What It’s Like Being A Raging Hypochondriac In The Middle Of A Pandemic
by Marissa Pomerance
As a raging hypochondriac, I’m scared. Terrified, even.
I know that you’re probably scared, too. Because even if you’re not a raging hypochondriac, this is scary. And if you’re not scared, I won’t tell you to be, because that’s not fair.
As a raging hypochondriac, a worldwide pandemic that’s rapidly spreading and straining our healthcare system is the plot of the kind of movies that I’ve spent my entire life avoiding, never wanting to even acknowledge that this could be reality. And now it is.
As a raging hypochondriac, I’m always anxious about my health. Actually, “anxious” doesn’t even feel like the right word, though it technically is—talking about our anxieties has become so common that the word feels watered down, even when the feeling itself is all-encompassing. It’s more like a stranglehold of fear and uncertainty that causes every part of the body, not just the brain, to malfunction. And for me, hypochondria — or, health anxiety— is a constant stream of background chatter analyzing every breath, tingle, ache, pain, and heartbeat, obsessing over any slight deviation from the norm. Latching on to a physical symptom, catastrophizing the possibilities; am I just anxious, or could that shortness of breath be asthma or COPD or a novel virus attacking my lungs? Hypochondria is more than fear. It’s dread; it’s fixating on even the smallest possibility that today will be the day when I meet an untimely death.
Sorry, I know that’s morose and we all need a lot more optimism right now.
I’m really trying.
As a raging hypochondriac, this is my worst nightmare. It doesn’t help that I do actually have mild asthma and aging parents (sorry Mom & Dad—you both look great!), facts that cause me to break down in tears when my mind runs amok, chasing these thoughts to their inevitable conclusion like a boulder rolling downhill, gaining momentum the further it goes. I’m still creating the tools to slow it down. Right now, that feels like leaning the weight of my entire body against that boulder, pushing against its momentum. Using every ounce of mental and physical energy that I possess. I’ve slowed it down a little. That’s something.
As a raging hypochondriac, I realize this is all just the shitty form that my anxiety takes. And I realize that the lies my anxiety tells me make zero sense to my own logical mind, whose voice is struggling to break through the noise in my head as if it’s muzzled—I know it’s there, and I know what it’s saying, but can it just speak the fuck up please? I also know that almost none of this makes sense to friends and family and doctors (and maybe readers) who think I’m just a young, healthy person prone to exaggerating or dramatizing. Why can’t I just get over it? I wish I knew.
As a raging hypochondriac, I take some solace in the fact that I have a job that allows me to work from home, and provides me with an income that I can depend on during this difficult time. I know I’m lucky. My parents are healthy. My partner is healthy. My sister is healthy. My friends are healthy. I can Facetime with them, talk about the dog, see how they’re feeling today, and feel a bit better myself. I can also Facetime with my therapist. That helps too.
But.
But.
Despite being a raging hypochondriac, I’m holding it together. I know after everything you read, you probably don’t believe me (sometimes I barely believe myself), but I am.
Because despite being a raging hypochondriac, I vacillate between moments of despair and actual...happiness? Not happiness that the world seems to be ending, but sometimes I’ll forget for like a second while taking a walk around the neighborhood and I’ll actually feel...kind of grateful? Is that a total wellness cliché? Absolutely. But it’s true.
Because despite being a raging hypochondriac, this actual, real-world manifestation of my typically blown-out-of-proportion irrational fears has reminded me something. That I’m healthy. And I recognize that not everyone has the luxury of feeling this way, because there are people who are high risk and elderly and have underlying conditions; for those people, I hope you can take solace in whatever good health you do possess. Please know that, while I may be “young” and “healthy,” I feel for you.
And despite being a raging hypochondriac, I’ve realized that maybe my body isn’t the weakly-tied knot of bones and flesh that could easily disintegrate into nothingness that I thought it was? Maybe it’s resilient, and stronger than I thought. Like my grandfather, who survived as a pilot in WWII, and then survived cancer in his 80’s. Like my mother, who birthed two children and swears it was no big deal. Like my dad, who’s virtually bionic with all of his metal body parts but still plays golf and works 60 hours a week. Like my sister, who never missed a day of school, and soldiered through every cold and flu without a single complaint, even as a child.
And despite being a raging hypochondriac, I actually harbor a bit of...hope? That we’re in the thick of it now. That despite everything we might lose, we’ll emerge from the worst of this crisis with, at the very least, more empathy and better tools— mentally, physically, medically. That there will be some silver lining, even if we can’t see it now.
Because there has to be, otherwise, what was the point of all of this?
Marissa Pomerance is the Managing Editor of The Candidly. She’s a Los Angeles native and lover of all things food, style, beauty, and wellness. You can find more of her articles here.
