My brain was trying to convince me that my body was trying to kill me, but Nic Cage saved me

Image by ariellejay via morguefileLast night, my head starting itching.

The most likely culprit was the number of mosquito bites I had. Walking in the front door means going through the gauntlet of a billion mosquitos that are quite serious about taking blood from anyone who comes near them, and if they don’t manage to do that outside, then they scoot inside and start biting anyone they can find. And they don’t just exist by the door – when I was putting air in my tires yesterday, I got about half a dozen bites while filling a single tire. It’s Texas. I shouldn’t have to say any more than that.

Instead of that, the logical option, my brain decided that I was dying. Because, let’s be honest, what are the other options? (Not including the mosquito one that I had already discarded as wrong.)

How did I know that it wasn’t mosquitos and was instead something that would kill me?

Once upon a time, I had a super shitty doctor who didn’t tell me that people who are allergic to penicillin have a higher chance of being allergic to cephalosporin. He didn’t tell me because he had decided that I might have a psychosomatic reaction. We girls aren’t a hearty bunch, I guess, and he clearly knew better than me, what with being a doctor and all.

He was wrong. So wrong.

I had a total big ass massive reaction that was in no way psychosomatic.

My stomach, back, and head – COVERED in hives. It really, really, really sucked because there’s not much you can do about hives when they’re on your head. I had to wait out the hives, putting Caladryl on every hive that wasn’t under my hair. (When I look back at it, I don’t know why he didn’t tell me to take Benadryl. I think that goes back to the idea that he was a super shitty doctor.)

Anyway, so that’s probably why my brain decided to tell me that my body was trying to kill me. It’s a logical progression to go from hives to death. Or so my brain said.

Knowing that it would make it worse, I avoided hitting WebMD. It would confirm my thoughts, or, even worse, give me more ideas of things that could potentially be killing me. Most likely, it would be cancer. Because WebMD says that everything is a sign of cancer.

I sat on the couch, suffering, noting every little potential urge to itch and every possible impulse to scratch. Each one, I was 100% convinced, was a sign that the hives – the hives I couldn’t actually feel or see – were multiplying at an alarming rate, bringing me nearer and nearer to death.

Then we put on a movie. A Nic Cage movie. A true, quality piece of filmmaking excellence. (Please don’t tell me you believe that.)

It was awful. “211.” The code for robbery, according to the police in the movie, but I always thought that 211 was the number you called for assistance with food, rent, and all that good stuff to find out about community services. (It is.)

The movie didn’t even have a write-up that explained what happened. Instead, it said it was a “Bank heist movie in the vein of “End of Watch” meets “Black Hawk Down”.” (As per IMDB.) It was that level of quality – the level that doesn’t even rate its own description.

It was so horrible, so hard to follow the mostly non-existent plot, so completely stupidly unbelievably filled with so many coincidences that in order to believe it, you’d also have to believe that you have to provide your banking information to get money from a soldier’s widow who has no one else to leave her millions to now that she’s dying of the cancer. (I guess she checked her symptoms on WebMD, too.)

But it was also magic, in its own way. Spending all my time and effort ripping apart the movie and trying to figure out what the purpose was, which wasn’t even clear when it ended with an illogical ending that I won’t share because I don’t want to ruin the movie for you any more than it will ruin itself, but spending all that time and effort took my brain to another place. A place where it didn’t think I was dying. Instead, it was focused on all the aspects of the movie that were dying – the painful dialogue, the unbelievable characters, the nonexistent plot, the missing resolution, the lack of meaningful conflict…well, you get the idea. Let’s say that there weren’t any actual positive aspects, except for the fact that it had Nic Cage.

So, while I admit that my sample is a bit small in that it was only me, I think that there need to be far more studies that look at the efficacy of Nic Cage films in curing anxiety attacks.

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