WWhen I got my first period at age 11, but not again until 18 months later, I feared I would be the next Virgin Mary, mystically pregnant. I sat at my family computer and Googled: “Ways to get pregnant without sex,” “Why don’t I have my period?”, “No periods after the first period.” I spent an hour scouring articles and Reddit threads until I read “No, you’re not pregnant” and “Yes, this is normal” enough times. But after days, weeks, or sometimes a glorious month or two, the comfort faded and doubt seeped back in, until I would eventually begin my search again.
Although my periods eventually returned, my inability to cope with the inherent uncertainty of the human experience persisted, and I continued to turn to Google for reassurance. When I was 17, I sat on the couch doing homework while my parents went out with friends. In the quiet of the house, with nothing to focus on except a boring textbook and my own internal workings, I noticed my chest feeling tight. I already had a smartphone at the time, so I could search Google anytime, anywhere. I looked up “chest pain” and it quickly became clear that I had no choice but to call my parents and go to the hospital (after the doctors checked my heart and took some x-rays, they told me I probably had acid reflux).
As I became a young adult, I often ended a Google session by making a doctor’s appointment. I went for a bump on the back of my head (the doctor touched it, shrugged and said, “It’s just a lymph node”) or a lump in my breast (it was breast tissue). I became convinced that I had cancer or some other rare and serious disease. But sometimes, in the case of eye twitching, minor rashes, or headaches, I read with relief that my concern was nothing to worry about. During these years, I thought searching online was exactly what kept me safe. It helped me gain insight into my body. Sure, I felt anxious and desperate as I scrolled through the search results, but wasn’t that just the price of staying vigilant about my health?
I discovered that this habit may have made me more anxious, no less, almost 10 years after my first period, when my mother died of cancer complications. Grief cut me from the thread I was apparently holding on to. I had panic attacks daily and often had to work up the courage to leave my apartment. I felt like the only person who had ever experienced such a struggle, and I was desperate to find other people like me. So I turned to another search engine to try to understand not my physical health, but my mental health.
I typed “anxiety” into the Instagram search bar. I found people cataloging their experiences with it, but I also found therapists with hundreds of posts about another condition I didn’t know bordered on anxiety: obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD). I used to think OCD was about keeping things neat and organized. But I’ve learned that it’s not about preference or pleasure at all. Obsessions can be debilitating and cling to almost anything, including the possibility of a fatal disease. And compulsions are not limited to counting, turning the lights on and off or washing your hands. Constantly seeking reassurance – from people around you, from yourself, or from the internet – can also be a compulsion.
I thought I was just a hypochondriac, an almost comically exaggerated person when it came to the ins and outs of my body. But about a year after I finally understood what OCD actually was, I received a formal diagnosis. I didn’t stop Googling right away. A diagnosis just meant that I knew now Why I clung so desperately to that search bar. I think what ultimately helped me kick the habit was that over time I realized that there was nothing I or anyone else could have done to save my mother’s life. Her cancer was aggressive and treatment resistant. I then realized that there was no point in predicting something that could possibly be wrong with me. I probably always had intrusive thoughts about my health, but I didn’t need to waste the precious time I have on them.
At 26, I no longer research my health problems. I don’t try to “solve” them. I’ve learned that I can’t do this, even in moderation. Instead, I trust myself to listen to my body and make a decision as to whether or not I should consult a doctor. At first it was hard to remember the allure of that search bar, and I was imperfect. My brain was trying to tell me, “It’s irresponsible not to check this on the internet, just to be sure.” But now, in ways I never could have imagined five years ago, I rarely feel tempted. I much prefer to live in the peace and quiet that comes from accepting what I cannot know. I cherish the lack of urgency I feel in needing to know why I have a headache or a spot on my skin. I shrug and wait for it to go away.