Another round of blood work. The check my heart this time too, because of the racing.
Sitting in the doctor's office. Sun faded posters of cute children in 90's glasses getting checkups.
The doctor, kindly and south african, reads my results.
"It's all normal here," she tells me. "Your iron is a bit low. Not concerning, but a bit low. We could put you on an iron supplement, but it might make your other problems worse."
I start to cry.
She treats me gently. I tell her I've been doing all the things she's told me to do, but I can tell she thinks I'm lying. She probably gets patients lying to her all the time. And my symptoms say I'm lying. But I'm not. I don't know why her solutions aren't working.
I leave her office. I duck into the nearest bathroom for a quick cry, until an old man starts pulling on the door handle.
She said she'd get me in with a specialist. Warned me it would be a long time.
"Because you're actually okay," the undercurrent says. I know she's thinking it. I can tell by the way she's not really taking me seriously.
Two years. Two years. Will I ever feel normal again?
I cry in the car a little bit. Maybe this is my new normal.