When you think about it, we all face our own mortality.
For me, the symptoms were unchanging, meticulously noted in a file on my phone, always ready for recall. I’d describe my breathlessness, which would leave me feeling blue and speechless, drained of vitality. My fingers felt too lethargic to type, my lips too heavy to move. I was too exhausted to laugh, too frightened to face the possibility of death. It was a relentless cycle of fear—a never-ending Ferris wheel of despair, where escape was impossible, and refunds were not an option. This was my existence for fourteen long years, leading me back to the emergency room, the only sanctuary that provided a sense of safety.
Between 2011 and 2014, I made 52 visits to hospitals, clinics, and emergency rooms. I was close to earning a lifetime achievement award for my frequent flyer status. I had been prodded, examined, and scanned more times than I could count. Each time, the doctors would confidently declare me healthy and send me back to a world that awaited me with open arms. Yet, deep down, I felt as if I were on the brink of death—an unsettling belief that lingered for years.
The hospital represented a rare form of order in the chaos of my mind, a place where I struggled to maintain my grip on sanity. I could be hooked up to machines, ensuring I was sufficiently oxygenated, hydrated, and free from any hidden ailments. It was comforting to know that in this environment, sounding irrational or fearing an early demise was commonplace, even mundane. But what was I doing there?
If you visualize the human stress response as a faucet, mine was akin to a fire hose—an uncontrollable stream of anxious thoughts and fears. This internal turmoil reached an unbearable crescendo in the early years of this decade. Here are a few examples of my obsessive thoughts and behaviors:
- I maintained an Excel spreadsheet detailing steps I believed would repair my deteriorating lungs.
- I convinced myself that every work meeting was the moment I’d be told I was no longer needed.
- I deleted my browser history hourly.
- I never answered phone calls on the first attempt.
- I slept with the TV on, needing a distraction from my own thoughts.
- I often went entire days without eating, paralyzed by indecision about food.
- I would create chaos in my apartment, justifying my isolation from others.
- Even the slightest touch would make me jump, as if I were a child startled by a horror film.
I would spend hours on Sundays oscillating between strumming two chords on the guitar and mindlessly scrolling through social media, all while confined to a small space. I often stayed home if I wasn’t invited anywhere, retreating to my couch for distraction. My daily routine involved shuffling through my apartment in a dazed state, pacing in a half-conscious haze, and lying face-down on pillows at night to ease my breathing—terrified that my life was slipping away despite reassurances from others. I understand how absurd all of this sounds.
My hypochondria was neither glamorous nor trendy; it lacked the sympathy often extended to more recognized struggles. It was a battle to convince medical professionals that I was physically unwell (I wasn’t), and equally difficult to persuade mental health experts that there was more to my condition than mere panic attacks. I appeared fine—and that seemed to be the end of the discussion.
Not enough people acknowledge that anxiety often manifests as excessive risk management. It’s not just the worry; it’s the resulting behaviors designed to mask emotional turmoil and conceal one’s struggles from the world. For instance, I predominantly communicated through text messages, as face-to-face interactions felt overwhelming. I would engage in conversations through quips and jokes, often avoiding deeper connections. My relationships tended to be long-distance, a way to prevent intimacy and the fear of disappointing others. I spent most of my days alone, avoiding situations where I’d need to explain my symptoms.
I meticulously organized schedules and budgets, preparing for every possible contingency. I developed an irrational fear of requesting help, terrified of inciting anger in those I needed assistance from. Ironically, I would delay such requests until the last minute, further angering those I intended to rely on. This pattern of excessive risk management explains my many visits to the hospital—what better way to convince myself of my health than by being under constant medical observation? Each time, the doctors reassured me I was well, and they were correct. The madness lay hidden within.
However, you can’t conceal it indefinitely. The gap between reality and perception can become insurmountable, eventually taking a toll on your physical health. I experienced shortness of breath, dizziness, fatigue, and various other distressing symptoms, all stemming from my unfounded fears. In my relentless pursuit of avoiding illness, I manifested the very ailments I dreaded without actually being sick. This is the true agony of anxiety.
After each emergency room visit, I’d return home, sleep for just a few hours, and then head to work the next day, wearing a smile. It’s true; I’m not sad. Overall, I consider myself a happy person, though I face challenges in dealing with intense emotions.
Somewhere, someone reading this might relate—struggling in silence and hoping tomorrow will bring relief from their burdens. I urge you not to remain silent, as that can lead to isolation and despair. This message is for that one person who feels trapped, hoping to wake up free from anxiety, only to find it still looms overhead. If you’re on your way to the hospital, fearing the worst, listen closely: Here’s how I transformed my life from hypochondria to living fully.
I had to get genuinely sick. I underwent shoulder reconstruction and found myself in hospitals for valid reasons, with a real motivation to recover rather than simply ensuring I wasn’t dying. I committed to my rehabilitation, following medical advice diligently. Over time, my health flourished. I lost weight, my skin radiated, and I felt lighter—both physically and mentally. By 2016, I had almost forgotten the last time I visited a hospital or experienced a panic attack. I was brimming with confidence, believing I had conquered my mental struggles. But in reality, I had merely treated the symptoms, not addressed the root issues.
By 2017, I found myself spiraling back into a chaotic state. I was once again a mess—lost, anxious, and overwhelmed. I returned to urgent care, listing my symptoms: dizziness, fatigue, shortness of breath, and more. When I mentioned my history of hypochondria, the nurse simply said, “You’re very brave.” I was confused. “You’ll be fine,” she reassured me. “You’re just going through withdrawal.”
In conclusion, it’s essential to confront these issues head-on, seek help, and not shy away from discussing mental health. You don’t have to suffer alone.