Crohn's disease

No good Data because no has done trial. No one has done human studies on L. Reuteri LR08 . No studies means nothing the LR08 healed all my Crohn’s symptoms inflammation markers went to normal in about two weeks. It’s lasted about six months now. I am still trying to recover from damage done by fda approved prednisone. Because I was told to that benefits out way the risks. I took several risks with many biological drugs that never fully relived the all symptoms completely and fail after 6 months. Help me make sense out of this ideology that we should only trust these human trial studies that no one will approve unless they can make big money

It has helped some but I was going to get dry needled and other PT work. Had an issue with my crohns flaring and took prednisone (4 day taper) and all the pain/inflammation went away after 1 day. Grip strength is back stronger with my right hand and that is where the tennis elbow was. So get you some prednisone from your doc

Cannabis is the only thing that gets me through Crohn’s pain. I wouldn’t be able to manage without it, and I’m lucky that my career has always been friendly and open about cannabis use (former college educator, now freelance writer). I have received some judgement though — people judge you for using cannabis for the pain and then they judge you for being in a bad mood because you’re in so much pain. Sometimes it feels like you can’t win. Is there any way you can work around it? Like did you just need to pass a test to get the job, or would something like CBD help?

What Am I Supposed to Do? I don't want to hang up my dad because he is aggressive and was abusive. I'm scared of him and I feel uncomfortable but because he's helping me up financially I feel guilty and feel like that I have to Sometimes, I sit with the sinking realisation that this isn’t even a good relationship. At all. And what hurts even more is that I’ve known it deep down for a long time—but I’m stuck. Not just emotionally or mentally, but financially too. I fear that if I cut off contact with my parents, it might give me a sense of pride, independence, maybe even some peace, but it would also bring intense suffering. Because in this world—especially in this economy—it’s extremely hard to support yourself when you’re 24, just starting out, and dealing with health issues every single day. I feel like I’m in a lose-lose situation. Staying in contact with them feels like slow psychological torture. But cutting them off might push me into financial ruin, force me into burnout just to survive, and maybe even worsen my health. And my health already isn’t great. It’s not just mental anymore—it’s physical, real, undeniable. I experience pain and symptoms that doctors don’t always understand. But I know in my gut—and my gut has always been one of the problem areas—that much of it is related to years of chronic stress, abuse, invalidation, and trauma. I have Crohn’s disease, which I’ve had most of my life. I achieved remission by finding the right medication and doctor myself, not through my parents’ support but only financially. As a child, I was taken to numerous doctors who repeatedly called my condition “indeterminate,” leaving me without clarity. I had to solve it on my own. Even now, after years of managing it, they doubt my approach, mocking my interest in holistic or functional medicine and calling me extreme. But where were they when I was in pain, seeking answers, and needed support? All they ever gave me was shame. Even their attempts at encouragement now to make up for their mistakes fall flat . It seems so fake and too late . The physical violence didn’t help, either. It still haunts me. My father used to beat and kick me. Not just when I was small, but even when I was a teenager. Even when I was old enough to understand how wrong it was. And it wasn’t “discipline.” It was rage. It was control. He would call it “arguing” whenever I tried to explain myself. But it wasn’t arguing—it was me trying to have a voice. And him trying to silence it. Once, he fractured my finger. He said it was an accident. But how can you “accidentally” hurt someone when you’re filled with rage and grabbing them during a so-called “argument”? My therapist said I could have reported him to the police. I didn’t. Because if “reputation” and not wanting to tear the family apart. He owes me that reputation. He owes me so much more than he’ll ever admit. Now, he doesn’t hit me anymore—but the emotional violence continues. Every time I talk to him, I brace myself for the possibility of aggression. I hope he’ll be kind, supportive, changed. And every time, I’m disappointed. Every time, I’m reminded that healing doesn’t come from people who refuse to acknowledge the damage they caused. My mother is slightly better—but only just. She still doesn’t understand what I need. She doesn’t understand why I still want their validation. She sees it as weakness. She says I’m annoying, overly sensitive. She doesn’t realise that every harsh word confirms the belief I’ve spent years trying to unlearn: that I am too much, and yet somehow not enough. So no, I don’t feel comfortable around them. How could I? There’s no honesty. No accountability. No consistency. I live with the fear that at any moment, I’ll be triggered again. And when I am, I spiral. Every time I seek help, it leads to conflict. I try to make appointments, see doctors, and explore therapy, just wanting answers for my physical pain, mental exhaustion, and emotional chaos. But when I casually mention it to my dad, he reacts as if seeking clarity is a sin or wanting to feel safe in my body is crazy. He calls me a doctor addict, dramatic, and broken. Sometimes, I believe him. I feel ashamed for seeking help and worry about judgment from people and doctors. His voice lingers, even in doctors’ office : Everyone thinks you’re crazy and stupid for chasing answers. But I’m not crazy. I’m just desperate. Desperate for peace, for healing, for the chance to breathe without pain—physical or emotional. I’ve wanted to off myself many times. There have been so many nights where I just wanted to disappear. Not because I want to die, but because I don’t want to live like this. I don’t want to live in a state of constant conflict, shame, pain, and fear. I think of the consequences. I think of my dreams and —hope that maybe I’ll be out of this hell of a situation if I hang on long enough. That hope has kept me alive. But it also keeps me stuck. Dreaming of a future that feels further and further away, trapped in a present that feels like hell. There’s no relief. I don’t self-harm. I don’t end it. I just sit in this boiling pot of pain and wait for the temperature to change. I feel like I’m going mad. Not because I’m inherently broken, but because I’m surrounded by people who won’t let me get better. I feel so misunderstood. My parents think I’m exaggerating. They dismiss everything. They say I’m lazy when I’m fatigued. They say I’m weak when I cry. They say I’m unstable when I’m overwhelmed. Even with doctors now—some of them are decent. Some of them listen. But still, I feel judged. Because that voice—his voice—is always in my head. Making me doubt my experience. Making me question whether I even deserve care. Today I had a doctor’s appointment. It was a new place that offers some medical coverage as part of my internship. I was hopeful. Hopeful that maybe I could use this opportunity to get a referral, to take a small step toward feeling better. But when my dad found out, he got angry. Again. I said I wanted to get a referral. He asked, “What for?” I told him, “A specialist.” And just like that, it escalated into a massive fight. He said I was insane for always wanting to see doctors. But what he doesn’t understand is that I’m not doing this for fun. I’m doing this because I need answers. Because I need relief. Because I don’t want to feel like I’m being slowly erased by invisible suffering. I need someone to help me piece together the puzzle of my health. I need someone to say, “You’re not crazy. You’re not making this up. Let’s figure it out together.” Is that so wrong? I want answers not because I’m obsessed, but because the not-knowing is what drives my anxiety. It’s their behavior that’s pushing me to the edge—not my desire to get better. I did see a psychologist before, years ago. But at the time, my dad was still physically violent. He was throwing things. Threatening me. And my mum—she thought one round of therapy should have “fixed” me. She didn’t understand that healing isn’t linear. That you don’t go to therapy once and magically become fine. She told me I should have more self-control. That I should be disciplined. That I should help myself. But how can I help myself when I’ve never been taught how? How can I build a routine, eat properly, stay consistent with exercise, when every part of my day is interrupted by pain—physical, mental, emotional? I try. I really do. I try to journal, to eat healthy, to meditate. But it’s so hard to make those habits stick when my brain is screaming from the inside. Sometimes I wonder if I have ADHD. Or maybe it’s just anxiety. Or maybe it’s the trauma. Maybe it’s all three. What I know is this: I need guidance. I need someone to show me I’m on the right track. I need validation. Support. Not shame. Not constant criticism. Not eye-rolls and name-calling when I say I’m trying something new to help myself. My parents think I want help because I’m lazy. They think I’m just trying to avoid responsibility. But the truth is, I want to be independent. I want to be strong. But I can’t do it unless I’m well. I need therapy. I need coaching. I need time. If they supported me in getting those things, I know I’d be closer to standing on my own two feet. Instead, I’m constantly playing defense. Defending my pain. Defending my choices. Defending my right to exist as I am. And I’m tired. I’m tired of being misunderstood by the people who were supposed to protect me. I’m tired of living under the weight of unprocessed trauma and untreated illness. I’m tired of hoping they’ll change. But mostly, I’m tired of not knowing what to do. Because all I want—truly—is to feel safe. In my body. In my mind. In my relationships. And in this world. Is that too much to ask?

I've got Crohn's disease and have injured both my shoulders (same as you, bursitis/impingements) as well as both my knees (patellar tendonitis) and after months of physical therapy, they just won't heal. Since I'm out of options, I ordered some BPC-157 and plan on injecting. I'm surprised to hear it has helped your stomach! This makes me optimistic since i've had autoimmune complications since I was in middle school.