I’m not proud to say it, but I’ll say it anyway. I have wished my illness on a number of my doctors. At times when they have all but rolled their eyes at me, as I struggled to sit upright, muscles fatiguing, heart pumping desperately to fight a losing battle to deliver blood to my brain. I have thought to myself that someone who is so disrespectful of another human experience that they will flat out deny a person is even ill because of negative lab results, no matter how much a person is suffering, and no matter how clear it is that something is wrong, deserves to sit in the hell of autonomic dysfunction and watch their own skepticism eat at them from the inside out. And that is precisely what happened to me.
Sick as I was, I continued to push myself. I continued to blame my body, because I had no understanding or explanation for why it was acting the way it was. I look at the way I viewed those around me, and sometimes still do. It is the same as the way I treated myself. Its true of all who suffer that they are ill. Perhaps not so literally or physically as I was. I blame them. The lazy. The poor. The obese. The drug addicted. I blame them because I have no understanding or explanation for why they act the way they do. Even my doctors. Such a skepticism is an illness. Such a lack of empathy and trust is a symptom. And so it happened. I rotted away in the hell of a broken body and watched my skepticism eat at me from the inside out. And yes, it works. It’s slow and I am hard headed, but I have been held down so long and so harshly, that I have seen that we are all misunderstood. Perhaps I am hard headed enough that I needed the most literal of experiences to show me. I no longer wish my illness on the worst of my doctors. I wish for a gentle healing and insight.