Yesterday, I went to the doctor for the first time in eight years. There have been lots of times over several years where I have acknowledged to myself that it’s overdue, but now I finally did something about it.
I started fresh with a new doctor, on the other side of town. Getting to their offices gives me time to read a little bit on the bus, create some distance so that I make room for my feelings. It’s not the most pleasant area – lots of faceless office blocks and a highway overpass. Perhaps the change of place makes me feel accomplished as well.
Luckily, my doctor was unfazed by my shameful history of avoiding doctors. We talked, made some new appointments, and I had to give some blood for tests. That was, honestly, the funny part. I have no problem with needles or blood, but combining the two seems to cause trouble for my body. There must be something deeply physiological about the sensation. I’ve lost more blood in a casual nosebleed, but have a nurse take it from me consensually and I get starry vision and a buzz in my ears.
For years I’ve been ashamed of not having been to the doctor. I know that I’ve needed to go for some time. Now, I’ve made a start, and I feel that a weight is off my shoulders. Stupid, stupid girl. I should have done this years ago.