(Regrettably, our local university is the main reason that county STD rates are the second-highest in the state (the highest-ranking county is home to a naval base). Outbreaks are common and rather a grim joke with local healthcare providers. The county has purchased a new emergency radio system and one of their officers has arrived to train our staff on how to use the equipment.)
Instructor: “The great thing about this system is that it is linked to over two hundred towers, state-wide. This means that if you need to, you can communicate not only throughout the county, but with other jurisdictions as well. For example; let’s say you have to set up some kind of emergency clinic at the University for… I don’t know, what’s an epidemic that the students might experience there?”
Me: *without thinking* “Probably chlamydia.”
(My boss shushed me, but our director of nursing almost fell off her chair from laughing so hard.)
Clinic, Houston, Texas, USA | Healthy | December 14, 2017
(I recently got home from an overseas trip. On the flight back I caught a fever and started having stomach issues. A few days later, I had to switch out with my father when driving because I didn’t feel like I could both drive and focus on breathing. I’ve always had asthma, but usually only have had issues when exercising and breathing very cold air. However, this is the second event in around a month where I couldn’t identify a trigger and the breathing problems lasted for a long time. The first time I went to the emergency room, was told it was a panic attack, and was sent home. When things didn’t clear up, I went to the school clinic where they said it was my asthma — not a spasm like I was used to, but inflammation — and gave me medication. Things cleared up. Because it is only a little after New Year’s, my mom doesn’t think our GP can fit us in quickly enough, so we head to an emergency clinic. Our new insurance only allows us to go to one chain in the area, and it’s 30 minutes away. There isn’t a doctor available, so we confirm we are fine with seeing the head nurse. I’m used to journalling some aspects of my health due to things like adult onset allergies, and have written specifics of the start and stop of the symptoms in a notebook, along with details from the other attack. Sometimes I also have difficulty speaking because of my focusing on my breathing.)
Mom: “She’s been having trouble breathing. We were here a couple days ago because she had a stomach bug.”
Nurse: “Can you describe when this started?”
Me: “Um, I noticed I had to focus to breathe. I was really aware of my breathing. It started last night, I guess? Um— I wrote it down, if it’s easier.”
(I hand her the notebook. She looks through it, but she looks skeptical.)
Nurse: “Okay, I know what’s going on here. Honey, you’re having a panic attack.”
Me: “I don’t think it’s a panic attack! It happened before around a month ago. I have asthma—”
Nurse: “The emergency guys thought that was a panic attack, too. Listen, I know you don’t want to hear this, but this is in your brain.”
(This sets me off for multiple reasons, one of which being that I DO have anxiety, but it is controlled and not the kind that results in panic attacks. Another being that I’ve been misdiagnosed with “stress pains” by my father’s urologist, who was checking for kidney stones, when we later found out I had some muscle issues in that area that were easily taken care of with physical therapy. I should also note my mother has been making some comments, but I can’t exactly remember them. She’s mostly worried.)
Me: “But the other doctor said it was asthma! I’ve had people dismiss things like this before! But when it was checked out by someone else they found something! I have anxiety, but I get those! I don’t have this problem!”
Nurse: “So you just keep going to doctors till they say what you want to hear. But I’m telling you, this is a panic attack. You said in your notes that talking is difficult, but you’re talking fine now. You seem fine. You just need to accept this. Maybe call your therapist or psychiatrist.”
(She ended the appointment. I was pretty hysterical once we returned home. I have been well functioning for years and even though I didn’t believe the nurse, she put the idea in my head that I was as well off as I thought. I should also note my mom is of the generation that often writes things off as stress, and seemed to be taking the nurse’s side, or at least playing devil’s advocate, adding to my stress. I blubbered to my mom and eventually my psychiatrist’s hotline. [Psychiatrist] quickly wrote a prescription for anxiety, but was very firm in telling me most of her patients didn’t end up using it and that often having it in their possession helped. She also said that if I felt I needed it to only take half and assess how I felt. Honestly, I didn’t feel any different. Later, my mom apologized that she helped upset me and called our GP. )
Mom: “[Doctor] made an opening for you tomorrow. Guess what she said, though, when I told her everything that happened?”
Me: “…what?”
Mom: “In her experience asthmatics usually have panic attacks because they can’t f****** breathe.”
(My GP gave me a steroid inhaler and I started breathing better in a few days. I later went to my asthma and allergy doctor and found out I have a new severe allergy to dust mites, something that aggravates asthma. F*** you, nurse.)
Medical Office, New York, USA | Healthy | December 13, 2017
(I have been getting flu like symptoms for a week or so every month for about a year and finally made myself an appointment to see the doctor. I had to switch primary care physicians for insurance reasons. This is my first appointment with a new doctor. When I go to see him, I also happen to have some mild allergy symptoms including a stuffy nose, which I am used to.)
Doctor: “So, what can we do for you today?”
Me: “Well, for the past year or so I have been getting flu like symptoms about a week out of each month.” *my voice is sort of muffled and you can tell I have a stuffy nose*
Doctor: “Seems like you have a cold there.”
Me: “No, it’s just allergies. I’m always like this this time of year.”
Doctor: “There’s really not much I can do for a cold. I can prescribe you some antihistamines.”
Me: “I’m fine, thanks. I already take them, and this is just normal allergies.”
Doctor: “You know, with your asthma, allergies can worsen your breathing.”
Me: “Yeah, I know, that’s why I am on three medications for it. Anyway, for like a week each month I get a mild fever and body aches, sometimes headaches. This has been going on for a year.”
Doctor: “I am going prescribe you a Z-Pak just in case, so your cold doesn’t get worse.”
(Writes out a prescription.)
Me: “No, that’s okay. Like I said, this is allergies, I am not here for that.”
Doctor: “Here you go.” *hands me prescription* “Come back in a week if you’re not better.” *leaves the room*
(Needless to say I left angry and never went back to that practice. Oh, and it turned out I had Lyme disease.)
Medical Office, New York, USA | Healthy | December 13, 2017
(I have noticed a small bald spot at the top of my hairline. Concerned, I make an appointment with a dermatologist to get it looked at.)
Nurse: “Okay, what seems to be the problem?”
Me: “I noticed I have a small bald spot on my head and am concerned about it.”
Nurse: *looks at the spot* “Oh, that doesn’t look to bad. Don’t worry about it, hon. I’ll have the doctor come in and help you.”
Me: “Okay, thank you.”
(I then wait about half an hour on the exam table until the doctor finally comes in to the room. He sits down in a chair without acknowledging me and reads my chart. He then stands up and leaves the room. About five minutes later he comes back in and walks towards me without speaking. I see a large syringe in his hand. He reaches up to my head with the syringe and is about to inject me when I back away from him.)
Me: “Okay, wait. What are you doing? What’s the syringe for?”
Doctor: “I need to give you an injection.”
Me: “Why, what’s the problem?”
Doctor: “You have a spot of alopecia. This will help it.”
Me: “What is in the syringe?”
Doctor: “Steroids. It’s fine.”
(The doctor then proceeded to grab my head and injected the area with the huge syringe. He disposed of it, took off his gloves, and left the room giving me no information about the condition, what caused it, or if it would go away. I left there pretty angry and worried. Thank god for the Internet because I was able to do enough research on it to not freak out. It cleared up and hasn’t been a problem since but, Jesus Christ, talk to your patients before stabbing them in the head with a needle.)
(The dentist’s assistant has treated me like a child the whole time because I said I have a needle phobia. Important note: I am in therapy for this, and the coping mechanism I learned was to steel myself for it, to watch it. I know most nurses think that it’s better not to watch, but I got the phobia from a bunch of medical students practicing on me at age 10, and not letting me say no or have any control over the situation at all. They practiced until my parents came in and threatened them. Since then, I have needed to prepare and watch.)
Assistant: “So we’re going to give you some numbing, okay, sweetie?”
Me: “Okay. Just tell me when you’re using the needle. I need to know.”
Assistant: “Of course, honey. Now I’m just going to make sure your teeth are squeaky clean for the procedure.”
(She starts using different tools, and I let my mind wander… until I feel a needle pierce my gums. I jump.)
Me: *mumbling because of her hand* “Hey! I told you to tell me!”
Assistant: “Tell you what, sweetie?”
Me: “When you used the needle!”
Assistant: “There’s no needle, silly!”
(I push my tongue against the side. I can also feel it on my lips. This is freaking me out worse than if she had told me.)
Me: “Uh-huh!”
Assistant: “Stop being ridiculous!” *finishes the injection, pulls out the needle* “There. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
(I started having flashbacks so I couldn’t even respond. I got up and ran into the bathroom, barricading the door. The dental assistant acted confused and surprised and asked me what’s wrong. I didn’t answer her. The dentist ended up rescheduling my appointment, but brushed it off when I told him what she did. I didn’t let her touch me again
Will Have To Reorient Your Understanding On Lifestyle
Canada, Medical Office, Ontario | Healthy | December 12, 2017
(My husband is an RNA, and the doctor asks him to explain the procedure going forward to a patient who is experiencing symptoms relating to diet and lack of exercise.)
Husband: “So, the doctor has told you that many of your symptoms are related to diet and lack of exercise. I’m going to go over some programs you can take advantage of to help change your lifestyle.”
Patient: *startled* “I have to change my lifestyle?!”
Husband: “Yes, your going to have to change it completely if you want to start feeling better. I have some brochures here for the various programs we are going to offer to get you signed up for. They all offer professionals in various fields who can help you learn how to incorporate these changes into your routine so they became a natural part of your life.”
Patient: *getting up, trying to gather her jacket and purse to leave, while shaking and clearly outraged* “I can’t believe you are asking me to join these programs! I always told my husband he was being silly, no one was trying to change lifestyles and that he was just wrong, but he’s right! I can’t believe this is happening. The news is going to hear about this!”
(Then she stormed out. My poor confused husband told the doctor what happened, and the doctor called the patient later in the day to try to find out what set her off. It turned out she didn’t understand that the doctor’s office was trying to set her up with a dietician, a charity-supervised walking group, a swim aerobics class, and publicly-offered healthy cooking classes. She legitimately thought that the ‘professional services’ would help her seamlessly change her ‘lifestyle’ to gay
Dentist, Louisiana, USA | Healthy | December 11, 2017
(For some reason, all of my baby teeth didn’t come out on their own, so at 13 I had to have all four of my canines removed. The dentist removes the ones on the left side without issue and I go back a few weeks later to have the ones on the right removed. The bottom one comes out easily enough but when the dentist tries to pull out the top one, he winds up roughly yanking my head forward.)
Me: *yelps but keeps mouth open* “Ow! That hurt!”
Dentist: *grasps my tooth again and tries to wiggle it* “Hmm, looks like it’s still got the root. That’s weird.”
Me: “Does it need cutting out?”
Dentist: “Nah, it just means you have to open your mouth wider.”
Me: *frowning* “It doesn’t get wider than that.”
Dentist: “Sure, you can.”
(He then proceeds to put one hand in my mouth and tries to force my mouth open wider than is physically possible. My jaw makes a loud, clicking sort of pop as he does and I shout in pain then, without thinking, I bite down on his hand. HARD. He screams and he and his assistant pry my mouth open. I’m given another shot of Novocaine and he finally RIPS my tooth out. He gives me the tooth as a souvenir and his assistant packs the holes in my mouth then sends me on my way. I can’t get out to my mom out fast enough and refuse to let her schedule a follow-up or the cleaning I’m due.)
Mom: *as we’re getting in the car* “What was that screaming? Was that you?”
Me: “Nope, I bit the dentist. And I bit him good, too.”
Mom: *shocked* “Oh, my god, [My Name]! Why?!”
(I relate what happened and she stares at me with her mouth hanging open.)
Mom: *muttering as we drive off* “We are NOT coming back here. Ever. And I’m telling everyone I know to never come here.”
(About a year later the dentist closed his practice.)
Chicago, Grocery Store, USA | Healthy | December 11, 2017
(I’m out grocery shopping, and I’m having trouble finding something, so I go to find a store employee. It’s worth noting that I’m a very petite blond woman in my early thirties.)
Me: “Excuse me, do you happen to know where the VapoRub is?”
Stocker: “Oh, yeah, it’s over here.”
(He hands me a tub of the stuff formulated for babies, and I thank him and immediately swap it out for a jar of the menthol mint formula.)
Stocker: “Ma’am, you don’t want to use that stuff with your kids. It’ll be too strong for them.”
Me: “Well, that’s good, because I don’t have kids.”
Stocker: “What’s it for, then?”
Me: “Cadavers. I’m a pathologist, and peppermint oil just doesn’t last through the workday. Water deaths, especially; you would not believe the smell…”
(The guy went sheet-white, and hurried away as fast as he could without running. I felt kind of bad, but it was definitely the funniest part of my day! My mentor always said that pathologists have the weirdest sense of humor…)
Chicago, Grocery Store, USA | Healthy | December 11, 2017
(I’m out grocery shopping, and I’m having trouble finding something, so I go to find a store employee. It’s worth noting that I’m a very petite blond woman in my early thirties.)
Me: “Excuse me, do you happen to know where the VapoRub is?”
Stocker: “Oh, yeah, it’s over here.”
(He hands me a tub of the stuff formulated for babies, and I thank him and immediately swap it out for a jar of the menthol mint formula.)
Stocker: “Ma’am, you don’t want to use that stuff with your kids. It’ll be too strong for them.”
Me: “Well, that’s good, because I don’t have kids.”
Stocker: “What’s it for, then?”
Me: “Cadavers. I’m a pathologist, and peppermint oil just doesn’t last through the workday. Water deaths, especially; you would not believe the smell…”
(The guy went sheet-white, and hurried away as fast as he could without running. I felt kind of bad, but it was definitely the funniest part of my day! My mentor always said that pathologists have the weirdest sense of humor…)
Canada, Daycare, Ontario | Healthy | December 11, 2017
(My son is 18 months old. I am planning on entering him in daycare and returning to work. I check around, and choose a daycare in part because of the above and beyond training the staff all have, including comprehensive (instead of emergency only) first aid training, annually. About three weeks after I enroll him, I get a call at work from a frantic daycare worker, who speaks perfect English, despite what happens next.)
Worker: “Your son was climbing on a chair and fell. He hit his head quite badly. There is a lot of blood coming out of his ear, and he hasn’t moved in 15 minutes!”
Me: “Is he talking or doing anything!”
Worker: “No, he hasn’t done anything at all since he fell. Maybe you should come pick him up.”
Me: “Call an ambulance. That’s very serious. Call right away. I’ll be there soon!”
(I throw my keys at my boss, barely tell him that my son is hurt and I have to go, run out of work, and drive like an idiot, all while picturing the most horrible things, and arrive just as the ambulance gets there. The ambulance attendants and I rush inside to find my son calmly lying in a staff member’s lap, getting read to, trying to reach up and grab the book closer to himself. When he sees me he gets up and runs over to me, gabbing away the whole time. The staff member I talked to originally turns to me and the ambulance attendants.)
Worker: “That’s the first time he’s gotten up since he fell. He’s been lying in her lap reading books for the last half hour. We checked him over and he’s nicked his earlobe, which HAS bled quite a lot. That’s why I thought his mom should pick him up, but she insisted I call the ambulance, so I thought I better comply. Lawsuits, you know.” *stupid giggle*
(The ambulance attendants were extremely disgruntled to be called out for something that clearly wasn’t an emergency of any sort, and the worker keeps trying to blame me (‘New parents! Always overreacting to normal childhood bumps and bruises. Insisted I call an ambulance, etc.’) I may have lost it a little bit, yelling at her that her wildly inaccurate description of his injuries is why I insisted on her calling the ambulance, and that she had caused not only a huge waste of time for emergency services, but also extreme anxiety for me in her effort to make the story seem more interesting, or whatever her problem was.)
Canada, Farm, Ontario | Healthy | December 10, 2017
(I am working at a pumpkin patch and we have to move the rotting pumpkins to a huge garbage bin. I and two coworkers have the pumpkins in a ranger, a huge garbage bin, and are throwing them into the dumpster. [Coworker #1 ] throws the pumpkin and it hits [Coworker #2 ] on the head, like, smack dab in the middle of the head.)
Coworker #2 : “Yeah, I blacked out for a bit but I’m fine.”
Me: “Oh, god, hold on; let me get someone!”
Coworker #2 : “I’m fine; I’ve had a concussion before I know the drill. Let’s finish this!”
Me: “What? No, I need to get someone! You said you blacked out!”
Coworker #2 : “It’s fine; I’ll have my sister wake me up every few hours.”
Coworker #1 : “She says she’s fine. I didn’t mean to hit her anyway.”
(Against my better judgment, we finished the pumpkins and all signed out and went home. [Coworker #1 ] called in the next day and I saw she posted on her FB wall she was in the hospital with, guess what? A concussion!)
(I’ve just gotten back from the pharmacy, having filled a new prescription for some anti-anxiety medication. The prescription was for a much larger supply than I’m used to. Also, my boyfriend works in mental health, and as such is fairly familiar with psych pharmaceuticals.)
Me: “So, do you think they gave me enough?” *showing him the huge prescription bottle*
Boyfriend: “Whoa. They’re tiny, too. Is that, like, a year’s supply?!”
Me: “Not really. See, look: they’re in little bars. It just looks like lots of tiny pills.”
Boyfriend: “So it’s Xanax?”
Me: “Um, the doctor said it’s BuSpar.”
Boyfriend: “BuSpar is a Xanax analogue. Not one-to-one, but still, you could sell those for $15 a pop!”
(He gives a thoughtful pause, then turns on the voice chat with his friends on his computer, which he’d muted to talk to me.)
Hospital, Non-Dialogue, USA | Healthy | December 8, 2017
When I was in grad school I was hit by a car while walking home one night. At the time it appeared all I suffered was road rash and bruises and I was sent home from the ER pretty quickly, but over the next several months internal symptoms started manifesting, culminating in me being unable to eat or drink anything without suffering severe abdominal pain.
I’m home with my parents for the summer when it gets so bad they call me an ambulance and accompany me to the ER. Before anyone can tell the first person who sees me not to do so, they’ve put morphine in my IV, which I do NOT get along with, so when the doctor arrives to check me out I’m being terribly sick while my poor mother holds the bucket. The doctor takes one look at me (female, age 22) and starts lecturing me about the evils of binge drinking and really, if I’m going to drink enough beer to make me sick I deserve the consequences. By the time I could lift my head enough to see what was going on, two nurses and an orderly were holding back my dad from wreaking grave bodily injury on this idiot. (As it happens, never before or since have I ever had enough to drink that it made me sick.)
Turned out the impact trauma had caused intestinal adhesions which needed to be surgically cut loose so peristalsis would function normally again. No thanks to that idiot doc, or the four after him — the first doctor who actually listened to me and who performed the surgery that fixed everything was, not coincidentally, the only female doctor I saw through the whole ordeal. I have not seen a male doctor since!
Chicago, Family & Kids, Illinois, Medical Office, USA | Healthy | December 8, 2017
(My daughter is six years old and takes everything literally. For example, when saying something stinks such as “Oh, well, that stinks; you can come out for the day” she will ask me, “How does it smell?” Today I had to take her to her pediatric cardiologist, to have her heart murmur checked. I explained to her that it wasn’t going to hurt and that the doctor was just going to listen to her heart. She said okay and I thought nothing more of it. But when the nurse came in.)
Nurse: “All right, we are going to look at your heart.”
Daughter: “Okay. I took my shirt off, but how are you going to open my body to see my heart? Because Mommy said this wouldn’t hurt.”
(I will admit, the nurse’s eyes only bugged out for a second before she pulled herself together and explained that she had a special camera to look at it without having to “open her body.” Next time I will try to remember to explain a bit better!)
Dentist, Minnesota, USA | Healthy | December 8, 2017
(After looking for a good long while, I finally find a dentist that takes my insurance. I’ve only been to a dentist twice in my life — I grew up very poor — but I’ve been having bad pain in my jaw. An older gentleman, the dentist, ushers me behind a curtain and sits me on the dentist chair.)
Dentist: “So, how long since your last dental appointment?”
Me: “About six years ago I went to a free dental clinic. Before that, I think I was in second grade. That’s it.”
Dentist: *flatly* “Ah. So you probably have bad teeth. Open up; let me see the damage. Do you even brush your teeth?”
(My wife and I make significant eye contact around the curtain. The dentist puts on gloves and pokes my teeth a couple of times with a finger.)
Dentist: “Huh. You’ve actually got great teeth. Did you grow up in a third world country?”
Me: “I grew up in Tennessee.”
Dentist: “Oh, so THAT’S why. Southern people don’t take care of their teeth. Well, your teeth look really good actually, except for that overlap in the front.” *he pokes my top front teeth, one of which overlaps the slightest bit onto the other* “That’s unfortunate because without it you’d have perfect teeth. I’m not sure why you came in today. You don’t have any cavities.”
Me: “…what about that jaw pain?”
Dentist: “Right, that. Well, I guess I could take X-rays if you want. I’m not sure why you’d want them. You’re just grinding your teeth.”
Me: “I’ve never had dental X-rays done, though. Shouldn’t we get an X-ray to check?”
Dentist: *massive sigh* “Fine, fine, we’ll do them. I think you just want to waste some time.”
(Lo and behold, the X-rays showed my bottom wisdom teeth needed to come out ASAP. They grew sideways and are pushing the roots of the teeth next to them, shifting the teeth and causing my pain. The dentist was surprised, and then tried to sell me a $100 mouth guard that would stop the pain, because he thought I’m grinding my teeth and that my wisdom teeth had nothing to do with it. We did not take him up on the offer and are looking for a new dentist.)
Hawaii, Hospital, USA | Healthy | December 7, 2017
(I have visited the cardiologist for EKGs and echoes every two years since I was born, and one year I am old enough to ask my doctor why I have to.)
Doctor: “You have a heart murmur. Arrhythmia and mitral valve prolapse.”
Me: “What’s that mean?”
Doctor: “Well, most people’s hearts have a steady two-beat. BUMP-bump, BUMP-bump, BUMP-bump, like a drummer. Your heart is like a jazz drummer, who just does whatever: BUMP-bump-bump, BUMP-bump-bump, BUMP, bump-BUMP, no bump. There’s extra beats and missed beats, with no pattern to it.”
Me: “What’s the other one?”
Doctor: “Imagine the hood of a Japanese convertible. The roof goes up, and when it comes back down, it fits perfectly into its base without problems, and is completely sealed. Now imagine the hood of an American convertible. When the roof comes back down, it doesn’t quite fit into the base; it’s off-center, and the air-conditioning will leak out and rain can get in. Your heart is an American car, and the valve is the convertible roof.”
(Two decades later, and I still love this doctor’s explanations to a confused kid.)
Hawaii, Hospital, USA | Healthy | December 7, 2017
(I’m a young woman who was born with an innocent heart murmur that gets checked every few years; arrhythmia and mitral valve prolapse. I have recently suffered some strong heart palpitations that lasted an hour and left me exhausted and terrified that something’s wrong. After spending the night at the hospital, and the X-ray, EKG, and echo tests showing nothing new, I’m sent to a cardiologist for a stress test. After being stuck with enough wires that I look like a cyborg and 20 hellish “Now a little bit faster” minutes on the treadmill, I float light-headedly over to the exam table and lie down while they check the scans.)
Nurse #1 : “Oh, wow. [Nurse #2 ], come look at this.”
Nurse #2 : “Wow. I’ve never seen that outside of textbooks.”
(While the nurses are ‘oohing’ and ‘aahing’ at the picture on the screen, I’m staring at them with rising concern. My worry spikes when the doctor herself comes into the room, sees what they’re looking at, and proceeds to talk about it to them like she’s teaching a university lesson. Finally, I raise one of my trembling cyborg arms.)
Me: *weakly* “Um… excuse me?”
Doctor: *looking at me with surprise* “Yes?”
Me: “Is… is something wrong?”
Doctor: “Oh, no. You just have a hole in your heart.”
Me: “…I have a WHAT?”
Doctor: “But that’s not what’s causing your palpitations.”
Me: “It’s… not?”
Doctor: “Nope. It’s small and near the top of your heart; it shouldn’t be affecting you at all. It just happens sometimes when your heart muscle sinks to the bottom.”
Me: “Oh… okay. So there’s a hole in my heart, but… it’s not a problem. So it’s okay.
Doctor: “Yep. You can come back to keep an eye on it, though, just to make sure it doesn’t get any bigger.”
Me: “?!”
(That did not fill me with confidence, surprisingly. They never found a physical source for the palpitations, so eventually decided they were panic attacks, and I got to add ‘hole in the heart’ to my heart murmur repertoire.)
(I’ve suffered from mental health issues since I was young, but I wasn’t able to do anything about it because my family has issues believing that mental illness is real. A few years ago, while I was in college, things got really bad so I finally tried to tell my parents about it. It took a few months of frustration and arguing, but I eventually managed to convince them it was actually an issue. They found a psychiatrist I could see and I was excited at first. I thought I’d be able to get some help! I’d hardly walked in the door before I realized there would be a problem.)
Psychiatrist: *shaking my hand* “So, how old are you?”
Me: “I’m turning 20 next month.”
Psychiatrist: *laughs* “20? You’re far too young to have any problems! Why are you even here?”
Me: “Young or not, I actually do have a lot of symptoms I’m worried about.”
(I hand her a list I’d made of symptoms I’d been struggling with, including some rather severe ones. She sets it aside after barely glancing at it.)
Psychiatrist: “Why don’t you just tell me about yourself? Do you have a boyfriend?”
Me: “Um… no, I don’t?”
Psychiatrist: “Why don’t we talk about that. It might be causing some of your ‘issues.’”
(It was only downhill from there. She dismissed all my symptoms, including my suicidal ideation and dissociation, as nothing more than school stress or lacking a boyfriend. I was told I just needed to get out of the house more often and make a few friends, something my parents insisted was a cure-all as well. Ever since that day, nothing I’ve said has been able to convince them otherwise. The only reason I’ve improved at all — and mostly stopped being suicidal — is because of my college’s psychologist. I’d only found out there was a doctor on campus afterwards, and after meeting him, he was shocked I’d managed to make it as far as I had without any help at all. I’m living back at home now that I’ve graduated, only until I can find work, but he helped me immensely while I was still enrolled. I don’t think I would have survived school without his help.)
(I’ve suffered from mental health issues since I was young, but I wasn’t able to do anything about it because my family has issues believing that mental illness is real. A few years ago, while I was in college, things got really bad so I finally tried to tell my parents about it. It took a few months of frustration and arguing, but I eventually managed to convince them it was actually an issue. They found a psychiatrist I could see and I was excited at first. I thought I’d be able to get some help! I’d hardly walked in the door before I realized there would be a problem.)
Psychiatrist: *shaking my hand* “So, how old are you?”
Me: “I’m turning 20 next month.”
Psychiatrist: *laughs* “20? You’re far too young to have any problems! Why are you even here?”
Me: “Young or not, I actually do have a lot of symptoms I’m worried about.”
(I hand her a list I’d made of symptoms I’d been struggling with, including some rather severe ones. She sets it aside after barely glancing at it.)
Psychiatrist: “Why don’t you just tell me about yourself? Do you have a boyfriend?”
Me: “Um… no, I don’t?”
Psychiatrist: “Why don’t we talk about that. It might be causing some of your ‘issues.’”
(It was only downhill from there. She dismissed all my symptoms, including my suicidal ideation and dissociation, as nothing more than school stress or lacking a boyfriend. I was told I just needed to get out of the house more often and make a few friends, something my parents insisted was a cure-all as well. Ever since that day, nothing I’ve said has been able to convince them otherwise. The only reason I’ve improved at all — and mostly stopped being suicidal — is because of my college’s psychologist. I’d only found out there was a doctor on campus afterwards, and after meeting him, he was shocked I’d managed to make it as far as I had without any help at all. I’m living back at home now that I’ve graduated, only until I can find work, but he helped me immensely while I was still enrolled. I don’t think I would have survived school without his help.)
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