The doubt they planted in me

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It took over two decades to get a proper diagnosis. More than twenty years of wondering if the pain was real or if I was just broken in some invisible way.

I spent years afraid.
In pain.
Hopeless.
Confused.

Not because I didn’t ask for help, but because no one believed me when I did.

There were countless E.R. visits where the pain got so bad
I genuinely thought I was going to die.
I’d clutch my stomach or my chest or my head,
sometimes all at once, and beg them to find what was wrong.

But they always looked at me like I was fragile.
Or dramatic.
Or stressed.

I’d leave those hospital rooms with nothing
no answers, no tests, just a condescending nod.

They told me to rest.
To drink more water.
To just take some Tylenol
To eat healthier.
To stop Googling things.

And I started to believe them.
I started to wonder if maybe I was the problem.

That kind of doubt doesn’t just sit quietly. It festers.
It changes the way you trust yourself.
It steals years from you.

This poem was written from that place:
the lonely, terrifying, frustrating place of medical gaslighting.

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The Poem Itself

they tell me it's just stress.
just anxiety. just hormones. just in my head.
as if the bruises beneath my skin,
the fire in my bones,
the exhaustion that steals my days
could be imagined.

i try to explain—
but their eyes flicker to the clock, to their clipboard,
to anywhere but me.

they hand me a pamphlet on mindfulness
and tell me to rest,
as if rest could fix a body they refuse to believe.

so i sit with the doubt they planted in me,
wondering if i am the problem,
if i am too much,
if i am broken in a way that can't be seen.

and that is the worst part— not just the pain,
but the way they make me question
whether it was ever there at all.

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Reflection/Analysis

Looking back, I still grieve for the version of me who kept showing up to those appointments still hoping for help.

Because even after all the dismissals,
I wanted to believe someone would care enough to look deeper.

And when that diagnosis finally came
after years of trying to be heard
it didn’t make the pain disappear.
But it did give it a name.
It gave me permission to stop doubting myself.

So if you're still waiting for answers, still being told it's "all in your head,"
still waiting for someone to take your cries seriously I want you to know this:

You are not imagining it.
You are not too much.
Your pain is real.
And you deserve care that doesn’t make you question your reality.

There will be a day
when you don’t have to fight so hard to be believed.
There will be a doctor who listens,
a friend who doesn’t call you a hypochondriac,
a morning where your body feels soft instead of on fire.

You get to reclaim your story.
You get to begin again
on your own terms.

And that is something
no one can take from you.

---

If this poem or reflection spoke to you,
you might find pieces of your own story in my poetry book Life Interrupted,
where I write more about medical gaslighting, endometriosis, chronic pain, and finding my way back to myself.
You can find it here.

And if you feel safe to share I’d love to hear your story in the comments.
Sometimes just saying “me too” can be a beginning. 🤍

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Write It Out

Write about a time you knew something was wrong but no one believed you.

Start with:

"They said I was fine, but I knew..." or
"This is what it feels like to carry pain no one can see..."

Let the page be the place where your pain is seen.
Where your voice isn’t talked over.
Where the full truth of your experience
isn't just allowed, it's honored.

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Thank you for reading, looking for another poem?

Try this: Standing in the Rain

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Thank you for your support!

Debra 💛