It was a typical Sunday morning a few weeks ago when it happened. My mom was cooking me an omelet, and dad was reading the paper. I was rummaging through the cupboard to get some honey to drizzle on a banana when I heard it:
“CLAW.” And then there was whispering in a female voice I couldn’t make out, which I somehow knew was about me.
“What’d you say, mom?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
I paused for a moment. “Did you say something, dad?”
He shook his head.
“So neither of you heard it?”
A chill ran down my spine as I suddenly realized what just happened: Continue reading “Why I Don’t Care What You Call Whatever’s Wrong with My Brain”
For six years, I kept a secret that I was determined to take to my grave. I pretended I wasn’t constantly afraid. I made excuses when asked about my unusual behaviors. I was so hell-bent on avoiding being found out that I did everything I could to fool every psychologist, therapist, and doctor I encountered.
And the whole disaster started with one thought.
When I was eleven, while lying in bed, something along the lines of “F– G*d” popped into my brain. As the good-girl church acolyte that I was, I felt horrified. What did it mean that a sacrilegious thought like that could appear in my mind? I felt like I had to do everything I could to keep it from coming back or else that meant I was a bad person. I already felt incredibly guilty that it had happened even one time.
But as the days went on, the more I tried to resist thinking that thought again, the more often it happened and the more it evolved and mutated into increasingly offensive thoughts until they had some of the most explicit, blasphemous, sexual, and violent content imaginable. Everything I didn’t want to think, I ended up thinking. I fell into complete and utter despair. Continue reading “The Kind of OCD We Need to Talk About”
[Trigger warning: this post contains discussions of personal experiences with suicidal thoughts and misconceptions. If you’re in an emergency, please call the National Suicide Lifeline at 800-273-8255 or dial 911.]
No one needs to know, I told myself as I sat frozen, staring at my phone. I don’t need to call him, I tried to convince myself. I remembered how I promised I would if the thoughts came back, yet as soon as I pulled up my doctor’s number, I set my phone back down and started talking myself out of the call once more. Continue reading “Why These Myths About Suicide Are So Harmful”
Why would this happen? How could I get worse while getting treatment?
Years ago when I started this blog, every time I had a symptom flare-up, I’d ask myself these questions over and over again sure that if I thought about them hard enough it would all make sense.
Unfortunately, when you have an illness which science has only recently begun to understand, you rarely get the satisfaction of knowing why you’ve gotten sick and what exactly will work to get you better. Sure, well-established, proven guidelines for diagnosing and treating PANS exist (though they didn’t when I started), but all too often, I relapsed without knowing why and had no objective test to prove how sick I was; I’d lose my entire personality, but the autoimmune markers you might expect in someone suffering from brain inflammation never showed up.
Continue reading “Could This Antibody Be Stealing My Life?”
After eight years of a mysterious illness no one could figure out, one July morning in 2014, a neurologist finally cracked the code: I had PANS. My body was attacking part of my brain, leading to all sorts of bizarre symptoms.
But at the same time that she shed a light onto my case, the new diagnosis plunged my whole family into a darkness we couldn’t have imagined.
Yes, we had an answer, but we’d also just opened a pandora’s box of questions without knowing it.
Continue reading “5 Things I Would’ve Told Myself When Diagnosed with PANS”
Five years ago today, I made a decision that would change my life: I published my first post on this blog.
I didn’t tell anyone—not even my best friend or my family. It was my little secret project that I never intended to keep up for more than a few months—and yet, here we are in 2019.
Back then, I was a castaway on a desert island of illness, tossing out that first post like a message in a bottle—I didn’t know if anyone would ever see it, but nonetheless I felt compelled to write. After all, it was one of the few things that brought me peace from the depression that was engulfing me.
Continue reading “My 5-Year Blogversary… And What Might Be Next”
As I opened my eyes to the morning sunlight peeking through my blinds, for a feel blissful seconds, I forgot the many reasons I shouldn’t feel as calm as I did in that moment. But not a minute later, it all came rushing back, and my stomach did a somersault.
I rolled over and saw a missed call from my infusion pharmacy, and all at once I remembered the horrible quandary I’m in. I remembered the unfortunate events that led to it. And worst of all, I remembered that losing access to monthly IVIG treatments could mean I was on the verge of a relapse that would make me lose my mind. Continue reading “The Questions No One Should Have to Ask: Life on the Verge of Relapse”
In 2012, when I developed an extreme case of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder overnight, all I wanted was to get better—not to spend the next six years fighting to get treatment for a “controversial” disease. However, when conventional therapies failed, and I rapidly declined after Strep and mono two years later, only steroids were able to help my severe psychiatric symptoms. It was then that I realized the truth wasn’t always easy to accept: Continue reading “These 3 Myths about PANS Are Ruining Lives: A Response to Misguided Medicine”