There are people who are afraid of doctors because of bad news.
Then, there's people like me. People who avoid doctors because they're afraid of being blamed. Let me elaborate.
I'm not talking just a casual or gentle blame but blamed in a way that sticks to your ribs, your memory, and your sense of self. Blamed in a way that become more medical trauma-even if nobody in the room ever uses that word.
I know what it is to dread an appointment or waiting room. To put off an illness or injury until you break down to the verge of death (or so it seems). To practice an explanation in your head. To shrink myself emotionally even when I cannot shrink myself physically.
Because I have been hurt there.
This shame didn't start with doctors. It started long before. I was still a child when I learned that the world had opinions about my body. I vividly remember in elementary school standing in line with my classmates, waiting to be weighed-publicly. There was no privacy, no sensitivity. This was the 90's and yes, we were a tougher breed but this- this was another level of embarrassment. There was no understanding of what it means to be growing, changing, becoming.
The number on the scale was shouted across the room, sometimes the gym, to another person who recorded it. There was no pause. No check. No care.
Just a number, loudly announced like I was livestock, not a child.
And I remember the laughter.
I remember the whispers.
I remember the heat in my face and the way I wanted to disappear.
I was seven years old and learned that your body is something to be judged. Once you learn that, it doesn't leave easily.
And, then adulthood carried it forward.
In 2011, during an emergency c-section with my fourth child, while I was conscious, frightened, and completely vulnerable, the doctor on call spent the surgery ridiculing my size. Not my safety, not my baby's. MY SIZE.
Over and over.
Comment after comment.
Until, I finally had to beg them to stop. I remember vividly leaning on a nurse, either Jennifer or Amy, hot tears rolling down my face, and telling them to please make him stop.
You do not forget that.
It was after this that I developed terrible postpartum depression and anxiety, and I was told by another medical professional "Well...you're the one who chose to have four kids." when I went to them for help. I left. I left without help and suffered through months of horrible depression because I was made to feel like it was my fault that I was suffering and that asking for help was an inconvenience.
So, I became afraid of doctors.
If I absolutely had to go for a bariatric follow up, I made sure to starve myself for two weeks prior to make sure my weight was "in check." If I didn't feel I was at an appropriate weight, I would cancel the appointment.
Last fall, I suffered for months with debilitating anxiety and depression again, topped off with severe anemia (though I didn't know it at the time). I was barely functioning, couldn't miss work of course, my body was exhausted, my mind was imploding.
But I didn't go to the doctor.
Because I was terrified that everything- every symptom, every lab, every pain- would be blamed on my weight. Mind you this is after I had lost over 100 pounds over the past six years.
I was sicker than I needed to be because I was more afraid of shame than illness. But I broke down and went when it hurt to open my eyelids.
That is what medical trauma does.
And now, it's my hips.
For the past six months, I've had debilitating hip pain. I thought if I just toughed it out, it would be ok.
But it turned into a visible limp. I stopped running. I tolerated it. Because I know how quickly compassion can turn into blame. I know the script they reach for first. But last week, I couldn't make it from one room to another without shuffling. I finally broke down and knew I had to get it checked out. I knew I was losing the ability to move through my own life. The fear of immobility outweighed the fear of being humiliated again.
Turns out, I was born with one leg shorter than the other. It had nothing to do with my weight.
Medical trauma stays in the body. It doesn't fade, weaken, or disappear over time. It sits in the back of your throat in every waiting room. It tightens your chest the moment you step on a scale. It whispers, "Don't say too much" "Don't ask for help." "They'll just blame you and your weight."
And because of that, we suffer longer than we should.
Not because we don't care or don't want to be healthy. But because we are trying to protect ourselves from being hurt AGAIN.
But, I'm still here. Trying.
I'm learning to advocate for myself. Still learning that I deserve care. Still learning that my body is not a problem to be apologized for. I deserved compassion then. I deserve compassion now. I always have. And so do you. You were never the problem. That pain and fear came from somewhere very real. And your story-your body-you-deserve to be met with dignity.
One appointment at the time. One breath at a time. One brave moment at a time.