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A guy walks into an antique store and asks the clerk "What's new?"

Hey there fellow folks with unruly feet! My name is Pete and I was diagnosed in 2019 with Anoxal Neuropathy!

After a very painful biopsy at OHSU and it showed that something burned away all of the Axom connecting the cells in my hands, feet, and legs. These are the cables that attach the cells together with each other, but most importantly they can no longer communicate with my brain!

The feet are the worst and I could not live without opiate medication.
Unfortunately I live in the backwards state of Oregon and I've had to fight the good fight for the past 5 years.

I have stories, facts, and medical proof of my condition plus all of the horrible treatment and neglect of the medical community in Portland and the Pacific share with everyone.

I have been struggling in Portland for a while now and I can answer the questions some people have about Oregon and I've put together a large spreadsheet that lists the doctors and practices that will actually help and the ones that will treat you poorly!

After reading the Mighty for a while and I think this community will be a great place to post some of my favorite stories of the worst treatment by doctors, nurses, and hospitals in Oregon.

Let's ask questions about the policies the medical community establishes that give them the "moral clarity" that allows them to ignore the suffering of their patients and families.
They just can't make us suffer like this can they?


Was I neglected? Have I just blocked it all out? #neglect #Underparented

Not even sure what is happening childhood memories are only in chunks from ages 10+ anything before that seems to be lost (I'm only 22). Under the impression that my parents had my sibling to give me "something to do" because it's almost like I can't remember either parents actually being around during play times etc dental hygiene and general health was never addressed as it was too expensive and we didn't actually "need" either commodities... From what I can mentally put together it feels as though if they were present I've removed the presence they had in my memories ... Why would that be .. or were they even there? Was I unsupervised as a child with my younger sibling.. did that only change when we actually mentioned that we felt we never went anywhere as a 'family' .. I don't think there was anything major like D.V but potentially more verbal or lack of presence.

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What to do and not to do as a parent

These are some thoughts I put about what I believe you should and shouldn't do as a parent in order to break the cycle of abuse. These are not rules just things I've learned along the way feel free to disagree and discuss. These are guidelines for parents who are survivors. Certain things on here other parents who have never endured abuse might think I'm exaggerating.
1) Protect your children (child)
2)listen to your child (children) always no matter how little or big the thought is
3) Never belittle
4) Let them know they can always come to you about anything and tell you anything
5) Always ask them how their day was
6) let them develop a sense of self. Let them choose their own clothes, shoes, hairstyles, associates, hobbies, career, spouse, boyfriend/ girlfriend. You can give advice as a parent but you should not dictate their lives unless they are in danger.
7) establish chores at a young age such as cleaning their rooms, helping with dinner etc.
8) teach them about establishing boundaries and letting others know what those boundaries are. Teach them to respect other people's boundaries.
9) love them unconditionally
10) hug them
11) praise them
12) let them know how special they are
13) Teach them how to stand up to bullies
14) forgive them when they mess up and let them know it's ok to make mistakes
15) let them cry and express their feelings.Let them know emotions are a normal part of life. Teach them how to handle those emotions in a responsible and healthy way.
16) Teach them to be leaders and not followers
17) Teach them breathing techniques
18) Let them speak their minds in a respectful way
19) Never force them to do anything they dont want to. For example I never forced my children to kiss anyone on the cheek relatives or not. I also didn't force them to speak to relatives or people I was acquainted with. They did those things only if they felt comfortable
20) Respect them
21) Support them in their endeavors
22) Let them be children
23) Always say thank you when they do nice things
24) Reward them with positive reinforcement
25) Be patient with them at all stages of life
26) Teach them life skills
27) Teach them good touch bad touch
28) Teach them how to be aware of their surroundings
29) Teach them that their body belongs to them and them alone.
1) No sleepovers
2) dont be too lenient
3) Dont be too overprotective
4) Dont baby them
5) Dont choose outfits, friends, music, hobbit unless it's a danger to them
6) Dont be too intrusive as they age
7) Dont criticize
8) Dont judge
9) Dont compare
10) Dont show favortism
11) Dont yell
12) Dont beat
13) Explain things to them age appropriately
14) Dont embarrass them in front of others
15) Be kind
16) Teach them the value of hard work
17) Dont spoil them with material things
18) Dont be a dream killer
19) Dont allow them to be co dependent on you or others unless they are physically incapable
20) Dont lie to them
21) Dont parentify them or treat them like your therapist
22) Dont force them to take care of younger siblings or do adult things
23) Dont interrupt them when they speak
24) Dont encourage sexist views and gender roles. Boys wear blue. Girls wear pink rhetoric.
25) Dont neglect them
26) Dont pass them around to different people and relatives.
I'm tired if I missed anything please add
Mind you some of the things on here I didn't get right so I'm passing on my knowledge and personal experience to help someone else out there. Thanks. Please add or if you disagree or have a different opinion I'd like to hear it.

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A mistake.

I grew up feeling unwanted and dealt with neglect from my mom, and physical and mental abuse from my father. I was too young to understand it, but when I was about 15 years old I figured it out: My mom always told me that I was born almost 2 months premature. But she also complained that she had to have a C-section because I weighed ten and a half pounds at birth. At that age I didn't realize the impossibility of what she was claiming was virtually impossible. I was born in Brooklyn, but both of my parents were from a small town in western Pennsylvania. My sister was born about 4 years after me and was spoiled throughout her entire childhood. Most of MY childhood consisted of emotional, mental and physical abuse, especially from my father. Both of them were happy that I enlisted in the Army and moved away after I graduated from high school.

I went into the Army because my parents, (who were divorced by then and both remarried), claimed that they couldn't afford to pay for me to go to college. I served a total of 20 years, including being a medic in the First Gulf War. After coming home it was the first time that either of them told me that they were proud of me.

I've dealt with PTSD and four marriages that all ended in divorce. At one point I sent a group text to all my family members telling them that I was sorry for being such a burden, and swallowed a whole bottle of Ativan. Someone called 911 and I spent some time in the hospital and a behavioral health facility. After being discharged my wife said I needed to leave. But surprisingly my abusive father was the one that reached out and told me he wanted me to come back to Pennsylvania.

I've been living with him and my stepmother for 4 years now, and it's come to the point where I'm taking care of him. But my stepmother has made it clear that as soon as he passes away I will no longer be welcomed here. My daughter lives in Arizona and she's having her own relationship problems now.

The only good thing in my life recently is the fact that after nearly 3 years of dealing with the government bueacracy I'm finally getting my military retirement pension. But now my stepmother has already said that the day after my father dies I will no longer be allowed to live here anymore.

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Our old, new house - Part two, The Garden of Needing

When I attacked the lawn last year, it was infested with about two hundred Hawkbit plants. Looking down the garden it was like green aerials poking into the sky everywhere. Getting down on my knees to pull them up, I found they were like hard, green, bifurcated plates, crushing the grass below. They almost completely filled a garden waste bin, by the time I had finished. I thanked God (or was it Lidl?) for knee pads I had recently bought. While this was a long and tedious job, worse awaited in the form of Snowberry Bush suckers, which made a sucker out of me.

Years of neglect had allowed them to creep under the lawn as roots, then burst out in various places as whole, new plants or at least that was their cunning plan: When we lived in Kilmarnock, in rented accommodation the same problem occurred with Japanese Knotweed.

Once again I partially filled a brown bin with ripped out roots, dug up with what looked like an ice axe, left by previous occupants of the house. A lot of the roots were feet long and had to be cut into shorter sections, to fit in the bin. It took me a lot of time to find and root out as much of the roots as possible. It was back breaking and pain not rain stopped work on several occasions.

Cutting back the laurels was also a hard task but in a different way. The far end of the garden, where the main bushes grew as a solid hedge, were several feet high, several feet long and several feet wide. Reaching some parts meant stretching and leaning into the hedge, quite a distance. Other bushes on the periphery, were also cut back, revealing other shrubs hidden behind them and bursting out of the top, including a Buddleia.

In another part of the garden I cut back ivy and clematis, growing over our fence, to reveal two, large, plastic planting tubs (a friend also pointed out a bird table, buried so deep in the shrubbery that I had missed it myself: I dug it out, pulled it out of its hiding place, dragged it across the lawn and replanted it closer to the house, where we could at least see the birds using it plus gave it a fresh lick of paint). I also dug up two hydrangeas, struggling to reach the light and also buried in the middle of this free-for-all chaos: they survived the winter but thinking they were dead from the transplant, I uprooted them again, only to find I was wrong and stuck them back in the earth (hopefully they will survive my gardening incompetence but only time will tell).

I didn’t know what else was in the flowerbed parts of the garden but planted primulas in abundance, only to discover other flowers pushing up from under them in places (they died equally in abundance too – see note above about incompetence). I also bought four azaleas, frost killing one totally and damaging two of the others but the fourth flourished because it was sheltered.

Daffodils and other bulbs either burst into bloom or I uprooted them up accidentally. One large clump of something in the middle of the square bed, turned out to be hostas. I found more in the ‘L’ shaped border, in a couple of odd lumps. I have now placed all of these in planters, to replace the winter’s losses. I also bought half a dozen geraniums for a couple of pots and an oblong wooden planter. Sadly they all seem to have succumbed to the frost, although a dwarf rose seems to have survived, despite being frozen to the ground.

One survivor of the ice and snow, I wish hadn’t. It was a rose bush gone mad. Great big branches, ten to twelve feet high, stretching into the sky, no longer attached to the rose arch meant for it. I thought I had killed it last year but fresh red shoots were visible this spring. The cheap option of using an old weed killer spray I found in the shed hadn’t worked. Apparently roses are notoriously hard to kill and after chopping off large chunks of root, it was still breathing (see illustration). I have now purchased stump killer and hopefully this will stunt its growth. I don’t like killing things deliberately but I am pretty good at doing it accidentally it seems.

On the gravel beside the dreaded rose bush, a fine fuzz of seedlings grew. It took me ages to pull them all up as they covered a large area of ground but came out easily as not deep rooted. Equally well established brambles proliferated but were again nothing compared to one I had to deal with in rented accommodation elsewhere. It used a tree as support and was once more a monster, growing ten to twelve feet high at least. The bramble canes were as thick as my thumb and the roots looked like a gigantic, twisted, gnarly hand – as though out of a Grimm’s fairy tale illustration. Compared to this later rose though, it came out of the ground relatively easily, despite the thorns ripping my old skin to shreds at times,

I needed somewhere to store the larger garden tools and larger items for garden maintenance, including lawnmower, wheelbarrow, strimmer and hedge trimmer. A joiner friend was going to make me a shed for me but was overwhelmed with work, so rather than hang about I ordered one over the internet. Before it arrived, I had to level off the cement paving slabs I wanted it to go on. Previously it had held a sizeable dog kennel, sloped for run-off when cleaning it down I assume. I also purchased a small wooden bunker, to replace the warper plastic one that was beside it, which again we inherited and was used for bikes by the original owners. Strong winds lifted the lid as there was no locking mechanism left in operation and one of the hinges was also broken, which made shutting the top awkward at times. I bought the replacement to store our roof box as I had with the plastic one but unfortunately the top wouldn’t open, only the front and it wouldn’t fit, so in went the wheelbarrow instead.

I have yet to paint these two wooden structures but at least managed to paint the fence and gate last year.

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Our new, old House - Part 1, Shedding inhibitions

While writing definitely helps, sometimes physical work helps even more, when dealing with anger and frustration, which can be behind depression. Hence the following account.

When we moved into our new house, what struck me initially was the state of the sheds in the courtyard area. The walls were made of breeze block and the roof of crumbling asbestos. My wife thought we should knock them all down, to open up the area. I thought that was a bad idea as it would leave the neighbours staring down into our backyard and their young child able to crawl over the resulting wall, possibly dropping into ours unexpectedly. Naturally I vetoed that.

We found someone who specialised in asbestos removal as apparently you need a licence to dispose of it because it is hazardous material. The roof was duly ripped off and a replacement metal one tacked on instead.

Before all this could happen though, I had to clear out all the sheds of their contents. One of the three, interconnected sections was easy as all it contained was material we had bought from our old place, in the way of tools and shelves. Even the second wasn't too bad - a workshop area will built in shelves and saw bench. I struggled for ages to remove the latter but in the end I had to give up and the roofer said he'd just have to work round it.

The middle section of the 'L' shaped trio was anything but easy to deal with. It was a hellish mess of sawdust and pine cones, hiding about a dozen tree trunks of various widths and lengths underneath, plus twenty branches, mostly ash and geans (wild cherry) from the looks of it.

Also buried under this lot were three mice nests, stinking out the sawdust with urine; there must still have been at least one in the area because when I entered the tool shed section during that winter, it had partially chewed the top off, of a plastic tub made of cellulose. Discovering this made me wish that I had taken the humane mouse trap we had in the old place as it had successfully trapped a sorry looking wretch that had crawled under the garage door.

I tried getting rid of some of the pine cones by throwing them on the fire but they didn't burn well, being damp, so I shovelled them into a bin along with the sawdust, filling one or two garden waste containers over a fortnight.

Buying myself an electric saw, I chopped up most of the branches into lengths that would fit in the multi-fuel stove, then set about demolishing the trunks with a wedge-shaped log splitter. Some of these were easier to break up than others as they were suffering from dry rot (not all the sawdust was sawdust and even stacked up wood in the shed, was crumbly from from rotten with damp and mould). The firewood we did have eventually ran out and we had to buy more in but that is another story.

To get back to the sage of the sheds, I discovered that two of the legs belonging to the bench, were also suffering from dry rot and were as crumbly as hell, just like next doors wood pile. Rod the roofer had cleared out leaves blocking the downpipe and I thought this explained the water in the shed.

Popping round to the side of the house, I found out that the gutters were rusty with added holes here and there, so replaced them with plastic equivalents. I also had to get new fascia board as the plywood beneath had split into layers like puff pastry.

Did this finally fix the water pouring into the shed? No. As background I should mention that the breeze block walls on both sides, were half underground where they met the garden. My next door neighbour suggested I check the drainage pipes on his side as the shed walls butted onto his ground. When I did, I found that the pipe in the soil didn't connect to the fitting above. You could push your fingers through the gap quite easily, so I poured cement into the area behind and voila it was fixed - no more leaks, no more water pouring in like there was a tap in the wall.

I can hardly believe it was like that from when the building went up and nobody fixed it. Years of neglect and a problem solved immediately with a little thought. Still this is the Highlands of Scotland, so reluctance to get frostbite while trying to fix things is completely understandable.

Apart from all that, I painted the shed walls and sealed the concrete floors. I tried a sealant for the walls first but only after I had finished the second coat did I see a notice on the label saying, not to be used below ground.

I put down pallets for stacking the wood, in the woodshed and all was finally set up to work smoothly. The electrics need upgrading at some point as I discovered when dropping one off the pallets which hit the wall and the lights went out but that is a future job.

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Childhood memories and misspent youth

My family was artistic on my mothers side. As kids, we created plasticine men and made a second world war battlefield out in the backyard. My brother made a plastercast pillbox for the Americans and I made a cardboard tank, with a doweling rod cannon and cotton reel wheels for the tracks. We used darts as representing bullet wounds and shots. Grenades were match heads, wrapped in silver foil. You had to say grenade, before throwing a dart that was supposed to be one. My brother had also made a pretend river with a bridge over it to the pillbox. As the game progressed, it became obvious that the tank was too big to get over it and darts, representing bazooka shells finished it off.

We also made paper men and played different characters with them, including cowboys with guns that came out of holsters and gun belts that were also worn by the figures as well as waistcoats. My eldest cousin also made a robot that was hollow and filled with beetroot juice, to represent blood and had a cellophane panel so you could see it. One year he built a mummy for Halloween, wrapped in bandages, with a hole in its side and a real dead spider in the gap. It also had ping-pong balls for eyes.

Cousin Michael made several firework bombs, including a plaster of Paris hand grenade and bog roll bomb. He also stuck bangers in cow pats or covered them with clay and threw them in the parish fields pond. Him and some others, used to put bangers in their clothes and run around until they exploded. Some of Jim’s mates had a fireworks battle, firing rockets across the Mere.

One year my brother created a home made shotgun as he called it. It was a wooden box construction with a shelf support as the handle. It was two metal tubes, filled with gunpowder from bangers, toilet paper rammed down it and on top of it a load of dried peas. He went down the Rectory Meadow to try it. Needless to say, the back blew off and he came home with a bit of smouldering shirt sticking out of his chest.

We had cats at home and when one died, Brother Jim painted a headstone for it, Dad dug a hole to bury and got a cardboard shoe box to put it in and I bought a big ornamental candle to put on top of it, paying a vigil over the graveside that night. We also had a budgie that I bought at Norwich Market and because it kicked seeds all over the carpet, it got relegated to the little room beside the front door and died of neglect. When a toddler I also buried the goldfish in the garden to see if they could swim but mum caught me and they survived. Plants didn’t fare much better, with me letting a maidenhair fern dry up and die, and I put a cactus into the water butt, which swelled up and fell to bits, drowned.

Nature also captured our imagination. Off to the local pond for frog spawn or newts. Trying to grab lizards basking in the sun or out eating ants (them, not us). Discovering slow worms in the compost heap. Bringing home toads as big as your fist (where have they all gone now?). Going in search of tadpoles in local ponds or out with fishing nets, trying to catch minnow or sticklebacks. Finding a Millers Thumb in the river (not a real one - a fish called that because of its big, flat head). Chasing butterflies across meadows or watching them hatch.

Did I mention how my brother saved a boy’s life? He climbed up a tree, to cut the rope hanging from it and if my brother hadn't thrown a half brick that hit him between the eyes, he would have fell twenty feet and killed himself or had a serious accident as he was hanging onto the rope which he was cutting, suspended in mid air.

My brother also got into a fight with another local lad, who didn't like me. We were cooking eggs in half oranges, with the contents scooped out and mackerel, wrapped in wet newspaper, stuffed into the embers of the fire as per Blue Peter instructions, when this all kicked off.

I remember dragging the sledge home, my uncle Ron made for me, during the really bad winter in the sixties. My soaking clothes had frozen and creaked as I moved along.

I played truant once by hiding in the ditch, until my mother shouted over the fence that she could see me and it was too late to go to school now, so you might as well come out of hiding. Looking across the cornfields at night and watching the light of the trains in the distance or in daylight, seeing the wind turn the waving corn stalks into a swishing see of yellow, then jumping over the fence after the harvest and finding hiding hares to chase or hedgehogs to pick up. Those were the days, that was a childhood worth living, not stuck in front of a TV or computer screen - real life, real experience

Me and my brother had a knitting needle fight once and I remember he stuck his into my arm and didn’t believe it when I told him he’d stabbed me. It was like when me and a cousin when we worked in a fabric knitting factory, near the old picture house. We had a sword fight with cardboard rolls that went up the centre of the material. I tripped and fell over backwards, catching one of my teeth on the handle of a pump up forklift. I told him I’d broken a tooth but he didn’t believe me either, until I showed him the broken parts.

I was never any good at football or any sport in fact. I had two left feet and no stamina, so when it came to picking a team, I was always the one who was left to the end, with the prophetic words 'I suppose we'll have to have him.' I was always stuck in goal or defence, usually the latter, even though my dad was a goalie for Diss Town.

Because I couldn't run and was big (the school photo shows a big grey area and that was me), my cousin Mike named Taff because it was fat backwards and later on Heap after a Mad Magazine strip cartoon, where a pile of rubbish comes to life. Him, my brother and Mike’s middle brother wanted to go off somewhere once, so I was told to look after the youngest brother, killing two birds with one stone as he didn't want me coming along either really.

We were Mods, my brother having A Lambretta and I had a Vespa 150 Sprint. I remember following him along Heywood Road, when he turned down Uplands Way and I missed the turn, slamming my brakes on and coming off my scooter (I did this another time too, coming round a bend that was notorious for crashes I later learned, falling on my backside and shouting my head off in pain, bringing a farmer from across a field and a lady out who lived nearby).

After I left school, I bought myself a black RAF coat. Bad move. It rained disclosing this was a badly dyed grey RAF coat - cue black shirt, ruined by seepage. I had a scooter as did my brother but at some point he bought a Trotter mobile and turned the three wheeler over on a bend, trying to keep up with a mate on a scooter.

We saw Jimmy Hendrix in Dereham pavilion and Lindisfarne at St. Andrews Hall in Norwich. I also ended up somewhere in North Norfolk, watching the Searchers because a gang of us from work went.

Somebody sneaked in a bottle of real scrumpy to a band we watched at college. I had a mouthful and the last thing I remember of that night was passing the bandstand and the noise of the music briefly knocking me back to consciousness as I staggered to the toilet.

At a later date, when I was living in Cambridge, another bedsit refugee beside me, invited me to a something in the Corn Hall, just behind where we lived. He introduced me to Newcastle Brown because he was originally from that part of the country. The next thing I remember is finding myself over a toilet seat in the hall, with everyone else having vacated the place ages ago. The following day I had to ring up work, to say I wouldn't be in because I was bent double and couldn't stand up straight (I tried drinking a glass of milk. Down it went and up it came again immediately. So I thought water might be okay. Down it went and up it came immediately again. Needless to say I have never had scrumpy cider or Newcastle Brown ever again.

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Self-Destruction #MentalHealth #Depression #lonely #neglect

I have become so depressed and hopeless, that I just don’t have the strength to care for or about myself. I barely eat, I can’t sleep, but I’m biking myself into the ground as an escape, and I’ve just entirely lost the will to keep myself out of harm’s way. I feel that I’m going to indirectly end my own life if I keep going this way. I’m neglecting homework to game, because I just can’t deal with even the smallest things in life anymore. I can’t get help, I can’t find any way to escape this, and I literally can’t live like this much longer.

(Hand drawing by me)

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Honesty and Respect- Surprising Representation in a Whimsical Cartoon

Because my chronic illnesses onset in my teens, I have spent much of my adulthood watching animated content from the comfort of my couch. Cartoons are accessible on days when other media is too nauseating or complicated to follow, while just engaging enough to distract from pain or PTSD.

One series that surprised me with its relevance was Disney’s “The Owl House.” I came to it expecting neurodivergent whimsy in the setting of a mystical land- and it certainly hit those points. What I did not expect was the honest, respectful representations of chronic illness and trauma.

Fairly early in season one, we are introduced to Eda’s “curse”. This curse onset suddenly and mysteriously in her teens, and has impacted her life by literally changing her body. The first conversation happens in Season 1, episode 4, when Edalyn’s loved ones pressure her to overexert. This results in her body literally changing, and her mind shifting to defensive, instinctual survival as she becomes “the owl beast”. Those of us with chronic illness can quickly recognize this as a “flare up”. The episode ends with Edalyn saying this: “No one likes having a curse, but if you take the right steps it’s manageable…. And as long as no one steals my elixir, …then I’m fine!”

Alongside these nuanced conversations about disability, medical treatment, misinformation, and boundaries, is a delicately woven story about developmental trauma. As a teen, Edalyn’s “curse” is set off by her sister, Lilith, who wanted to hurt her but did not understand the lifelong impact of her actions. This reflects how latent genetic disease can be triggered by a traumatic experience. Eda’s curse accelerates as her mother aggressively seeks a cure against Edalyn’s own wishes. These attempts to cure Eda are ultimately what push her to leaving her family altogether.

After over a decade, Eda reconciles with Lilith. Lilith, having finally broken away from an abusive workplace and accepted the impact she has had on Eda, begins processing her own traumas. It is at this point that Lilith begins to share Eda’s curse- and not just in a supportive sort of way. She begins showing physical signs like fatigue and rapid aging, and “deformities” like feathers. Her low battery t-shirt is iconic. But the way her curse develops reflects how genetic disease can be triggered at different times for different family members, with stress and trauma as the most common triggers. Lilith’s arc also reflects what burnout looks like for neurodivergent people who spend too many years masking- a form of trauma that often results in chronic health issues.

Alongside the Clawthorne family arc, we observe Amity’s relationship with her own family. Amity is the prodigy daughter in a respected family, just as Eda was. In both cases we observe the mother being restrictive, controlling, and dismissive of her child’s emotions. Eda lacked a support system, so she pushed away her family and her partner, Rain, because she did not believe they could love her as she was. Amity begins this way- bullying Willow, her childhood best friend, and keeping her walls up even with her friends. Ultimately, we see that Amity is able to build a support system with the help of her siblings and new friends. However, her mother never becomes supportive of her. Her mother’s toxicity escalates to a level where even Amity’s father does not feel safe with her anymore.

These parallel stories show how restriction, emotional neglect, and control impact a developing mind. It shows what is necessary to reconcile after the damage is done, and what it looks like when reconciliation isn’t safe. It is interlaced with healthy examples of what it looks like to love and support a person going through fatigue, chronic pain, and familial estrangement.

This series can be a great tool to bridge gaps in understanding about the culture of chronic illness- and somehow manages to do so while being cute, fun, and whimsical. I highly recommend Owl House to any member of the chronic illness community- after all, “us weirdos have to stick together!”

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Childhood Emotional Neglect (CEN)

When I was almost 6 years old my dad died from sudden heart attack. Problem was, nobody told me...too young to attend funeral and did not understand why everyone was crying. 2 brothers, 2 sisters and numerous relatives, nobody told me what was happening...there I was, waiting for dad to come home from work every day...but he didn't, and I did not understand why. that was a lot of years ago (I'm 67 years old now) entire life I didn't understand why I was depressed and anxious, just thought it was a personal shortcoming...this has affected every relationship in my life and I have suffered with abandonment issues, depression and anxiety, not really understand why, just blaming myself. Nobody in my life wants to hear about/ so much pain don't even want to be here anymore...fighting suicidal thoughts every day for years...anybody out there with these issues from childhood?

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