My hypochondria is so intense sometimes that it clearly crosses the border into the realm of deep, unapologetic narcissism. I'm so tuned in to every ache and pain, twitch and twinge; I am in thrall to my own body, enthralled by my own body.
And so I've resolved to turn a deeply negative, self-involved force in my life into something positive. I spend so much emotional and intellectual energy obsessing about the various different diseases I'm convinced I have -- why not transfer some of that energy into working to eradicate those diseases?
So I'm signing up for a MS bike ride fundraiser next month. I'm not expecting to raise gobs of money -- it's really about stepping up and doing something larger than I am.
And when my MS anxiety fades and some new fear latches itself firmly in my brain, then I'll run or swim or walk or bike for that, too. Because -- let's be honest -- my brain might be wired a little funny, but my body -- it works just fine.
Friday, May 18, 2007
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
seeking safety
My anxiety is back with a vengeance and I'm engaging in a million "safety-seeking behaviors." I have my phone nestled next to me in case I wake up in the morning paralyzed and need to call my parents two floors below me to tell them that something really has happened this time (I am acutely aware that this only works if I'm paralyzed from the waist down. If my arms don't work then I'll scream, and if my screaming mechanism is broken too then I'll just have to wish as hard as I can that my parents are overcome by the desire to come wake me up). I'm cuddling close to my mangy stuffed polar bear and listening to npr podcasts and doing the crossword puzzle from the washington post and trying to ignore the strange tingling sensation and the heaviness in my leg -- it is the left one this time.
I'm amazed at the way my brain -- in cahoots with my body -- is able to produce such an alarming variety of somaticized symptoms. Once I am certain that this or that symptom isn't a sign of my imminent death but is rather fueled by my decidedly anxious disposition and a healthy dose of adrenaline, another symptom is ready to step up and take its place.
I go back and forth between thinking about my anxiety as if it is some sort of parasitic alien invader bent on sucking intellectual and emotional energy away from my real life -- and as if it is the cowering, abused child of my wrathful subconscious.
If therapy has taught me anything, it is that black-and-white thinking like the dialectic presented above is a surefire way to induce anxiety. So you can understand why I feel so stuck.
I realize that anxiety -- and specifically, health-related anxiety -- is a deeply self-involved (narcissistic, even) mental illness that enables such tragically earnest ventures as a blog. I already have therapy to compliment my frantic internal monologue; to think that anyone (especially a stranger) would willingly subject him/herself to my indulgent ramblings is simply, well, indulgent. Because honestly, if I could not write this, I would. But right now, I think I kind of need to.
I'm amazed at the way my brain -- in cahoots with my body -- is able to produce such an alarming variety of somaticized symptoms. Once I am certain that this or that symptom isn't a sign of my imminent death but is rather fueled by my decidedly anxious disposition and a healthy dose of adrenaline, another symptom is ready to step up and take its place.
I go back and forth between thinking about my anxiety as if it is some sort of parasitic alien invader bent on sucking intellectual and emotional energy away from my real life -- and as if it is the cowering, abused child of my wrathful subconscious.
If therapy has taught me anything, it is that black-and-white thinking like the dialectic presented above is a surefire way to induce anxiety. So you can understand why I feel so stuck.
I realize that anxiety -- and specifically, health-related anxiety -- is a deeply self-involved (narcissistic, even) mental illness that enables such tragically earnest ventures as a blog. I already have therapy to compliment my frantic internal monologue; to think that anyone (especially a stranger) would willingly subject him/herself to my indulgent ramblings is simply, well, indulgent. Because honestly, if I could not write this, I would. But right now, I think I kind of need to.
Monday, April 23, 2007
ode to google
It's really MS this time, I'm sure of it. Even google corroborates my suspicions, and we all know that if google says it's true, it must be. Google validates my fear when everyone else seems to think that "there's absolutely nothing wrong" with me; google believes in me when I say that I think I might be dying. Google knows nothing of hypochondria -- to google, there is only cancer.
No really, you try it. Type in "blurry vision" and "tingling hands and feet" and "leg weakness" and tell me what you find. Now try to convince me that I'm not really going to die this time.
Seriously, google should offer a special diagnosis service for people with anxiety disorder and hypochondria -- where whenever you type a terrifying string of symptoms into the search bar, a page immediately pops up and flashes the words "IT'S ALL IN YOUR HEAD".
No really, you try it. Type in "blurry vision" and "tingling hands and feet" and "leg weakness" and tell me what you find. Now try to convince me that I'm not really going to die this time.
Seriously, google should offer a special diagnosis service for people with anxiety disorder and hypochondria -- where whenever you type a terrifying string of symptoms into the search bar, a page immediately pops up and flashes the words "IT'S ALL IN YOUR HEAD".
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