What Is Wrong With Me?

7k – Autobiographical

Please note: This is unedited. I haven’t even read it through a second time. This was originally the draft for a blog post I will be turning into a novella. I am not a doctor, this is not medical advice. I’m simply sharing my story.

My memory of how I got diagnosed with my first chronic illness is non-existent. I have absolutely no recollection of what happened in that doctor’s office, before or after. If you find that strange, consider that at the time I was 2 (or 3?) So it’s not particularly alarming to have forgotten that memory. My earliest memories are of already being a seasoned veteran in my appointments. I was born knowing how to sit still while the phlebotomist slipped a needle beneath the tender papery skin of my little arm. Going into the big hospital, following the purple dots on the tiled floor to the waiting room decorated to keep from scaring everyone else my age, and meeting a doctor who was very kind to me. I could not advocate for myself, nor could I beg my parents to do their own research. It was the 90’s and all they had at their hands was trust that the system would not fail me, for why would it?