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    The Handbook of Hypochondria
    The Handbook of Hypochondria
    The Handbook of Hypochondria
    Ebook105 pages1 hour

    The Handbook of Hypochondria

    By Eva Sounder

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    About this ebook

    After years of research, Dr. Eva Sounder comes with a comprehensive guide to living with hypochondria. Unlike other books full of vignettes of medical anomalies, Dr. Sounder provides a practical guide to find value in life while living with hypochondria. After a brief trip through the history, Dr. Sounder outlines the fundamentals, prevailing conditions, alternative approaches and how to self-actualize with hypochondria. Lead the most valuable life you can with The Handbook of Hypochondria.

    Topics covered include:

    The History of Hypochondria

    Feeling a Lot Worse Than You Think You Do

    The Fundamentals

    Nutrition and Exercise

    The Status Quo

    Alternative Treatments

    Self-Actualization and the Art of Hypochondria

    ​With a foreword from Dr. Marvin McAlpine

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBlack Brick Publishing
    Release dateJan 21, 2017
    ISBN9784990885137
    The Handbook of Hypochondria

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      Book preview

      The Handbook of Hypochondria - Eva Sounder

      100 Percent of Nothing

      Five short stories from Black Brick Publishing

      Copyright 2017

      Published by Black Brick Publishing

      Contributors: Jay Lee, Robert Chapman, Sal Kirkson, Kai Samyn and Cal Danat

      ISBN: 9784990885144

      Visit www.blackbrickpublishing.com

      This e-book is licensed solely for your personal enjoyment. This e-book may not be sold or distributed for profit. Thank you for your consideration.

      Table of Contents

      Sodium Lights by Jay Lee

      The Glimmerman by Robert Chapman

      Stealing Through by Sal Kirkson

      The Great Equalizer by Kai Samyn

      The Lost Artists by Cal Danat

      Other titles from Black Brick Publishing

      SODIUM LIGHTS

      by Jay Lee

      When I got to the back door, I heard that familiar sound of my parents fighting. The threats of physical violence and the crazed insults buckled me, but the worst part was the disturbing hollow feeling that remained. They were so deep in their drama I assumed they hadn’t heard me. I turned around and thought of another long walk.

      I was on my way and the pain began to recede. That hollow feeling would stay with me on those walks, but it was consigned to the background. As soon as I was away from the road I lived on, my warring parents were only audible in imagined echoes. My own thoughts were pushed down to what as a child I called the silent place. It wasn’t until years later I understood the resonance of that silence. Back then, I was more concerned with the facades of the houses I encountered on my way.

      With my dead-end road safely left behind, I was faced with the decision of which route to take. But before I could mentally map a walk, I’d have to deal with a terrace of pre-war houses between me and the outside world. That terrace held a strange sway over me as a seven-year-old. It was inhabited by people I knew only by sight – they were part of an older community invisibly separated from those residing in the newer homes all around. Still, they didn’t hold the mystery of newer developments further afield. Their sounds seemed crude and obvious at the time, their arguments flimsy when put up against the force of my parents’ showdowns. They were a kind of entry point to the real adventure, the dream around the corner, a transition to the mystery. Though they kind of bored me, they were an invaluable buffer. From the first house to the last, that terrace dissolved the connection I had with home.

      Once past the terrace, I had five different directions to choose from, all rich with my presumptions. The first time I’d ventured to walk alone, I wore a dress. That was a mistake: it misled those who saw me, boring into my own feelings. Looking pretty might have allowed me more rope to peer through windows directly into the dramas, but it also altered perceptions, changing the behaviour of those who saw me watching them. I learned quickly to keep myself out of the picture. And that meant dressing in jeans and sports shoes – better to look tomboyish than influence what I was looking at. I wanted to see the things that existed regardless of whether I was viewing them or not.

      In the early days, I probably only felt glimpses of the dramas playing out inside the houses I passed. Some were obvious, helping me to spot patterns. Others were more sporadic, occasionally blazing but usually only showing the normal comings and goings of suburban families. Back then, most houses were open front and back, and children still came and went as they pleased. Other homes were accessible to anyone, but with a veil of foreboding. And then there were those that seemed like blank slates: no children, no outwards signs of life, blinds closed. I might see the owners ghost past me on the way to church on Sundays if I was loitering aimlessly. But I would never see them in the local supermarket. I wondered where they shopped.

      ****

      I soon learned not to gawk through windows. In the early days, it was about picking up on clues, audible and visual. With practice, I became more patient, letting the information come to me. And of course, I had all the evidence the children, some of whom I knew from school, spilled out onto the streets. From there, it was up to me to bring life to the scenes being played out. I wouldn’t want to make myself out to have been some kind of intellectual creeper as a child. I played with other kids all the time. But I suppose I realised at a very young age it was best to keep my mouth shut - nothing good came from broadcasting your private life. Meanwhile, the other children in the neighbourhood gave out tantalising clues as to what was playing out in their homes, as well as in those around them. It was mostly snippets I heard, hints of the latest story doing the rounds. There were a few families known as trouble… labelled as common. They were to be avoided, their children shunned. It wasn’t until many years later I learned they were simply more open about their familial disputes. There was just as much going on in the quiet homes, and it was usually more menacing.

      Those were the days when children still grew up in Nature, even if only a few patches of wild had avoided being swallowed up by the suburbs. Those green areas, often with brooks running through them, were the last refuges for us… away from the prying eyes of guardians. When an angry parent was on the march, they would be seen well in advance. Children could be warned in time and emerge from whatever they were involved in, scampering home out of reach of physical threats from their loved ones. Of course, it was worse for us girls. We weren’t supposed to have a sense of adventure. Our play was to be in view of doorsteps, hopscotch or skipping where our parents could keep an eye on us. But the draw of those patches of green was strong. The boys might have been breaking the rules, but the girls still needed to glimpse the hem of Nature. We’d walk on splintered ground in our bare feet around where the edges of construction touched the wasteland of our secret spots to show the boys who could really endure pain. I was part of all that and a lot more at school. But it was the solo walks that allowed me to tap in to who I was - they were indispensable. And they are the moments that still stay with me all these years later.

      The clues I gleaned from other children might have sketched something in my mind, but it was the untold possibilities that really made me wonder. From the scary perfection of those houses that never revealed anything to the constant friction of the neighbourhood problem families, there was a myriad of dramas I needed to witness. I wanted to know what forms they took. I’d become bored with my own home – rampant humour cloaking the ever-present threat of violence doesn’t have the staying power you might think it does. But all the shades of emotions potentially playing out in these other houses fascinated me. I wondered if they too contained wicked humour. Or was it hollow conservatism laying down the law on any transgressions. I imagined unspoken depressions culminating in outbursts and disappointed parents compensating for their own deficiencies by bullying their children. I considered if other parents were doing all they could to prevent their children evolving past them, assuming their melodramas were nowhere near as woeful as those I had to play a part in. They lived in peace, I supposed. I had barely glimpsed anything.

      Early on, there were a few designated routes – five I think. I gave them special names corresponding to colours. I seem to remember that yellow was the happiest; the others were darker. When I say happy, I mean without fear; that constituted happiness back then. There was less hardship on the yellow route, but maybe that was what the householders wanted me to believe. Their children seemed to be content playing in view of their homes, always looking neat and within bounds. My friends couldn’t wait to get well away from their houses, forever pushing the limits of the boundaries their parents set. And though

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