Member-only story
A Morning with the Doctor
*TARDIS noises don’t intensify*
Like many young men between the ages of twenty-something and thirty-something, until recently I did not have medical insurance. Long story short, now that I do, to say that I am equal parts overjoyed and relieved is a massive, massive understatement. Not only am I able to afford therapy (much needed for my CPTSD!) but I can also now finally speak with the Doctor.
…well, a doctor. Some autistic individuals don’t like the Doctor, or doctors, or hospitals, or anything to do with medical places or facilities. That’s completely valid. It’s been so long since I’ve been around any of those things that I haven’t had time to form an opinion yet — but yes, I’ve read disappointing stories online about autism and those in medical practice who mistreat us.
Which, I’m happy to say, didn’t really happen with me. A nurse scanned my paper-work which was my official diagnosis, and my doctor was late to getting to speak with me. It was 9:00 in the morning, so who can blame him? Then again I’d been there since quarter-after 8…and our meeting would only be a half-hour. Except it really wouldn’t be; as you’ll read, I’d talk quite a bit, using all my spoons.
“So, what would you like to talk about?” I could tell…well, I assumed quite heavily that he’s neurotypical. I was unnerved after a while by the gleam of his…
