“Does This Look OK To You?”

“Well, you seem to have a solid handle on things. I’m pleased you’re doing much better.”

“Huh?! I’ve just told you I haven’t left the house for a week, and that I’ve at least twenty-five tabs of “Dr Google” up on my phone…. how’d you conclude that?” I’d ponder.

At its worst, health anxiety rendered most aspects of my life anodyne and ritualised. But these regular G.P appointments remained anti-climactic. If I’d’ve dissolved into floods of tears, I’m certain more may’ve been done, but that isn’t in me... I couldn’t help it.

I’d have ten minutes to give as much information as I could, so I had to focus and stay lucid. It’s built into my DNA to sound calm and collected, even when discussing something traumatic. Handy for survival, terrible for communicating vulnerability!

Putting two and two together, the doctor would register my composure, subconsciously assume all was well, and skip the content.

“If he’s getting his words out coherently, he must be coping”

Dead end.

But how did I end up here?

Environment, heredity and a curious mind all play their parts. Not to mention those redoubtable role models….

~~~~~~~~~~

I adored my father’s mother. A glamorous, strong-willed lady, she left a lasting early impression. Her handbag (which I emptied out regularly, uninvited…. I hasten to add, I was still a child!) normally housed at least one bottle of Dettol disinfectant, which she’d use with rare vigour anytime she deemed it necessary.

Then there was Dad. He possessed the most highly-attuned sniffle/throat-clear detector known to humanity; the merest exhale or nose blow set off a cascade reaction. Put it this way, I don’t remember the names of all my childhood cuddly toys, but I do recall every one of the antibiotics, expectorants and decongestants he’d prescribe (Ponstan, Samilin, Actifed, Keflex.. had to go and show off, didn’t I?).

“I’m a doctor.. open your mouth” he’d say huffily. Odd that I’d never actually seen his medical degree certificate, I thought, but resistance was futile.

The congealed, was-it-ever-in-date liquid would flop onto the plastic spoon feebly, and in it would go.

“Imagine how long you’d take to get better if you DIDN’T have it” he’d smile, almost certainly lethal virus stopped in its tracks.

“Yes, Dad” I’d mumble, seeing it momentarily lift his spirits. Willing the taste to disappear I’d watch as Mum, tight-lipped, would inch out of the room silently. She picked her battles!

Uncannily, I was always five minutes away from INSTANT DEATH. If none of those medicines did the trick and INSTANT DEATH was still lurking malevolently, there was always Vicks. Fistfuls of miracle balm smeared over your chest and grouting your nostrils.. you’d scarcely sleep for the eye-watering smell, but you’d forget your nose was ever blocked. Mission accomplished.

Individually potent, together Dad and “Bibi” were a tag-team of some repute. On a winter’s day family visit to Babylon, I cheerfully crouched over a small body of water to stare at my reflection. Before I knew it, I’d overbalanced and fallen in. Unruffled, I picked myself up out of the four inches of water to be greeted by panic. INSTANT DEATH loomed large; this called for remedial action, and fast.

Dad promptly ushered me into the back seat of his car, while Bibi wrapped her fur coat around me to stave off potential hypothermia. Surprisingly common in Iraq, as it turns out.

A loud flurry of incoherent bickering, a screech of tyres, and we were off. I felt absolutely fine, but horribly guilty that we were now driving back up north. I couldn’t look anyone in the eye. After all, it was rare we got to go on an outing at all.

It was all done out of an abundance of love, under remarkably pressurised conditions, but that message imprinted itself in my formative brain. It only needed a significant trigger to push it back to the surface in adulthood.

For me, it was having a couple of unsuccessful operations to remove a skin infection in my twenties. Protracted recuperation + extra time off work = the perfect storm. Past trauma and present discomfort channelled into rampant health anxiety.

With all that extra time on my hands, I’d log onto the laptop and research anything and everything, my fact-finding ability fully engaged and wired. It started with moles and freckles, and it soon progressed. No part of me escaped, and I’d read hundreds of research papers and studies. The irony is that with more appropriate wiring, I’d’ve probably made a good doctor!

Everyday was a learning day: Tall adult? More prone to cancer. B blood type? Rare degenerative diseases. Coincidentally, everything I ever read lead me to determine I was royally f**ked.

Double blind tests, meta analyses, in vitro and in vivo... it never stopped. IL-6, genomes, IGFBP3... tremolites, amphiboles. Rapidly becoming a recluse, I dared not read the news in case something else emerged, and it frequently did. Everything became a threat; I detached from my own body, observing it meticulously from afar. That it would fail me somehow was a “given”.. if only I could anticipate it, perhaps the worst could be averted?

I wish I had the perfect, nuanced language to describe being in that place, particularly to benefit those who have to support people in my position. Bluntly, it’s f***ing catastrophic.

Let me have another go:

On bad days, it’s a relentless febrile buzz reverberating around my head, checking in with me to make sure I haven’t neglected it. Injecting itself into everything. Impinging on the positive experiences and exacerbating the negative. You feel stupid, weird, scared and exhausted all at the same time. And lonely: incredibly so.

Psychodynamic counselling boosted me temporarily, however other options were, sadly, a bit lacking. The “CBT” my GP surgery offered? A trainee who ushered me towards a laptop with rather irrelevant questions on it, and then shuffled out of the door again, occasionally peering through the gap in the door with a “good, innit?” smirk on her face. I stopped after two sessions.

Anyone grappling with health anxiety faces the challenge of unravelling its origin. The early exposure to familial hypochondria was key for me, but another source came to me much more gradually. At the extreme fringes of my ‘fearosphere’, nothing quite made sense, even for my extravagant mind.

Why on earth did I have a recurring fear of CJD and asbestos, for example? Both were quite unlikely to have affected me, yet at various points they’ve consumed me.

I haven’t eaten meat for fifteen years, and though I now don’t for ethical reasons, that fear was its genesis. I still won’t enter an older building without imagining worn-down fibres wafting over me as I walk through. It’s been awful, debilitating and terribly hard to fathom, let alone speak about.

In years past, it was much worse and more mortifying I’m afraid: I’d hastily cross the road to avoid walking past a burger joint in case I smelled the meat. I Googled buildings for their age before going into them to know how safe I’d be.

Tenuous thoughts became facts, and ‘facts’ activated a concocted narrative spiked with harrowing images of sickness, or death.

Reflecting on this, I eventually uncovered that missing piece; a central theme underpinning the most acute, distressing episodes. I had a total mental block whenever confronted by flagrant maliciousness, or the wilful negligence of others.

Sound fanciful? An inordinate response? My sensitivity strikes again:

I still remember the smug disdain and lack of humanity in the faces of politicians, who brushed aside people’s concerns at the quality of meat and animal welfare thirty years ago. I was physically taken aback at the mere thought of people who knowingly, KNOWINGLY allowed men, women and children to live and work around asbestos, fully aware of the awful consequences. I can feel the pernicious lack of care, the ferment of self-interest driving them. It’s visceral. My mind couldn’t deal with sharing a world with people like that. It didn’t compute. Still doesn’t, really.

After all, I grew up in a war-torn country, bathed in and attuned to the consequences of human attrition. Boundaries blurred, weary adults openly mulled over the mutilating effects of chemical and biological weapons in graphic detail. Slow-pan cameras surveyed and relayed battlefield scenes to TV viewers at home, bodies strewn on the war front.

Families decimated. There was no explanation, no warning, and:

I could. not. switch. it. off.

“When would it reach us.. how long?”

Nightly rituals and silent prayers to keep my family safe eventually became sacrosanct, perhaps the only way I could fashion an internal universe where this all had a happy ending.

~~~~~~~~~~

I’m overjoyed that we live in a world where many mental health barriers are being broken down, thanks to the work of many incredible individuals and groups. Unhelpfully, the traditional media’s been slow to catch on, still often directing our exposure to what’s deemed the most gawp-worthy end of the spectrum: Tourette’s, schizophrenia, ‘kooky’ phobias. Not to educate, but to shock or bemuse.

Either way, I’m not sure it’s health anxiety’s turn yet. Explain that you’ve a fear of illness to others, and you’ll reliably sense them scurrying into the comfort of their next thought. To the uninitiated, it just feels so... convoluted and alien. Intimidating, even. No one’s dead-keen to be reminded of their mortality, even when presented absurdly by a sufferer’s faulty processing.

I’ve been managing this on and off for the last 20 years or so, and though I’m far from rid of it, it has improved. If I don’t address bouts of stress quickly, my head will inevitably find something to worry about. I still have some real low points, and I’ll never be totally out of the woods.

I can however, with many “fretting miles” under my belt, humbly offer some advice which could be of use:

• Don’t look up symptoms, ever. EVER. Not even to confirm your “benign” suspicions. I speak from experience... smartphones are kryptonite for a mind prone to worry.

• Cultivate a robust purpose. Far too long without one was all my mind needed to indulge in that churn of fear. Once the symptoms are manageable, it’s important to rebuild your thinking around a positive focus to stop them returning. Find your passion.

• Be careful who you lean on. It’s easy to forget that loved ones don’t think along the same lines, and to allow that frustration to eat away at you.

• Be patient with the support you do receive (talk therapy, CBT, medication), but have the courage to admit when it isn’t working. Don’t feel you have to keep going if it’s not improving your lot. Your life; your bespoke treatment plan. As long as you’re tackling it head-on, explore alternatives with whoever’s supporting you. Feigning compliance to satisfy others helps no one.

• Self care. It’s unglamorous, but eating nutritiously, sleeping properly and exercising are paramount. They’re all achievable nudges towards equilibrium.

• Don’t be needlessly hard on yourself. Bear in mind that it takes a creative, empathetic and capable mind to sustain these scenarios in the first place; one that with time and sufficient recovery, has the potential to go anywhere and aspire to anything.

And finally, some tips for those living with someone like me. I can’t sugar coat it: it’s hard. Really hard.

To begin with, I think it’s essential to establish your loved one’s level of self-awareness, and adjust your expectations accordingly.

You’ll naturally want to help, but it’s easy to become embroiled and complicit in enabling a reality that’s unhealthy for both of you. Make your boundaries clear and known, compassionately, and offer what you can without compromising your well-being. It needn’t be overthought either: never underestimate the immediate power of a hug or a gesture of love.. just maintaining a positive outlook can be surprisingly potent and grounding for a sufferer to be near.

I’ll come back to this in future posts as I feel it’s really worth expanding on. There’s so much more to say.

At the root of many mental health burnouts is a bundle of suppressed memories, or unresolved emotions. Let’s normalise talking about these things. Not allowing social pressures and embarrassment to limit our reach, whatever we may struggle with. Ask me anything, for advice or out of curiosity, and I’ll do my best to answer fully and truthfully.