My doctor wanted to look at nutrition.
My psychologist thought I needed a prescription.
My psychiatrist wrote the prescription and said take exercise.
My fitness coach's ketone-burning diet put me in the emergency room.
My chiropractor tried to sell me supplements.
My former church’s witch doctor (an actual MD who forsook medical practice, but not the cachet it gives her with "clients") suggested I replace my “prescription meth” with milk enemas.
My masseur invited me to join his new practice, now sans chiropractor.
My other doctor decided to limit his practice to people who could afford private fees and a “wellness program” consisting mainly of lectures and health maintenance events and routines.
None of them play nicely with the others, and I (who used to run with scissors!) am trying to manage them all, and I am failing.
They all talk earnestly at me about gut issues. A light goes off, finally, as if illuminated by the electrochemical workout I got with a smiling senior man today, whose acupressure lit pathways until I felt like an egg cracking to let out the sun.
A turn for the better feels as surreal as that last sentence sounds. I do feel lights shining within. I may have a viable treatment plan at last. Funny that it was the untreatable Asperger’s that finally pulled it together; but then, it was the last thing discovered.
After years of missed, and mis-, diagnoses, I have a package of issues, and Asperger’s is the only common denominator for both physical and mental issues. I need to look at the things that trouble me neurologically. What happens if I accept that neurodiversity, since it makes me more sensitive, can heal as well as hurt?
It irritates me a little that the "puzzle piece" imagery is so solidly vindicated. I have rarely felt less puzzled than I do now.
And so I arrive at grand unification therapy: from this menu of options, pick things that I can actually do that will take effect fast enough to matter and easy enough to stick. Things that can move as fast as the lights twinkling along the nerves that wire my body and my head together. I have tried mind over matter all of my life, and little that the health industry has ever had to say to or about me has made sense to me, let alone a good difference that lasts.
We suffer
because we have a body.
If we didn't have a body,
how could we suffer?
--Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching
Let’s see if the mind arises from the body. Leave the soul to its devices. Establish just how wonderfully made the whole package really is.
I refuse to choose only one of you. This is a treatment plan, not a marriage. I am not responsible for validating what the doctor, the nutritionist, the psychologist, the chiropractor, the witch doctor, the masseur, or any of their kin chose for their life's work, or a solution for their own mid-life crises. This is a treatment plan, not a religious conversion, and you are not my new idols. You get to supply me with what I’m willing to buy, and if you drop me because I do not forsake all others for you, I will replace you as well.
It’s OK to not have time for someone who won’t put you first. It’s not OK to damage them because they won’t worship you or blame them when they don't get better on your orders. Openly resenting that you have competition from people without matching degrees doesn’t make you credible in my eyes. You are no longer in an exclusive medieval guild. The people who keep the business are the ones who get results.
I am fed up with complaining about my health, like an old, old person who sees medical specialists as her socialization events, exchanging navel-gazing for endless little orange or brown bottles and a ruthless accounting of expenditures and side-effects.
This edict goes into effect immediately. Who's on board, O you medics?
*crickets*
Very well. I'll choose who's useful and throw out the rest. I'll choose what's useful and throw out the rest. As you all keep telling me, I am the person in charge of my health. Which means you're not.
My psychologist thought I needed a prescription.
My psychiatrist wrote the prescription and said take exercise.
My fitness coach's ketone-burning diet put me in the emergency room.
My chiropractor tried to sell me supplements.
My former church’s witch doctor (an actual MD who forsook medical practice, but not the cachet it gives her with "clients") suggested I replace my “prescription meth” with milk enemas.
My masseur invited me to join his new practice, now sans chiropractor.
My other doctor decided to limit his practice to people who could afford private fees and a “wellness program” consisting mainly of lectures and health maintenance events and routines.
None of them play nicely with the others, and I (who used to run with scissors!) am trying to manage them all, and I am failing.
They all talk earnestly at me about gut issues. A light goes off, finally, as if illuminated by the electrochemical workout I got with a smiling senior man today, whose acupressure lit pathways until I felt like an egg cracking to let out the sun.
A turn for the better feels as surreal as that last sentence sounds. I do feel lights shining within. I may have a viable treatment plan at last. Funny that it was the untreatable Asperger’s that finally pulled it together; but then, it was the last thing discovered.
After years of missed, and mis-, diagnoses, I have a package of issues, and Asperger’s is the only common denominator for both physical and mental issues. I need to look at the things that trouble me neurologically. What happens if I accept that neurodiversity, since it makes me more sensitive, can heal as well as hurt?
It irritates me a little that the "puzzle piece" imagery is so solidly vindicated. I have rarely felt less puzzled than I do now.
And so I arrive at grand unification therapy: from this menu of options, pick things that I can actually do that will take effect fast enough to matter and easy enough to stick. Things that can move as fast as the lights twinkling along the nerves that wire my body and my head together. I have tried mind over matter all of my life, and little that the health industry has ever had to say to or about me has made sense to me, let alone a good difference that lasts.
We suffer
because we have a body.
If we didn't have a body,
how could we suffer?
--Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching
Let’s see if the mind arises from the body. Leave the soul to its devices. Establish just how wonderfully made the whole package really is.
I refuse to choose only one of you. This is a treatment plan, not a marriage. I am not responsible for validating what the doctor, the nutritionist, the psychologist, the chiropractor, the witch doctor, the masseur, or any of their kin chose for their life's work, or a solution for their own mid-life crises. This is a treatment plan, not a religious conversion, and you are not my new idols. You get to supply me with what I’m willing to buy, and if you drop me because I do not forsake all others for you, I will replace you as well.
It’s OK to not have time for someone who won’t put you first. It’s not OK to damage them because they won’t worship you or blame them when they don't get better on your orders. Openly resenting that you have competition from people without matching degrees doesn’t make you credible in my eyes. You are no longer in an exclusive medieval guild. The people who keep the business are the ones who get results.
I am fed up with complaining about my health, like an old, old person who sees medical specialists as her socialization events, exchanging navel-gazing for endless little orange or brown bottles and a ruthless accounting of expenditures and side-effects.
This edict goes into effect immediately. Who's on board, O you medics?
*crickets*
Very well. I'll choose who's useful and throw out the rest. I'll choose what's useful and throw out the rest. As you all keep telling me, I am the person in charge of my health. Which means you're not.
