It happened again. 

A doctor told me I’m weird.

I’ve written about this before. Back in the fall of 2018 and again in the summer of 2019.

The Mighty published my personal essay “The Hard Realties I’ve Faced After My Doctor Told Me, ‘You’re Just Weird.’ “

Now it’s winter 2020.

And apparently, from a medical standpoint, I’m still weird.

Here’s the thing. I’ve said it before, I’ve written it before, and I’ll write it again – I’m okay with being weird. I know a lot of people think it’s weird I like to eat leftover Thanksgiving turkey cold and dipped in ketchup. Maybe it’s weird that I always have to sleep with blankets covering me. Some might find the nine rings I wear to be weird.

Weird can be good. Weird can be unique. And special. And celebrated. It tells the world I don’t need to be like everyone else.

Except – when it comes to medicine.

I’m going through a rough time right now. Actually, for the last several months. My rheumatologist referred me to a neurologist in his office. I’ve had two different (unpleasant) tests/procedures. 

One test revealed “muscles abnormalities.” Abnormalities – just a fancy word for weird.

The other test supported the findings of the first test.

But when my rheumatologist walked into the exam room the other day for my follow-up, he told me he had met with the neurologist, reviewed the findings, and in his words, “She says you’re weird.”

“I’ve heard that before,” I replied.

But inside I didn’t say that. In my imagination, a whole other scenario played out. I got off the exam table and started screaming at everyone. 

“Don’t call me weird,” I hollered, enunciating each word.

“Tell me you don’t know what to do. Tell me you don’t know how to help me. But do not f – – -ing call me weird. It’s not me that’s weird. It’s this disease.”

I had images of me standing outside on Wilshire Boulevard, using a baseball bat to whack the street signs. 

The police officers would come. I would admit all my wrongdoing. Take full responsibility. And tell the officers that I was just overcome with emotion. I had been called weird once too many.

Because when my doctor told me I was weird, I knew we didn’t have any more answers. I knew I wasn’t going home with a new treatment plan. 

I live with pain. Each and every day. 

Pain isn’t weird. Pain is exhausting. Pain is depressing. Pain is want-to-pull-the-hair-out-of-my-head upsetting. But it’s not weird.