On the morning of May 16th, 2016 - the first appointment with my primary care physician, I vividly recall waking up overwhelmed with new and refreshing feelings of hope. I stepped out of bed with hope, brushed my teeth with hope, dressed my body with hope; I just knew that this day was the day I would begin to receive legitimate explanations for my ailments. This day was the day things would finally begin to improve. At the appointment, I verbally shared with my new doctor all of the symptoms I'd been experiencing, as well as photos of the spots that had appeared on my body (but had disappeared since then). I also shared that I had been seen at Urgent Care on various occasions for these aforementioned symptoms and on each occasion, a metabolic panel was ordered by the physician and revealed that I had a very small number of white blood cells and low blood sugars. I repeated to the doctor the orders Urgent Care had sent me home with time and time again: sleep more, eat more, stop working so much. (Sure doc, who the hell has time for that shit in today's economy when you're young, working in the arts, trying to make rent, feed yourself, and keep the lights on? NOBODY.)
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