So, mods: If this is totally out of order, let me know or kill the post. It's basically just a diary-style thing of putting thoughts down. What's the goal? Not sure. Maybe some others can see some of themselves in my story? Find hope? I don't know. It would be pretty sweet though. If it passes and people like it, it could probably become a recurring thing. 

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Health anxiety Part 1 – The beginning … and (in) the end? 

It starts with one thing. I don’t know why. It doesn’t even matter how hard you try.

Okay, shit. Fuck me. I’m joking. Keep that in mind. 

Okay, I’ll stop now.

No, for real, it probably started in kindergarten. I was a timid boy with snow white hair, small hands, and a knack for low self-esteem. I had a friend. That’s a start, right? So, my friend – being a jokester, the opposite of shy me – he would tell me stories when we were all alone, right next to the only tree on the playground. He was a creative guy, you gotta hand it to him. Do I feel any animosity towards him? Not really, and I think that’s part of the process of getting better as well. What has happened has happened, no changing it. And, besides, it’s not like he was some evil boy genius let loose in the world to mentally fuck with other children prone to being mentally fucked with.

Anyways, he told stories. About my parents, about my house. My parents would be killed by robbers, my house would burn and crash upon my parents and pets and – basically – All I knew and loved and cared about was fucked and I was here in the kindergarten with absolutely no power or control to do anything about it.

And I believed him. It scared me. But, of course, my parents always picked me up at the right time, no one killed them, our house didn’t burn down. At one point, I was crying furiously every time my mom dropped me off at kindergarten and – understandably – they were like “shit, what’s up, little man?”

Now it gets really fucking stupid. Because I always said, when being dropped off, that I was crying because I would miss my mom. I stood up for the fucker that fed me these stories and messed me up. Why? I was probably afraid of losing my only friend by calling him out on it. A lose/lose situation: Either I live with these stories and the fear or I snitch on the guy and risk my only friendship.

So I cried. And I cried. 

And I think that’s where it all started: That nagging fear, that parasite that took root in me and kept eating and eating and eating until it grew into anxiety. The worry of what will happen while I’m not there, the need for controlling what I cannot control because I’m not there.

The need to make sure everything is alright and – worst of all – the disbelief that everything is alright because my subconscious belief is that, at some point, the world is gonna fuck me or my family up. It’s just a matter of time – or so it felt. Feels? I’m not so sure anymore.

That was the start. Hopefully I will find the time to write about the ending-in-fucking-double-quotation-marks at some point. Because this shit… I’m not sure it’ll ever fully end. But it is getting better and it will get better.

In the end, that’s all that matters.