A parents medical history shouldn't effect their children.

I have learned the hard way if you are “labeled” with any sort of mental disorder on your medical records; sharing a doctor with your child and wanting to be taken seriously is a joke. Of course at the same time having these records hanging over your own head and wanting to be taken seriously is also a joke. None the less I learned my lesson on ever sharing the same doctor as my children, and this mistake will never happen again. My seven year old daughter decided she wasn’t going to eat anymore. I couldn’t figure out why, I was questioning her trying to get answers for which she told me a boy called her fat. I was so upset and so unsure how to handle this and had nobody to reach out to for support not even my own mother who also turned it into something else that it wasn’t. My frustration with my mother and her lack of motherly skills is a completely different post that you can read about here; My mother . We went to the emergency room with no real answers except she had become dehydrated. This was followed up with our family doctor who has been famous for labeling and prescribing me whatever medications she can convince me to take. My medical history hunts me and seems to follow me everywhere I go, never do doctors look at anything as circumstantial, but rather labeled as disorders that follow you for the rest of your life.

I am explaining to the doctor what is going on with my daughter and the not eating and the information I have gathered. The doctor looks at my daughter and says “okay now that I have listened to your mom go on and on about why you won’t eat, can you tell me why you won’t eat?” Then not even giving my daughter a chance to explain she starts asking her questions such as if her stomach hurts or if she hasn’t been able to poop etc. I felt brushed off and not taken very seriously. I am the mother, I know more about day to day issues that are going on and of course if a seven year old has diarrhea all day yesterday it will feel like it was for longer then a week. Just because I have anxiety listed in my medical records, just because my parents have history of depression and mental issues that have now become a part of my medical record doesn’t mean I am exaggerating what is going on with my own child. None the less I took her to a different doctor who knows nothing of my history, I got a real diagnoses for her and was taken way more seriously and she is now better and I realized at that very moment I will never again share the same doctor as my children. My circumstantial labels should never effect or jeopardize my child’s medical issues.

I am a walking piece of survival art.

A long time ago I wanted to be a nice girl, a girl who loved the world, a girl who didn’t get hurt, a girl who trusted parents, teachers, doctors, lovers and adults. I wanted to believe in the good in people and trust that no harm would ever be done to me or others. With all of that I also wanted to love, I didn’t want to cause harm, or pain, or create any type of negativity. I saw and felt the good in so many people around me, I didn’t judge and I could see the potential in even the bad people. Forgiveness, understanding, and loyalty I had, and I wore my heart on my sleeve. I was nice, too nice, I did love, I loved the world, I trusted to easily, and had way to much faith in others with the assumption that everyone had at least some good qualities. Little by little people started stealing pieces of my heart. Maybe they needed the pieces more than I did, maybe they were just borrowing the pieces to get them by. The weaker I become, the more co-dependent I grew on these people that kept stealing from me. Hurt by men I was suppose to trust, hurt by lovers who I thought were true to me, hurt by parents, by doctors, by teaches, adults and several other types of situations, I had to figure out my own way to keep from breaking with all the hurt and pain I felt. Underneath my ink covered arm are layers of a self relieving pain relievers I used as a crutch for many years. Each drop of blood that seeped out of the self inflicted cuts were the silent tears I never cried, the only way I could feel alive, the only way I had to calm myself in a panic, adrenaline and natural opiates were at the tips of the carving utensils I controlled…the only thing in my life I controlled. Each cut turned into a memory, a reminder, a story that so many didn’t even know. Years later I was constantly ashamed and unsure how to answer when others would question me about what the cuts were. They are none of your business I would think. Oh you know I fought a tiger once, or got into some gang knife fight, a car accident, a fire, I feel off a building, I pushed the garbage down and didn’t know there was glass and it sliced my arm.  I would tell these people whatever just to get them to stop asking me questions of painful times in my life I didn’t want to remember, besides why would I give a stranger a true explanation anyways? Just one more person trying to steal pieces of me rather in story form or needing to know my life or what the hell ever, it isn’t their place, but again maybe they needed the pieces of me more than I did anyways. Not to even mention the scars of the times my father used me as an ashtray to smudge out his cigarettes. These memories are mine, they are mine to share with others if I want and they are mine to lock up underneath my skin if that is what I choose to do. Life continued and I stopped creating stitched and healed over flesh pockets to bury my secrets in and I tried to forgive and move on.  Then once upon a time I trusted a man more then I should have, he wasn’t right for me and I gave him more of myself then I ever gave anyone willingly. I was used as a trophy, I was used as a filler to his cavity, a cover up to his mentality. He took and took and took from me, little by little I lost myself in the marriage and by the time our divorce was final I decided to tattoo my heart on my sleeve hanging in a noose to cover up my past scars, pain, concealed secretes and abuse as well as a reminder to myself, to never ever again allow love to be suicide. This is my story, I am a walking piece of art scars underneath ink and all. I healed, and I survived and I have visible reminders that it’s okay to be a nice girl who loves the world, but with that it’s still okay to be myself and not give anyone pieces of me that I do not want them to have. To the stranger who claims my tattoo is racist how fucking dare you!! It’s men exactly like you that destroy perfectly good human beings with your labels and judgments, but I will not let you break me down. I will never again allow anyone to break me down. Three and a half hours of crying over your most assign assumptions was a great soul cleanser and a perfectly good reminder that you are just a stranger who knows nothing about my life, you know nothing about me being a walking piece of survival art, and you know nothing of my story. For your cruel judgments and harsh labels of me I forgive you because you obviously need more love then I do.