The Cost of Not Being Believed

Content Notes / Trigger Warnings: seizures, medical trauma, dismissal/gaslighting, falling, injury, anxiety being used as a weapon, strong language.

Welcome back to the Cryptid’s Den.

This is The Crippled Cryptid– a soft-lit corner of the internet where disability, chronic illness, service dogs, and everyday survival magic gather like familiar spirits who know when to sit quietly and when to laugh too loud.

If you’re new here: hi. I’m Sky.

Professional cryptid.
Unwilling amateur cyborg.
Medically interesting enough to make half my providers sigh when they open my chart. I sigh too.

I live in a haunted meat suit with a deeply suspicious warranty. I spend a lot of time in Bed Jail™. I am almost never alone thanks to my medical alert service dog, Luna- part guardian, part shadow, part “excuse me, Mama, sit your ass down right now.”

This space is about showing up for ourselves even when our bodies refuse to cooperate.
Chronic illness without inspiration porn.
Disability without apologies.
Love without pretending it’s easy.

Returning cryptids: welcome home.
New cryptids: pull up a chair.
Welcome to the Lunatic Café. The Den is big enough for all of us.

On today’s menu: The Cost of Not Being Believed.

There is a cost that comes with chronic illness and disability that people rarely factor in- one higher than any copay, deductible, or insurance premium.

It’s the cost of not being believed.

Most of us know this cost intimately. We pay it in exam rooms. At front desks. In hospital hallways. In the careful way we choose our words so we don’t sound too dramatic or too calm or too informed or too unsure. We make sure that we don’t sound like we’ve been in too many chatrooms, or like we’ve been talking to “Dr. Google.” Right?

But it hits differently when that disbelief comes from someone you love. Someone you trust. Someone you assumed would be safe. Someone you talk to almost every day, and you think of as part of your family whether you share blood or not.

Today, at the time of writing this, I met that disbelief head-on.

And it fucking hurt.

More than the throbbing in my mouth from biting my tongue.
More than my wounded pride.
More than I have words for.

A friend stopped by today. M&M was downstairs on the phone, brushing Luna, and I went upstairs to talk. I know what you’re thinking- I say it to myself all the time- never leave Luna anywhere. I need her.

And I do.

I thought it would be a quick, friendly conversation.

The kind that makes you feel better after a long day.

The kind that makes you feel lighter.

Better. Happier. Good.

It wasn’t.

I haven’t been feeling well for days. I suspected I was coming down with something, likely triggered by the six-day continuous heart monitor and the so-called “skin safe” adhesive that absolutely was not safe for my skin. The one that I got to take off for good on Sunday. Not for someone like me. My chest still bears the rings: burned, scabbed, peeling. A chemical peel masquerading as medical care.

But that’s not even the point.

Partway through the conversation, I realized I couldn’t handle it. I told him I wasn’t feeling well. That I was dizzy. I told him I needed M&M- using her real name, not a nickname. That alone should have mattered.

You see, I rarely call her by her real name, even to our friends and family.

He talked over me.

When I stepped forward, the world tilted. Then vanished.

I hit the floor.

I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t know where I was. There was an internal shaking in my head that felt wrong in a way my body immediately recognized.

I don’t know if I convulsed.
I don’t know what my body looked like.

I only know what I heard.

His voice.

Telling me that when I get anxious, I hold my breath.
That I make myself dizzy.
That I pass out on purpose.

This is not true.

You cannot force seizures upon yourself.

If I were capable of causing this, I wouldn’t be walking around with chemical burns from cardiac monitoring. I wouldn’t have diagnoses. I wouldn’t have documentation. I wouldn’t have scars.

But there he was, narrating me.

I vaguely heard BJ- the Yard Yeti- come into the kitchen. I heard my “friend” say it again.

“She’s just anxious.”

That I do this to myself.
That I cause it.

I asked BJ later how I ended up on the floor.

He said, simply, that I fell.

I remember asking for M&M. I remember thinking I had a seizure. I remember saying I needed the hospital.

Again, the voice overrode me.

Anxiety.
Not a seizure.
Because it didn’t look like TV.

No dramatic thrashing. No zombie eyes. No theatrics.

Just confusion. Fear. Tears. Loss of control.

M&M didn’t question it.

That’s what partners do.

She has seen my seizures. She held me through the one on December 12th. She spoke to the EMTs. She has been to the appointments. She has seizures herself.

She knows.

Belief looks like listening.

They tried to help me down the stairs.

I fell again.

If it weren’t for BJ and M&M, I would have been seriously hurt.

Even then, the commentary continued.

Anxiety.
Doing it to myself.
Making it worse.

My blood pressure climbed. My body shook. I had fallen twice. None of that mattered.

Only his interpretation mattered.

Truth didn’t.
Diagnosis didn’t.

I tried to get up to go to the bathroom- because seizures sometimes come with bitten tongues and loss of bladder control, and also because I needed to get away.

I nearly fell again.

BJ and M&M held me upright.

Luna was nearby, doing her job. Doing her best. Being the Best Girl™.

She was not forgotten.

After he left, I nearly threw up.

M&M put me on concussion watch. Maybe it was the kitchen floor. Maybe the stair wall. Maybe both.

She changed the batteries in the blood pressure cuff. Even thirty minutes later, my BP was 181/64. My pulse jumped between 87 and 106.

She warmed soup because I hadn’t eaten.
She got ginger ale.
She told me to stay in bed while she made tomato sauce for chicken parm.

Care sounds like that.

Belief sounds like that.

I didn’t stay in bed.

I’m sitting at my desk typing this, which is the last place I should be- and the only place I can stand to exist.

Because I am humiliated.

I feel dehumanized.

This is the part of chronic illness and disability people don’t see.

They love the idea of being supportive- until your reality doesn’t match the version they recognize.

Then you’re dismissed.
Overwritten.
Reduced.

That’s why I’m here.
With Luna staring holes through me.

Because I needed to get this out.

Because it hurts.

It hurts more than the back of my head.
More than my tongue.

It just fucking hurts.

If you’ve been here- if you’ve been told it was anxiety, or exaggeration, or something you caused- I believe you.

You are not broken because your suffering doesn’t perform.

Love you. Now say it back.

-Sky

© The Crippled Cryptid
Disability, honesty, and a little chaos.

If you’re here, you belong here.
If today was heavy, thank you for carrying it with me.
If you’re reading from Bed Jail™, give your service dog an extra scritch for me.

🔗 https://linktr.ee/skylanarissa

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