I used to be a hypochondriac. I’d just be worried, all day, every day. Y’know like; I have a fever and my neck hurts? Bacterial meningitis. Headache for three days? Ruptured aneurysm. Chest hurt for a minute while I was running three miles? Incoming heart attack! Not a fun way to live.

I knew for sure that I had hypochondria because I looked up the symptoms for it on WebMD. Which – they had a whole professionally made site listing symptoms and stuff but really, they could’ve just had a white page with big, black letters that said “If you’re here, you are.”

So I wound up wasting a lot of time and money visiting doctors over the years. Every time I went, the doctor would just say “Yeah, there’s nothing wrong with you. Still.” They would never tell me not to come back, which I think was funny. On the one hand, I mean, you definitely should not ignore certain symptoms – which was the angle the doctors would always come from. But also, they kinda want your money. Which I don’t really fault them for, because – well, I’ve heard that it costs a lot to go through med school. I don’t know if it’s actually true, but I’ve definitely heard it.

Anyway, I eventually just kind of grew out of it. Or maybe that’s not the right phrase. It was more like my point of view changed and being sick just wasn’t a big deal anymore. It’s a silly thing to worry about all the time, right? It’s ridiculous! Really, it’s silly to worry about anything!

Because, I figured out, everything that has happened or ever will happen is just the result of a chain of causality that started at the beginning of the universe and will continue until it ends so free will is an illusion, we have no control and life is meaningless.

***

So I cured my hypochondria – by having an existential crisis.

At the time, I was living with a guy who really liked smoking pot. It was great for him. It made him feel more creative, it actually helped him focus on his hobby of writing code and, most relevant to my interests, it got rid of any anxiety he had. I’d heard all this stuff about pot before of course, but I had never tried it. All through high school, I couldn’t convince people that I didn’t smoke. They were all like “You’re so laid back” or “You laugh so much, how could you not smoke pot?” I guess general happiness is elusive to the average high-schooler. But it wasn’t to me, so I just never really felt the need to smoke.

But then a few years later life was suddenly meaningless and I had a need to not think that thought anymore. So one evening my roommate and I tried to ‘smoke it out’.

Over the next few hours I came to learn an interesting new fact about pot; It does not effect everybody the same way. While my roommate was just happy to snack and listen to ambient music, I huddled in the corner of his bed, held two fingers up to my throat and tried and find my pulse. I tried to smoke at least a dozen other times and every single time, I wound up in the fetal position on a bed or a couch, trying to convince myself that my heart wasn’t about to explode for about four hours straight.

Pretty much every single person I’ve told this to has said something like “Oh, well, you were just paranoid. That’s normal. A beginner should really start with a different strain, like ‘Yo-Yo Orangutan’ or ‘Chocolate Riverstink’” or some other equally ridiculous name.

This is insane. If you were going to go out drinking and someone said “I really shouldn’t drink. I get super violent when I drink.” You wouldn’t respond with “Oh, well, that’s normal for beginners. You just haven’t found the right drink yet. You should try something with a different alcohol content!” You’d just trust that they know their body and you’d let them live their lives with the depressing realization that a potentially simple avenue of escapism from their daily problems that tons of other people get to enjoy all the time is closed off to them forever for reasons they’ll probably never know.

***

So I finally saw a therapist.

After we talk for maybe thirty minutes, she’s says,”Oh, yeah, you need drugs.” As always, self medication wasn’t the solution – professional medication was.

She prescribed me Zoloft. Started me on the half dose. Said to do that for a week, then jump up to the full dose. After a week, I didn’t feel any different. Still crappy. Maybe even worse. So I was looking forward to the full dose. I was so ready to y’know, not be depressed. I finally pop a whole pill and fifteen minutes later, my face explodes. Turned out I was just allergic enough for the half dose to do nothing and the full dose to make it look like I lost a fight. That was a couple weeks ago and the therapist is trying to get me on a different medication now but I’m afraid to take any of it because, y’know, my throat might close and I’d die.

But I guess that doesn’t matter.

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