I’m in the process of recognizing that I have an undiagnosed auto-inflammatory syndrome.

It would appear I’m allergic to stress – at least, to what my endocrine system dumps into my bloodstream any time I’m the least bit upset by something, or subconsciously worried, or not processing. I envision waste treatment plant vats bubbling with ACTH and epinephrine and tiny little men in uniforms directing other tiny little men driving industrial machinery as the entire works operates in response to the world as it appears inside my head.

Since as early as 2017, I’ve had “fevers” that have sometimes been called “weekend fevers”, “fake fevers”, “fake colds”, and “day flus.” I’ve had runs streaks stretches of weeks when I thought I had developed IBS-D that then spontaneously resolved. Vague weakness spells and maladies. Sore throats that never progressed. “Coming down with something” but never, in actuality, descending anywhere in particular. And always, those fevers, with burning cheeks and forehead and temperature fluctuations that don’t register on thermometers.

I’ve gone through seven thermometers and thrown them out. They were all rubbish. They all said this isn’t happening.

I feel like a pale woman draped on a fainting couch in Victorian times, a hand to her forehead, declaring that she is too delicate to be subjected to the whims of a turbulent world.

I’m not fragile. I carry ladders in my job. I scurry up and down stairwells and crawl under desks. I have a tattoo and I once pulled out my own IUD. I broke my tailbone this spring and didn’t miss a day of work. My head is a different matter. I’m hyperaware, hyper-emotive, and incredibly sensitive. My psyche is glass-blown intricacy. I’m wide-open and vulnerable, born missing a protective shell. The gift of the genuine, heartfelt smile that stays put many seconds after I speak to a stranger in the hall and pass by is countered by the burden of exaggerated interpretation of the slightest disapproval.

It’s a mystery why the immune response kicked in a few years ago; the greater mystery is why it’s getting worse, at an accelerated rate. The slightest provocation causes the tiny little men to check things off their clipboards and upend another steaming vat of cortisol into my system. I go up like a match and fatigue comes on me like an egg cracked on top of my head, trickling down. Post-nasal drip begins. I go through Covid tests like potato chips.

Sometimes my bladder becomes inflamed. Sometimes my joints ache. Sometimes I have facial paresthesias. Sometimes I cannot endure anything touching my wrists or hands, clothing touching my skin, a chair touching my legs or back. Sometimes I feel I cannot get enough oxygen, no matter how deeply I breathe.

If there is such a thing as “postive anxiety” then it applies here. Looking forward to something delightful in the future can produce the same constellation of symptoms. There is a brain center responsible for processing both, and that must be the source, the impetus.

So all I need to do to feel healthy on a daily basis is to never be excited about anything, have any good experiences, or feel strongly toward anyone, and to hole up at home so I never encounter any anxiety-producing situations. Right. Easy peasy.

I should probably avoid thinking, too, for good measure. Metabolizing is iffy. So is basic circulatory function.

Breathing. Breathing is a safe bet. I’ll focus on breathing.