30 is the New 80

I rang in my 30th birthday like most Americans – slightly inebriated and surrounded by friends. I couldn’t relate to the people who feared this big milestone. I was finally settled in my career, financially stable, in functional relationships (parents excluded), on top of my health, and ready to party.

I thought I was in the prime of my life. I had been exercising regularly for almost a decade and finally weighed the number I’d put on my driver’s license at 16, which is ironic because it was perjury even then.

On top of that, I had never done drugs or smoked, I rarely went to the doctor, and really only abused alcohol on special occasions. To me, I was in picture perfect health.

Six months later and very out of the blue, I became very sick. Sudden severe exhaustion and fatigue prevented me from getting out of bed in the morning, much less to the gym; I was experiencing frequent nausea and vomiting, which is very traumatic when you’re sober; I was paralyzed with hopelessness, sadness and anxiety, which might have had something to do with the fifteen pounds I gained overnight and – to boot - began to develop strange dark spots on my space. Even in the best of lighting, I looked like a neurotic chubby leopard.

Still trying to come to grips with my declining health, I began to take on fewer clients so that I could rest and make getting well my fulltime job. But it wasn’t working. The rest made me more tired. The fears about my health only made the anxiety worse. And being sluggish made my two-story house look like Everest.

At the same time, my team of western doctors repeatedly told me that my tests were normal – all clear.

But clearly something was wrong. And I knew it in my gut. Leary of taking the multiple medications offered to fix my individual symptoms, I began a quest to find solutions to the underlying problem.

This blog is an ongoing chronicle of that journey. It continues today.

I am now 32.