Let me know if you need anything tagged for filtering purposes, I can’t promise I’ll be perfect with it but I want to try and keep my followers from being unnecessarily triggered if I can
Do not message me asking me to signal boost something for you if you haven’t interacted with me before.
If you need help putting one together, this is a link to a guide on a site for seniors in retirement but is still useful to anyone seeing doctors a lot. It mentions having printables!
If you’re interested in tracking symptoms for many different conditions in one place, and having those records turned into charts before your next appointment, I recommend the Folia Health App. It’s free and was designed by people with disabled/chronically ill loved ones for chronically ill and disabled people to use. You can turn off data collection to keep all your info private, but if you leave data collection on all they do with it is sell it to medical researchers who need data from people with your conditions—and if you keep recording consistently and your data ends up especially helpful to researchers you can even receive compensation for your time and effort to put the data in! It’s incredibly customizable, you can set up symptoms to track daily (and what meds you’re taking!) as well as add on anything that doesn’t happen as regularly as needed, and it can generate several different kinds of reports on your symptoms and how they compare and how your medication regimen might be helping (since you can easily see days you missed doses compared to any increase in symptoms, or how quickly symptoms abated when taking something as-needed). You can also save questions you have for your doctor in the app, and these will append to any report you generate for the appointment, helping you not forget about things you thought of two weeks before the appointment. It’s a really great app, and I wish I remembered to use it more.
i don’t see enough appreciation for closeted lesbians. i’m thinking of lesbians who can’t dress they way the want, or style their hair how they wish. i’m thinking about the lesbians who entertain coversations about relationships with men, or dodge questions about their dating life from family members. i’m thinking about the lesbians who have to keep their relationships secret. i’m thinking about lesbians who don’t really understand lesbian terminology and have no one to ask. i’m thinking about the lesbians who are just coming to understand their sexuality and are scared, confused, and worried. i’m thinking about the lesbians who can’t consume lgbt media and have very little positive representation, if any. i’m thinking about the lesbians who have never met anyone else like them before. i’m thinking about trans lesbians who are consistently misgendered. i’m thinking about the lesbians who are only out to a close circle of friends. i’m thinking of lesbians who are closeted because they’re dependent on others for housing, food, medication, clothing, etc.
to ALL closeted lesbians, i see you and i hold a very special place for you in my heart. protecting your safety does not make you any less valid as a lesbian. your safety and your survival always come first.
but if there’s platonic kissing whats next??!!!!????? sex without romance??????!? romance without sex?????!!!!? friendship?????? friends with benefits????!!! platonic lOVE????? staying out of other people’s business???????? WHO KNOWSS
![A screenshot of the poem "The Two-Headed Calf" by Laura Gilpin. It reads: Tomorrow when the farm boys find this freak of nature, they will wrap his body in newspaper and carry him to the museum. But tonight he is alive and in the north field with his mother. It is a perfect summer evening: the moon rising over the orchard, the wind in the grass. And as he stares into the sky, there are twice as many stars as usual. [End I.D.]](https://64.media.tumblr.com/e58cfdd45974ba1c4c6e0473f5ae850b/0907c0e9dab8e79b-a4/s500x750/2a08293eec333b28c08a6257c164ba839f2aeea4.png)
![A screenshot of the poem titled "Poem", by Langston Hughes. It is dedicated by the author "(to F.S.)" It reads: I loved my friend. He went away from me. There's nothing more to say. The poem ends, Soft as it began,— I loved my friend. End Image Description.]](https://64.media.tumblr.com/7b9ca8112778764250ddb6c5d7bc16c1/0907c0e9dab8e79b-6e/s500x750/3b23ddde474d7c884decbb6500e0dc72d68a4527.png)
![a screenshot of the poem "Miss you. Would like to grab that chilled tofu we love." by Gabrielle Calvocoressi. It reads: Do not care if you bring only your light body. Would just be so happy to sit at the table and talk about the menu. Miss you. Wish we could bet which chilis they’ll put on the cubes of tofu. Our favorite. Sometimes green. Sometimes red. Roasted we always thought. But so cold and fresh. How did they do it? Wish you could be here to talk about it like it was so important. Wish you could. Watched you on the screens as I was walking, as I was cooking. Wished you could get out of the hospital. Can’t bring myself to order our dish and eat it in the car. Miss you laughing. Miss you coming in from the cold or one too many meetings. Laughing. I’ll order already. I’ll order seven helpings, some dumplings, those cold yam noodles that you like. You can come in your light body or skeleton or be invisible I don’t even care. Know you have a long way to travel. Know I don’t even know if it’s long at all. Wish you could tell me. What you’re reading. If you’re reading. Miss you. I’m at the table in the back. [End I.D.]](https://64.media.tumblr.com/b3dc92e00550f2651d9f765529fb93e5/08e616c2300407e7-55/s500x750/e95486769f2f79bd95ac377de0a8dbc7c78af685.png)
![A screenshot of the poem "Hammond B3 Organ Cistern" by Gabrielle Calvocoressi. If you'd like to hear it read by the author, visit the link "Hammond B3 Organ Cistern" in body of post below. Otherwise, it reads: The days I don’t want to kill myself are extraordinary. Deep bass. All the people in the streets waiting for their high fives and leaping, I mean leaping, when they see me. I am the sun-filled god of love. Or at least an optimistic under-secretary. There should be a word for it. The days you wake up and do not want to slit your throat. Money in the bank. Enough for an iced green tea every weekday and Saturday and Sunday! It’s like being in the armpit of a Hammond B3 organ. Just reeks of gratitude and funk. The funk of ages. I am not going to ruin my love’s life today. It’s like the time I said yes to gray sneakers but then the salesman said Wait. And there, out of the back room, like the bakery’s first biscuits: bright-blue kicks. Iridescent. Like a scarab! Oh, who am I kidding, it was nothing like a scarab! It was like bright. blue. fucking. sneakers! I did not want to die that day. Oh, my God. Why don’t we talk about it? How good it feels. And if you don’t know then you’re lucky but also you poor thing. Bring the band out on the stoop. Let the whole neighborhood hear. Come on, Everybody. Say it with me nice and slow no pills no cliff no brains on the floor Bring the bass back. no rope no hose not today, Satan. Every day I wake up with my good fortune and news of my demise. Don’t keep it from me. Why don’t we have a name for it? Bring the bass back. Bring the band out on the stoop. Hallelujah! [End Image Description.]](https://64.media.tumblr.com/4c676c22c58a357091f4486bf80112fe/08e616c2300407e7-7b/s500x750/694d29ccf6dccb1ae78e34b00a684b1b7f52c7c1.png)
![A photographed page from a book, on which the poem "Come. And Be My Baby" by Maya Angelou is printed. It reads: The highway is full of big cars going nowhere fast And folks is smoking anything that’ll burn Some people wrap their lies around a cocktail glass And you sit wondering where you’re going to turn I got it. Come. And be my baby. Some prophets say the world is gonna end tomorrow But others say we’ve got a week or two The paper is full of every kind of blooming horror And you sit wondering What you’re gonna do. I got it. Come. And be my baby. [End I.D.]](https://64.media.tumblr.com/e868f693f4a2f7369011f195ff61cc2b/ccc742dbcd04724f-f5/s500x750/ff4815db9cc2753fe3bf29814cf80ce3ea9924db.png)
![A screenshot of the poem "Wild Geese" by Mary Oliver. If you'd like to hear it read by the author, visit the link "Wild Geese" in body of post below. Otherwise, it reads: You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home again. Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting— over and over announcing your place in the family of things. [End Image Description.]](https://64.media.tumblr.com/44c27ed064806fe8dfeb6d22927c99f4/ccc742dbcd04724f-78/s500x750/84087ca5557773eadb1bf1902c86a7716249fe80.png)
![A screenshot of the poem "Instructions on Not Giving Up" by Ada Limón. To hear it read by the author, visit the link in body of post. Otherwise, it reads: More than the fuchsia funnels breaking out of the crabapple tree, more than the neighbor’s almost obscene display of cherry limbs shoving their cotton candy-colored blossoms to the slate sky of Spring rains, it’s the greening of the trees that really gets to me. When all the shock of white and taffy, the world’s baubles and trinkets, leave the pavement strewn with the confetti of aftermath, the leaves come. Patient, plodding, a green skin growing over whatever winter did to us, a return to the strange idea of continuous living despite the mess of us, the hurt, the empty. Fine then, I’ll take it, the tree seems to say, a new slick leaf unfurling like a fist to an open palm, I’ll take it all. [End I.D.]](https://64.media.tumblr.com/b24d4393270656167bd9709d0778bed6/9f346f31f216b494-82/s500x750/50c03f681d94c93e3b42ec816b7eefcc0ae206d3.png)
![A screenshot of the poem "The Orange" by Wendy Cope. It reads: At lunchtime I bought a huge orange— The size of it made us all laugh. I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave— They got quarters and I had a half. And that orange, it made me so happy, As ordinary things often do Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park. This is peace and contentment. It’s new. The rest of the day was quite easy. I did all the jobs on my list And enjoyed them and had some time over. I love you. I’m glad I exist. [End Image Description.]](https://64.media.tumblr.com/ea6ed772e02c6f8a5644675731a7d565/9f346f31f216b494-20/s500x750/e2b4f2f7b41b9befae251084487ace2e54a9537f.png)
![A screenshot of the poem "To the Young Who Want to Die" by Gwendolyn Brooks. If you'd like to hear it read by the author, visit the link in body of post below. Otherwise, It reads: Sit down. Inhale. Exhale. The gun will wait. The lake will wait. The tall gall in the small seductive vial will wait will wait: will wait a week: will wait through April. You do not have to die this certain day. Death will abide, will pamper your postponement. I assure you death will wait. Death has a lot of time. Death can attend to you tomorrow. Or next week. Death is just down the street; is most obliging neighbor; can meet you any moment. You need not die today. Stay here—through pout or pain or peskyness. Stay here. See what the news is going to be tomorrow. Graves grow no green that you can use. Remember, green's your color. You are Spring. [End I.D.]](https://64.media.tumblr.com/84fd104732d69c855e9d2742a389bf58/5ad28a0167e37dd7-83/s500x750/9162845db0ea60d08ba35b495201ae4131773ede.png)
![a screenshot of the poem "Meditations in an Emergency" by Cameron Awkward-Rich. It reads: I wake up & it breaks my heart. I draw the blinds & the thrill of rain breaks my heart. I go outside. I ride the train, walk among the buildings, men in Monday suits. The flight of doves, the city of tents beneath the underpass, the huddled mass, old women hawking roses, & children all of them, break my heart. There’s a dream I have in which I love the world. I run from end to end like fingers through her hair. There are no borders, only wind. Like you, I was born. Like you, I was raised in the institution of dreaming. Hand on my heart. Hand on my stupid heart. End Image Description.]](https://64.media.tumblr.com/f89faac74cd326790f95e35c5fe6d688/5ad28a0167e37dd7-02/s500x750/406920a8716fc803b3ddfb18d1268e2d5bc1a99e.png)