I am so frustrated with you. I need to breathe; I cannot breathe when I'm flat on my back. I cannot breathe well without support under my arms when I'm sitting up. You have to learn how to do my changing routine without prompting from me. I beg you to help me to breathe. I do not hate you and I do not think you are an asshole. I just cannot bear up under the stress of fighting for air.
Fed up. Sick of hearing, "I'm sorry." Apologies don't erase the pain you inflict on me. You pull my pubic hair. Your nitrile gloves pull the hair from my head. Not once in a while but day in and day out. You turn me in a manner that suits you rather than in a manner that doesn't stress my body. Why won't you use the pad and sheet to turn me as one unit? Instead, you allow my body to twist as you hold me one-handed. How good you are at your job. What part of "my muscles are dying" don't you understand?
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