INGRID

I wish I could tell my story, but I don't remember most of it. I don't remember most of my childhood, adolescence, and barely my adulthood. But I can share what I have been told.
I've been told that I started having symptoms of recurrent UTIs at only 6 months old, and only was free of symptoms when I was eight years old. I had ureteral vesicle reflux, and I can't tell you how many times I had to endure the urethrocystography, or the urodynamics. I've been told that I used to be a quiet child. Not so many friends, always reading books and more books, trapped into my little corner of the world. Many intestinal problems as well, as a consequence of the antibiotics that I use to take.
I can tell you the meds that I've taken—those names were ingrained in me, and I can't remember to forget them: oxybutynin hydrochloride and Pipemidic Acid. The first one was to help with the incontinence—oh yes, the humbling experience of "leaking" and having to change underpants—while the second was the antibiotic that I took on low amounts for good seven years, non-stop. At least it's what I have been told.
I've been told that I would hate the taste so badly I quickly asked for pills, even as a toddler. I've been told that the meds would give me such bad constipation that I couldn't use the restroom for days, would need suppositories, laxatives, and so many other interventions. I've been told once that my constipation was so bad that if I was an adult, the size would be equivalent to a papaya—I remember not being able to sit down that day. I've been told that I would never resist the invasive procedures and treatments, I would just cry silently and try not to disturb the doctors.
I don't remember most of this. In fact, I'm 26 years old and my first consistent memories start at…maybe 18. I still struggle to remember recent events, and have a very hard time putting events in a chronological order. Most of my memories are in a third-person POV.
There are some things I remember, though. I remember the pain of constipation for the meds. I remember being made fun of for being incontinent—even by my own sister. I remember thinking to myself, “Why am I like this? What's wrong with me?” I remember asking and praying to God, “Please, why can't I be normal?” I remember asking once to a male nurse not to look at my open vulva, while preparing for the invasive procedures (he obviously had to look).
I remember the vaginismus and not being able to fully enjoy sex. I remember crying in pain whenever I needed to take a vaginal ultrasound. I remember not being able to trust anyone, ever. I remember my mom asking me to seek help, because there was something wrong with me—and I remember cutting off her and my sister and going no contact afterwards.
I remember having several UTIs in adulthood and having to submit myself to the urethrocystography and the urodynamics once more—and feeling absolutely humiliated and void afterwards, not being able to hold back the tears on the street. I remember being diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder as an adult. I remember feeling like a bad person, a broken person, a person with no value.
I remember cutting myself and planning for my suicide several times. I remember the panic of feeling abandoned, even when I was not. I remember feeling unlovable. I remember not being able to relax, ever. I remember being depressed for as long as I can remember. I remember the nightmares of murder, persecution, beheading, the gore and the bloody. Every single night. I remember not being able to go out by myself at night, the fear of men, and believing for so many years that I had been sexually abused. Oh, no. I don't think so, not anymore.
I often think about the fact that I had no idea of who I could've been if I hadn't had the reflux. If I hadn't had to take those meds, for so long. Would I be able to enjoy being alive? Would I be able to experience healthy love? Would I be able to not fear everything and everyone, always? Would I feel happy with my achievements? Maybe even pride for them? Would I be able to be fully functional? Or even more radically, could I be happy?
I don't know. No one does, really. Maybe I am supposed to be like this? Maybe it was never in the cards for my life? I guess we'll never know.
From a pessimist and depressed victim,

-Ingrid