I’ve been disabled in one way or other all my life. For the decades my Multiple Sclerosis went undiagnosed, they said the periods of time my MS drove to my bed were disabling bouts of depression–that the progressive numbing of my body was nothing. They were wrong. I was having bouts of MS. They call it Relapsing Remitting. It comes and it goes.
There was a tremendous stigma to depression. I bore it. I had no choice. I pursued my degree in psychology, vowing to heal myself. Then came the diagnosis of advanced MS. They finally had it. All those years I had been convinced my illness was in my head now engendered anger at having been dismissed so handily. Lazy doctors had deemed me crazy instead of sick. But the clincher was when I discovered that early diagnosis could have slowed the progression of my disease.
Why use my…
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