I suffer from health anxiety.
It’s been under wraps for the past eight or nine years, but every now and then it rears its very ugly and troublesome head.
Right now, for example, it’s rearing.
For the past few months I’ve had this sensitivity on the right side of my head. When I touch it, I feel pain. Not awful pain, but pain. Coupled with a never-ending ear muffling thing on the same side (doctors have found nothing), I’m convinced—convinced—I have a brain tumor.
Or, I’m convinced in the morning. Then the day unwinds. And I have my coffee, eat my eats, write my writes. I still think about it, but not as much. There are no crippling headaches, I tell myself. Plus, remember those times you thought you were dying of MS, ALS, skin cancer, bone cancer? Remember that bump on your forearm that you knew was bad? That rash on your leg? The time your pee was too yellow? Once, about a decade back, I was in Florida, and my legs were heavy. Like, they … felt … REALLY, REALLY, REALLY … heavy. And I couldn’t leave the house. I spoke with a therapist via phone, and that helped, but I was convinced the end was near.
Anyhow, I’ve been better. But these past few weeks have been bad. I want someone to scan my head, to show there’s no tumor. Or there is a tumor. Either way. But, as the wife always tells me, that’s not the solution. Because it doesn’t solve the anxiety issue. There’s always another malady around the corner, lingering.
What to do?
Smoke lots of weed, says this one.
Watch lots of sports, says this one.
Get back to writing, says this one.
Trust in me, says this one.