Being a hypochondriac sucks. It sucks because it’s draining on your loved ones, it sucks because it’s all encompassing, it sucks because you convince yourself—over and over and over and over again—that something is wrong. And even when you calm yourself down, you think, “Well, just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean something isn’t wrong.” A cycle. A terrible cycle.
Example: Over the past few weeks my eyes and fingers have been swelling, and my mouth is really dry. So am I in health trouble? Or am I just letting my brain doom my psyche? Am I imagining very real feelings? Am I creating them? Am I nuts?
I hate this crap. Really, really, really hate it. Over the years, I’ve been dying of: Brain cancer, skin cancer, testicular cancer, kidney failure, colon cancer, etc … etc. It’s always something—always, always, always. The worst part is that we hypos feel the need to seek reassurances from everyone and anyone. Hence, the words, “Do you think I might have …” begin significantly too many sentences.
I want to change. I need to change. I tell myself to be strong; to accept whatever comes my way; to deal.
But this is my struggle and, as a result, my family’s struggle.
It sucks.
