05/28/2026
It came up in my memories yesterday that five years ago I was hospitalized for what was becoming a nightmare of a health issue. I was alone and scared, and thinking the worst. I couldn't feel my feet. I couldn't lift my arms. I was dragging myself around unable to pick my feet up without pain and weakness. I know that ER's have limitations on their scope of medical conditions; that what I have is more complicated than something with a black and white diagnosis.
But I'll never ever forget the team of residents and head doctor huddled around my bed nodding while the attending physician told me it was all due to "an underlying psychiatric disorder," and then offered antidepressants as the cure. I still carry that with me like a stain, a permanent scar, a record that can't be expunged. One glimpse at my history tells medical professionals that I am just another hysterical woman and not a woman who lives every day wracked with pain and weakness, who's life has changed and been whittled down to a shell of what it used to be. I am depressed, yes, but how could anyone not be after years of dismissal, medical neglect, gaslighting able ism, a mountain of "get over its, everyone gets tireds, think positives, no one wants to read sad stuff" and living with daily pain that could probably qualify as torture.
I hope those residents had other opportunities to see how what i have is an actual physical problem and that women far too often are called hysterical, depressed, and anxious, while living with horrible symptoms and pain.
I haven't stopped trying to find answers but it is exhausting, and I fight between "why bother" and "never stop advocating" every day and I'm tired.
Anyways. Back to it. Thank you for reading ✨️