This is the fifth time that I’ve gone to the ER this month.

The fourth time that I’ve claimed that the doctors are wrong.

The third time that I’ve explained what illnesses are to my sister. 

The second time that my parents are stressing about my medical bills.

And this is the first time that I am admitting that I have a problem.

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My psychiatrist sits with pen in hand and asks how did this problem begin like I am speaking about how I became enemies with teenage girls during lunch.

I can hear the laughter trying hard not to break from in between her lips.

 

The truth is that I don’t know how I ended up in such an abusive relationship with my mind. 

I’m fine, but I’m not fine. But…I’m fine. 

 

How I ended dating hypochondria? Better known as the fear or anxiety of illnesses that one believes that they have without any medical proof. 

 

But this is the fifth time that I’ve gone to the ER this month.

The fourth time, the nurse says that there are places for people like you.

The third time that I’ve lectured my sister on diseases.

The second time that my parents are stressing about my medical bills.

And the first time that I’m admitting that I have a problem.

 

I am tired of playing doctor to every inch of my limbs 24/7.

Imagine checking, checking, checking your bones hourly and hoping not to find any imperfections.

And questioning doctors about facts that you’ve discovered on Google. 

Like rashes relate to cancer. So, I must have cancer. Sounds irrational, right?

 

But this is the fifth time that my knees have bruises from praying to GOD.

The fourth time that I’ve claimed that I am better.

The third time that my sister has yelled at me for giving her free health classes.

The second time that I’ve read my test results that say NEGATIVE and wondering if they it’s a false NEGATIVE.

There are people walking around with false Negatives.

And the first time that I am admitting that I have a problem.

 

This relationship is becoming so unhealthy, but there is no working this shit out. 

It’s a problem that my psychiatrist can’t prescribe pills for.

And even after years of college, doctors cannot coherently understand it.

The cure for hypochondria is not found in books. 

 

So, I guess I got a couple of lose screws and I’m going to continue to be screwed.

To the fourth girl or boy who has sneezed in my direction, know that I’ve showered four times since.

To the third person shaking my hand, know that I’ve washed them, twelve times since. 

To the second time that I’ve lied and said that my battle with hypochondria is over. I wish that was true.

To the first time that I realized that I have a problem that was too complex for a math teachers to solve. It was a little too late.