AUTIE AND DOCTOR BAD
(Author has Sensory Processing Disorder)
The doctor's office
was a minefield of
sensory assaults.
Every creak of the
floorboard, every
fluorescent flicker,
every rustle of paper
echoed like thunder
in the hypersensitivity
of Autie. The
sterile smell of alcohol
and antiseptic hung in
the air, sharp and
stinging. The walls, a
shade of blue that was
supposed to be calming,
instead made the room
feel cold and unfriendly.
Autie sat, knees
pressed tightly together,
hands fidgeting in her lap.
Her eyes darted around,
trying to take in
everything and nothing
at once. The chair's
material was a torment
against her skin. She
waited for Dr. Baddy,
the general practitioner.
When he finally entered,
his eyes didn't meet hers.
He skimmed through her
chart with a sigh,
his pen tapping
implicitly on the page.
He mumbled something
about her being overly
sensitive, that her issues
were all in her head.
Each word felt like a
sharp jab, a knife
twisting in her gut.
The room grew smaller,
the sounds louder.
The doctor's voice grew
louder, more dismissive.
He talked over her,
his words a blur of
condescension. Autie
tried to speak, to explain
how she felt,
but her voice was lost
in the cacophony. She
could feel her heart
pounding, her palms
sweating, her throat
constricting. Her mind
was racing, trying to
make sense of his
dissonance. Why couldn't
he understand? She knew
they’re busy, but still..
He began the tests,
his cold instruments
probing and poking. Each
touch was a violation,
a scream in her soul.
The bright lights above
seemed to bore into her,
exposing every nerve
ending. Autie flinched
with each poke of the
needle, each squeeze
of the blood pressure
cuff, each cold stethoscope
on her skin. Her
hyperactive mind painted
the worst-case scenarios
behind her closed eyes.
The doctor's voice was
still a blur, but Autie
managed to catch words
like "anxiety" and "psychosomatic."
Her cheeks burned with
shame. Was she really
just imagining it all?
Were her pain and fears
simply the figments of
an overactive imagination?
But she knew better, she
felt the reality of it, the
weight of each sensation
like an anchor around
her neck, pulling her
under. Her body was a
symphony of discomfort,
and he was the one
turning a deaf ear.
“Dr. Baddy, please, I…”
He looked up, his eyes
sharp, and
she saw a flicker of annoyance
behind the professional
mask. “Miss, I understand
this can be uncomfortable. It's all in
your head, you know? It’ll be over..”
The words hit Autie like a
wave, a cold, unyielding force
that crashed over her. Her
heart pounded in protest,
but she bit her tongue,
fighting the urge to scream.
Her eyes filled with tears
that she refused to shed
in front of him. Dr. Baddy
continued, his voice a drone
in her ears, as if speaking
to a toddler.
His touch grew more
invasive with each test,
his dismissive tones
grating on her already
frayed nerves. Each time
he said "it's all in your
head," she felt a piece
of her sanity chip away.
The room was spinning,
the pressure in her chest
building, her breaths shallow
and desperate. She clutched
the arms of the chair, her
knuckles white, willing
herself to stay calm.
He didn't look
at her as he spoke, his
gaze on the computer
screen, typing away.
The words were a slap in
the face, confirming what
she feared: he didn't
believe her. The pain was
real, but in his eyes, she
was just another patient
to be placated.
Autie's voice quivered
as she tried to protest,
to explain that she wasn't
just overreacting. But
the words wouldn't come.
Her mouth was dry, her
throat tight. The room
was spinning faster now,
the walls closing in. The
noise grew louder, a crescendo
of doubt and frustration.
Dr. Baddy's impatience
was palpable. He didn't seem to
notice her distress, or if he
did, he didn't care. Each
new test was a battle
for her to endure, a silent
cry for validation that
went unheard.
Finally, Autie reached
her breaking point. She
couldn't take the poking
and prodding anymore, nor
his dismissive accusations.
With a tremble in her voice,
she managed to interject,
"It's not all in my head.
My body isn't lying to me."
Dr. Baddy's eyes snapped
to hers, his expression
hardening. "Young lady,"
he began, raising his voice,
"you're not making this
easy for yourself. These
symptoms you're describing
are mere textbook anxiety, but until
you accept it, we won't get
anywhere." His words were
exploding in her ears.
Autie flinched at his
volume, the force of his
tone sending shockwaves
through her already
overstimulated system.
Her eyes darted around the
room, searching for an escape,
but the walls remained
steadfast in their judgment.
The air grew thick with
his accusations, suffocating
her, no matter how hard she’s
trying…
Her heart hammered.
Her mind raced, trying to
find the words to explain,
but they remained elusive,
trapped by the fear that
his skepticism had planted.
Her breaths grew shallower,
each one a struggle.
“Sir, I’m neurodivergent…”
He cut her off with
a wave of his hand.
“Aren’t we all, I know. But that’s
no excuse for overreacting
like this. You need to learn
to manage your anxiety.
This isn’t your first appointment,
Miss. I’ve seen worse cases
than yours, and they don’t act
like you do. Maybe it’s time
you complied instead
of wasting time with
trivial complaints!”
The words stung like
a thousand needles, piercing
her soul. Autie felt a tear
slip down her cheek, hot
and humiliating. Her body
shook with the effort to
keep herself from screaming.
But she knew she had to
keep it together, to fight
for herself in this
battle of perception. “Doc, if we
can just…”
Dr. Baddy leaned in,
his face inches from hers.
“Miss, if you can’t even
sit through a simple exam,
how do you expect to handle
real-world stress? Your
symptoms are textbook.
I’ve seen it all before.
Now, kids have done these
tests yet they don’t cry wolf
like you do. Get a grip!”
Autie felt like she
was drowning, his words
like a heavy weight pressing
on her chest,
leaving her gasping for air.
Her vision blurred with
unshed tears, her body
shaking uncontrollably.
The doctor's,
a place of hope and healing,
now felt like a prison.
Her heart ached with
the injustice of it all.
This wasn’t the first time
she’d faced disbelief. She wanted to
flee, to leave this
cruel, albeit professional, man behind.
But she knew that
would only reinforce his
misconceptions about her.
But the nurse at the door,
the one who had offered a
sympathetic smile earlier,
was busy with her own work. Autie
was alone with Dr. Baddy’s
disdain.
“I’m going to need
you to stay still,” he said,
his voice a command.
He moved to restrain
her flailing limbs, his
grip firm and unyielding.
The pressure on her wrists
and ankles was a new torment,
each touch a branding iron
on her already raw skin.
Autie’s breathing grew
quick and shallow, each
inhale a battle, each exhale
a defeat. She couldn’t
see, couldn’t think, couldn’t
do anything but feel.
Her chest tightened, a vice
squeezing the life out of her.
The room swirled into a
whirlpool of sound and color,
dragging her under as she
literally got sick, bringing her
even more discomfort.
The smell of bile and fear
mingled with the antiseptic
stink, and she heard Dr.
Baddy’s voice, now sharp
and accusatory, telling
her to calm down. But
how could she? The world
was a symphony of pain
and doubt, and he was the
conductor, baton slashing
through her defenses.
Her stomach lurched again,
and she felt the cold, wet
floor beneath her knees. Autie
was beyond soothing. She
was lost in
overstimulation, each
sensation a new threat
to her already fragile psyche.
The doctor's hands, now
removing the restraints,
felt like a hundred biting
insects, each touch a
reminder of dismissal.
Her legs wobbled as
she stood, eyes blurry
with tears. The floor spun
beneath her, and she leaned
heavily on the nurse.
"It's okay, sweetie," she
whispered, her voice a
balm to Autie's raw soul.
But it wasn't ok. Nothing
was ok. The world was
still a minefield, each
step a gamble she wasn't
sure she could win.
The nurse helped her
to a chair, handing her
a cup of water. Autie
sipped it gratefully, the
coolness a brief respite
from the fire raging
inside her. Dr. Baddy
stood back, arms crossed,
his face a thundercloud.
The room felt like it was
shrinking,
the embodiment of the
doubt that plagued her. But the
doctor's words were a weight,
dragging her back under.
Was she just overreacting?
The nurse's voice was
a whisper in the chaos.
"Miss, let's get you cleaned
up, okay?" Autie nodded,
too overwhelmed to speak.
Her body was still shaking,
and her eyes stung from
the tears. The nurse's touch
was firm but kind as she
helped Autie to the bathroom.
The nurse handed her a
wet cloth, and Autie
gratefully wiped her face,
the coolness bringing a
tiny bit of relief.
It was
something she knew all too
well: the look of someone
who didn't quite believe her,
who thought she was just
being dramatic. An ableist
microaggression, subtle
but stinging nonetheless.
"It's okay, you'll be fine,"
the nurse said, her voice
soft but patronizing. Autie
could see the judgment
lurking beneath her smile.
"You just need to learn
to cope with your... issues."
It was their lack of
understanding that was
the real issue. But all
that came out was a
weak, "Thank you." She
just wanted some sensory
accommodations, but they
made it seem like an outrageous
request, refusing as if inconvenient.
Leaving the office, Autie
felt broken, defeated. The
sun outside was too bright,
the sounds of the world
a cacophony she couldn't
bear. But she knew she had
to find a better doctor,
one who would listen.