"Years ago my heart was set/to live, oh/but I've been trying hard/against unbelievable odds"--Big Star, Ballad of El Goodo
I shouldn’t be writing this essay. I shouldn’t be doing anything but resting. But things as they are are untenable. And sometimes I write because I literally think if I get my story out into the world, I might find a savior. These days, everything I write (and it doesn’t amount to much) is a literal cry for help. Why have you forsaken me? And by you, I guess I mean the world. I guess I mean anyone who might listen...
I had heard a lot about mold, and toxins, and their effect in illnesses like these, but I had always considered those theories to be really unscientific luddism. I think that was motivated reasoning. I didn't want to be frail and unfit for the modern world. I'd rather take medicine or get an iv or surgery than have to uproot my life to avoid deleterious effects of civilization.
But eventually it became obvious that I had to do this, whether I wanted to or not.
This essay/ramble/disjointed blog post is not about that, for the most part. It's not about a "healing journey". Although I did undertake a journey, and I did experience unmistakeable improvements in my health, the telos of my life isn't about healing. Its about being devoured by moloch, and screaming for help without being heard. It's about becoming invisible. "