Self Diagnosed Hypochondriac

At any given moment I have at least seventeen diseases or disorders of unknown origin and this list is only growing. Each week it feels like I diagnose myself with something new. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Anxiety. Chronic Migraines. Marcus Gunn phenomenon. Hypothyroidism. Rosacea. Just to name a few.

Yesterday I awoke with stomach pains and within five minutes, I convinced myself that I either had a stomach ulcer or appendicitis. Turns out it was just indigestion, or so they tell me. But, I still don’t really know for sure. I’ll be monitoring the pain from here on out.

Last Christmas I experienced similar pain and after a mere four hours of clutching my stomach and doubling over in pain, I coaxed myself into believing I either had kidney stones or was the next Virgin Mary.

That’s right, I actually started to believe that my stomach pains were contractions and that I was going to be the next star on “I Didn’t Know I was Pregnant,” Messiah edition. Days passed and after the pain resided and a young Son of God did not come out of me, I decided I might have been mistaken. It turned out it was just a stomach bug that was going around. But you never know, I could have a Jesus lithopedion trapped inside me at this very moment.

Now I know what you’re thinking, “hypochondriac.” Well, according to my favorite little website, “Hypochondria, also called hypochondriasis, is a type of mental illness — current thinking classifies it as an anxiety disorder — in which a person has symptoms of a medical illness, but the symptoms cannot be fully explained by an actual physical disorder.”

Weird. That sounds familiar. Hey, I think I have that!

Barnes & Nobel and My OCD

Whenever I walk into a bookstore I feel the need to buy them by the dozen. I go in looking for one book that I know I really want and end up finding 10 more that I want as well, but lets face it I’m not made out of money. I can’t keep buying books at the pace I am or I will end up poor, as an old woman with a $10,000 book collection and no house. I’ll end up homeless with books and nowhere to put them (that’s a scary thought). People keep telling me to just go to the library, but I hate the way the books smell (even though I know people who love it). I like my books in good condition. I hate it when books are crinkled and old, I like them new and neat, but that’s just my OCD talking. I can’t control it I like books and office supplies, it’s hard to admit, but I’ll do it.