When a campus doctor suggested allergy testing, my parents scoffed. “They’re always looking for something to bill,” Dad said. “You’re stressed. That’s it.”
So I learned to doubt my body. I learned to interpret warning signs as weakness. I learned to push through reactions because I was tired of being the problem.
The therapist leaned forward slightly. “That’s a form of gaslighting,” she said gently. “Not always intentional. But when someone repeatedly dismisses your reality, you start dismissing it too.”
“That’s exactly it,” I whispered, surprised by the sting of tears. “I started thinking maybe I was crazy.”
When I moved into my own apartment, the first thing I bought wasn’t furniture. It was control. A pantry full of safe foods. Labels. A whiteboard list of triggers. A small medical bag for the wall.
The second thing I bought was a sense of privacy I’d never had at my parents’ house: the freedom to be sick without being mocked.
But the past didn’t leave just because I changed my address.