The only thing worse than a chronic hypochondriac is a chronic hypochondriac with a level 70 Google mage and a black belt in fact-based conclusion-jumping.

It’s been four weeks since the Weapon of Sperm Destruction was installed in my uterus. So far, things have been fine – but I’m hyper sensitive to any potential side effects I may or may not be experiencing.

As with any drug, there’s a big list of horrible things that could happen to you. Mirena’s list is really no shocking or different than other methods of birth control: there’s the possibility of weight gain, acne, back aches, spontaneous elliptical pregnancy, superhuman sensory deprivation, articulated hamstrings. No big deal, really.

Unfortunately for me, while I definitely do not want any spontaneous miracle births, I also do not want to experience anything on that list. If I start showing even a hint of a possibility of a chance of a symptom, I freak the fuck out. Not by a little, either – I mean, I go completely over the top in a wild orgy of fear and prevention.

Two days after the WSD was inserted, I got a zit. Big fucking deal, right – most adults struggle with bad skin from time to time and I am no exception. This time, however, my minor (and frankly invisible) breakout wasn’t just the result of a clogged pore or two; it was the beginning of the end of my clear skin because obviously that one pimple meant that 754 more were on their way. I am not exaggerating when I say tears were shed. I immediately started to research drastic acne cures, from the celebrity endorsed (Proactive), to the last resort (Accutane), and all the way up to the insane (saliva, cow dung, the blood of a virgin drawn by a white cat under a full moon). I was ready to start decorating paper bags to wear during formal occasions because obviously I was days away from becoming a hideous mass of oozing flesh. I gave some serious thought to having the device removed, because I am just that vain.

Of course, the pimple went away and has yet to be joined by its disgusting brethren. My skin is just as good as it was while taking Tri-Cyclen (birth control also marketed as an acne cure), if not better. My over reacting gave me a lot of knowledge I don’t really need and a bathroom full of skin products meant for teenagers who rub up against strangers on the bus, but I’ll take those over the horrors of bad skin any day.

I wish the list of medical freak outs I’ve had over the last month ended here, but that is sadly not the case. My stupid rain pants were tight the day before my cycle began – clearly I am gaining weight by the horseful. I had to pee really, really badly after drinking several litres of liquid and accidentally lost a drop of pee before I was fully seated – clearly I am losing control of my bladder and will have to start wearing Depends. My abdomen hurts – clearly some sperm swam up into my tubes and made a baby in my spleen. It never ends – I am a hypothetical encyclopedia of horrible potential conditions, each one less likely than the last.

Knowledge and explosive melodramatic hyperbole are dangerous things.