amado1

I spent my childhood visiting doctors with my mom. We couldn’t afford it; my dad had recently been hospitalized after a car crash for a strange episode of delusions that the doctors couldn’t figure out, and after hours coloring in a Batman coloring book while my mom whispered to my dad, handcuffed to the hospital bed, I couldn’t figure out why we were wasting even more money we didn’t have so a doctor could examine my genitals. There was nothing wrong with them. They didn’t hurt. I didn’t have a rash. And Mom wouldn’t tell me why we were there.