I've always battled anxiety. While most people just say "Suck it up cupcake" and be on with your day, for some it cripples their ability to get through the day and plagues their relationships. It takes several forms but the common thread is really excessive worry. There are a host of physical symptoms that accompany anxiety and because this is not WebMD I will not elaborate.
Hypochondria has been an episodic companion throughout my personal growth. It's not a welcome companion, but fiercely loyal when it's there. I can remember in ninth grade having a panic attack that caused me to hyper-ventilate in the car ride to the airport. We were literally in the departures lane when I asked my friend's parents to call an ambulance. My whole body was numb. Let's just say I haven't been back to Tampa's airport since.
When the paramedic took my vitals, she knew exactly what was going on. She looked at me and told me I was having a panic attack. Shame and embarrassment washed over me. Here I was, a fifteen year-old punk who drew the attention of hundreds of travelers all for what could have been averted with a f**king paper bag and a stern adult presence.
I remember the flight back home was still treacherous.
That was thirteen years ago. I remember it with vivid detail though, just like anyone who endures traumatic moments. What's funny is that it shouldn't have been traumatic at all. It shouldn't have happened at all if it weren't for a chemical mishap in my brain. I still feel ashamed thinking about the drain I was on everyone's time, patience, and care.
Through the years I self-diagnosed myself with many ailments. I have recovered completely from each without medication or surgery. Gum recession, Lyme's Disease, even colon cancer for Christ's sake. The one thing I cannot seem to recover from is the re-occurrence of hypochondrical thoughts.
The obsession has reached a cross roads. I have started to be concerned that others around are becoming sick with terminal illnesses. Consequently, it is again plaguing my relationships, testing people's patience, and stretching the limit if what was a charming idiosyncratic tic of mine. I've spent numerous hours researching the matter and come to several conclusions, at least preliminarily, and some solutions perhaps.
Please note that at this point this was kind of a neurotic biography perhaps for amusement if anything. What's below is really a boot camp of sorts, and marked with sheer practicality.
First, the internet is a hideous library of information. If you have a suspicion, you can confirm just about anything (I think I managed to diagnose myself with uterine cancer once). I adopted a "no cyberchondria" rule. If it's freaking me out enough, I need to consider a doctor's visit.
Second, hypochondria, for me, is about reassurance. A $20 co-pay at an urgent care can generally let me sleep at night knowing that my eczema is not morphing into skin cancer. Here I would consult the internet for reassurance but alas, that only made things worse. Logic is really my best ally to this point and I cannot keep taxing the healthcare system with unnecessary visits. I AM the healthcare problem.
Third, no one cares after you punch the terror card enough times. Or in other words, read "the Boy Who Cried Wolf." Patrick Stewart has a lovely narration on LP out there somewhere. Usually after meeting someone new you can freak out about something once before they stop caring. Solution: don't freak out. Call your therapist instead and promise yourself you won't see the doctor until you've made an appointment to talk with your therapist.
Fourth, those who love you most will eventually lose their tolerance for it. Again, make your therapist the one who you channel this stuff to. They get paid to listen to your inner crazy.
Fifth, while I have discovered that cognitive (behavioral) therapy is very effective, anti-depressants can be as well. I don't trust many drug makers today especially regarding psycho-tropic pharmaceuticals. I don't take them. I heavily rely on vitamin B and D along with a regular regimen of exercise and yoga. Real medication will give you cancer in my opinion (kidding).
Sixth, and finally, while there are many nights I lay awake considering the new possibilities of my death by terminal illness, one of the most powerful tools against it has been humor. After realizing the sheer absurdity of what I am thinking, I start to laugh.
We're all going to die. That's probably the only certainty in life and I take a strange, perverted sense of comfort in that. Then again, maybe I'll contract an illness that makes me live forever. How poetic would that be... you get to love forever, but with hypochondria.
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