My internal justifications for not telling someone I needed to go to the doctor– justifications that said I was why I was sick, it was under my control– were completely ridiculous. I knew they were ridiculous. I knew they were not only myths but extremely silly myths. No one in my life had ever mentioned them to me except as silly untrue myths to debunk.
But for some reason I was already absolutely set on the course of suffering in silence for as long as I could. (The time I dislocated my elbow, and asked for help making a sling instead of help because I couldn’t bend my arm, I was… how old? Younger than school-age, I think. Maybe four or five.) It didn’t occur to me to do otherwise. So my brain grabbed on to any justification it could find.