Clawing at Sanity
Twenty-one months ago, my brain stopped working. Something might have been amiss for some time before then, but in January, 2008, I first knew beyond any doubt that I was broken. Before the month was out, I had seen a neurologist to rule out the possibility of multiple sclerosis or a brain tumor. Nearly two years later, I am not yet sure what I am fighting, and, at times, why I am fighting.
In May 2008, while on a course of antibiotics and a trial of immunosuppressive therapy, I began to have substantial improvement for the first time in many months. The assumption was that the steroids had worked so I spent the last year and half on powerful immunosuppressive therapy, which may or may not have had anything to do with that initial period of recovery.
Shortly after, I began keeping an online record of my experiences, believing naively that I would be documenting a miraculous recovery in which I reclaimed the cognitive capacity that had afforded me an effortless first two decades. Reading back on the excitement with which I had greeted those first days of hope, I am both envious and contemptuous. I wish I could continue to be as excited every time things take a turn for the better, but I also see now how innocent and shortsighted my hopefulness before.
After noticing while on a course of antibiotics recently that I had my best week in months, I sought a retest for Lyme disease whose results were inconclusive. Now, on a trial of antibiotics, I find myself in a familiar position. Were this to be the golden bullet, it could all be over soon, after two years of hell.
When I first started to recover last May, I developed a system of thinking to justify time lost and impose a positive spin. The experience of losing all of my gifts, of having to apply immense effort to execute even the most basic tasks, would make me stronger. Just imagine, I told myself, how strong I could be with my capacity restored and amplified by a newly acquired ability to push myself to my limit.
Still, over a year later, such a scenario eludes me. I routinely encounter the ceilings of my ability, but those ceilings have yet to rise to the same order of magnitude as their heights before this odyssey began. For that matter, before this I was fortunate to live without realizing that I had ceilings. Only the number of hours in the day, or my penchant for procrastination appeared to constrain what I might be able to learn.
Between my first experience of hopefulness and the one I face today, I have had several similar episodes. A turbulent course led to both brief bouts of optimism and long dark periods in which I half-facetiously mused on colorful exit strategies.
The rest of the days I was unsure as to whether I ought to convince myself that I will get better or to prepare myself to accept the possibility that I might not. I never seriously moved on the latter; an acceptance of the loss of all that I like about myself would leave me little reason for continuing on.
So, for the time being, I have pushed myself towards a resolve to bring about and prepare for a future in which I am whole. Ironically, although this thought might be delusional, my sanity hinges upon it. While the latest developments could spell a sudden reprieve from the torture of losing everything I hold dear, I know that until that moment manifests, my sanity demands that I remain circumspect.
