not otherwise satisfied
Dec. 18th, 2018 07:28 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rosasericeaEdited to Explain: This post was written right after a visit to my primary care doctor. The first time I brought up a weird symptom to her, she asked, "Why is this the first I'm hearing of this?" despite the fact that I had only ever seen her...once...before that, and it was about something completely different, and this issue was in my old records. This time, I went through everything I could come up with (and stuff my husband helped me remember) because I'm scared and wanted to know if neurology was the way to go, as had been suggested by my urologist, and her response was, "Well, you should be prepared to hear a neurologist say that coming up with a list this long of stuff that could be explained by lots of things just means you have OCD and need to see a shrink." It took hours to come up with this list, and I only gave it to her because she was annoyed last time that I hadn't been Comprehensive.
It's not a secret (though perhaps it should be) that I went through a bit of a riot grrl phase in college. I knew the white feminism in the genre was pervasive and toxic, but what can I say? Kathleen Hanna's angry little girl sound resonated with the parts of me that were processing an abusive suburban upbringing despite our demographic differences. Anyway, there's a line in a song by the Fakes (a Hanna-driven collaborative project) that says:
And that's largely how I feel whenever I go to the doctor. So I want to stop going. There's clearly something wrong with my body, but it could be almost anything, and my existing diagnoses muddy the process even further. My psychiatric history gives doctors an excuse to discredit me as the narrator of my own experiences, and my Ehlers-Danlos gives them a reason not to look for any additional problems, as connective tissue disorders are poorly understood and serve as a convenient scapegoat for any and all issues. Whatever is going on probably isn't going to kill me any time soon, so I'm putting my search for an answer on (a possibly indefinite) hold at least until I live somewhere that isn't a healthcare wasteland.
There's a lot to be said about how diagnosis is often a function of privilege and that medical science is still firmly rooted in the rocky soil of racism, sexism, classism and, of course, ableism. I'm not the person to say it, though--there are plenty of people doing that work. I would prefer to focus my writing energy elsewhere. To that end, I did apply to a graduate program in ESL over the weekend. I enjoy teaching ESL/ESOL and the flexibility that comes with it. Language and disability, also, are issues that I think are of critical importance (especially in education) and about which people don't seem to talk or think nearly enough. I'm sure that there are more conversations going on in academia, but on the ground I never hear teachers--especially general education teachers--acknowledge that language complicates the experiences of disabled students at all. And for nonverbal or semiverbal students? Pfft. So that's something I want to pursue professionally as a teacher, writer and researcher.
It's scary and frustrating to abandon the search for answers about something as viscerally important as, well, viscera. It's infuriating that I had to make a choice between getting an answer and losing my sanity and happiness. But I did, and I've made it. I still have one more round of testing tomorrow, but after that I'm directing my energy toward something more productive.
It's not a secret (though perhaps it should be) that I went through a bit of a riot grrl phase in college. I knew the white feminism in the genre was pervasive and toxic, but what can I say? Kathleen Hanna's angry little girl sound resonated with the parts of me that were processing an abusive suburban upbringing despite our demographic differences. Anyway, there's a line in a song by the Fakes (a Hanna-driven collaborative project) that says:
You teach me I don't know the things I know.
(I know.)
And that's largely how I feel whenever I go to the doctor. So I want to stop going. There's clearly something wrong with my body, but it could be almost anything, and my existing diagnoses muddy the process even further. My psychiatric history gives doctors an excuse to discredit me as the narrator of my own experiences, and my Ehlers-Danlos gives them a reason not to look for any additional problems, as connective tissue disorders are poorly understood and serve as a convenient scapegoat for any and all issues. Whatever is going on probably isn't going to kill me any time soon, so I'm putting my search for an answer on (a possibly indefinite) hold at least until I live somewhere that isn't a healthcare wasteland.
There's a lot to be said about how diagnosis is often a function of privilege and that medical science is still firmly rooted in the rocky soil of racism, sexism, classism and, of course, ableism. I'm not the person to say it, though--there are plenty of people doing that work. I would prefer to focus my writing energy elsewhere. To that end, I did apply to a graduate program in ESL over the weekend. I enjoy teaching ESL/ESOL and the flexibility that comes with it. Language and disability, also, are issues that I think are of critical importance (especially in education) and about which people don't seem to talk or think nearly enough. I'm sure that there are more conversations going on in academia, but on the ground I never hear teachers--especially general education teachers--acknowledge that language complicates the experiences of disabled students at all. And for nonverbal or semiverbal students? Pfft. So that's something I want to pursue professionally as a teacher, writer and researcher.
It's scary and frustrating to abandon the search for answers about something as viscerally important as, well, viscera. It's infuriating that I had to make a choice between getting an answer and losing my sanity and happiness. But I did, and I've made it. I still have one more round of testing tomorrow, but after that I'm directing my energy toward something more productive.
