To the little girl inside of me

Sometimes people ask me if I remember what it felt like to be healthy. The truth is, I don’t remember being healthy, but I remember when I first found out I was sick. 

I was 11. I remember walking into 6th grade and a girl from my class telling me I looked like I had a disease. You can imagine the repercussions a sentence like that might have on a little girl. 

My face was splotchy, tear streaked, and I had spent my morning swallowing and gagging on pills I couldn’t pronounce the names of. I remember crying in the cubbies of our classroom and wiping my tears before sitting down at my desk and trying to get through my school day. 

I carried the burden of being the sick girl with me to middle school, then highschool, and into college. I never addressed my medical trauma until my adulthood. I’m 24 and finally grieving the loss of self that the 12, 16, and 21 year old me weren’t strong enough to face.

I’ll never forget the little girl that raised me. I’m thankful for her, but I wish I could hug her.