But you do matter. I matter. We matter.

When writing a facebook status likening my struggle with intestinal endometriosis to an infamously violent creepypasta focusing on insomnia, I realized, truly, how much damage this is doing to me. To keep consistent with unnecessary (and probably misleading tbh) technicalities, it isn’t the endometriosis itself. It’s the wreckage it has caused. I have to make a choice every morning not to go into the darkness again. Every day, I have to be extremely aware and actively ensure that I don’t celebrate my weight loss or allow others to, because I have to remind myself that a number on the scale is not tied to the value of my life because I used to tie it to the value of my self, and most (including many of the doctors I have seen) think that I am “still too overweight” to feel the effects of malnourishment, and that I should be celebrating the weight loss, in turn then celebrating the fasting mandated by my wrecked intestines; that I should ignore the swelling from my body trying desperately to hold onto every drop of water it has magically been able to keep down during the past week. I am often dizzy, lightheaded, physically unstable when I do get to be mobile, and my function is impaired. At my own doctors’ advice, I have to every so often go to the ER to get IV fluids to maintain enough hydration to survive. Last time I went they told me to discuss a feeding tube with my PCP.

 

I stil have not received any effective treatment and have little hope I will ever get it.

 

Because of this, I constantly have to reaffirm my value as a human being, the value of my wellness, and the value of my life, because these things do not seem to matter to the people whose licenses seem to be respected more than my health; who have a license that people agree is powerful enough to say to my face that I am untreatable, because my pain is my fault, or my pain is psychogenic, or that I am neglecting myself because I won’t take the diverse collection of unnecessary psychotropics every day anymore that gave me tremors and worsened my real medical condition — but on record helped seem to constantly erase any credibility I may have ever had.

 

They have put me on so many psychotropics. When it didn’t work, they upped it until they legally could not (in most cases, anyway), and when increasing the dosage was no longer possible, they added more or changed to other psychotropics. The psychotropics didn’t touch my real pain because even in the case of most clear-cut mental illnesses, they don’t reah that core. So for me, who has C-PTSD and inestinal endometriosis, meds like Mellaril, Ritalin, Adderal, Haldol, Prolixin, and Risperdal did not help. They could not take the nightmares away, let alone the 10 day debilitating periods or the chronic pain which helped to isolate me as a child. Even Welbutrin XL, Prozac, Klonopin, Remeron, Clonodine, medicines intended to help treat depression, anxiety, and insomnia did nothing to heal me. These lists don’t cover half of the pills prescribed to me by uninvested doctors, and the years I was in the psychiatric wards most often were the same years I was often prescribed to take more than a dozen pills a day.

Continue reading “But you do matter. I matter. We matter.”