Read The Symptoms of My Insanity Online
Authors: Mindy Raf
The Symptoms of My Insanity
Symptoms
of my
Insanity
by
Mindy Raf
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Copyright © 2013 by Mindy Raf
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Raf, Mindy.
The symptoms of my insanity / by Mindy Raf.
p. cm.
Summary: When you’re a hypochondriac, there are a million different things that could be wrong with you, but for Izzy, focusing on what could be wrong might be keeping her from dealing with what’s really wrong—with her friendships, her romantic entanglements, and even her family.
ISBN: 978-1-101-59230-4
[1. High schools—Fiction. 2. Schools—Fiction. 3. Hypochondria—Fiction. 4. Mothers—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.R10952Sym 2013
[Fic]—dc23 2012024708
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
For my dad, who always loves, supports,
and believes in me and all my insanity,
and for my brave and brilliant mom,
who’s always here, even when she’s not.
Chapter 3: I’m the assistant director
Chapter 4: I have knockers grandes
Chapter 5: I’m having a slumber party
Chapter 7: I love cleaning out the attic
Chapter 9: I’m a terrible listener
Chapter 10: I’m having trouble breathing
Chapter 12: I’m a clueless cyberchondriac
Chapter 13: I should have worn a cardigan
Chapter 15: I’m a bad daughter
Chapter 16: I’m finally feeling inspired
Chapter 17: I shouldn’t have opened my mouth
Chapter 18: I have negative energy
Chapter 20: I didn’t know it could morph
Chapter 21: I need to talk to my mom
Chapter 23: I don’t want to talk about it
Chapter 27: I think it’s beginning too
Chapter 29: I’ve got girl-balls
Chapter 30: We’re all in the snapshot
I’m diseased.
I’m standing inside a large fitting room at Lola’s Lingerie. Oh, and there are three hands on my breasts.
Yup, three large Russian hands. On my breasts. I’m not kidding.
One of the hands removes itself and returns, holding a tape measure. There are now two hands on my breasts, each cupping a boob. I wonder if the one on the right feels anything out of the ordinary. Should I ask her? Should I say,
Excuse me, Svenya, I know you’re just fitting me for a bra, but do you feel anything strange or lumpy in there—does that one feel cancerous to you?
I read all about breast cancer on one of my mom’s chat/support sites. My mom doesn’t have breast cancer, but she
does
have this habit of staying logged into all her stuff after she borrows my laptop. One woman had this lump in her breast and just assumed it was a benign cyst. Nothing to worry about. Well, now she has no breasts at all. So, naturally, I decided to study my own breasts in the bathroom mirror. I’m no medical expert or anything, but I could
plainly see that my right breast was bigger than my left.
And then today, as I was sitting in biology thinking about having to go get fitted for new bras at stupid Lola’s Lingerie after school, my right boob started hurting (the one that’s bigger!) and I started to feel really strange. I know it sounds crazy, but self-diagnosis is totally possible, especially when the patient is knowledgeable about symptoms and stuff. Since I had no bathroom passes left, I had to sit through the rest of biology knowing that, at that very moment, cancer was probably spreading throughout my entire body. I almost raised my hand, but what would I say?
Mr. Bayer, may I please be excused? I’m not totally positive, but I think I might have cancer.
No way. Then everyone at school would know, and they would treat me differently, and I would be known as “Izzy, that poor girl who diagnosed herself with breast cancer during biology.”
Oh, and then Marcus totally caught me studying my breast asymmetry in bio instead of working on my Punnett square. I tried to act like I was picking lint off my sweater, but I don’t think it worked. What’s Marcus Mason even doing in my sophomore bio class? I mean, I know why he’s there, but who chooses to work on an independent bio project with Mr. Bayer for
fun
their senior year?
At least it was only Jenna’s brother Marcus, though, and not like Jacob Ullman or one of his idiot friends. Jenna calls them “testosteclones,” and they would totally torture me if they caught me boobing-out in bio. They’ve been saying idiotic things to me ever since I got these things in fifth grade. “Hey
Izzy, how’d you do on the math breast?” or “Boom badda boom badda boom” when I walk, or “What did you have for bra-fest this morning?” Which is one of Jacob’s favorites, and which he actually whispered to me in temple during our eighth-grade Hebrew school graduation. I don’t understand why boobs are such a big deal anyway, but if I’m wearing a top that’s not super-duper baggy, the guys in my class just stare at my chest like it’s one of those Magic Eye patterns.
So yeah, I’m confident my secret’s safe with Marcus. His mother would have him locked up if she caught him even looking at boobs anyway. Cathy Mason loves telling people that other people need to be locked up. Mainly people who do things she considers “inappropriate, immoral, and disgraceful.” Almost every gossipy conversation she has with my mom ends with her saying, “Can you believe it, Linda? Isn’t that completely inappropriate, immoral, and disgraceful?” And my mom always nods back at her and says, “Yes, completely, Cathy.”
Anyway, it wasn’t just the asymmetry of my breasts that was worrying me today—I would never diagnose myself based on a single symptom. No, I also felt tired. Not ordinary tired, but alarmingly tired. And then this afternoon in the art studio I broke out in a sweat for no reason at all. The ventilation fan next to me was even turned on high, but I just kept sweating. That’s not normal. So later in study hall when I was supposed to be doing web research on the Incas, I typed “spontaneous sweating” and “body asymmetry” into Symptomaniac.com.
Do you want to know what came up for me?
Progeria!
That’s when children mature really quickly and then die with the body of like a seventy-year-old. I didn’t read all the details, but that’s the basic idea. Which completely makes sense since I’m fifteen and already have the body of a “voluptuous” (my mom’s friend Pam swears that word’s a compliment) twenty-five-year-old. It’s true. It’s December and I no longer fit into any of my bras. The back-to-school ones! The
size C
back-to-school ones! Hence, why I’m trapped here, after school, in a Lola’s Lingerie fitting room.
I’m about to ask Svenya if she feels anything suspicious, when I look down and notice the cavernous cleavage I have from the monster-size underwire the Russians have strapped onto me. Holy cow! If one of these ladies dropped her pen right now, my breasts would swallow it whole. I’m like a living, breathing, busty Bermuda Triangle. Forget high school, I should just get a job for the government hiding top secret documents in my cleavage.
“It’s a C. No bigger than C. Round, very good. Not sausagey. C.”
The hand on the other side wags its fingers and shouts out a reply.
“
Nyet,
a D. Too big for C. Too big.”
“They a C.”
“They a D.”
“They a C.”
The third one chimes in.
“
Nyet! Nyet!
A D, a D. They a DD.”
A double D?! Oh my God. I’ve shot up three letter sizes in three months! I’m about to ask for a recount but am silenced by the tape measure. I watch the numbers fly by as it wraps itself around my chest: 5-10-15-20-25-30—
“Thirty-three one half,” three voices proclaim in unison. The tape measure is discarded and all three women stare at me a second before victoriously shouting at megaphone volume, “Thirty-four double D!”
Thanks, ladies.
I should not be here right now with the Russian Underwire Trinity. I need to be working on my art portfolio; I’m more than three pieces behind schedule.
“That looks tight. Is it too tight? Does it fit you? It should fit you.” Mom steps into the fitting room. She’s holding a bunch of merchandise in one hand and waving the other in the air trying to dry the fuchsia nail polish from the manicure she just got next door.
I check myself out in the mirror. No, it’s not possible that I’m this unattractive. Is it? No, it must be the fitting room light. Fitting room light is extremely unflattering. I don’t think anybody looks good under a fluorescent glare. Mom sets her stuff down in the corner of the giant fitting room and continues air-drying her nails. I take that back. My mom looks good. But she always does. If there were a Miss Cancer America beauty pageant, she would totally win.