I found this in an old journal, written close to a year ago in the thick of the aftermath of having the health I fought so hard to reclaim stripped away.
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Relapse from Lyme disease was dismal, a repugnant and vile defeat. Even worse, it wasn’t real. The reality I was wading into was far more deceptive, in my opinion, than the rapids I withstood before. One must always know thine enemy if they wish to be a worthy opponent, and I knew nothing about my enemy -so much so, that I had no clue I did not have an enemy, but enemies. Ones whose existence made what I used to call a nightmare seem like a dream, what I used to refer to as hell seem like heaven. The four walls I deemed my prison for years now seemed like freedom, a land of liberation I yearned to immigrate to from my new home -my body, my old temple, and my now San Quentin Prison. I suddenly found myself groping my way down the dark path of overcoming mold and mycotoxins, biotoxin illness, multiple chemical sensitivities, and KPU/HPU. And then, of course, came the emergence of Mycoplasma -and with that came a rain whose drops were so hard, so blinding, that for the first time in a long while, I felt I no longer knew how to develop my own treatment protocols. I guess it is more accurate to say that I knew what to do to treat all of the conditions that had suddenly bred like wildfire seemingly overnight, but as to which one I should treat first, or if I should treat more than one or even all at once, evaded me. Treat one condition, and give ammo to another it seemed. My body was a ticking time bomb, backed in the corner no longer by life or death, but by death’s ally, the sole thing that can make death appear to be gentle in nature, and most dangerously, to be the easy way out -fear. A slave to fear, I woke every day, listlessly obeying its golden rule requiring me to open my eyes to the same oil stained thought each morning, no matter how bright the sun:
Which form of torture and likely death will I choose today?
Unfortunately, I no longer held a single finger on the clicking of my darkness. Sure, one could use even the minimal amount of time they have to reach for their intuition and get as many rational thoughts regarding the situation as time allowed. But could they with not one, but multiple, infections embedding themselves in their brains -one of which causes psychosis and hallucinations, making you black out at times and become a different person and hallucinate? I for one could not. My hallucinations from mold and KPU/HPU were increasing, and, as I quickly learned, nightfall is the permanent state in a Wonderland made of nightmares, where every moment is 3:00 AM, and a full moon obliterates and replaces the sun.
I went from observing my hallucinations to actually being in them entirely within weeks. I was no longer looking through the looking glass, I literally passed through it into the other side, the land of terrifying delusions of colorful magic. I was sucked into the movie I was previously watching, the painting I was analyzing, and the book I was reading. Which is to say, my reality became the fictional one I once observed, the horror movie whose plot made me quiver with terror.
Suddenly, I was both the director of it and the star of it, composed of both a poisonous concoction of toxins and parasites and the parts of who I truly was -the director the poisonous potion attacking my brain, what was left of me the victim running from an intruder. The most horrible thing about watching some horror movies is when the girl runs up the stairs to get away from the murderer rather than out the front door, promising to back herself in the corner, promising to hit a wall which she cannot move past -and inevitably promising that anyone watching will scream,
” DAMMIT. Why doesn’t she run out the door?”
It wasn’t until I became her that I understood why. She, like me, had lost her mind. Both for different reasons, but both running straight to impending doom while simultaneously running FROM impending doom. She simply did not get what she was doing, and neither did I. That is what impending doom wants, its trap is to chase you further towards it until the two of you merge as one. But the only other option is to turn around and face the murderer chasing you. Sure, you could still die, but you would at least have a chance. Slim to none is better than none at all. Honestly, I think choosing either option has bravery mixed in. If you give in, you are choosing to betray your soul and not fight for it, and choosing to abandon yourself is terrifying and contrary to popular belief, it is not reserved for the weak. In many ways, it truly is not for the faint of heart. Neither is the other option though. Clearly, it requires strength to face your opponent, but in this case there is debatably a hint of weakness mixed in the recipe. After all, is it not the egoic mind that is always afraid of diminishment, that wants to stay alive, that wants the chance to “be somebody?” Both giving up and trying contain strengths and weaknesses, because both life and death contain ego and consciousness.
But the road to getting me here, although only a few months, changed me in the blink of an eye, and I no longer knew who I was, who I used to be even yesterday, or who I wanted to be. I was everything at once, and everywhere at once. Every once in awhile, I would get moments of clarity allowing me to try and connect the dots, to make informed decisions for myself. But these moments were fleeting, never stable. Without a stable mind, you are bound to contradict or more than likely forget any conclusions you came to by the time you have shifted from a state of clarity into a state of fog.