This week, I woke up and cried.
99% of the time, I focus on how wonderful it is to be in remission, and I don’t allow myself to think about how awful my life used to be. I don’t let myself feel sorry for myself. I try to not dwell on the past. But several nights per week, I have nightmares—most of which revolve around everything that happened to me. And these are what break me.
It’s 3 AM on a Saturday night, and I’m not even close to being ready to sleep. Am I out late partying like some other college students? No, I’m unwillingly sitting on the couch doing nothing and putting off going to bed for no good reason, after trying and failing to get any homework done all day long.
It was the first full week of class, and just like Freshman year, I had gotten sick. My body ached. My head pounded. I felt exhausted.
When you have PANS, getting sick is often far worse than just feeling tired and congested—in the past, a simple virus could send me into a full-blown flare of severe OCD, panic attacks, involuntary movements, and even hallucinations. So naturally, when my nose started running last week, all I could think about was how much I didn’t want to flare. I couldn’t have cared less about the cold symptoms themselves.
A few days ago, as I strapped on my backpack and headed out the door for the first day of the school year, I couldn’t help but be excited to start my first semester as a healthy person. How wonderful it would be to do college without debilitating neurological symptoms!
As I’ve said in previous posts, I never know how ill and out-of-it I’ve been until I get better. While I’ve always known when there was something “off” about me, I’ve not always been aware of the severity of it at the time—by definition, this is partly what made me “out-of-it.” The more I’ve recovered, the more of myself I’ve realized I’d lost to PANS.
This week, I’ll be starting my third year of college. While this may not seem like a big deal, to me, it feels like a miracle, considering how sick I was just a couple months ago.
I’ve been doing very well ever since my tonsillectomy. However, it’s one thing to be well while resting at home and taking it easy; it’s another to stay well while keeping up with academics and everything else that goes along with college. My remaining symptoms could interfere tremendously with school work: difficulty concentrating, reading comprehension issues, task inflexibility, and some other executive function problems. How can anyone do college with these symptoms?
After battling PANS for the past nine years of my life, I’ve been forced to grow up too quickly while being stuck as a child. I’ve had to mature to face up to my circumstances, but I’ve had to count on my parents to take care of me more than most others my age have.
At twenty years old, I’ve never held down a consistent, weekly job. I’ve never had a boyfriend. I’ve never gone on anything beyond a day trip with my friends without an “adult” present. Over the last year, I’ve let my parents make many decisions for me, because I’ve known I couldn’t trust my own judgement. In many ways, I feel like a young teenager.
Last week, I celebrated the one-year mark since my first IVIG. It’s hard to believe it’s already been a year, yet my recovery has seemed to go so much slower than I thought it would.
There are many things that no one ever told me before my first IVIG. I was warned about the fatigue and nausea and headaches afterward and the post-IVIG flare that would come in a few weeks. I was even warned it could take a year before all my symptoms went away, but I was never told what that year might be like.
“You’re better.”
Those are two words I never thought I’d hear from my doctor. But this week, I finally did.
As my mom and I made the trip to my doctor’s office this week, I couldn’t help but feel that things were different this time—and most of all, that I was different. I was more present. I was more aware. I was bright-eyed again. I was finally myself.
This time, unlike my last visit in May, I opened the office doors myself, grabbing the handles without flinching. I pushed the elevator buttons. I sat in the waiting room chairs without thinking about Lysoling myself when I got home. I realized that contamination OCD was finally letting me go.
“Let’s climb up over here,” I told my hiking partner, my feet digging into the mud of the riverbank. “This looks like the easiest—aah!” I fell through a heap of brush and sticks that I’d mistakenly trusted for my next step. I caught myself between a log and the dirt, banging up my knee and back on the way down and scraping my arm on the twigs.
“Are you okay?” my friend yelled from the bottom.
Ever since my tonsillectomy, I’ve noticed my OCD dying down significantly. I’ve found myself touching cabinet knobs in the kitchen that I haven’t been able to touch in over a year. I’m not checking my room for people trying to hurt me. I’m not washing my hands all the time.
I’ve been in CBT all summer, but the improvement I’ve seen seemed to happen much more suddenly and with much less effort than what I normally get from using therapy techniques alone. It was as if maybe, I had less brain inflammation, because I no longer had an infection in my tonsils.
