Maya Anne

Preface

Since before you took your first breath you had a label. You were "she" or "he." They had a vision for you, rather it be your mom, Dad, older sister, Grandpa, Grandma, or aunt. They heard the word, "baby" and before you could even say your first word they had a plan for you.
    I was born on December 10th, 1998 which made me a millennial. I couldn't make any words but yet I had so many labels. I was born a "girl." I am "white." I am a "millennial." I am a "90's baby." I am a "Sagittarius." I was "premature." None of those labels though were referenced until I was in middle school English class. The teacher had us doing a project on millennials and the stereotypes that follow that word. That's when I realized all of the other labels we gave each other. "Gay" "fat" "straight" "skinny" "lesbian" "anorexic" "bulimic" "transgender" "tomboy" "popular" "loser" "nerd" "weirdo." Anyone could stand at any locker at any point of the day and hear these labels being chanted at each other. I couldn't figure out why we had to box people in. Some people were called these things but didn't fit into these categories. I was one of those people. I couldn't find my crowd, I jumped from group to group never feeling like I belonged to any leader. I went through my goth phase and my rebel phase but those were just phases, I couldn't label myself with those words. I changed who I was so quickly it never gave anyone a chance to give me a title. I was always just- Daryle. In ninth grade I started to realize that there was something wrong with me. I couldn't figure out what it was. I went to the doctors and they told me I had OCD, anxiety, panic attacks and serve depression. They put me on medication that made me crave white bread. My mother used to find me at eleven pm on the kitchen counter devouring a loaf to myself. Let's just say that she thought I was getting fat so I got off the medication. I got off them completely since the next medication she got me made me loose weight so I just dumped it down the drain. Every day during lunch I'd find myself in the bathroom stalls encouraging those throwing up their meals to eat after. Yet, I didn't eat myself. I would go all day without eating because I'd be too focus on figuring out what is wrong with me that I couldn't hold a meal. I didn't want to hold a meal, I just wanted a label, I wanted a title.
     Later that winter we dissected a rat and that was the first time I passed out in school. I was walking to the nurse and my hearing kept fading in and out. It made me feel like I got another concussion, the first time I did I hit my head on a wall and I puked numerous times that I had to get a shot in my butt to stop me from vomiting, then I passed out walking to my car. It was horrible, my earring went then my vision then it all came back moments later. That was the first time I had an episode.
   I got to the nurses and sat down telling her I couldn't see her. I got sent home, but no one believed me. I seemed just fine.
     After my two week bed-rest strictly concussion I went back to the doctors to make sure I was okay and not even them believed I had a concussion since I went to after care. I couldn't get a label no matter the circumstances. Not even for a brain injury.
      My second concussion wasn't as bad as my first. I was in gym playing floor hockey when a guy went for the puck the same time I did and he ended up slicing open my eyebrow, breaking my glasses and giving me a concussion. The doctors literally told me my brain wasn't floating properly but I didn't get to be out of gym class. You would have thought by now I would have changed doctors, but no.
       I once saw a therapist and she told me to tell her why I was there. I told her to talk about my issues at hand and come up with better ways to deal with it. She asked me what my issues were so I told her I was diagnosed with OCD, anxiety, panic attacks, and severe depression. She then told me to never use those words again in this office because words do not define me. I never went back to that therapist. Words don't define me but if I fit into a category, I'm going to use that category in order to describe my reasonings.
      In tenth grade I met the man who would change my life forever. I feel like people say that a lot but my man is literally world changing. There's two men actually. I was in this teachers study hall everyday listening to him complain about us being too loud. I didn't like him very much, he scared me. The next year though, I had a friend who was close with him. She knew I was struggling in his class so she told me to come with her until I felt comfortable to bring up my concerns myself. So I did. I went with her for six weeks everyday to his free period and listened to them talk, I cried a few times. I was still so scared to tell him that everyday I pass out in the back of his class when the lights were off and no one could tell because it looked like I was asleep. He grew up on a farm, he raised cattle for meat and talked about it a lot during class. It was US History of all materials to teach. The passing out started in the civil war unit when he talked about the different blades. Then the Progressive Era, he talked about his farm and the not to pleasant working conditions. Everyday I would pass out then have to drive myself home moments later when my body was still shaking trying to recover. I didn't want to tell him because I didn't think there was anything he could do. I didn't have a label or a title, so I knew no one would believe me. My grades started to slip because of the content I missed while I was unconscious in the back of the room. It was time to tell him. I pulled him aside before class started and told him "I pass out with blood" he nodded and turned away. I was horrified, I was beyond prepared to spilled my emotions to him and he only let me say a few words. In class that day though he publicly apologized for going too far into details and skipped over a few slides that contained it. It was the first class in over three months that I didn't pass out. I only wish I spoke up sooner.
Every now and again he would forget and I ended up passing out in the back or getting to the hallway first. He would apologize afterwards for days. I thought all my problems disappeared, but then I went to English.
My English professor was a young man, you could tell he was still trying to figure out his place in the classroom. Lucky for me he was more than willing to hear me out. Since the other teacher was so understanding I was more open in telling him. I stayed after and told him my issue. Unlike my other confession, he had a lot more questions. We talked for nearly an hour all about what triggers it until finally I thought he understood. For the most part he did. Both of these teachers ways of helping were avoidance. My therapist didn't think that was a good solution at the time. I thought it was great. I went days without passing out, it was like floating on a cloud. I am so appreciative of those two teachers and what they did for me. They never truly understood what doors they opened and no matter how many times I tried telling them how much it meant to me that they helped me express myself and not pass out.
My freshmen year at college I found where I belonged. I got diagnosed. I finally got my title. I didn't just pass out because it happens. I have a neurological disability where I only get a limited amount of pass outs before I don't wake up. I might not have been around to get a title if it weren't for those men stopping my daily pass outs. I've always found it interesting how someone could mean so much to you- yet you mean nothing to them. Just another person we meet along our paths.