Life can change in a blink of an eye. It only takes one traumatic event, one obstacle, to flip the world upside down. When you’re in the thick of it, the light at the end of the tunnel feels unreachable. The body and mind can enter a state of withdrawal, yearning for what once was and questioning, “Why me?”
In late August of 2023, my body experienced its first trauma. A fluke accident with a dab pen, one that I still don’t have answers for, prompted the most harrowing night of my life. For a brief moment, I truly thought I was dying. But I wasn’t; my body was simply rejecting what it was given and coping with a worst-case scenario. Little did I know, this short stretch of night was the beginning of a lengthy, confusing ordeal — a damaging fork in the road from the relationships and activities I held dear and the mundanities of routine I took for granted.
When I woke up the following day, my chest ached. I was on edge, fearing the worst and grappling with the aftermath of my first panic attack. Urgent care visits and x-rays temporarily eased my mind, and steroids temporarily eased my pain. But when the medicine wore off, my stress and anxiety skyrocketed to unforeseen heights. For precisely one week, I was flattened by a constant anxious weight. I went to bed trembling and woke up uneasy. After a doctor’s visit, a Prozac prescription and reuniting with my partner after a long summer apart, I was able to find some brief relief.
With school quickly approaching, my pain began to subside. Unfortunately, a new mysterious pain started to take shape. Beginning in September and lasting for the entirety of Fall term, a burning sensation took over in the middle of my stomach. Despite their best efforts, the doctors took their sweet time getting to the bottom of my discomfort. My mindset was in the gutter. I couldn’t work out, drink, eat or socialize in the way I was used to — the way I so desperately wanted to. It felt like the end of the world, and I convinced myself it was. The positive affirmations I had previously required from myself were absent, and I lost myself.
Winter break started on a somewhat positive note. I received a positive diagnosis for H. pylori — a bacterial infection residing in the stomach. Finally, I had found the reason for my pain and a road to healing. In an unfortunate turn of events, one which I naturally accepted as “typical” based on my luck, my antibiotic regimen caused the worst pain I’d ever experienced. It was so bad that I was unable to fall asleep, forcing me to discontinue the dosage. To add insult to injury, I was away from my partner again — whom I had become overly and unfairly dependent on for support. My hopelessness returned.
Heading into the new year, I began seeing a gastrointestinal specialist. While I looked forward to my new, alternative antibiotics regimen, I was thoroughly exhausted by my seemingly unending, increasingly unexplainable pain. The treatment went swimmingly. That is, I was able to complete it without any horrible complications. Nevertheless, my mind was still clouded for the bulk of January and until I felt truly healed, it didn’t seem like my mentality would improve. I wasn’t giving my relationships the attention they deserved, including the one between my mind and body. Simply put, I was depressed — stuck in a frustrating self-pity cycle.
Despite a procedure confirming the eradication of my infection, the pain lingered and even worsened. If I wanted relief, I had to find a new path. In a necessary step, one which I deeply regret not taking sooner, I shifted my attention to my mental health. I needed to take a more holistic approach to my pain. Despite my past reluctance to practice mental wellness, I started journaling daily and seeing a therapist.
While tests and procedures have confirmed my body is not permanently damaged, it is undoubtedly off-track. In order to rewire it into its usual form, I need to find acceptance within myself and understand that the sun will shine again. It’s hard right now, and it’s been hard for a long time. But with time, it will get better.
