The Three-Year Aftershock: When the Poison Refuses to Leave

I was supposed to write a deeply researched post this week. But honestly, I can barely keep my eyes open. As we approach the third year since my final injection, the biggest battle I fight isn't paralysis; it's a profound, soul-crushing exhaustion. This isn't just "being tired." This is the system being depleted, an ongoing consequence of the systemic damage that began long ago. This week, the "poison" reminded me exactly what it’s still capable of.

A couple of weeks ago, I was in Walmart, doing something entirely mundane, when the storm hit. The world tilted as severe dizziness and disorientation flooded in. My vision blurred, my heart rate—which I can feel jump from a resting rate to an alarming spike—started to race, and my whole body began to shake.

I just knew I was going to pass out right there in front of all those people. I called my son, needing an anchor, and whispered directions to my car as I fought my way back through the aisles.

This is the crucial thing the medical community gets wrong: They call this a "panic attack." I call it an autonomic storm. The intense fear that washes over me is not the cause; it's a terrifying result of my nervous system physically short-circuiting, a direct consequence of the toxin's lasting injury.

The cost of that Walmart episode was high. I have been fighting exhaustion ever since, and the persistent, random head pressure has returned almost every day. It’s a vice-like feeling that clouds my thoughts and steals my focus.

Just yesterday, driving my son to take his driving test, I felt so close to passing out that I had to pull over on the highway and let him take the wheel. Think about that: almost three years later, this microscopic dose of poison still renders me incapable of performing the simplest, most necessary tasks of a parent.

I started grasping at triggers. Was it the Halloween chocolate? Is it the stress of a big move coming up? Is it the beginning of "the change" as I near 45? I don't know. The fact that I have to constantly analyze every slight physical change is the daily tax of living with an invisible injury that everyone else dismisses.

I miss my old self. I feel safest within the four walls of my home, where the unpredictability of my body can't be witnessed or instantly dismissed by a world (or medical system) that simply doesn't understand.

The official narrative is that the toxin wears off in 3-6 months. We are told the symptoms are local, and the molecule is gone. My life is the rebuttal.

The issue isn't whether the original molecule is still circulating; the issue is the lasting, downstream damage it caused to my nervous system. It injured the very mechanism of my autonomy. The doctors who casually diagnose "anxiety" and dismiss the connection to the drug perpetuate a system where severe side effects become chronic, long-term injuries.

I developed anxiety, yes, but it was born from the terror of my physical reality, not the other way around. The poison tried to wreck my life years ago, and I am still fighting to rebuild it.

This blog post format is easier for me right now. But honestly, even this has become another thing I have to worry about and push through. With the exhaustion, the recurring episodes, and the stress of a major life transition coming up, I need to listen to my body.

So, while my commitment to raising awareness about this severe, under-recognized injury remains absolute, I may not be able to write or post as frequently for the next little while, until my life settles down a bit.

I will be back. But first, I have to conserve my energy to fight the good fight in my own body. Thank you for reading and sharing the truth.