Imposter Syndrome in D Minor

Nobody sees the colours but I,

The reds and purples that mottle my skin fade to greens and yellows, my own personal calendar.

Nobody feels the pain of each swelling,

The pill-popping, hand tightening press of mass against nerves and ligaments.

A jacket makes me “normal”, hides my difference even as the weather turns warm

By hiding my difference, I have hidden my struggle, chalked it up as no big deal.

I have hidden the morning tightness, the pain that clouds thoughts, the limited movement.

I have hidden my fear of being labelled different, unattractive, or worst of all, brave.

I wish to be seen as me

I don’t want the pain that stains my skin to stain my life

To be reminded of childhood teasing or surgery after surgery.

I want to be called brave and inspiring because I bring good to the world, not because I dared to leave the house while looking different.

My parents raised a girl who wasn’t different

Who has only recently been able to call her pain chronic, to acknowledge she has a disability

Who spent her whole life allowing discrimination because she didn’t believe she was disabled enough

Who shied away from asking for special accommodations when she couldn’t even hold a pen

The colourful swellings are anything but invisible, so why do I make my pain so?

Why do I only allow people to see a sliver of my struggles?

Why does the word disability still feel undeserved?

Why do I still struggle to label my daily pain as chronic?