hello, want to send love to people who cannot do even low effort/energy hobbies today.
Who spending today listening to podcast or scrolling tumblr or watching movies.
Who can't watch/listen to new media because too exhausting, instead need only simple or familiar stories.
Who doing these things sitting or lying in bed, in supportive/adaptive chairs, or supported by pillows and adaptive equipment to remain sitting.
And also to people who won't see this because scrolling tumblr too bright or too overstimulating or too exhausting. If you do see this on a different day, you're not forgotten.
It doesn't matter if other people see your hobbies as low effort, and can't imagine why you can't do them today. Your body is not theirs. You're the one living in it, you know what's achievable for you today.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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when rest and "lazy days" stop being optional, you eventually stop enjoying it. i don't even know how to relax anymore. there's barely any relaxation in rest for me, it's all forced by a sick body.
Today I will list the things that cause a sudden flare up of my condition:
1. Nothing.
Like for real, it’s the butterfly effect, it’s ocean currents, it’s nothing or everything—but I can tell you what it’s not. It’s not my ‘fault’ or due to some laxity of routine. Chronic conditions gonna chronic.
Have one? You don’t have to play 20 questions with yours either. Stuff happens. ❤️
trying to figure out What is causing a flare up will have u behaving like a rogue detective on the brink of collapse connecting a bunch of red string to a cork board. What does it all mean . .... ........
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
The reader in this fic has ME/CFS and uses a wheelchair, but I think any chronically ill person could relate with this situation. Especially if you have ME, CRPS, migraines, fibro, etc.
Basic information about ME
Chronically ill/disabled reader Masterlist
Main Masterlist
The world spins as you stand to slide your pants off. You reach back, bracing yourself on the arm of your wheelchair before lowering yourself back down.
You can feel a flare coming on. It’s evident in the stars in your vision, the throbbing pain behind your eyes that spreads through your whole brain, squeezing your thoughts to push. Your limbs feel so heavy, and your trembling is pronounced.
But you push through. At least you try to. Steve has been talking about going to this restaurant for months now. It was a big deal when he secured a reservation, and you don’t want to be the reason he misses it.
Your breath comes in ragged pants as you pull your dress on. The fabric scratches against your skin, feeling like nails. You stifle a whimper as you lean forward to pull it down your torso.
You take a breath to lean your head against your hand, unable to hold it up anymore as you struggle to catch your breath. Your limbs have gone all tingly, and pain shoots through your legs despite them sitting still on your footplate.
You brace yourself for the pain before attempting to wiggle the dress down your hips. The burning in your legs intensifies, and they shake from your attempted movement. “Baby, are you okay?” Steve asks.
Your eyes snap up to see him leaning against the doorframe, already dressed in a button down shirt and slacks.
“Yeah, of course,” you respond, your voice shaky and breathily. You try to force a smile, but it doesn’t convince Steve.
He makes his way over to you, resting one hand on your armrest and stroking your forehead with the other. “You’ve got a fever, luvie,”
You groan. You frequently get fevers when your ME/CFS symptoms flare, an undeniable sign of a crash.
“It’s fine! I’m fine,” you insist.
“We are not going,” Steve states, his voice quiet but firm.
“No, Steve, you’ve waited so long for this and-”
“None of that,” Steve scolds, “You are more important than any stuffy restaurant. And if I’m being honest, I’d rather stay in bed and cuddle with you,”
You know Steve is just trying to make you feel better, and it makes your heart swell. Steve gently grips the hem of your dress, careful to pull the fabric away from your skin as he peels it off. He pulls a pair of silk pajamas out of the closet before unhooking your bra. The act isn’t sexual, but it is heartwarmingly intimate.
You allow Steve to dress you, using those strong hands so gently. He loops one arm under your ass to pull you upright against his chest so he can pull your pants on. You wince against his chest, trying to stifle your sounds of pain and squeezing your eyes shut as everything spins.
“I know, darlin’, I’m sorry,” Steve whispers against your ear.
You reach for your push rims, but Steve reaches the handle bars first. He rolls you into your bedroom and parks your chair next to the bed at a 90 degree angle.
“You ready, baby?” Steve asks gently.
You nod, jaw already clamped shut. Steve sides one arm under your knees, the other around your back, and lifts you effortlessly from your chair.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Steve mumbles at your sharp inhales of pain.
“'S okay,” you grit out as he lays you down gently on the bed.
Steve disappears, and you don’t understand why until the overhead lights go off. You sigh in relief as the throbbing behind your eyes fades slightly.
“Lamp, fairy lights, or no lights?” Steve asks.
“Just one strand of the fairy light, please,”
A faint, warm glow lights the space as Steve plugs them in. It’s enough light for them to see each other's faces in bed, but not enough to burn her eyes.
The mattress sinks to your left, and you roll over to face Steve.
“Thank you, baby,” you whisper, “I’m sorry,”
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Steve responds, laying down next to you while slightly propped up on the pillows.
“Can you hold me, please?” You whimper as the pain continues to rack your body.
“Are you sure, luv? I know you’re hurting and must be hot,”
“Please, I just need you to hold me,” you whisper, “you make it easier,”
Tears prickle Steve's eyes and he opens his arms. You crawl into the, face twitching with pain until you’re settled against his chest. His heartbeat is a comforting pulse under your ear, drowning out the ringing in your brain.
Steve watches as your face starts to relax and you melt into him. He can still see the lines of pain in your expression, and your breath hitches and catches frequently as your body attacks itself.
“My strong girl,” he whispers, kissing the top of your head.
“Can you talk to me?” You ask against his chest, your words slurring with fatigue and pain.
“About what, angel?”
“Anything. Everything. Something good. You,” You mumble.
“Okay, baby, tap my chest if it’s too much or I need to be quiet,”
Steve whispers in your ear for the rest of the evening. You drift in and out of consciousness, stirring away every so often from the pain before the bone crushing fatigue pulls you back under.
But every time you wake, Steve is still right there. You catch snippets of stories about his time in the army. His life growing up. Missions he’s been on. His dreams for his future with you. Stories other avengers have told you.
He wakes you once, coxing you to take your night meds and slow sips of cold water. Steve unplugs the lights at some point, and you’re grateful as the pressure in your head grows. But his strong arms and gentle words anchor you from sinking fully into the pain. He really is perfect.
