A Single Word in a Group Chat Kept Him Awake—What He Finally Figured Out Was Something Else

Ahong is your typical honest office worker—forty-two, working in sales at a trading company. His daily routine is visiting clients, filing reports, and racing to park his car in the community basement before clocking out. The thing he fears most in life isn't his sales quota—it's group chats. That night at eleven, a string of messages suddenly popped up in his college classmates' group. Someone posted a screenshot, someone started egging things on, and keywords came one after another—three words in particular kept getting repeated. Ahong stared at the screen, and the more he looked, the hotter his face felt, because lately he really had been a little concerned that he "wasn't quite the same as before"—but he'd never mentioned it to anyone.

The problem was, nobody in the group was actually discussing health. They were discussing an impression of "I heard it works really well"—someone's relative, someone's friend, something someone saw online. All of it was secondhand, thirdhand, who-knows-how-many-times-relayed. The more Ahong read, the more anxious he got, but the source of his anxiety was strange: he wasn't worried about whether he needed it—he was worried that "if I actually go ask, will people think something's wrong with me?" That anxiety kept him tossing in bed until two in the morning, and the next day in a meeting he even said a client's name wrong.

At noon the next day, he couldn't help but privately message Lao Wang, the biggest bullshitter in the group. Lao Wang replied quickly: "Don't scare yourself first. This stuff isn't candy, and it's not like you fill out a form online and it gets mailed to you." Ahong asked where he should go to ask, and Lao Wang said: "Go to the pharmacy near your home first, ask the pharmacist. Don't ask me—I'm not a doctor." That conversation made Ahong realize for the first time that he'd been discussing a question requiring professional judgment with a bunch of people who didn't know anything.

After work, he actually walked into the pharmacy. The pharmacist was a woman who looked younger than him. Ahong hemmed and hawed for a long time, and finally squeezed out: "It's that... Viagra." The pharmacist didn't laugh at him. She just asked a few very basic questions: Are you on any regular medications? Do you have any chronic conditions? Have you had a health check recently? Do you ever feel chest tightness? Ahong froze, because he couldn't answer a single one. He realized then that he couldn't even remember the last time he'd had his blood pressure checked. The pharmacist said this type of medication is prescription-only in Taiwan—you can't just buy it whenever you want, and it's not suitable for everyone. It has to be evaluated and prescribed by a doctor. She suggested Ahong get a basic checkup first, make a list of all the supplements, vitamins, and over-the-counter drugs he was taking, and bring it all with him on his next visit.

After going home, Ahong actually started making that list. He dug out three jars of supplements from a drawer—he had no idea when he'd bought them, and one was a year-end party raffle prize from last year. As he read the labels, he felt how absurd it was: he'd spent so much time being anxious in the group chat, yet he'd never spent ten minutes actually looking at what he was putting into his body. He also looked things up online, but the more he searched, the more confused he got, because opinions ranged from "absolutely never touch it" to "everyone should try it," and very few people clearly stated one thing: everyone's body is different, and just because it works for someone else doesn't mean it works for you.

The real turning point came two weeks later. Ahong got a health checkup, and when the results came out, the doctor told him his problem might not be the problem he thought it was—it might be an overall condition built up from poor sleep, stress, and too much sitting. The doctor didn't tell him to take anything immediately. He just told him to start by adjusting his daily routine and getting some exercise, and reminded him that if he did need to discuss medication later, he should come back with a complete list and let the doctor decide. When Ahong walked out of the examination room, the weight in his heart suddenly felt lighter. He realized he'd been looking for a "quick answer," but what he really needed to ask was "what state is my body actually in right now?"

That night, the group chat lit up again, and someone started egging things on. This time, Ahong didn't leave it on read. He typed a line: "Don't ask the group about this kind of thing—go ask a doctor and a pharmacist, and first make a list of what you're taking." After he sent it, the group went quiet for five seconds, and then Lao Wang replied with a thumbs up. Ahong turned off his phone and fell asleep at 11:30 for the first time. He later talked about it with his wife, and she just said one thing: "You should have done this a long time ago." He thought about it and agreed. From beginning to end, what he was missing wasn't a pill—it was an honest conversation with his own body.

If you've been through something similar, you can start with three things: First, write down everything you're currently taking, including supplements and over-the-counter drugs. Second, find a professional you actually feel comfortable talking to—a pharmacist or a doctor will do. Third, first confirm whether this type of medication is prescription-only in Taiwan and whether it requires an evaluation. Don't use the group chat's egging-on as a basis for judgment, and don't use fragments from the internet as your answer. What truly matters was never what others say—it's what your own body is telling you.