The Damn Loop | I was Killed, Revived, and Slaughtered Again

At last, I've found something that works.

For seven years, I've struggled with high cholesterol, but it was never related to my diet. Because of my ASD, I never acquired a taste for the typical high-cholesterol culprits.

People around me often tell me I'm missing out on the pleasures of life by refusing those foods, but quite frankly, I don't care. I don't like it, I won't eat it, and I'd likely gag if I were forced to. In a way, my oddness is actually good for me.

The truth is that my cholesterol level was a direct side effect of my necessary medications. Usually, a statin is prescribed alongside these drugs to manage the fallout, but I refused to add yet another pill to my collection.

I knew there were other options though they might be too slow or might not work for me at all, I chose to try them anyway. I simply cannot afford to damage my liver by overloading my body with unnecessary meds.

So last year, I tried very hard. It wasn't that I hadn't tried before, but this time, I gave it my absolute best. I read, I researched, and I tested different methods - clean eating, TCM (Traditional Chinese Medicine), and dedicated self-care - until I formed a routine.

But when the blood work came back, there was still no improvement.

The harsh reality set in. I have lived long enough to understand that effort doesn't always guarantee results. In my life, it feels like I play a fair game but still end up with the stupid prize.

By that point, I was moving through the motions of self-care not out of hope, but out of a desperate need to survive my depression.

But I tried again. I went back to reading and researching. Since supplements are expensive, my path was tougher; I had to rely almost entirely on natural foods. I made my adjustments and waited.

On the day I went to get the results, I kept my mind empty. I didn't dare to hope or even think about it. Then I saw them: the results were not just an improvement - they were very good.

This result meant more than just a lower number on a chart; it was a sign that not all hope is lost.

In a life full of shitty blows, this was a major victory. I've learned to celebrate even the smallest wins to soften the impact of the bad days, and this was a win I desperately needed to feel.

However, it came with a caveat. Because I can't afford a dietitian to oversee everything, there are details I missed.

My hypothyroidism, which has been stable for the longest time, suddenly flared up. My doctor suspected I wasn't taking my medication consistently, so I had to go back and re-examine everything.

I realized that my thyroid medication comes with an explicit warning: it must be taken on an empty stomach with plenty of water. I suspect I wasn't flushing it down with enough water - especially since my throat often tightens up, causing things to get stuck.

On top of that, I was drinking my smoothies too soon after the medication, likely flushing it out before it could be fully absorbed.

Now, I'm back to making adjustments once again.

Photo by Mika Baumeister on Unsplash

2024 felt like a true turning point.

My doctor's appointments were positive, and for the first time in years, I could honestly say I was better.

I felt safe from my triggers; I was even learning carpentry for home DIY projects. I was 110% sure I was improving.

The medical plan was to review and readjust my medication dosages in 2025.

I felt like there was color in my life again - like I could actually live a normal life.

Then, my world violently tilted.

Just as my review approached, I was triggered badly. It wasn't just mental; my body went into a full-scale revolt.

I started waking up every hour. I developed chest pains so severe that I thought I was having a heart attack, and I ended up in the emergency ward.

Then came the unexplainable, migrating pain - a phantom stabbing that moved through my limbs, my torso, and every random spot it could find.

Suicidal thoughts became a frequent, unwelcome guest. I didn't act on them this time, but the damage was done. My medical review has to be reset, meaning everything was delayed.

It felt like all my progress was erased. Fucking overturned. Crash, boom, bang - everything was gone.

Just because of one bloody encounter, a whole new level of hell opened up for me. This foe of mine seems to have grown even more powerful by now.

Right, it was a brand new year and a brand new me - but not the better version.

It was the kind of version you get when you regret making a software update. The existing one wasn't great, but after the update, you'd give anything to go back. You realize too late that you were better off before the fix.

I've been keeping my head down about my progress, and it wasn't because I was modest. In reality, I wanted to shout it from the rooftops; I felt like I owed the good news to the good people who have supported me.

But I kept quiet because I felt unsafe, and as it turns out, my gut was right.

It's as if the improved me simply became a visible target again. It makes me wonder if I should do more to hide my progress.

But how?

Do I have to pretend to be sicker than I am, even on the days when I actually feel well, just to stay under the radar?

It is an exhausting way to live - having to constantly adapt to new ways of being attacked.

It was devastating, but I had to keep trying.

I started a new therapy and leaned into self-care. I wasn't going to let the cycle take over me or just wait for its natural flow to pass. I didn't want to wait anymore.

Eventually, things did improve.

Then, out of nowhere - and it wasn't even an actual encounter - I heard that voice over a speakerphone. It wasn't even my phone. I hate technology for this; I hate that it forces a presence into my private space even when I have done everything in my power to avoid it.

It was October, and the cycle started all over again: the inability to sleep, the waking up hourly.

By Christmas morning, the storm finally tapered down. I remember exactly when I felt well again. Even though I was going through the motions of disliking the festive season, I wasn't depressed anymore. I was actually functioning. I could write again that day.

I was happy. But of course, in my life, good days never seem to last.

Then I heard the voice again - the same situation, and again, not even my call. At the time, I was out of the fog; I was too happy being able to read and write again to let it bother me. I went through the day with a leap in my step.

But with CPTSD, things can spiral so fast because your internal system and memories react differently than your conscious mind.

On the inside, I was already in emergency mode: Fight or Flight.

I only realized what had happened the next morning. I have never had a depressive flip happen in such a short window of time; it allowed me only a few hours of feeling okay before I crashed again.

It felt like being killed, revived, and then immediately slaughtered all over again.

The hourly waking returned.

I became so jumpy that even a doorbell on a TV show felt like a physical assault. I could see with my own eyes that it was just a show, but my body was already tensing and shaking.

Every nerve was screaming: Switch everything off. Hide. Keep still.

It was a total regression to how I felt when certain people would turn up unannounced and uninvited, invading my personal space and creating havoc.

They made me feel sick from the inside out, but back then, I didn't know how to turn them away in a socially correct way. So, I just stayed silent and pretended I wasn't home.

My doctor explained it clearly: these are not just bad memories, they are traumas. That is why my system isn't just remembering those incidents - it is reliving them, over and over again, in the present tense.

Sigh. Another review reset. Reset in March, reset in October, and reset in December. This is fucking hell loop.

Last week, the pain escalated to a point I didn't know was possible.

Usually, I get sudden, migrating stabs in random places once or twice a day. But during the latest episode, it felt like I was literally tied up and stabbed non-stop in my ribs for the entire day.

The only good thing I can squeeze out of this nothingness - a hellhole, to be precise - to comfort myself is that, after eliminating every other possibility through my blood work, I can finally proceed to the pain clinic for help.

It almost sounds like I've developed a new ability: I'm able to conjure comfort out of thin air now, almost like a supernatural power.

©Britt H.

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