Spent most of my life in a Doctor's room,
Listening to them debate while I silently fumed.
One minute I'm imagining it, the next I need more pills;
Most of the time I'm hating it - they never know what makes me ill.
Diagnosed with depression too young whilst in my teens,
Vented out all my frustration through self-harm and other means.
Yes, I've seen the therapists; cognitive, anger and more.
Yes, I've had the tablets to pick me off the floor.
Dyspraxia was next on the list, as they told me I was too stupid to thrive.
More therapy to help me dress myself - as if I need more awkward people in my life.
And there was extra time in exams, and allowances made in the gym.
People just lap it all up, I guess, when a student is labelled "too dim".
I'd be lying if I said I enjoyed it; the special treatment made me feel more of a fool.
I was never popular in the first place, and now I was a "retard" to the cool.
So I scraped by my last years there, but just barely. I wish I could go do it once more;
Instead of one or two damn exams, I wish I had sat three or four.
And if that wasn't enough to taunt me, I did the stupid teenage thing -
I was "doing it" with my boyfriend, without protecting anything.
So next thing I know I'm pregnant, with a baby coming too fast;
But I guess I didn't need to worry, miscarriage put that in my past.
A couple of months and I'm aching, with pains that are "all in my head".
I lost weight, barely ate, resigned myself to my fate, and picked up a joint instead.
After a Summer of forgetting my troubles I emerged - barely alive - once again,
I try and get myself to the Doctors, but they look at me like some sort of stain.
Right into the Winter I struggled, the pain almost pulling me down,
Until I ended up in the wards, swamped in a hospital gown.
"You have IBS," now they tell me, "With a aversion to lactose, we think.
But we'll give you some tablets to cure it," they're grins make me sick as they wink.
So I cut out the milk as they asked for, with the pains continuing on,
"I'm still sick!" I tell the mockers, but they always tell me I'm wrong.
Managed to get some tests out of them, they stuck things in my private place,
"We think you have POCS." They can't keep the grins off their face.
Counting the diagnonsense so far; depressed dyspraxic with IBS/POCS.
I'm starting to feel like a statistic, and the pains are not giving me any rest.
So two stone lighter and a move to the city, I try to get on with my days -
Unfortunately, this seems nigh impossible. "The Lord works in mysterious ways!"
A new general practice, new Doctors, new hope; some answers to the questions I seek;
A complete let-down, I feel disappointed. They chew me out leaving me weak.
"It's just stress, you're over-reacting." I hear the lines over and over again.
They don't want to see me, I'm distracting. I'm stuck in the same position.
Pains increase but I'm avoiding appointments; I can't take their heart-breaking scowls.
It was inevitable I'd end up in hospital; karma's a bitch when on the prowl.
So they tell me I'm eating my insides - it only took them four days to see.
So they give me some tablets and send me home - not a suitable explanation for me.
Three weeks it took to recover, with little sign of hope and relief,
Until a friend of my Mother's says, "Darling. I think I can lessen your grief."
She suggests this new word, this 'coeliac', and suggests that I cut out my wheat.
So I do as she asks, only naturally - anything to get back on my feet.
After two weeks of trying the pains are less, though sometimes I still bloat up and ache;
I think to myself I should go for some help, so up to the Doctors I trek.
They laugh me off without even thinking, though promise to test me if I insist.
I'm tempted to tell them I'm serious, perhaps follow it up with a fist...
And here I am now, at Daily Strength! Searching for some kind of help.
Hoping that maybe, just maybe, someone'll tolerate this insolent whelp.
To them I'm a number, a patient, a statistic - a walking diagnonsense without any voice.
Please help me to become a person. Please help me to learn I have a choice.