The Real.

Real talk: I have a problem. A very real, very serious problem.

I've been a hypochondriac for as long as I can remember. At age 10, I remember crying hysterically when Chris Farley died. I locked myself in my room and told my mom I was going to die early, too. At the time, I thought his death was a weight-related issue (not a drug overdose), so I was convinced that since I was fat, I, too, would meet an untimely end.

Years later, I self-diagnosed on websites like WebMD and MayoClinic, condemning myself with various cancers or terminal illnesses. I visited more doctors than I can remember, had my blood drawn more times than I can count, and never ended up with the horrible diagnoses I had predicted. Still, I found reasons not to trust the doctors and their faulty tests. Frustrated and sick with worry, I would seek second opinions that ultimately told me the same thing.

I would spend days complaining and crying to family members and close friends, telling them how sure I was that I was dying. Unsure of what to say, they would either not take my symptoms seriously or tell me I didn't have cancer. Unfortunately, none of their words made me feel better and the interaction did nothing but push my loved ones away.

Cancer has always been my biggest fear. When my mom was diagnosed with Stage 4 cancer in March, my world collapsed. If I'm being completely honest, it is still collapsing all around me every single day. I poured all of my attention, love, and focus on her, praying endlessly that her chemo would save her life. I still do.

But last month, my left hand went numb. Initially, I thought I slept on it wrong and it would gradually fade away as pinched nerves often do. Gradually, the numbness traveled up my left arm, into my chest and back. This symptom drove me to the Internet, where I diagnosed myself with Multiple Sclerosis.

Several doctor's appointments, an eye exam, multiple blood tests, a trip to the ER, and a brain MRI later, we still don't know what's happening. I've diagnosed myself with lymphoma and a battery of other life-threatening problems and we aren't any closer to an answer than we were before. On Thursday, I'm meeting with a neurologist to figure out the next step.

I've also been experiencing a number of other borderline-debilitating symptoms (I'll spare you the details), most of which can be explained away with taboo words like anxiety, stress, and depression. I know some of them are the physical manifestation of the immense stress I've been pretending not to feel for a few months - the constant sense of doom surrounding the impending scans that will tell us if the chemo is working, the utter desperation to find another option in case it isn't, the anger when I consider how young and otherwise healthy my mom is, the insecurity when making plans and scheduling family vacations, the frustration when I read the suggested age of your first colonoscopy, the sadness when I think about how much our lives have changed in six months, and that constant feeling of It's not okay, even when my mind tells me it should be.

Suddenly, I feel guilty because I'm worrying about myself and not focusing all of my attention on my very sick mom. Suddenly, I feel alone because I'm navigating the health world by myself for the first time - paying for bills, scheduling appointments, and trying to figure out my self-paid health insurance without stressing my parents out even more. Suddenly, I feel awful because I'm putting Wheat through absolute hell at home - fights, screaming, crying, panic attacks, and actual moments when I nearly call the ambulance because I can't breathe. Suddenly, I'm feeling cynical and doubtful because my mom was misdiagnosed with ovarian cancer and went without answers regarding the growling noise in her side and her constant feeling of fullness until it was so unbelievably late. Suddenly, I'm sweeping other very real problems under the rug because comparatively, not finding a job in my industry, missing my siblings across the country, wanting to move to another apartment, and not knowing where I'll live in a year doesn't seem like a big deal.

I don't sleep well, never feel well, and can't stop crying. I barely recognize myself in the mirror and when I do, I hate what I see. I'm scared, sad, angry, bitter, and exhausted...and even worse, I don't see the light at the end of the tunnel.

...but like I always say, despite my recent struggles, I'm also very aware of the amazing people in my life. A dad who will drive to Indianapolis for a doctor's appointment, a mom who cries with relief when she hears good results from scans and tests, a best friend who is late from lunch because she's listening to me cry on the phone, amazing friends who send emails and text messages to tell me they are thinking about my family and ask how I'm doing, and the world's greatest boyfriend who wipes tears from my cheeks, holds my hand, and calls off work to hear what the surgeon thinks.

Despite everything, I know how lucky I am, I know how much worse it could be, and even when I'm feeling alone, I know that couldn't be further from the truth.