More fuel to the flame

I go back to the doctor tomorrow for more tests because he suspects something is wrong. Exactly the sort of thing that my hypochondriac self freaks out about; hint that something may be wrong and I only hear the worst case scenarios.

“Difficulty having children”

“Increased risk of diabetes and ovarian cancer”

These are the sort of things that could happen when your hormones are out of whack, when there could be too much testosterone in your body. Well, if it’s true, certainly explains why I am the toast of the gay clubs in NYC.

And explains why I carry weight like a frat boy. And my dad thought I drank too much beer.

There are no worse words for a hypochondriac to hear: “We need to run more tests” because, no matter how benign the problem may be, you start to imagine cancer, AIDS, Ebola, and any other disease that has been in the press in the last 10 years.

This has been a problem ever since I was young. 7 yrs old, I watched news programs about asbestos caused lung cancer and I thought my allergies were signs I was dying of mesothelioma. Health class in seventh grade, I spent an entire semester developing psychosomatic symptoms asking my mom to inspect every lump, mole, and asked her opinion whether I bruised too easily and if that meant leukemia. It only intensified when I went off to college: stress of trying to keep up the charade that I am intelligent, post drinking depression, and the 5 phone calls a day to my mom not able to quell my anxiety over whether I was dying.

So, in addition to grad apps, bad dates, a possibly cancelled Europe trip, and seasonal affective disorder, there may be something fucked up with me.

I give up, fuck reality. I knew I made a terrible grown up.