“I disappeared for two months because I was drowning, and I’m done pretending that’s a metaphor.”
August brought me 27 doctor’s appointments in 21 days. Because finally, a doctor was listening to me. Finally, someone agreed that this isn’t “just fibromyalgia.”
And the sleep study. That one was a bit unexpected. I knew I probably had sleep apnea. I have always snored. But never could have expected it to be as bad as it was.
The bomb was dropped at the follow-up:
My pulse ox dropped into the 70s while I was asleep. My apnea-hypopnea index was 24.
Which means I was stopping breathing an average of 24 times an hour. On top of that, my lungs were only expanding to 70% of what they were supposed to.
I am now the proud owner of two inhalers a day and a CPAP machine. One inhaler is steroids. This will be a lifelong thing. Hello, weight gain.
The depression was real. I had to email my psychiatrist and tell her I didn’t think my medication was working, because I should not have spent a straight 10 days thinking the world would be better off without me.
I didn’t know who I was anymore. Everything that had defined me, none of it made sense.
The Silence That Almost Ate Me
I was convinced that I stopped writing because no one was reading. I felt like I was screaming into the void. Engagement was nonexistent.
The reality? The internet is a popularity contest. If you don’t bring in the numbers, the algorithm doesn’t even acknowledge your existence. When your voice drowns in the void, it becomes very difficult to convince yourself to keep speaking.
But this was only a piece of it. The reality? I was shutting down. Physically. Emotionally. Because I had given more than I had to give. Something my wife warns me about all the time, just in a different context. She is constantly telling me she wishes I would rest before my body forces the issue.
But this time, it wasn’t my body that broke. It was my mind. My emotional well-being.
“If I keep these words inside, the depression will swallow me whole.”
The thoughts in my head wouldn’t be quiet. The quieter I was, the darker the pit I had sunk into got. And no one was coming along with a flashlight. I was going to have to start a fire to make a torch myself.
The Body Keeping Score
Let me tell you, when you spend 20 years wondering if you are losing your mind and imagining the health problems you seem to be having, it is life-changing when you have a doctor who finally listens.
I was 19 years old when they diagnosed the fibromyalgia. 23 when they told me I had idiopathic peripheral neuropathy. I have been on meds for both since. And a couple weeks ago, I found out what I have is small fiber neuropathy—meaning my immune system is attacking my nerves. Causing the burning, hot feeling I have had for so many years. I do still have the fibro, but that is only a small piece of the picture.
I had a sleep study. My psychiatrist requested it. Demanded, actually. Rather loudly. And I guess they were right. I never really doubted I had an element of sleep apnea, because the snoring had always been there. But the severity of what they saw floored me.
Pulse ox into the 70s. I was literally suffocating in my sleep.
The pulmonologist also checked my B12 level. And it came back in the 100 range. Ideal is 500 or greater. So 20% of where it is supposed to be. For those in the back who may not know, B12 is what your body uses to make neurotransmitters. Which means, little to no serotonin and dopamine in my system. I could take all of the antidepressants in the world but they had nothing to act on.
My ANA was positive, and I also probably have hEDS with a Beighton score of 9/9.
I don’t mean for this to be a medical diary. This was my wake-up call. My body was shutting down, and it was the loudest voice during my quietest months.
It forced me to listen. To stop performing wellness and start facing what survival really looked like.
Being Loud Is Scary
Being real, being loud, requires letting people see me. All of me. The messy, the dark, the depressed and depraved. And that is absolutely terrifying. Because I can’t live my life through filters just to make it pretty for everyone else.
I am a wife, a mom, a writer—and I’m also disabled, neurodivergent, surviving trauma responses and self-harm thoughts.
What if one piece of my story saves someone else’s life?
What if they needed to know they weren’t alone?
Advocacy isn’t performative allyship posts. Authenticity isn’t well-lit Instagram stories. It’s this. It’s letting the world see the darkness.
The Small Victories
While it may be overwhelming, actually getting medical answers for the first time is freeing, affirming, and validating. But it is also fucking scary.
My ADHD is finally medicated, after several years without it. Which means my depression and anxiety meds at least have a fighting chance.
I made myself go to therapy. I started journaling. My therapist suggested shadow work. I seriously am looking at it, looking at myself.
My wife and I are getting ready to celebrate our 1-year anniversary. We are running away, essentially off-grid in the mountains, just us. Reconnecting. Recentering. Finding ourselves and each other.
I am hopeful, for the first time in I can’t remember how long.
The Turn Toward the Future
Recently, I saw a discussion post in a psychology class asking if sexual orientation was “an issue that society should be involved in.”
An issue. My identity had been reduced to a debate prompt for straight people to pontificate over.
And something snapped back into place. Or maybe caught fire.
I didn’t go quiet because I had nothing to say. I went quiet because I forgot why I needed to say it. But I’m done letting people debate my existence while I stay silent. I’m done being an “issue.”
I’m going to write about sexual orientation, identity, and lived experience—not the sanitized version. Not the one that makes straight people comfortable or fits neatly into acronyms. The one where I tell you what it actually costs to exist visibly.
What happens when the story you’ve told about yourself no longer fits, but the world keeps demanding it anyway?
Closing
I disappeared because I was drowning. Because everything felt too loud, and the world was too big. And none of that has changed. I am barely starting to tread water. But I am writing anyway.
I can’t promise you a single fucking thing. I am not perfect. I am nowhere near healed. But I am me—real, raw, honest. Because authenticity isn’t just a marketing strategy. And it’s time for me to be real.
“This isn’t a comeback. This is survival, written out loud.”