Routine tasks become an escape, a way to distance myself from the worry that I can’t seem to shake. I focus on practical tasks, hoping that action will drown out the uncertainty nagging at the edges of my mind.
It’s not that I haven’t tried to find answers. I’ve visited different doctors, each suggesting minor lifestyle changes, each dismissing my concerns with vague reassurances. It’s frustrating, feeling invisible in a system meant to protect me.
“Maybe it’s just stress,” a friend had suggested once, their tone well-meaning but dismissive.
I had nodded, opting not to share the deeper worries that linger beneath my calm facade.
The discomfort has been growing, a constant companion that I can no longer ignore. Yet, I hesitate to share my symptoms, wary of more dismissals, more detachment.
The silence feels heavier today, like a pause stretched too long, unsettled and unresolved.
“You should see someone else,” another friend advised, but I know it’s not that simple.
Appointments are hard to come by, and each visit feels like a battle for validation, for acknowledgment.
The looming call with the specialist hangs over me, the uncertainty pressing down, a silence filled with shadows.
For now, I wait.
Read more on the next page ⬇️⬇️⬇️
