shiraphant: (Default)
I do intend to make a happy post soon (about My First Holiday omg omg), but for now, some Thoughts I Thought.

Here's part of a conversation I'm having with [ profile] puzzled_anwen:

me: I did washing up this morning. I did ten minutes of washing up and in that time I developed a lot of pain in my mid-back, my shoulders hated me, I felt sick, my womb began to cramp and I felt as though someone had punched me in the stomach repeatedly
all those pains gradually went away when I sat down
after about twelve years, I finally started to believe - really believe - that I am not lazy, I could not do more around the house "if I just wanted to do it enough", I genuinely do have something wrong with me
I am not faking just in order to get out of doing housework.
anwen: arr, I know what you mean
it'd be nice if you were *sigh*
me: I can't believe it's taken me this long to believe it and I am sure I will be doubting myself again soon
anwen: yup
I do all the time
anwen: esp when I was mostly quite well last year I was all 'oh god, maybe I wasn't really that bad' even though, you know, I WAS BEING POISONED BY MY TABLETS

Having fibro/other invisible or otherwise unverifiable illnesses (including mental illness, with which I also have daily fun in several forms) means, for many of us, daily self-doubt and guilt on top of the judging and unhelpful assumptions made about us by other people - friends, family, doctors, random strangers. (We won't even get into the frustration and depression which come from being unable to have normal bloody lives with jobs and socialising and hobbies). Our brains, like so many clueless people, tell us we're not really that ill. We're faking to get attention/avoid having to do any work. We've "embraced the sick role", whatever the shit that means. We hear it so much from others that we believe it ourselves, and we hurt ourselves, we make ourselves more ill, trying to behave as if all that were true, as if our illnesses were the convenient fictions that so many people seem to think they are, and as if we could just choose to behave like healthy, able-bodied people and we'd magically be better. Unfortunately it does not work. No amount of wanting it to be that way will make it that way, and I did not - we did not - choose to have our bodies fail in this way.

If you're one of the people who didn't need to be told this - thank you for not making our lives harder and more painful. Thank you for believing us, because it's fucking rare when anyone does.
shiraphant: (Default)
Well, shit, dudes. I am just not sure how well I'll cope with the progression of my lipoedema. I can't exactly do anything about it, but damn. I am not looking forward to it. Currently, my legs look like this (I am affected from waist down and on arms, but I'm only showing you my legs because you don't need to see my arse and because I couldn't find any arm-comparison photos):

Here are my legs, which may not be work-safe, and the bodies of two other women with lipoedema; the photos of advanced cases are definitely NSFW, what with containing breasts and buttocks and the like. Bear in mind, this is some damn ugly stuff and you may be put off your food if you're eating. )
shiraphant: (Default)
TMI, probably )


shiraphant: (Default)

December 2010

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