. It makes him feel vulnerable in a way that he hasn't felt since he was a kid, being tormented by his father - by his brother hanging down from the top bunk whispering with that mask on. He can't look away, can only stare wide-eyed as he grunts and moans before his head lolls back just from how good it feels.
He's breathing hard, the addition of his nurse's hands gently massaging the base of his cock and a thumb making tiny little teasing circles on his ball-sack sending him over the edge shamefully quickly.
They swallow everything. Pull off of him with a sickeningly wet pop before putting him away clinically as if they'd just been examining his dick for medical purposes.
"You should catch some more sleep, sir," they whisper, leaning over and clicking the lamp off before they leave him alone in that dark room once more.
He's trembling now. Stuck gazing up at the tiles in the ceiling as his head drifts away. It's not right. None of that was okay. So why the fuck didn't he do something to make it stop? Why couldn't he move, speak, fucking blink Morse code?
He’s not some kid. He’s a trained soldier, the one called when you want the job done with as few loose strings as humanly possible. With no traces, no evidence, no photos. So why?
Why does he let them do it again in the morning, with a happy little smile on their face as he wonders where the fuck Ghost went and Simon Riley took his place.
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The sense that psychiatry as a field is rather skewed, nitpicky and in some cases disconnected with reality comes about as an obvious thought when you are a teenager discussing your issues, and with time you hear two medical professionals throw about various words between you and themselves. You consider these and wonder if there is something lacking, if your symptoms can be aligned with so much.
Borderline Personality, Bipolar, Schizotypal, Schizoid... yet ultimately choosing a keenness to just examine it as anxiety and depression—which irritated me. Yes, certainly... I have the excruciating anxiety of a schizotype and a schizoid's apathy and disinterest in people and how forcing speech feels like drowning, a borderine's uncontrolled emotional intensity, but if you are taking so much from so many different places... then what at all does it really mean or matter?
It seemed obvious to treat my symptoms. This did not occur, because the desired treatment for depression did not affect me, as I knew it wouldn't. I humoured a few different medications for the sake of leverage... I do that a lot with doctors, you play their little games so that your compliance makes your opinions rather level-headed when the time comes that you can express them. I didn't mind being fucked about with medication, what made me the most difficult was when I was invited to... whatever it was, cognitive behavioural therapy.
Useless, useless... I am not a good talker, I have never found a point in discussing myself with a therapist because it does nothing for me. What am I supposed to feel? Accomplished? I don't hate that therapist or those psychiatrists, it means nothing to me. Unserious profession. Before I was discharged one of my last meetings was during my breakdown in 2018, I told my therapist about my homicidal ideation. The gormless response is "Did you do it?" and it has cemented the notion that there is no consideration of the "why". Why was I so unstable? Why was this my reaction? No thought whatsoever. Had I divulged my childhood I would have gotten a diagnosis of PTSD instead, equally useless in my eyes. What afterwards? More talking therapy? More obligatory speech and worksheets that I care not for..? I always asked directly what the point of this exercise was. I don't remember the answer.
Whatever. I don't feel any particular way about this, it doesn't light a fire under my ass to want to talk antipsychiatry. I read discussions about it from one mutual and that is fine by me. I don't mean to sound disinterested, but the kind of social apathy or anhedonia has never left me and in a lot of ways has worsened significantly. I don't have any mutuals newer than a few years, because I have grown deeply disinterested in getting to know new people, I mention this already to some extent but it would warrant its own post to describe in full.
This post has no point to give, or not one that I am able to see, just a thought of mine I have had for years that I am ready to shelve.
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what would sae’s job be in the coworker rin universe
Thanks so much for asking this I’ve been thinking about it a lot recently and have never been able to figure it out. Probably something in the medical field… I lean more towards something in surgery or an ICU doctor. Idk! I think any profession that has him working night shifts causing him to be miserable and lonely. He’s very anal about his diet and physique … think something like Uramichi in Uramichi Oniisan. Very ‘self-aware-of-his-mind-but-too-unmotivated-to do-much-about-it—esque’. He goes to school for a long time which causes a rift between him and Rin. Rin tries to follow his lead and pursue something in medicine then quickly realizes he fucking hates it and changes his major in his second year lmfao. He lives alone and in a good neighbourhood but has never felt the touch a woman and is still hung up on his first love.
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Vent post down below. CW: medical talk, mental health, physical health. No mentions of depression or the like, just ADHD and stress. Also talk of going through diagnostic processes. Plenty of profanity used. Also talk of physical disability getting worse
JEUSUS FUCKIGN CHEIST i hate the fucking medical field. Im so fucking stressed out. For months i had doctors telling me i FOR SURE DEFINITELY HAVE muscular dystrophy. They send me to an MDA doc. He takes one look at me, not my medical history, and decides i dont have it. He tests me for sjogren's, which i brought the NEGATIVE tests for to his office. He made copies of it fucks sake. I still dont know the results. He tests my b12 too. Which i know is normal. All the things tested in febuary:
Ana abnormal. 1:180
B12: normal.
Sjogren's antibodies: both negative.
Anti jo. Negative.
Entire ENA panel. NEGATIVE
vitamin d. Deficient. Been taking the pills.
Tsh. Normal. Tfree. Normal. Been taking the pills
He doesnt see anything progressive even though i literally told him in office that ive been getting worse. That i have to drive to class now because I cannot walk that far anymore. He's testing me for a lot but was also really dismissive. Multiple doctors have observed muscle weakness and atrophy in me, but somehow he doesnt see it. I cant even lift a gallon jug of milk. I have to buy my milk in half gallons. Just sitting up straight is hell for my muscles. But no... my muscles are fine...???
Bullshit man. Idk. Im tired of other docs sending me to neurology, neurology looking at me and going "well your eyes work fine so this isnt my problem" despite the fact they ignore my light sensitivity. Idk im so fucking tired and i want an answer but no one seems to have one. Im losing my ability to fucking walk and every fucking doctor acts like thats normal. I used to run!! Bike!!! Climb!!! And I WANT TO. SO BAD. I MISS IT. but i cant anymore. I fall. Or i get so exhausted i cant function for days after. Im tired. Tired of being tired. Tired of losing my mobility while doctors just watch. Im 24. I shouldnt be dealing with this. I havent gone on a good hike since i was 14. I havent been able to work anything other than a desk job since i was 16. I try to exercise and walk as much as i can, but i also have a life to fucking live and i cant spend all my time in bed.
Also, my adhd has been kicking my ass so bad. My apartment is a mess and it makes everything so hard, but i cannot pull myself out of this rut im in. I also cant ask for help because im so terrified of being judged for it. I know there's dishes. I know I need to sweep. I know there's clutter everywhere. Im doing good to keep trash thrown away. But im literally just barely taking care of myself as is and making it to classes. I know it's disgusting and i hate it also, but i can barely do anything about it and i want to just throw everything away. All the dishes, the rug. Fucking everything and just hole up in my room with paper plates. I cant do that though. Thats. Not good. Idk what to do.
#cripplepunk#cpunk#yeah i mention adhd in here but genuinely most of it is physical illness.#whatever the fuck i have.#he also said i should stick to the cane despite the fact that its been 8 years and the cane isnt working anymore#im sorry i think using crutches and moving is better than fucking.#using a cane and driving
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