Revised: October 10, 2023
I mean, when you really think about it, we’re all on a countdown to the end.
The symptoms were always consistent—like a song stuck on repeat, saved in a note on my phone for easy reference. I would speak of breathlessness that turned me a shade of blue, and a stifled voice that drained my spirit, leaving me mute, exhausted, and devoid of energy. My fingers felt too heavy to type, my lips too lethargic to form words. I was too fatigued to laugh, too paralyzed by fear to contemplate dying. It was an endless cycle of dread—a Ferris wheel of despair with no option to disembark and no refunds. For fourteen long years, this was my reality, a torment that flickered on and off but was mostly ever-present. Hence, I found myself returning to the E.R.—the only place that felt like a sanctuary.
Between 2011 and 2014, I made 52 visits to hospitals, clinics, and emergency rooms. I was just a few trips shy of a lifetime achievement award, it seemed. I had been poked, prodded, scanned, and monitored. Each time, the medical staff confidently assured me I was fine and free to leave, only to cast me back into a world that awaited my return with open arms. Yet, deep down, I felt like I was dying. Even years later, I still wonder if I’m not.
The hospital was the only pocket of order in a chaotic storm, where I clung to the last thread of my sanity, desperate not to lose my grip on reality. I could be connected to machines ensuring my oxygen levels were stable, hydration was sufficient, and that no tumors or ailments lurked within me. It was the only environment where sounding irrational and fearing an early demise felt completely normal, perhaps even mundane. But why did I find comfort there?
If you visualize the human stress response as a faucet—activated to cleanse something unpleasant—my mind was akin to a faucet that had burst into a torrent. A cacophony of anxious thoughts, fears, and worst-case scenarios spiraled out of control. This mental chaos intensified during the early years of this decade. Here are a few examples of the thoughts and corresponding behaviors I exhibited:
- I maintained an Excel sheet meticulously detailing the steps I needed to take to “repair” my supposedly failing lungs, which I believed were deteriorating from within.
- I convinced myself that every Thursday or Friday meeting with colleagues was the moment I would be told my position was no longer needed.
- I deleted my browser history hourly.
- I would never answer a phone call on the first ring.
- I slept with the TV on to drown out the sound of my own thoughts.
- I frequently went entire days without eating, unable to decide what to have.
- I would wreck my apartment like a tornado had swept through, giving me a reason to avoid inviting anyone over.
- And to this day, a gentle tap on the shoulder still startles me as if I were a child watching a horror film.
On Sundays, I’d spend countless hours alternating between strumming two chords on my guitar and mindlessly scrolling through Instagram stories, all while confined to a small space, before transitioning into an evening of binge-drinking and tweeting into the early hours.
If I wasn’t invited somewhere, I would retreat to my couch and half-watch NFL Network.
Each morning, I’d shuffle around my apartment in a semi-conscious state; evenings were spent pacing in a trance-like daze; and at night, I would lay face down on a pile of pillows, trying to breathe easily, terrified that my life was slipping away despite reassurances. I recognize how absurd it sounds.
Living with this affliction was neither glamorous nor trendy, and it certainly didn’t inspire sympathy. It was challenging to persuade medical professionals that I had a genuine issue (which I didn’t), and equally difficult to convince mental health experts that my struggles extended beyond mere “panic attacks.” I appeared fine, and that was enough for them.
Not enough people discuss how anxiety functions as excessive risk management. It’s not just the worry that’s problematic; it’s the behaviors we adopt to distance ourselves from our emotions and hide our struggles from others. For instance, I primarily communicated with people through text messages. Face-to-face interactions felt overwhelming, and real-time conversations were too intense. I would talk “at” people, resorting to quips and jokes instead of genuine dialogue.
I rarely did favors, and when I did, they were simple, one-off commitments like picking someone up from the airport.
Moreover, most of my past relationships were long-distance, as I would often push people away to shield myself from being “exposed” or disappointing them. I spent the majority of my day alone, avoiding social interactions to prevent having to explain my symptoms when they flared up. In fact, I just mailed someone $20 I owed since July—it’s now almost March.
I meticulously organized schedules and budgets to prepare for every possible contingency. Yet, I harbored a pathological fear of asking for help, terrified of upsetting those I needed to approach. Ironically, I would delay requests until the last possible moment, further irritating those I sought assistance from. This excessive risk management was my reality, and it made sense that I ended up in the hospital numerous times. After all, what better way to reassure myself of my health than to be under constant medical scrutiny? And the doctors would confirm I appeared fine. They were right—my turmoil was hidden beneath the surface.
However, this facade cannot be maintained indefinitely. Sometimes, the gap between reality and perception becomes too vast to mask. Once that divide infiltrates your mind, it inevitably impacts your body. Symptoms like shortness of breath, belching, dizziness, chronic cough, fatigue, and confusion became daily realities—far more vivid than anything I could have imagined. I experienced sweats so intense they drove me to the freezing winter air, triggering a cycle of hyperventilation and despair.
In my relentless worry and avoidance, I manifested symptoms indicative of the illnesses I feared, without actually having those diseases. This is the true agony of living in pain. I would check out of the E.R. around 3 a.m., get a mere three hours of sleep, and then head to work the next day with a smile plastered on my face.
It’s true; I’m not sad. Overall, I’m a happy and fulfilling person, but I struggle in certain areas, especially when it comes to dealing with my feelings. Also, I cannot dunk a basketball—very disappointing.
Somewhere out there, someone is reading this, likely nodding in quiet recognition, pondering if they are meant to endure their own struggles in silence. I don’t believe that should be the case. That’s how people end up in the E.R. and isolated.
This is for that one person, the one who I know is out there, grappling with their own issues, swallowing their pride, hoping that tomorrow will bring relief only to wake up disappointed by the persistent weight of dread, as if it were a wet towel on their shoulders in a snowstorm. Perhaps they are en route to the hospital, convinced they are on the brink of death. It’s you I want to address. Here’s how I transitioned from a hypochondriac back to living my life:
I genuinely became ill. I underwent shoulder reconstruction surgery, spending time in hospitals for valid reasons. My focus shifted from merely ensuring I wasn’t dead to a genuine desire to heal and rehabilitate. I followed medical advice, resulting in improved health, weight loss, and a newfound glow. I felt happier, less anxious, and re-engaged with life. By 2016, I couldn’t recall the last time I’d been to the hospital or experienced a panic attack. I became overly confident in my ability to conquer my mental battles, mistakenly believing I had won the war. This was a miscalculation; I hadn’t resolved anything—I had merely managed it.
By 2017, I found myself spiraling again, a disheveled mess—trembling hands, peculiar habits, and a ghost of my former self, conversing mostly through text and chasing shadows. I experienced headaches, a persistent cough, and bouts of unexplained tears.
I vividly recall walking back into an urgent care facility after three years, listing my symptoms: shortness of breath, belching, dizziness, chronic cough, and more. I confessed my hypochondriac history to the nurse. After checking my temperature, she said, “You’re very brave.” I was confused.
“You’ll be fine,” she reassured me. “You’re just going through withdrawal.”
In summary, living with hypochondria is a relentless cycle of fear and anxiety that can manifest physical symptoms, leading to a constant need for reassurance. The journey to overcoming hypochondria involves confronting genuine health challenges, embracing a desire to heal, and ultimately learning to live without the weight of irrational fears.