The next day, my friend Gina asked me how I was. We were sitting with organic pour-overs at the kind of Brooklyn place that sells Paleo-friendly almond-flour muffins. I recited the latest details (my thyroid antibodies were suddenly higher than ever, and what was with the maddening itching along my legs?) and then stopped. I sounded, I realized, like every other health-obsessed narcissist. My search for clinical illumination had grown claustrophobic. I had a diagnosis—Hashimoto’s disease—but now it also seemed to have me. “I’m OK,” I said. “I’m actually OK,” hoping it was true.
