itsShar.com

Let me explain something before people think I’m exaggerating. My brain is not normal. It does not chill. It does not keep things cute. My brain is a certified, award winning, undefeated crackhead.

My overthinking wakes up before me, clocks in early, works overtime and doesn’t even take a lunch break. I’ll be sitting on the couch breathing normally and suddenly my brain goes: “Wow… interesting how you’re breathing. What if this is your last breath?” Now I’m gasping like it’s my final moment.

One twitch in my leg? I’m dying.

Small cramp? Cancer.

Head feels weird? A rare 1894 brain disease.

I have survived every illness Google ever suggested without actually having them.

And nighttime? That’s when the real chaos begins. During the day my brain says, “We’re okay.” At night it says, “Pack your bags, baby. You’re dying at 3:47 AM.”

I’ll be peaceful in bed and suddenly my brain whispers: “What if you stop breathing? What if you don’t wake up?” Then it adds the most disrespectful thought: “And you haven’t even smelled your new perfume order yet.” Now I’m wide awake like, “Oh hell no, I’m not dying before I try that scent.”

I negotiate with God like, “Please… let me open the package tomorrow.”

My hypochondria is cinematic, theatrical and dramatically talented. I go from fine to final goodbyes in 0.3 seconds. My brain says, “That pain in your toe? Yep. Your organs are shutting down.” And I believe it every time.

On my bad days my whole room becomes a reflection of my brain. Clothes everywhere. Bed unmade. Water bottles on the nightstand. My wig on the floor. The vibe is “she’s trying her best but her best took the day off.”

Then I get into bed, finally, thinking I’m about to relax, and suddenly my mind starts acting like it drank caffeine. I start thinking about the most random things. And here comes the worst one.

I’ll be lying there naked, hairy in places I forgot existed, room messy, looking like someone hit shuffle on my life, and then my brain goes, “Girl, what if you faint right now? What if you die like this? This is how they will find you.”

And now I’m in full panic, imagining medics stepping over my clothes like, “Wow… she really didn’t fold anything.

I start thinking, “Lord PLEASE don’t let me leave this earth looking like a before picture. Not like this. Not unshaved, with my underwear somewhere under the bed and a halfeaten bannana on the dresser.”

Suddenly I’m cleaning my room at midnight because I refuse to be on the news like, “She was a beautiful woman, but baby… her bedroom was fighting for its life.”

Overthinking is wild. One minute I’m trying to relax, next minute I’m planning my funeral, imagining people judging how I left my bedroom. I’m checking if my legs are shaved. I’m wondering if they’ll see my Satisfyer on the floor and think, “Oh… she was living life.”

These are the days where my brain is doing too much. When every small thought turns into a full movie. When I can’t even eat without analyzing my entire existence. When relaxing feels illegal.

Sometimes I’m scared to fall asleep because what if this is the night? What if this is the final episode of my life? Absolutely not. I haven’t lived, traveled, written my book, ruined my next man, eaten enough sushi, layered my top five perfumes or had good consistent sex in a decade. Death needs to relax.

My imagination is violent. I’ll feel a little dizzy and suddenly I’m imagining myself in a hospital bed, tubes everywhere, family crying, angels singing and the doctor saying, “She smelled amazing in her final moments.”

Why is my brain producing full Netflix series without my permission?

I walk into the kitchen and forget why. Normal people think, “I forgot.” My brain thinks, “Memory loss. Early dementia. Write your will.”

And Googling symptoms? I type “tingling leg” and Google says, “Congratulations, you have 8 minutes to live.” Google has taken me out more times than my trauma.

Yet after every panic attack, misdiagnosis, imaginary illness, meltdown, fake near death experience and “I’m dying tonight’’ moment… I wake up alive, dramatic, confused, relieved and checking my DHL like, “Omg yes, my perfume is out for delivery.”

And that’s when I realize: I may be delulu, hysterical, chaotic, crazy, dramatic and 98% nonsense… but I always survive.

Being this dramatic keeps life spicy. I’m overthinking royalty. A hypochondria queen. A delulu goddess. A hormonal tornado. A scented hysterical icon. And somehow…

still THAT GIRL.

Love Shar