I’m so sick of everyone calling me a hypochondriac. It puts excess strain on my life and makes me doubt myself, which is not something I need to deal with right now. How dare you challenge my experience in any way when you aren’t the one living with every conceivable illness.
If you don’t know how it feels to be diagnosed with Cancer by a WebMD quiz, you can shove your judgments up your neurotypical, non-inflamed ass. People compliment my double eyelashes—a genetic mutation indicative of early-onset Alzheimers—instead of feeling bad that it causes inflamed eyelids, sometimes slightly elevated blood pressure, and severe OCD; all rare symptoms of the leprosy/aneurysm/heart attack that I am on the cusp of at all times.
As if that isn’t bad enough, my so-called “doctors” never know what they’re doing. My ophthalmologist won’t believe that my floaters are caused by non-age related macular degeneration because obviously his dilation drops are faulty or something. My dentist says that I don’t need a root canal because my pain is just from a sinus infection. At least he acknowledged my pain, but being forced to teach my own medical professionals is exhausting.
Don’t even get me started on the people who complain to me about their relationships. They don’t understand what it’s like to have trauma from an ex with incredibly rare Antisocial Personality Disorder, according to a Psychology Today headline I skimmed.
How about this? If you’re cool I’ll tell you what supplements to take for your various self-diagnosed ailments. But if you keep calling me a hypochondriac, I hope that you someday have to deal with having a brain tumor, uterine fibroids, three-years-long misdiagnosed chlamydia, and Lymes Disease all at the same time. Only then will you know how it feels to be a much less sick version of me.