I made it out for a walk today.

The first since things started to go bad in April, and the first I’ve had the energy and co-ordination to attempt. Although only 45 minutes across (somewhat arid) local fields instead of my extended rambles around the region, it was sufficient to get the legs pumping again.

By contrast, these past few weeks have seen very little movement as I settle into a sombre routine of subsistence. The long-awaited neurologist referral (twelve weeks and counting) has yet to manifest, and in the interim my GP put me on some stop-gap medication to ease the awfulness of it all.

I was concerned from the start. Although sometimes prescribed to treat nerve pain, Duloxetine is primarily an SNRI antidepressant. I know in myself that I am not depressed. I’m rightfully down about my condition, yes, and it is precisely that discomfort which keeps me wanting to get better.

New colours were the first surprise, as reality became augmented with an otherworldly glow. Grasping at the few thoughts that failed to elude me, I began to wonder whether the ubiquity of such medication might partly explain the tertiary-coloured, low-contrast milkslop of the modern film and video game palette.

Things became darker still as I felt myself again falling into mental numbness, as I had on previous medication. This was compounded by sudden paralysis on waking up, rendering limbs immobile save shaking with tremors when I tried to move them.

Although the morning malaise eased with determination, I lasted a week before stopping the meds early. The pain may have returned, but at least I can function again. The withdrawal symptoms were particularly vicious – causing me in turn to withdraw from others while harbouring dark, destructive thoughts I care not to recall.

In the isolation of this plight, I find my greatest strengths reinforced by those who have stepped forward to help me find answers and the comfort of belonging.

A dear friend I met at the very start of my travels, Rana, reached out after things went public on my birthday. With a will to help me through this, she has passed my symptoms and test results along to a neurologist friend of hers, and although not a formal diagnosis they have offered one possibility, albeit uncommon…

Autoimmune encephalitis: The immune system mistaking healthy brain tissue for harmful and attacking it, causing inflammation and nerve disruption. It is an existential irony that the metaphoric struggle between body and soul, often touched upon in my writing, might have drawn such physical battlelines in flesh.

But I don’t know for certain. If this is indeed the case, then I am clearly on the clock to minimise any permanent damage. Old age aside, I already feel I am not as ‘sharp’ as I was a few months ago, and once-strong memories have become hazy.

I spoke with my GP today after getting back home, and he is sympathetic to my concerns. I am back in for more blood tests next week, and an MRI scan has been scheduled separate from the referral.

At the very least, if we can prove this isn’t the cause then it’s one less concern to carry.

Looking back to belonging, and wanting to end on an unambiguously happy note; I recently received a couple of care packages from friends who attended House of the Holy.

Much love and gratitude to Anita, who passed along an art print from Cartismandua; and to Dayenne and Barry who collated kindness from many in the community. Gathering together postcards with handwritten well-wishes, as well as occult gifts to add to my altar. Goodness from afar that helps to remind me who I am, anchor myself to others, and formulate a future beyond this current uncertainty.

I don’t know what’s going to happen next. It would be a boring life if I did.

But today was a good day, and I’m going to take it.