What if there was something horribly frightening stuck in your thoughts every morning you woke up that never left?  What if as much as you tried to shake it away, it clung on?

What if your only respite from fear was a few times a year, and the remainder of your time you found yourself trapped in a dark dungeon of impending doom?

My name is Marcie, and I’m a hypochondriac.  Crap.  I hate writing that.  The truth is as of late I’ve become quite debilitated in mind and spirit about my obsession with dying over various illnesses and diseases.  I just took an on-line test to see if I was a hypochondriac and got the highest score possible–off the charts! No surprise there.

My obsession with dying of some horrible disease started at a very young age.  When I was four-years-old I fell from my sitter’s shoulders headfirst and cracked my head open.  I was rushed to the hospital.  I can remember the blood everywhere and that nobody could locate my mother.   This fall coupled with the divorce of my parents, might have been one of the first events to trigger my fear of death.

When I was in the first grade my kindergarten teacher from the year before died of cancer.  All I understood at the time is that a lump had appeared on her shoulder and shortly afterward she had died. From then on, I had nightmares and constant thoughts about dying.   My major fear was rabies–at any moment a dog could leap out at me and bite.

The first time I felt true death panic was after my mother’s second divorce (from my stepfather).   My hamster bit me and I spent a week examining myself in the mirror to make sure I was not foaming at the mouth.  From there my fears ranged in intensity and description.  There was the killer bee scare, the blow dryer causing cancer, mother dying from smoking, etc.  And all this before I was the age of nine.

High school years were gruesome.  An undiagnosed IBS (irritable bowel syndrome) had some doctor on the east coast thinking I might have intestinal cancer.  In my college years I was convinced I had AIDS.  Later on in life, when I was bit by a homeless child (while working at a shelter) and the doctor told me there was a slight chance, less than 1% I might have been infected, I was convinced I was in that 1%.

After giving birth to my first son, with my hormones and sleep all out of whack, I really freaked.  I would get up for the early morning feedings and pray to God to not let me die of the infection in my toe.

The feelings that come when I am worrying, which is typically 90% of any given year is liken to millions of filaments engulfing me and then embedding into me, each with a message of why and how this time I am really going to die.

I find it ridiculous of course.  The logically part of me steps back and watches the entire process play out wondering what the heck is going on.  The spiritual part of me is dumbfounded, confused why a woman with a strong faith in God can be so worried about dying.

I use the years of self-talk I acquired in cognitive therapy.  “You are fine.”  “Everyone dies.” “You can’t worry about everything because anything can happen to anyone at anytime.” “Stop.”  “Think about something else.” But then another voice comes back, countering twice as loudly, and often smothering the resistance: “This time it’s real.”  “This time you’re right.” — In my experience resistance is truly futile.

Being very intelligent and an adult with access to the Internet, makes this hypochondriac stuff more difficult.  I don’t choose impossibilities when it comes to my diseases and ailments. I pick things that are very, very probable.  Don’t ask me why.  And having been diagnosed with fibromyalgia there are always multiple of symptoms I can pull from to confirm my days are numbered.

When blood tests or other real symptoms pop up, I’m in deep trouble.  Two years ago when I was anemic I jumped to the conclusion I was dying, this after researching on the Internet the worst possible reasons for low blood count.  Turns out it was low  iron because I’m a vegetarian.  The same month that I had anemia, my eyesight was going and a Dr. thought she’d found a growth in my uterus.  Now that was a month I was downright paralyzed with fear.  First off my eyesight was going from some terrible eye disease that would lead to immediate blindness and ultimately…..death.   And the growth was no doubt the big ‘C’ word.

I didn’t rest assured until all the tests came back normal.  Then I had a respite of about three days before the next major symptom of impending doom appeared. I think at that point I was dying of a brain tumor or something like that. I’d  lost a dear friend to cancer of the brain.

Last year before a minor operation, one I had actually prepared myself enough for as to not majorly wig out, one attending doctor said, “You have the worst urine I have ever seen.”  This resulted in a number of tests.  In the beginning there was talk of  a kidney biopsy.  Everything (Thank you Jesus) turned out alright in the end, but I went through four months of constant soul-draining worry.

When I was diagnosed with endometriosis (another ailment like fibromyalgia that causes numerous aches and pains) I again was on the computer for days researching all the ways endometriosis might lead to something far more life threatening.  For awhile I thought I had endometriosis of the lungs.

That leads me to today.  So, I’ve had this very, very, very small bump on my leg for four weeks that won’t heal and looks like a  pimple. I’ve done all the Internet research feasibly possible to man to rule out which type of skin cancer it is not and which it may be.  My father has had his round of skin cancer treatments and I suntanned too much in my youth…. so this makes me believe that I  have an early stage growth.  I know, even if it is the ‘C’ word that it is highly curable and not the worst type.  But still there is that 5% chance (usually elderly with large growths that go undetected or rare forms of highly invasive types).  But I’ve convinced myself  I have the worst possible type which will no doubt lead to the amputation of my leg or legs… this, if I live.  It sounds ridiculous, but my husband can tell you how much these thoughts have haunted me.  He thinks it’s a wort.

My dermatologist appointment is in a couple weeks.  More than likely it’s nothing, and even if it is something, it can be cut out and taken care of.  Still I am a wreck, suffering minor panic attacks and times I cannot move out of bed from fret. My worst fear is leaving my children, which I know is all about loss of control and letting go.  Still it’s there.  Can’t stop it.

Even after I see the doctor and he assures me all is going to be alright, I won’t be in the clear.  Because, undoubtedly a new obsession of death will monopolize my thoughts within the following days.  This season alone I saw myself die of breast cancer, colon cancer, stomach cancer, and a host of other diseases.

This obsession has wiggled its way into my life long enough.   I really am ready to evict this way of thinking once and for all.  I don’t want to go the medication way and I’ve already tried therapies of all sorts… except hypnotherapy.   I’ve asked Jesus to take this away numerous times.  So now I’m putting it all out on the table–It’s not so scary when it’s out there.

Lately, I’m guessing some of this is probably genetic;  my middle son with Asperger’s syndrome has the same heightened fears.  I have to reassure him time and time again each day he will be O.K. My hope is in helping myself I will be able to help him also.

I don’t know where this journey is taking me, but I’m ready for the conclusion, to wave the chronic anxiety and worry goodbye.

I’ve recovered  from trauma  in my childhood.  I’ve learned how to enjoy my days despite chronic pain.  I’ve survived numerous trials.  I will beat this.  I don’t know how or when, but I will.

I’ll keep moving forward, day-by-day, knowing my life has meaning and purpose, and that I can turn this experience, like the rest in my life, into something positive and good.  Blessings ~  Marcie