Birthday Nightmare.

My most memorable birthday was 19.

I woke up ready to greet the day and kick its ass, but the first thing I heard was a loud curse and  a summons from the parental units to get our asses (our being ‘the kids’ of course) downstairs. The freezer’s padlock had been breached and a lot of food had been made off with. Some of it was my own, bought with my own personal budget.

I was one of those accused of stealing food.

I was losing weight at an alarming rate because I was too stressed to eat most of the time, the others were gaining weight and showing signs of their food allergies popping off.

“If nobody says anything you’re all getting it.”

Looks are passed around. Two of them are right at me. My father at least obviously knows it isn’t me but he doesn’t say anything. Stepmom has to exercise a rapidly dwindling authority (things have gotten strange by this point).

I am the first example made. Several lashes with an extension cord. At this point in time I have so much hatred for this woman that it is almost a game to outdo her. I get the worst of it because I refuse to break under the abuse, or falsely confess to stealing what the majority of which was my own fucking food. I slide myself into a state of mind where the stinging lashes aren’t pleasant, per se, but if I had to deal with it, I damn well wasn’t about to lose. It was about vindication now.

Later that day I would find, walking home from my overloaded semesterload, a one-way metro ticket with a time frame that gave me ample time to decide my ultimate decision to run away from that house—it had never been home.

…that’s the last birthday that stuck with me this long. This one’s the next. We’ll call this whole thing one big nightmare.

As if it needs preamble, waking up was crippling disabling nightmare territory, as almost every day during the week is now. As much as I’d wanted to just stay put and recover I had to go to the doctor, for that first thing in the morning appointment.

Things start off badly when I find out that the upstairs and downstairs do not communicate. My pronouns have not made the ten foot vertical travel downstairs. I have to bite the doctor and nurses’ heads off.

“Well it’s not like this happens often, I mean ovaries means woman right?”

“So you mean you’ve never had a trans individual here?”

Doctor’s expression is one of horror here as he realizes his gaffe. I go over my pronouns again as I casually glance at the chart that’s being filled out on the computer, and see the diagnosis program on the computer. Several things jump out at me there:

  • I’m filed under heterosexual (HAHAHAHAHAHAAH *WheeZe* HAHAHAHAHA)
  • PTSD is still listed off the main list: there is an “other” box where they filled it out.
  • Apparently I have a diagnosis of major depressive disorder that they’re not treating me for.

That out of the way, I’m popped onto the table and given the results of my bloodwork. Everything is normal except there are some …abnormalities with my thyroid. They’re running that one again. My blood count is normal.

…except my white blood cell count when taken from other locations is elevated. Places where there shouldn’t be WBC.

I explain the pain location, the appetite loss, the weight loss (unintentional), the digestive issues, everything. The area is PAINFULLY examined externally. I am examined elsewhere PAINFULLY internally.

“…they sent you to the wrong doctor. They waited too long to send you anywhere and they sent you to the wrong doctor to do it. They should have sent you to a gastro, they should have done an ultrasound. I wish this was a fibroid—that’s something I could do something about.”

We still don’t know what’s going on. I have an ultrasound sometime next week, moving significantly faster than previously. But we still don’t know what’s going  on. Wrong side for gall bladder. Wrong side for appendix. It’s not fibroid tumors.

I’m sick and we still don’t know why.

All we can do is find out how bad it is.


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