They Mocked Me for “Making Up Symptoms” and Called It Attention-Seeking—Until the Specialist’s Report Arrived and Their Smiles Died Mid-Laugh
The first time someone laughed, it was in a break room that smelled like burnt coffee and microwaved noodles.
I’d been holding my mug with both hands because my fingers wouldn’t stop trembling. Not a cute shiver, not the “oh wow it’s cold in here” kind—an internal vibration I couldn’t control, as if my nerves were playing a song only my body could hear.
I tried to hide it the way you hide anything that might make people uncomfortable. I tucked my hands under the mug, angled my elbows close to my ribs, and smiled like nothing was wrong.
It didn’t work.
“What are you, nervous?” Derek from accounting asked, loud enough for everyone to look up.
His tone wasn’t concern. It was entertainment.
I laughed weakly. “No, just… my hands are being weird.”
“Being weird,” he repeated, like I’d just said my cat was trying to start a podcast. “How?”
I opened my mouth, then shut it again. How do you explain symptoms you can’t prove? How do you describe a feeling that slips away the second someone asks you to demonstrate it?
So I said the truth, the simplest version.
“They shake sometimes. And I’ve been getting dizzy.”
A few people exchanged looks. One of them snorted. Someone—maybe Lana—muttered, “Here we go again,” like I was a recurring commercial nobody asked for.
Derek leaned against the counter. “Did you drink water, Paige? Or are you just allergic to work?”
Laughter erupted—quick, effortless. A group laugh. A social laugh. The kind that says: We’re in on it together, and you’re the joke.
I smiled because I didn’t know what else to do. Because standing up for yourself in an office can turn you into a problem faster than any symptom ever could.
But inside, something tightened.
Not anger, exactly.
More like the slow, sick realization that if my body ever truly failed me, these were the people who would clap at the collapse.
I returned to my desk and pretended I was fine.
By noon, the room tilted like a ship.
I stood too quickly, and the floor swung. My vision narrowed around the edges, the world dimming like someone was turning down a dial.
I gripped my desk.
“You okay?” Lana asked without looking up from her screen.
“I’m fine,” I said automatically.
That was my favorite lie.
I’d been “fine” for eight months.
Eight months of waking up tired no matter how early I went to bed. Eight months of headaches that felt like pressure behind my eyes. Eight months of joint pain that came and went like it had its own schedule.
And then the stranger symptoms started: the trembling, the dizziness, the occasional numbness in my left hand, like it had been unplugged.
It was easier for people to accept visible problems. A cast. A bruise. A bandage. Something that could be nodded at and categorized.
But invisible symptoms made people suspicious.
Invisible symptoms made people creative.
My primary care doctor had said, “Stress can do a lot,” with a smile that suggested he wanted the appointment to end more than he wanted answers.
A different doctor had asked, “Are you anxious?” in a tone that made it sound like an accusation.
My mother—my practical, no-nonsense mother—had listened to me list my symptoms over the phone and responded with: “Sweetheart, you’re thirty-one. You sit at a desk all day and you don’t go outside. Of course you feel weird.”
My boyfriend, Aaron, had tried to be supportive at first. He’d offered to drive me to appointments. He’d sent me messages like How are you feeling? and Did they say anything?
But after months of “nothing” results—normal bloodwork, normal scans, normal dismissals—his concern started to thin into impatience.
It happened gradually. Like ice melting.
He’d sigh when I canceled plans. He’d say, “Again?” when I told him I needed to rest. He’d raise his eyebrows when I said I couldn’t drink because it made the dizziness worse.
One night, after I’d spent dinner pushing food around my plate because nausea kept rising in waves, he put down his fork and said, “Do you think you might be… focusing on it too much?”
I stared at him. “Focusing on what?”
“On symptoms,” he said carefully. “Like… maybe your body’s reacting because you’re constantly watching for something to be wrong.”
My throat tightened. “So you think I’m doing this to myself.”
“No,” he said quickly. “Not on purpose. Just—stress is powerful. And you’ve been… you know. Fixated.”
Fixated.
It was a word people used when they wanted to make your experience sound like a hobby.
I didn’t yell. I didn’t cry. I just nodded because arguing felt pointless.
If your own body feels like a mystery, it’s hard to convince someone else it’s real.
The turning point came on a Wednesday morning that began like any other.
I woke up, showered, and tried to ignore the way my hands trembled when I buttoned my blouse. I drove to work, sipping ginger tea at red lights because it helped the nausea.
At 9:43 a.m., I was in the middle of answering an email when a sharp pain shot down my left arm, followed by a strange heaviness, like my limb was sinking into the desk.
I froze.
I flexed my fingers.
They moved, but slowly, as if I was sending instructions through a thick fog.
My heart began to race.
Not because I was dramatic.
Because something was wrong.
I stood and nearly fell. The room spun violently, and my vision blurred, as if the air itself had turned watery.
I grabbed the edge of my desk, breathing through my nose, trying to steady myself.
Lana looked over. “Paige?”
“I need to sit,” I whispered, though I was already clinging to furniture like a person twice my age.
Derek’s chair rolled back. “Oh my God,” he said with exaggerated exasperation. “Not again.”
Heat flooded my face.
“I’m not—” I started.
But the words dissolved as my tongue felt thick. My mouth went dry.
A cold, hard fear settled in my chest.
What if this is something serious?
What if I’m alone in a room full of people who think I’m performing?
My manager, Sandra, appeared at my desk like a storm cloud in sensible shoes.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“I feel dizzy,” I said, trying to keep my voice level. “My arm—something’s wrong with my arm.”
Sandra’s mouth tightened. “Have you eaten?”
“Yes,” I lied. “A little.”
She sighed like I’d inconvenienced her schedule. “Paige, we have client calls today.”
I stared at her, stunned. “I can’t—”
“Can you go home?” she asked, not as a suggestion but as a way to remove the problem.
I nodded because staying would mean humiliating myself further.
As I gathered my things, I heard Derek say under his breath, “Must be nice to take personal days whenever you feel like it.”
Someone laughed. A small laugh. But it landed like a punch.
I walked out with my head high and my stomach flipping.
In the elevator, my knees shook so badly I had to brace against the wall.
By the time I reached my car, my left hand was tingling again—pins and needles crawling up my wrist.
I called Aaron.
He didn’t answer.
I called again.
Still nothing.
So I drove myself to urgent care, gripping the steering wheel with my right hand because the left felt unreliable.
At urgent care, the nurse took my vitals, asked questions, and watched me with the kind of cautious skepticism that had become familiar.
When I mentioned dizziness and numbness, her eyes flicked to my chart.
“You’ve been here before,” she said.
“Yes,” I said, voice tight. “And every time, they say nothing’s wrong.”
She offered a small, tight smile. “Well, let’s see.”
The doctor on duty—a young man with neat hair and a polite expression—asked me about stress. About anxiety. About my diet. About my sleep.
I answered everything.
Then I said, “I need someone to take this seriously.”
He nodded in a way that looked like agreement but felt like dismissal.
“We can do some basic tests,” he said. “But if those are normal, I’d recommend following up with your primary. Sometimes these things are… functional.”
Functional.
Another word people used when they didn’t want to say, We don’t know.
I stared at him.
“Please,” I said. “I’m not making this up.”
He held up his hands. “I’m not saying you are. I’m saying there are many causes for symptoms like these.”
I wanted to ask him if he’d say that if my arm was bleeding.
Instead, I clenched my jaw and let them draw blood.
The tests came back normal.
Of course they did.
The doctor smiled with the relief of a person whose shift wouldn’t be complicated.
“Everything looks fine,” he said. “You’re probably dehydrated and stressed.”
I stared at him, numb.
“So… what am I supposed to do?” I asked.
He shrugged slightly. “Rest. Hydrate. Consider talking to someone if anxiety is a factor.”
I left with a pamphlet about mindfulness.
I sat in my car and laughed once—sharp, bitter.
Then my laughter turned into a sob I swallowed fast, because if I started crying, I wasn’t sure I’d stop.
That night, Aaron came home and found me on the couch, still in my work clothes, staring at the TV without watching it.
“You didn’t tell me you went to urgent care,” he said.
“I called you,” I replied. “Twice.”
He frowned. “I was in a meeting.”
I didn’t answer.
He set down his keys and sat beside me. “So what did they say?”
“That I’m dehydrated and stressed,” I said flatly.
Aaron exhaled. “Well… that could be it.”
I turned my head slowly. “Do you hear yourself?”
“I’m just saying—” he began.
“No,” I cut in. My voice wasn’t loud, but it was sharp. “You’re saying what everyone says. You’re saying it because it’s convenient. Because if it’s ‘stress,’ you don’t have to be scared.”
Aaron’s face tightened. “I’m not scared.”
“Yes, you are,” I said, my voice shaking now. “And you’re making it my fault.”
He stood. “That’s not fair.”
“Neither is this,” I whispered.
He paced a few steps, then turned back. “Paige, I love you. But this has taken over everything. We can’t go anywhere without you saying you’re dizzy or tired or in pain. And then you look at me like I’m a bad person for wanting a normal life.”
The words hit like icy water.
“I want a normal life too,” I said quietly. “I just… don’t have one right now.”
He stared at me, then looked away.
“I can’t do this forever,” he said.
Something inside me went very still.
“I’m not asking you to,” I said.
The silence that followed was heavy and final, even if neither of us said the official words.
That night, Aaron slept on the far side of the bed, turned away like distance could protect him from guilt.
I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, feeling my heart beat too loudly.
At 2:12 a.m., I opened my phone and searched: specialist for unexplained neurological symptoms.
I found a name that kept appearing in reputable forums and clinic listings: Dr. Leena Shah, a neurologist known for complex cases.
The earliest appointment was in six weeks.
I booked it.
I didn’t tell anyone.
Not because I wanted to hide.
Because I couldn’t handle one more laugh.
Six weeks later, I sat in Dr. Shah’s office with sweaty palms and a knot in my throat.
The waiting room had soft lighting and plants that looked cared for. It didn’t feel like a place where people were rushed out the door.
Dr. Shah walked in with a tablet in her hand and a calm expression that didn’t feel fake.
“Paige Bennett?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, standing quickly, then catching myself as dizziness pulsed.
She noticed. “Take your time.”
It was such a small thing.
And it nearly broke me.
I sat, and she sat across from me.
“Tell me what’s been happening,” she said.
I started with the symptoms. The timeline. The tests. The dismissals. The way people’s faces changed when results came back normal.
I tried to keep my voice steady.
But halfway through, my throat tightened.
“I know this sounds like a lot,” I said, forcing a laugh that came out wrong. “I promise I’m not trying to—”
Dr. Shah held up a hand gently. “You don’t need to apologize for being unwell.”
I stared at her.
She leaned forward slightly. “Your job isn’t to convince me. My job is to figure out what’s happening.”
I swallowed hard. “Thank you.”
She asked questions no one had asked before. About the specific kind of dizziness. About whether the numbness was patchy or consistent. About heat sensitivity. About vision changes. About how symptoms came and went.
Then she did a full neurological exam—reflexes, balance, eye tracking, strength tests.
At one point, she asked me to walk heel-to-toe in a straight line. I wobbled slightly.
Her face didn’t change into disbelief.
It changed into focus.
“Okay,” she said softly, almost to herself.
“What?” I asked, heart pounding.
She looked at me. “I have some suspicions. I want to order an MRI of your brain and spine with contrast, and some additional blood work. And I want you to do a nerve conduction study.”
My mouth went dry.
“Do you think it’s serious?” I asked.
She didn’t sugarcoat, but she didn’t scare me for sport either.
“I think something is affecting your nervous system,” she said. “That’s serious enough to investigate properly. But ‘serious’ doesn’t always mean ‘catastrophic.’ It means we take it seriously.”
I nodded, eyes stinging.
For the first time in months, I felt something like hope.
Not the flimsy kind.
The kind built on being believed.
The tests took two weeks.
Two weeks of waiting while my body continued its strange rebellion.
Two weeks where Aaron avoided talking about my appointment like it was a weather system he didn’t want to acknowledge.
Two weeks where my mom asked, “Any updates?” and then immediately followed with, “I’m sure it’s nothing.”
Two weeks where Sandra at work eyed me with thinly veiled irritation, like my presence came with an expiration date.
When Dr. Shah’s office called and asked me to come in for a follow-up, my heart pounded so hard I could taste metal.
I took the day off.
Sandra’s lips tightened when I told her.
“This is becoming a pattern,” she said.
“I’m not asking for permission,” I replied, surprising myself with the firmness in my own voice. “I’m informing you.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”
But I was already turning away, my hands trembling—not from fear of her, but from the strain of having been polite for too long.
Dr. Shah’s office was quiet when I arrived.
She greeted me, sat down, and opened my file.
She didn’t start with small talk.
She looked at me and said, “Paige, I have answers.”
I held my breath.
“The MRI shows lesions,” she said, tapping the tablet and turning it slightly so I could see the images. “In areas consistent with demyelination. Combined with your symptoms and your exam findings, this strongly suggests multiple sclerosis.”
The words hit me like a wave.
Not because I knew everything about it.
But because I knew what it meant:
I hadn’t imagined it.
I hadn’t exaggerated.
My body had been telling the truth, and the world had been calling it a lie.
My eyes filled immediately.
“I’m not… crazy,” I whispered, hating the word but unable to find another that fit the way I’d been treated.
Dr. Shah’s gaze softened. “No. You’re not. You’re sick. And now we can treat it.”
I let out a shaky breath.
She continued, calm and thorough. “There are different types of MS. We need to classify yours and discuss treatment options. The earlier we start, the better the chances of reducing relapses and progression.”
I nodded, wiping my cheeks.
She gave me a printed report. The specialist’s report. Official language. Evidence in black ink.
The thing people demanded before they allowed compassion.
“Do you have support?” she asked.
I hesitated.
“I… I have people,” I said. “They just… don’t believe me.”
Dr. Shah’s expression tightened—not with pity, but with something like quiet anger on my behalf.
“Then they’re going to learn,” she said.
I didn’t plan the confrontation.
It happened because life doesn’t wait for you to be ready.
That afternoon, I stopped by my mom’s house because she’d been watching my dog while I was at the appointment. I’d asked her as a practical favor. I didn’t expect her to be warm about it, but I didn’t have energy to fight.
She opened the door and said, “Well? Are you done with your little doctor tour?”
I stared at her.
I could’ve cried.
Instead, I walked inside, sat down at her kitchen table—the same table where she’d once told me to “toughen up” after I cried about failing a math test—and placed the report in front of her.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“My specialist’s report,” I said.
She snorted. “Specialists. They always find something to charge you for.”
I didn’t respond.
I watched her pick it up.
Her eyes scanned the first lines with casual dismissal.
Then she stopped.
I saw her face shift, inch by inch, like someone turning a dial from certainty to confusion.
She read again.
Slower.
Her mouth opened slightly.
“What is… multiple sclerosis?” she whispered, like the term itself offended her.
“It’s a neurological disease,” I said quietly. “That’s why I’ve been dizzy. That’s why my arm goes numb. That’s why I’m tired and in pain.”
My mom blinked rapidly.
“But… you’re young,” she said, voice thinner.
I laughed once, sharp. “That’s what everyone kept saying.”
Her hand trembled as she put the paper down.
“I didn’t think—” she started.
“I know you didn’t,” I said, my voice steady now in a way it hadn’t been in months. “You didn’t think. You assumed. You minimized. You made jokes about me being dramatic.”
Her eyes glistened. “Paige—”
“No,” I said, holding up a hand. “Listen.”
She froze.
I leaned forward slightly. “Do you know what it feels like to have your body betray you and then have the people you love treat you like a liar?”
My mom’s face crumpled.
“I didn’t mean—” she whispered.
“I’m not interested in what you meant,” I said, my tone controlled. “I’m interested in what you did.”
Silence.
Then, smaller, she said, “I’m sorry.”
It was the first time I’d heard her say it without adding a defense.
I didn’t forgive her on the spot. I didn’t hug her. I didn’t soothe her guilt.
Because my pain didn’t exist to teach her a lesson. It existed because it was real.
I simply said, “I need you to do better.”
She nodded, tears slipping down her cheeks.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Okay.”
The next confrontation was less quiet.
I returned to work two days later with the report folded neatly in my bag like armor.
I didn’t want attention.
I wanted protection.
At 10:15 a.m., Sandra asked me to step into her office.
She closed the door and crossed her arms. “We need to talk about your absences.”
I sat down. “Okay.”
She sighed. “This role requires consistency. You’ve been… unpredictable. If you can’t meet expectations, we may need to consider other arrangements.”
My pulse quickened.
I reached into my bag and pulled out the report.
“I have a diagnosis,” I said, placing it on her desk.
Sandra glanced at it, annoyed. “What is this?”
“Documentation,” I said. “From a neurologist.”
She picked it up and read the header. Her expression changed.
Not dramatically.
But noticeably.
She read the diagnosis line and went still.
Then she looked up at me, lips parting.
“This is… serious,” she said slowly.
“Yes,” I replied. “It is. And I’ve been telling you something was wrong for months.”
Sandra’s cheeks flushed. “I didn’t know.”
“You didn’t want to know,” I said.
She set the paper down carefully, like it might burn her.
“I… I’m sorry,” she said, but it sounded like she was apologizing to a policy, not a person. “We’ll need to contact HR to discuss accommodations.”
I nodded. “Yes. We will.”
Her eyes flicked away. “I didn’t realize you were… actually ill.”
I held her gaze. “That’s the problem. People don’t believe what they can’t see.”
There was a knock on the door.
Derek’s voice came through. “Sandra? Quick question about the—”
Sandra opened the door and stepped out briefly. Derek’s eyes landed on me inside.
He smirked. “Oh, Paige. Feeling faint again?”
Something in me snapped into place.
Not anger.
Power.
I stood, walked past Sandra, and faced Derek in the hallway where other coworkers could hear.
“I have MS,” I said clearly.
His smirk faltered. “You have what?”
“Multiple sclerosis,” I repeated. “It’s a neurological disease. That’s what you’ve been laughing about.”
Silence spread outward like ink in water.
Lana’s typing stopped. Someone’s chair squeaked. A phone rang somewhere and went unanswered for a beat too long.
Derek’s face went pale.
“I didn’t—” he started, voice suddenly smaller.
“You didn’t think,” I said, echoing my words from my mom’s kitchen. “You just enjoyed having something to joke about.”
His mouth opened and closed, searching for a defense.
“Paige, I’m sorry,” he finally said, eyes darting around. “I didn’t know.”
I stared at him, steady.
“I didn’t know isn’t the same as I didn’t hurt you,” I said.
Behind him, Sandra looked like she’d swallowed a lemon.
Derek nodded quickly, ashamed.
I turned and walked back to my desk.
My hands were still trembling.
But for the first time, it didn’t feel like weakness.
It felt like survival.
Aaron came over that weekend.
He stood in my doorway, holding flowers like a peace offering he hoped would erase the past months.
“I heard from your mom,” he said quietly. “She told me… you have a diagnosis.”
I didn’t invite him in immediately.
“Yeah,” I said. “I do.”
His throat bobbed. “Paige, I’m so sorry. I feel like— I feel terrible.”
“You should,” I said, not cruelly, just honestly.
He flinched.
“I didn’t believe you,” he admitted. “Not fully. I thought… I thought it was stress.”
I held his gaze. “It was easier for you to believe I was overreacting than to believe something was wrong.”
He nodded, eyes wet. “Yes.”
I stepped aside and let him in, not because I’d forgiven him, but because I wanted the truth out loud instead of rotting between us.
He sat on my couch and stared at his hands.
“I was scared,” he said. “And I made that your problem. I made you feel alone.”
I didn’t respond right away.
Mia wasn’t in this story, no children, no extra plot devices—just two adults facing the consequences of disbelief.
“Being scared doesn’t excuse it,” I said.
“I know,” he whispered. “I just… I want to do better. If you’ll let me.”
I sat across from him.
“I’m starting treatment,” I said. “I’m learning how to live with this. And I’m not doing it with people who treat my reality like an inconvenience.”
Aaron nodded rapidly. “I understand.”
“Do you?” I asked. “Because this isn’t a movie where you show up at the end with flowers and everything is fixed.”
He swallowed. “I know.”
I studied him, searching for sincerity.
Then I said, “If you want to be in my life, you don’t get to be a spectator. You don’t get to love me only when it’s easy.”
His shoulders sagged. “Okay.”
“And,” I added, “you don’t get to make jokes about things you don’t understand. Ever again.”
He nodded, tears spilling. “Never again.”
I didn’t promise him anything.
I just said, “We’ll see.”
Because trust isn’t rebuilt with apologies.
It’s rebuilt with changed behavior, repeated over time, until it becomes real.
A month later, I sat in Dr. Shah’s office again, this time with a treatment plan in my folder and a calendar filled with appointments that didn’t feel like defeats anymore.
Dr. Shah looked at me and said, “How are you doing?”
I thought about the numbness that still came and went. The fatigue that hit like waves. The new medication that made my stomach uneasy.
I thought about Derek’s face when I said the diagnosis out loud.
I thought about my mother crying at her kitchen table.
I thought about Aaron sitting on my couch, finally listening.
“I’m doing better,” I said honestly.
Dr. Shah smiled. “Good.”
As I left the clinic, I stepped into sunlight that felt different than it had months ago.
Not brighter.
Just more… solid.
Like the world had weight again.
My phone buzzed with a message from Lana.
Hey. I’m sorry for how people acted. If you ever need someone to cover a call or walk with you at lunch, I’ve got you.
I stared at it.
Then I typed back: Thank you. That means more than you know.
Because the specialist’s report didn’t just silence them.
It changed the shape of my life.
It turned my invisible struggle into something undeniable.
And it taught me something I wished I’d learned earlier:
You don’t owe anyone proof to deserve kindness.
But if they demand it, and you finally hand it to them—
you get to decide what happens next.
