When people talk about PANS and Lyme recovery, I’m frustrated that it’s always in terms of symptoms. For me, it’s never about the symptoms—it’s about coming back from the dead and regaining the parts of me that were lost.
When PANS makes my immune system attack my brain, the physical effects (similar to a brain injury) give me a mental sense of losing who I am and even of being disconnected from reality.
To be honest, I’m vexed that I never seem to adequately describe what it’s like down in the abyss of PANS and Lyme, because it can’t be understood by talking about my symptoms. I want everyone to know that what happens on the inside—not only the visible symptoms—is what ultimately defines recovery for many of us.
What Happens in My Mind During a Flare?
You see, when I have a PANS relapse, as I did starting in August, it’s like someone kidnaps me from my own body. It’s as if they take out everything that makes me myself and leave behind a shell that only looks like me on the outside.
When I’m in a flare, there’s a wall separating me from everyone, as if I walk around in a semi-opaque plastic box that mutes and dims everything I try to perceive.
I’m both a puppet and a spectator of my life, mechanically going through my activities as normally as I can while not being a part of them anymore. My days mean showing up invisible and ignored at my own birthday party while watching everyone celebrate without me.
In those times, my thoughts and reasoning make sense to me, but when I have to interact with the external world, everything is confusing. No one understands what I’m trying to tell them, because I can’t find the right words to crystallize the ideas in my head when I speak. I feel like I’m on a whole other planet from everyone else, and the loneliness and lack of communication is devastating.
Sometimes, I see the ceiling and the floors dancing around, and I know I’m hallucinating, so then I wonder: what else am I seeing and feeling and experiencing that isn’t based in reality? One of the hardest parts of my flares is the sensation that I’m losing my mind while being lucid enough to realize I can’t know how far gone I am—and wondering how much farther I’ll fall.
Yet as awful as the detachment from life and reality is, the worst part is by far the psychiatric torture that results when the brain is inflamed. To have a PANS/PANDAS flare is to be forced to drink the most bitter elixir of despair, rage, and panic stirred together into a brain-crushing poison…
It makes you scream and run and pull at your hair because you’re trapped inside a mind that terrifies you—and there’s no way out. You’re afraid because you feel like a menacing outside force is in control of your body. Your thoughts are turned against you, taunting with hopeless lies and instilling irrational fears and obsessions that consume every moment. It’s so unbearable that you’re not sure how you’ll survive another minute, and you hope the PANS potion will kill you.
So much of what I experience and feel during a flare cannot be quantified objectively or understood by what everyone sees on the outside. People do tell me I look less tormented or more like myself when I get better, but they have no way of knowing the magnitude of the transformation—or the profoundness of suffering from which I’m emerging.
You can’t measure one’s sense of “self” with any blood work or symptom scale—especially if you’re asking a person whose brain and ability to process information has been compromised. By definition, I can’t accurately evaluate how ill I am while still ill. But when I’m better and back to myself, then I know.
And right now, I know.
In October, I began to come back to life after high-dose IV steroids. As I got better, I came to realize more and more how much of my personality had been stolen by this disease. My depression and anxiety were the first to subside, only hours after my first treatment, but some part of me knew I still wasn’t “right”—though I couldn’t quite identify what was wrong with me.
There was more to recovery than not having symptoms…
I hadn’t been able to socialize or do school or enjoy my hobbies, so when those things became not only possible, but natural after two more treatments, that’s when I felt I was truly healing—not just when my depression, anxiety, tics, and cognitive problems began to disappear.
Recovery wasn’t only about having fewer symptoms—it was about having more of my personality and the ability to enjoy and live my life.
Today, three months later, I feel great, but most people would say I’m nowhere near recovered: I’ve recently developed a “neurological limp” where my left foot drags behind me, and both legs give out every few steps when I walk. And I’ve started having complex vocal tics where I involuntarily utter strange (though usually hilarious) phrases against my will.
Obviously, I’m still hoping my Lyme/Bartonella treatment will knock out these remaining problems, but trust me: I’m doing far better than my symptoms might suggest.
These days, I’m enjoying being alive, I’m seeing friends, doing grad school applications, and writing my book (plus intensive outpatient therapy for my eating disorder, but that’s a whole other story).
I might seem bad on the outside, but I feel connected to reality and like I’m part of the world around me—things that were unattainable just a few months ago. I know better than anyone else how frustrating my lack of motor control is, but I also know it pails in comparison to what I experienced in the depths of PANS.
I’ve said it many times before, and I’ll say it again: recovery is never linear. There are all sorts of ups and downs and twists and turns. I could get discouraged that I continue having serious symptoms, or I can realize that having my personality back is the biggest and best leap forward that I could’ve asked for in my recovery.
It’s not about the symptoms for me. It’s about coming alive again.