The doctor pressed my stomach as I lay on the hospital bed, and asked if it hurt. I hesitated, then saw my mum's face contort with fury behind his back. I remembered her hissed instructions before we'd entered the room, telling me to lie, her vice-like grip on my wrist.
There was no pain, but all I could do was nod. At the age of three, I knew if I didn't do as Mum said, she'd turn her anger on me. To others, she appeared loving, but in private it was a different story.
My earliest memories are of endless hospital trips and being poked and prodded by doctors, as Mum told them about symptoms I didn't actually have.
I dreaded the moment each doctor concluded they couldn't find anything. If they suggested it might be psychological, she'd scream and shout, while my dad simply stood by.
Back home, Mum would tell me it was my fault I should have explained my symptoms better. By the time I was nine, I'd been hospitalised on nine occasions, for days or weeks at a time. I was in turmoil, traumatised by the sight of a hospital and terrified of my mum.
Was I really ill? Or was Mum causing it? ' I thought about telling someone, but I couldn't find the words.
When my arms were sore after a holiday spent swimming, Mum declared I had a muscle disease.
When doctors failed to find anything wrong, she forced me to use a wheelchair whenever we were out. I was removed from school and made to stay in bed with my arms and legs in bandages that were only removed when she took me to hospital.
I was never allowed to mention it. I never returned to school after that, and missed my friends desperately. Instead, I lay in bed at home all day in pain from the bandages, being forced to take a cocktail of drugs and feeling sicker and sicker.
This story is from the August 21, 2023 edition of WOMAN'S OWN.
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This story is from the August 21, 2023 edition of WOMAN'S OWN.
Start your 7-day Magzter GOLD free trial to access thousands of curated premium stories, and 8,500+ magazines and newspapers.
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