My mom has been my safety net for my whole life. She just sometimes doesn’t hold my safety net in the right places. When I first got sick she didn’t know where to hold my safety net because the professionals were all insisting that there was nothing physically wrong with me. They insisted that I had an eating disorder.
Because she was holding my safety net in the wrong spot, I fell. Hard. And whacked my head on the floor of an elevator when I passed out after a routine blood test. My dad had to rush me to the ER. At the ER a doctor with a monkey fingerling named Mr. Bananas clinging to his stethoscope examined me.
It was March of fifth grade and I was living off sips of Gatorade. The last time I’d had any actual food was in January. My body was skeletal and looked like I’d break if I slipped and fell. I kept asking myself, “What is wrong with me?” I wasn’t on some sort of starvation diet because I was scared that the food would make me get fat. However, that’s what everyone insisted the problem was.
Dr. Monroe, my pediatrician had started that theory after finding out I was on a high-pressure gymnastics team. To her credit, Dr. Monore had done an abdominal x-ray and some initial blood work. But when her tests came back normal, I asked her “What is wrong with me?”
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