The ups and downs of the bus as it rode in the direction of the hospital shifted my body uncomfortably, and I squeezed my eyes shut in a futile attempt to block out the pain.  Instead, however, it amplified and radiated down my leg and up my back in a bright hot flash that sprinkled electricity through my veins. When I glanced up to take in the buzzing scenery of brick and brass, I caught the eyes of an old soul who seemed to gaze at me with a look of understanding, so I offered a kind smile and sighed before closing my eyes as another bump jostled my form. Older than you though you’re older than me, I thought as I grasped at the cold metal rod of my silver cane that gleamed under the rays of the M20’s roof lighting. The next fifty-four minutes passed in a blur of soft, painful grunts and gasps as the look of a pitiful elder bore a hole through my temple. 

Summit Health was beautiful, always is—and I admired the sleek black and shiny modern red that greeted me as I battled the heavy glass door at the entrance, which had to be pulled open by a kind stranger that passed by.  As the shame blanketed my shoulders and seeped beneath my outerwear, then skin, I made my way up to the second floor of the building with wobbling lips and eyes heavy, though I couldn’t tell you if it was from the chronic fatigue, pain, or humiliation (probably a mix of the three).  My misery clack, clack, clacked along the linoleum pine-wood flooring, and alerted all of the patients in the waiting area and the women behind the desks deeper in.  “Ah—Samantha, here to see Dr. Hussain again?” Like a punch to the chest, her words were, They recognize me, and I shook my head. 

“No, not today,” I offered with a painted face. “I’m here to see the Cardiologist today, but I can’t remember his name.” Though her eyebrows kissed the ceiling at yet another change in professionals, she told me it was no problem and checked her computer before assuring me that I was next and to simply wait for the MA to come get me. 

“He’s got good reviews…You’ll be in and out!” She assured me, before pausing and laughing awkwardly. I guess she saw the other appointments I have today.

Those old memories

Hide behind my shaky teeth

Stapled to my tongue

The city was always my biggest enemy as a child.  Noises that would shatter my skull and a million vibrations that would alter the beat of my heart.  It made me wanna scream, pull my hair out, throw a fit.  This deep uncomfortable feeling I experienced in the city is what made going up state to visit my abuelita all the more special.  It was quiet and lacked the vibrant lights that burrowed into my eyes and blinded me.  That perfect getaway for this undiagnosed ND child became a place of many great memories, but there is one that I recall often when I feel overstimulated. 

My dad used to take my sister and I to this trail somewhere up there, and we would ride our bikes until we started getting close to town, at which point we would turn around and head back.  There was no greater feeling to 8 year old Samantha than riding my little white and purple bike through that path on an early/mid autumn day.  I would pedal leisurely, enveloped by a canopy of green, yellow and red-ish leaves.  Sun breaking through the cracks like the light breaking through the surface of the ocean waves; so serene and so gentle.  The wind would cool our bodies, clad in shorts, T-shirt’s and a thin zip-up hoodie from Old Navy.  It would help us keep going down the trail that never seemed to reach an end, of course until it did, but the ride was so smooth.  None of the cracks and unevenly raised ground like the sidewalk, instead it was like I would glide, none of the vibration. And, if I closed my eyes, it was like the sounds of nature, the rustling of the leaves and the calls of the woodland creatures, would become a heartbeat itself.  I can’t even begin to explain the scent of crisp air. It smells cold, like what I think sky blue would smell like.  I wish I could go back, but I can’t see myself ever learning to drive. 

I remember that I used to feel a little crazy; wanting to be perceived as pretty (by other women ♡)  but really hating male attention.  I would cover every patch of skin on my body—coat on top of hoodies on top of long sleeve shirts in late May— but there was still that nagging expectation to try and be pretty enough, so when I felt brave I’d shed my layers only to recoil because teenage boys can’t get past the fact that secondary sexual traits exist for reasons beyond their own existence.  I’d go out and post pictures on instagram because you just have to, and my comments would flood with unwanted comments from men older than my father and delete it, just to reupload and cross my fingers it didn’t happen again because you just have to.

 It’s crazy, the more you think about it.  Feel pushed to be pretty (because how dare you look ugly) so you shave, straighten your hair, paint your nails, wax your face if you have to—just look beautiful. There was always something to nitpick, still. Now, it was the fact that you had to do all those things to look pretty, you were unnatural. Then it was the looks given boys whose attention would go ignored because we weren’t aware that when they told us to be pretty, it was to please everyone but our own target audience. I would have someone make a comment or get waaaaaay to close for comfort and decide that I should just start hiding again (not that it actually stopped some people).  It was like a whirlpool in my mind, and I hated it!  I blamed no one, though. I used to be an apologist (GROSS), and some of us still are,  because families teach us that it was cute when guys were persistent since they only wanted attention, and with egos so fragile they can’t comprehend rejection; so, speak softly and let them down gently— but not really! Instead just laugh off their words because they get angry (?) and that would somehow be my fault. 

One day, I came across a poem, “Song of the Prettybird” by Shay Alexi Stewart somewhere on instagram, and I was just blown away! Every-little-thing that made me feel utterly insane was amalgamated into this poem about prettybird—who actually can’t just be a pretty bird because that is absurd! Prettybird has to be pretty when they decide it matters and “pretty” when they say it doesn’t. But reading that for the first time felt like the pressure of a headache just fading away; I wasn’t crazy and it certainly wasn’t my fault the world was spinning. I’ve been as active as I could be in the conversation since; speaking up more often and becoming comfortable in my skin as the years have gone by.