I have tried to explain it to myself, but there is some corner of my brain that refuses to understand.
To understand that other people feel differently; to somehow absorb the simple fact that while I obsess about every ache and pain and bother as if they were magnified, others can't hear the screaming of their bodies.
Colds are not magnified and built up to biblical-flood proportions– they just are, and then they go.
Needles going into others' skins don't push their way in, brutally and coldly, leaving a hole around which your every nerve pulsates and throbs.
Rashes don't make their skins tingle– the evil presence that crawls and makes me feel like a live wire is nothing but a just small itch to scratch.
Bacteria are not as feared by others, are they? Not everyone has nightmares involving superbacteria taking over bodies.
Then again, not everyone feels compelled to sit through horrible descriptions of people's heinous encounters with flesh-eating bacteria, only to replay them over and over in the middle of the sleepless night.
I'd like to believe it's not all bad.
I'd like to believe it's not all just my neuroses running away with me– this sick need to document and diagnose everything that could possibly be wrong with my body.
I would like to believe that I am my own body's whisperer; that I can hear my cells shrieking in pain, or in gratitude when I take good care of them.
They mostly scream and complain, however, because why rock the boat when things are well?
I would like to think that it's not illness that moves me; but rather, my quest to continue on the path of wellness.
Sometimes I think I am batshit crazy.