I have spent the past couple of years in doctors’ offices. At first it started with easy fixes; my broken wrist needed a cast, my knees needed a new ligament with a lateral release. Everything had a cure, even if it took some recovery time. 

   Now I find myself sitting on the crinkly paper, ripping it as soon as I lower my body onto it, without the comfort of having any answers. I give enough blood to fill multiple tubes, but not enough to tell me why my body feels like a trainwreck. I give a list of symptoms, only to get more questions in return. 

    It started at the pediatrician, who gave her advice. Relief visible on my face, thinking that someone finally believes I’m sick like I know I am. After that it was the podiatrist, who said he could surgically remove my extra bones, but there wasn’t any certainty that my pain would stop. 

    Then we went to the rheumatologist, who gave me a lot more nos than yeses, telling me to go on a diet, which eliminated everything from sugar and dairy to flour and meat. On the diet my body felt weaker, as I would crave everything I couldn’t have. 

    I spent countless hours wide awake at night, feeling my body cramp and pinch, practically begging for some sort of relief. During the pandemic, my Christian faith was thrown through a ringer, though during these intense moments, I found myself relying on a higher figure to be at ease. I even started talking to my late Grandmother, looking at her picture in the dark room, seeing the shadow of her smile until I would finally drift off to sleep. 

    I still don’t have any sign of a diagnosis anytime soon, which is still eating away at my mental health, I am still trying to be okay. I have used all my trauma to be an advocate for chronic illnesses, so that I can help other people with their own problems. If I use my voice, I hope everyone else can create an echo, so that no one suffers alone.