If my sister’s psychological test is to be believed, I am the following things:

- narcissistic
- egotistical
- self-absorbed
- intent on shutting out the world
- repressing hostile and aggressive emotions
- mentally defective (See? Not deficient … defective. I am smart but damaged.)
- insecure
- emotionally immature
- longing for freedom from responsibility
- harboring malicious designs on Ely Buendia

The last part I added in keeping with the Eheads theme of this week’s consecutive posts. Of all the things listed up there, though, that’s pretty much the only one I agree with. If my sister had diagnosed me with God complex I would have wholeheartedly agreed. And paid her for services somehow, I think.

****************************************

Finally went to see a cardiologist after more than three months of pussyfooting.  I had to go back to my pediatric cardiologist because I simply couldn’t find anyone else I could trust.  He’s a cardiologist for kids but that doesn’t exactly deter me, obviously, so off I went.

Miraculously, his assistant somehow found my records from fourteen years ago.

A review of my test results showed that I still have no reason to check into the Philippine Heart Center (damn!), but that I might have a bit of a lung problem.

I still have Mitral Valve Prolapse, but it’s not the source of my frequent chest pains.  According to my doctor, I’ve got some sort of asthma gene (I have skin asthma, and my mother’s family is filled to the brim with people suffering from asthma) that gives me weak lungs and the inability to inhale enough oxygen.

No, that doesn’t mean I’m constantly asphyxiated.  Which sounds weird.

Anyway, what it does mean is that my lungs automatically go into overdrive when I get seriously stressed.  That’s the asthma gene at work.  And yes, that’s where the chest pains come from.  Fear can also trigger the same reaction from my stupid, stupid lungs.

So I’m supposed to avoid stress to keep my lungs from going haywire, as well as heavy lifting so my prolapse doesn’t act up.

In short, if you want me dead, lock me up in a cramp room with dozens of clowns.  That should pretty much do the trick.

I’m such a nice and loving person, though, so I can’t imagine anyone wishing to do that to me.

Right?

Right?

What?

****************************************

I just want to say that a lot of things are obviously wrong with me, which proves my theory that first-borns are always defective 1.0s.  You have to wait for the 2.0s to avoid patches and fixes and stuff.

This entry was posted on Friday, September 5th, 2008 at 12:19 am and is filed under pain, personal. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.