Fight or flight

About thirteen years ago I enrolled in an advanced photo class in college. I'd taken beginning photography in high school, but I soon realized that I'd forgotten almost everything in the four years since graduation. My male teacher was friendly with the other handful of women in his class, all of whom he knew from beginning photography. As a newcomer, I quickly became the one who received odd looks at my lack of knowledge and comprehension -- mainly from the teacher himself. Instead of talking to him about the situation and what I could do to pass the class, I dropped, after the add/drop period, and avoided him like the plague. When my grades came I had no answer for myself or anyone else as to why failing the class was worth not talking to the teacher.

This reaction of mine wasn't new. It's been a long established one after growing up in an abusive household and having an absent father. When things get hard, I often run away instead of facing the problem. For this reason, I wasn't too disappointed when my clinic said I had to return to see Dr. R because they only refer to him. This way I would be able to face the one who diagnosed me with somatization and prove to him that his assessment was wrong. The appointment I had with him in October was one of the worst I had ever had with any doctor, second only to the gynecological specialist who said my now-diagnosed vulvodynia was a psychosomatic condition and that I should just be glad I don't have cancer. (Being unable to have sex for the rest of my life understandably seemed just as bad.)

in my previous visit with Dr. R, when I told him about my neurological symptoms he gave me a look that I can't very well describe, but something akin to the look you would give someone if they told you they were born on the planet Mars. My aunt and I were so upset at his somatization diagnosis that the appointment ended with mild yelling followed by a breakdown in the waiting room. I was adamant that I did not to see him again, even though he wanted to see me to keep me from "doctor shopping." So when I did decide to return -- as this was my only option -- I took my uncle along and put on a brave face, knowing that facing this doctor would ultimately be good for me.

Thankfully the appointment went really well. None of us mentioned somatization, and when I described my symptoms once again, my doctor fought his doubts and listened. He agreed on a treatment plan consisting of getting a sleep study, which happens tomorrow, and going back on my anti-seizure med, at a lower dose this time. Even though my uncle didn't have to say anything I'm glad he went, and it looks like Dr. R will now be able to help me navigate my peculiar symptoms with medical professionalism.

I've never been easy around men aside from my best gay friend J, and I'm hoping that this experience will help me stand up for myself in the future. After years of verbal abuse I still can't look my stepdad in the face, and I was following in the same pattern with Dr. R, even as far as not being able to look at his portrait on his website page. Now I can face him with even less fear next time, and hopefully he and I can work together to heal my brain -- or at least give it a proper diagnosis that it deserves.