How does one begin one’s story? A story that spans decades yet seemingly only started a few years ago? A story with so many alphabet soup diagnoses that it confuses even medical personnel? A story that exposes vulnerabilities and rubs salt in wounds that are still raw? How does one convey the emotions? Where does one find the words?…

No matter what I did it seemed as if there was no middle ground when I went to a doctor’s office. I was either too broken and they couldn’t handle the amount of ailments that I had, or I wasn’t broken enough and everything was apparently normal. Which was I? Completely broken or completely normal? Because surely I couldn’t be both…but for years apparently I was. I was accruing diagnoses like some people collect souvenirs. Carpal tunnel. Cubital tunnel. Postpartum depression. Anxiety. Whiplash Syndrome. Kyphosis. TMJ. Migraines. Fibromyalgia. Peripheral Neuropathy. Tinnitus. The list goes on and on. How could I possibly have this many things wrong with me and yet how could no one help me? I was only in my early thirties.

Ever since I was a teenager I’ve wanted a tattoo. I’m not sure why because I’m quite needle phobic (which is hilarious considering the amount of injections I get every month at this point), but something about the permanency of a tattoo has always drawn me towards them.