I appear to be three years too late, but for posterity I'll fling something up anyway. I'm diagnosed with this. It's a remarkable inconvenience, working by sanitised understatement. Long story. Could have inspired Lemony Snickett. As far as I'm aware so far I'm only the second non-Schizophrenic case documented in the Western world. Oh the mirth. Sorry for the irreverence - if you spend a decade in unadulterated misery attempting to enlist therapeutic aid then head online and end up faced with an almighty middenheap of gore-metal bands, cod-horror art, the sensitive musings of sensationalist pseudo-psychiatric hacks, amateur blog fiends with massive pictures of Hannibal Lecter - which one cold find a tad offensive given the personal circumstances, erotic models in states of vampiric undress and the uninspired recycling of worn Lesch-Nyhan tropes, let alone those darned lab rats with spinal damage you get rather grouchy about the whole situation. I suppose I do have a broken coccyx though. I was reliably informed once by a decidedly gifted companion that there are correlations between it and the bodily necessity for progesterone acquisition given some genetic circumstances. A rather unorthodox method admittedly, but seems bio-chemically sound. Tactile and sensory idiosyncracies also. A latter day re-establishment of benighted self-love. I'd be tempted to postulate an additional correlation relating to my idyllic, pre-school meaderings though the happy meadows of paradise, if you get that rather unsubtle euphemism. It's a bit nippy, I'll grant you, and I'm now immune to morphine, but I've had a big pile of skin grafts, and that seems to cover the physiological damage most of the time. You need a certain dry stoicism this far in. It's not a very pretty thing in particular and does create somewhat of a mess. My fingers are fine by the way - Wikipedia is rather off-track on all that. One isn't displaying DSM-defined psychotic states of consciousness at the time either and is unfortunately lucid. There's a research paper on me by a certain Dr Abdul-Hamid floating about somewhere but the journal costs 300 quid and I don't think my self-indulgence stretches quite that far. Oh well, thank Christ for the endemic compassion of the internet. Truddi Chase would have a field day.
I left another one of these dubious information panels up somewhere. Perhaps the other unlucky sod will find it. I can't imagine this gets Googled too often. I had a huge whack of accumulated research on this as well but ended up deleting it a few months back in a stress-bombarded fit of guilt-ridden pique following a catastrophic argument with someone and yet another one of those offal-y dental forrays. My god did I bugger that up. It was obscene. I suppose we could conclude that there's a directed element of shame-induced self-harm to it then. I'm sure I'm still placed on this blessed earth to answer questions though, in some form or other.
I have a feeling it's none too prudent to leave my full name as it's quite a memorable title so I'll throw in a crass allusion to someone. He sure as hell had a whale of a time too it would seem, according to the ever-benevolent Greeks.
Oh well. At least I didn't include one of the many crappy poems I've written about it.