Went to the neurologist today to figure out why my left leg continues to feel heavy, and why I wake up with numb hands. I confessed to her I’m something of a hypo. She was cool about it.
I underwent a bunch of tests. She said, “I can send you for an MRI, but I don’t think it’s serious.”
Here’s the odd thing about being a raving-mad hypo: I was happy and sad. Happy that I’m probably not facing anything serious, sad that I’ve been shown once again to be crazy. It sucks. This is my weakness, and I need to get a grip.
Was IMing with a writer friend of mine tonight. He says he’s been a hypo for 40 years. Asked him if he ever sought out therapy. This was his reply, which I consider to be quite brilliant:
No. But I’ve gone to therapy for other things. The hypo thing doesn’t deserve therapy. Hypo is simple: you think you’re sick when you’re not because subconsciously you think you haven’t reached the unattainable potential you thought you could achieve when you became a writer, and so your mind is tilted toward the innocent imbalance of hypochondria. There: I just saved you therapist fees. Unless, of course, you need therapy for other reasons.
I’m not sure I agree. In fact, I don’t 100% agree. But we writers are nuts.
