Creative Imagination/Chronic Paranoia

I just have a little cold and it seems like everyone here has a cold too. I should stop being such a big baby. And worst of all, I might be a hypochondriac too. Last night I spent a good portion of the evening(while in bed with tea watching Austin Powers) battling the notion that I had spinal meningitis. After I finally fell asleep I had nightmares that the big guy had to take me to the emergency room because I couldn't breathe and they had to stick a plastic tube in my wind-pipe. I woke up thinking about the hideous scare they left on my neck. This is what imagination brings you.

I get my imagination from my mother. Imagination is a nice word for it. Others might call this some sort of chronic and antagonizing paranoia and it was past down to most of her offspring.

We sort of grew up with the constant fear of our house being tapped or bugged, perverts, razor blades in candy, white vans, poisoned/unsealed items, unwashed fruit, choking, various food dyes, Salmonella, burglars, and worse than burglars were people trying to break into our house that we knew, like my father, or worse, my father's girlfriend. There was also a medical dictionary available at all times to determine: when it was finally alright to go to sleep after you bumped your head, what sort of pox the mosquito bites might actually be, which medicines could cause adverse reactions when used together, and how quickly you'd die from an infection in your toe.

Recently, my brother received a phone call from The Jayman's Office. The big guy is putting together some business for my brother. They had already spoken that day, and by the time he received the phone call in question it was about 6pm.
(please imagine a poorly reenacted reenactment)
my brother was down on in his basement with his wife watching a little television when his cell phone started to ring. He doesn't get very good reception in the basement, he saw the number on the caller ID was Jason's work so he picked it up and started to make his way up the stairs.
"WHERE'S MOM?" the voice said
"KIDDO? IS THAT YOU? I CAN'T HEAR WELL I'M GOING UP STAIRS"
"WHERE'S MOM?? SHE IS SUPPOSED TO PICK ME UP!"
"JESSI?JESS>>?"
The phone call was lost. My brother tried to call back the phone number, but there was no answer. He asked his wife if she could hear the phone call. She asked if it was me.
"I think so, it sounded like her" said my brother
"But why is she calling from Jason's work" she asked
"I don't know, Why WAS she calling from Jason's work?"
(DUN, DUN, DUN )
My brother proceeded to call my mother who lives 2 hours away. (This was a bad idea, this is the same mother who has called all hospitals in the tri state area looking for me because I once got too drunk and fell asleep at friends' house when I was 22)Together my paranoid mother and my poor brother who inherited this dreadful disease are hatching out the entire plan of how I was kidnapped and I was calling for help. They called Jason, maybe he could find me. It was a Monday so Jason was already home from the office by 6pm. After each of them called him individually, they called each other. *meanwhile I'm out with Virginia and Brian and Emma w/o my cell phone*
"He didn't seem worried to me." -brother
"YEAH, he didn't did he?" says my mother suspiciously " I thought he worked in the evenings, what's he doing home?"
"I don't know!"
"You know Scott Peterson didn't seem too worried either" - my mother

Just then I call Jason from Brian's cell phone at the bar, and let him know that we are about to do some shots and we're gonna do them without him if he didn't show up soon. Jason calls back a little confused and asks Brian to let me know that my mother and my brother just called and that they seem worried about me.

I called them both back and straightened them out, I could hear my mother all out of breath (like I've heard a million times)
"Jessi we thought you were dead."
"I'm not dead."
"Did you call from Jason's work for me to pick you up?"
"No, why would I be at Jason's work. I don't even know where it is. And why would I call you to pick me up, you live 2 hours away"
"Well, your brother and I thought you were dead."
"I'm not dead."
"Or tied up some where in the trunk of a car."
"Don't worry, I'm not, I'm around the corner from my house, safe and sound. I'm here with my tutor buddies and Virginia's here too."
"Well we thought you were dead."
"I'm not dead."
"You have to stop scaring us like this."
"I didn't do anything."
"I called all of your other brothers and told them you were lost again"
(this is an indication that this happens far too often.)
"Well, I'm not lost, I'm fine."
"You have to call your brother and let him know, he was worried to death."
"Okay."

So I called my brother and he was fine, not have as traumatized as my mother but I could tell his imagination was still running strong. It's kind of nice to think that he's still some sort of creative genius, even if it has to do with being too highly influenced by unsolved mysteries and my mother.

It was weeks before they told me that Jason was the suspect. My mother saying to my brother "Doesn't Jessi remind you of Lacey?" She made me vow that I'd never tell Jason because she didn't want him to think that they didn't like him. "It was just the most likely story."

So the benefit to my life is that the most likely story is the most far-fetched one. My friend Jen 4-10 from college sent me an email today saying I was one of the most creative people she knew. Well Jen, it's because I've inherited this "imagination" from my family.

By the way, It was Leticia, a 16 year old African American girl, who must have hit redail on the phone at work and called my brother by mistake. One wrong button and a whole evening of turmoil ensued.

I should remember things like that when I think I have spinal meningitis.