365 Days of Hypochondria

And other personal happenings.

Strain of Consciousness #4 (Day 247)

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This is all I could write tonight. It doesn’t even have a proper ending, but maybe that’s how it should be. I’ve been panicking, and I’ve been escaping reality. But here’s one honest messy post because this blog isn’t only about pretty things.

Trigger warning: hypochondria/health/death

It’s not simply a fear of death, so I’m trying to figure out how to tell you that I feel like I’m dying. Right now, I’m dying. When you’re a little kid, you have those selfish moments where you scream and pound your chest with your clammy fists or you cry because your babysitter braided your barbie’s hair without your permission. When you’re old you can’t have those moments of utter breakdown, there is no one to tell you not to cry over spilt milk and if anyone were to tell you that you’d mentally punch them in their face. Because who are they to tell me I can’t cry over things that might seem trivial? A virus in your body- made up or not- would initiate a subjective reaction, depending on who you are and what you think about and where you place your priorities. My priority is my body. The control I get from protecting myself is wiped away when I obsessively play scenes over and over in my head, where I’m the main character, getting bad news in the doctors office again. My life is not a plot-line in a made-up t.v drama but a lot of my mind is made up, so how do I tell you about my fear of death? Because right now I feel like I’m dying but I’m not, but I am, but who really even knows because the tests at the doctors office lie, and the doctors lie, and the person you had sex with last night may have lied, even the cells in my body have lied. I have lied to myself. But I’m scared of hearing those potential truths. If I tell you I feel like I’m dying, it’s serious, because I am, I believe it to be true and no one can make me think otherwise. I feel trapped and then I hate myself and I hate my decisions and for the billionth time I beg for someone to let me live and I haven’t been that religious since 3rd grade, when Father Gus told me not to feel guilty about compulsively yelling swear words inside of my head. Because after all, they were inside of my head.

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