Why I’m a Hypochondriac

On my 40 minute drive home from school today, I was convinced I was dying.  It sounds dramatic, but if I’m being honest, it wasn’t the first time.  You see, I’ve had a strange pulsing pain in my head the last few days.  Today, my throat became sore in that special way that strep throat does when it’s just a baby.  So, I’m driving, listening to NPR, and I itch my ear: face goes numb.  Immediately, I diagnosed myself as in the process of having a stroke or an aneurysm or some sort of deadly thing that doesn’t creep slowly but jumps on you out of the tree tops.  When I get this way, my face gets hot and all the symptoms get worse and my mind races through all the people I should call and what to do if my arms become unable to steer at any point.

And I know why I do this to myself.  I’m convinced that my life is too good to not have something up and kill me.  This is not to say I think I’m so special that I’ll die a spectacularly mystical death that one day ends up in the newspapers.  (Though I have concocted some goodies given a few symptoms and a setting.)  What I’m saying is that I am so blessed that I am unable to comprehend it.  So, instead, I create tragedy.  Those tragedies do two things: first, they remind me that nothing in life matters but Christ; secondly, that I need to stop having those tragedies because it reflects a disbelief in God’s goodness and blessing.  It’s a catch 22.  

And that is why I’m a hypochondriac.