Before Google, I lived my life a happy and healthy. I scoffed at people who thought they always had the latest disease, illness, or psychological condition. (I still do, for that matter, but that’s beside the point.) Then… I grew up. I came to readily rely on the internet (and Google) to answer all my questions. Some of those questions revolve around health issues.
In the last month, I have researched migraines, tumors, ulcers, Alzheimer’s, loss of vision, and dementia. In the last month, at some point, I have believed that I have all or one of the above mentioned afflictions. That’s only in the last month. I’ve been convinced I’m bipolar and depressed. I’ve believed that I suffered from carpal tunnel. I also believed I had been abducted by aliens. (Okay, that last one is only a joke for emphasis.)
None of the above have ever been confirmed by a physician. Never have I brought up any of the aforementioned afflictions to any physician. Only Google. Google is my best friend and, quite possibly, my worst enemy all wrapped up in the warped sense of well-being I get when I self-diagnose.
I realized today that Google is like crack for a hypochondriac. I’m glad I’m not actually a hypochondriac; I mean, imagine what weird conditions I could imagine I suffer were I one. I can’t help but worry that I am secretly ill and will die a slow, horrible, and painful death. I suppose everyone worries about their mortality. I worry that I’m too young to worry about mine.
Dear Google,
When I believe I am suffering from some rare disease or, for that matter, some common one, I am no longer coming to you. I will not share my fears, because you are unable to assuage them. You are not my friend. I am not a hypochondriac.
Love,
@notthegirl
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