I hate going to the doctor. I just hate it. I hate seeing my height (5’1″ and every doctor ever says “I’m sure you know by now that you’re done growing”), I hate seeing my weight (116 what a slobby disgusting number), I hate getting my finger pricked (intentionally harming me in a clinic? Really? No the pretty princess band-aid does not win my affections but give it to me anyway), I hate peeing in a cup (Dang it! I already peed! What if I miss? How much do they need? How much pee do I even have in me?), I hate the privacy of my ears being invaded (what are they looking for anyway?), and I hate being asked questions that I may or may not know the answer to. Family history of illness? I guess not. Diet and exercise? Good I guess. How bad are my menstrual cramps? Pretty dang bad! Sex? No Doctor! You are not going to have “the talk” with me. Stop it stop it stop it!
So doctor’s appointments. Necessary? Not exactly. Helpful? Yet to be determined. I just don’t like the feeling of being analyzed. What better way to ruin a teenage girl’s day than to put every part of the insides and outsides of her body on blast? Every harmful thing that anybody could do to me–point out everything that I’m insecure about, know things about me that I don’t, all the way up to making me bleed–is what happens when I visit the doctor. It’s not fair and it’s not right and because of that I hate anything even remotely medical.
Except for my ibuprofen pills of course.