It's crazy the lengths I went to as a kid just to get the adults in my life to take me seriously. I was twelve, overwhelmed, exhausted, and constantly dizzy.

The headaches were becoming part of my daily routine. I knew something was wrong with my vision. I knew I needed glasses. I also knew my mom wasn’t listening to a single word I said. Every time I tried to bring it up, she brushed it off like I was being dramatic or making excuses.

Back then I didn’t have the words for what I was feeling. I didn’t understand what medical neglect was or how much anxiety comes from constantly trying to advocate for yourself when no one believes you. I just felt small and scared and tired of straining my eyes every single day.

Some part of me thought that if I got hurt badly enough, they would finally have to pay attention. And it’s painful to admit how normal that idea felt at the time. I had already broken a wrist once before, so I knew what it was like and I knew they wouldn’t question it if it happened again. I was always the clumsy kid with ADHD who bumped into everything, so no one ever looked too closely when I got hurt.

I chose a day at school because it felt safer. There were cameras, teachers, and people who would never assume anything strange was going on at home. I waited until I had a reason to use the stairwell and then I created the kind of accident that would guarantee a trip to the doctor. I didn’t think about the aftermath, the recovery, the pain. I was twelve. All I cared about was finally being seen.

The injury was bad enough that it couldn’t be ignored, and suddenly everyone wanted to know what was going on with my health. And because of that, I ended up getting the eye appointment I had been begging for. The glasses that followed were hideous and made me look like I had raided the world’s least fashionable librarian drawer, but they also made everything clearer. Literally and emotionally.

As an adult, I look back at that moment with this strange mix of regret and understanding. I wish I had been cared for differently. I wish someone had listened before I reached the point of doing something extreme. But I also understand why I made the choice I made. Kids don’t always have healthy coping skills. They just want the people around them to help.

I’m grateful I got the help I needed, even if the path there was messy and complicated. And I still think about that version of me who felt like hurting herself was the only way to be heard. It breaks my heart a little, even now.