I was spiraling at 10:30 pm over a tube of toothpaste. The toothpaste tubes always have those warnings: “If more than used for brushing is ingested, call Poison Control Centers.” I couldn’t quite tell if I had swallowed the toothpaste. This isn’t my usual trusted brand, and my mouth felt too cold and tingly anyway. Do I need to call poison control? No, I’m probably fine. I end up waking up my half-asleep boyfriend next to me. He tells me I’m being a hypochondriac, but reassures me I’m fine and snuggles me closer. I end up turning on a Liz Gilbert audiobook to drown out the tightness in my chest and the pounding steps of my racing thoughts. I guess I fall asleep, quiet but not entirely settled.

I had my first anaphylactic shock at ten months old, to a supposedly “hypoallergenic” formula. Then there was the time I was around five years old, when a visiting little friend put his sippy cup of dairy milk on “my” shelf in the fridge. The time in college when I used a spoon on the table to scoop some popcorn, completely ignoring the bowl of nuts that left residue on said spoon. Danger lurked around every buffet corner, and I lived on high alert.

For the first 16 years of my life, I was allergic to all dairy, all nuts, eggs, and goat milk. With intensive diet changes and other factors, I’m now only allergic to pistachios and cashews. But even with considerably more food freedom in the last decade, I still jump at the first sign of a tingly mouth or itchy throat. I’m perfectly fine about 95% of the time, but it’s always when I let my guard down and assume I’m fine that something happens.

My boyfriend said I was being a hypochondriac about the toothpaste, and in this particular case, I could tell I was; I knew I was being irrational and that I didn’t need to call poison control. But with the number of times I’ve been rushed to the hospital, my nervous system remembers, and logic doesn’t work here. My rational brain can tell the scared brain that I’m fine, but I haven’t yet gotten that all the way through to the baby who was rushed to the ER countless times. I don’t consciously remember many of these instances, but my nervous system clearly does.

Am I defending my fear? Maybe. In all fairness, I’ve survived 100% of my traumatic incidents so far. “You’ve survived 100% of your worst days” is such a cliche, but it’s a cliche for a reason. I’ve known my life has a distinct purpose pretty much the whole time, and I know logically I wouldn’t have made it through all of my medical issues just to be taken out by some fucking toothpaste. I have purpose and plans for my life. Mortality may be fragile, but I’ve fought for mine. There I go again, slipping into defense and anger. Can I try a different approach? Can I try being soft and snuggling my little self, the way my mother snuggled me when I was little in the hospital?

I wanted to write about strength and my passion for CrossFit and physical health in general. But I’m writing about paranoia instead. I meant to write about allergies and hypochondria, and instead I’m wrestling my own life back from the void. Healing has layers, and this shit is complex and messy. I usually have more articulate language than that, but this is where I’m at right now. I know that I chose to come to this earth for a purpose, and I know there are so many more adventures ahead for me. I can’t wait to go back and find little me, show her what we’ve accomplished so far, and how many more adventures are ahead. I know she’ll make it through the night, because I’m holding her. That’s all I know for now. Thanks for reading.