I am a happy person. I am an optimistic person – I’m the “glass is always full” kind of girl. Yes, that’s right, not just HALF full, it’s FULL full (one half is water, the other half air!). I am driven, energetic, curious, adventurous, smart, quick-witted, ambitious, passionate and a little bit wild. I am the one with the crazy ideas that people for some strange reason decide to follow through with. I am a vivacious storyteller. I am the one who laughs her head off without restraint. I am the life of the freakin’ party.
It’s just that sometimes I feel like this person that I know I am is not there. That person that I know I am has gradually been replaced by another. And it all happened without me noticing it as it happened.
At some point I woke up and realised I was no longer that person that I knew I used to be. Instead, I felt like I was lethargic, angry, pessimistic, I felt like I no longer cared (is the glass half-full or half-empty? who cares, I can’t change the way it is anyway…). I was too damn tired all the time. I slept for 10 to 15 hours a day when I could, but never felt refreshed. I put on a lot of weight and felt helpless about it. I exercised, though most of the time I felt too tired to do it. I ate well, though quite often I would slip up and comfort eat and not care. My sharp mind had become overcast in this thick fog (“brain fog” I called it, even before I knew that this is what it was called). I felt like I was always forgetting something (which I was!), and I became unsure of myself. I lost confidence, started having negative thoughts. I pushed people away. At first I felt too tired to go out and when I did go out, I realised I was not having any fun. I became disinterested in social chit chat. People who met met in that period referred to me as “aloof” (which was a very surprising thing to have said about the person who I know I was until then!). I became irritable and impatient. I was no fun. But as I started realising all this, I began to think myself worthless. I began comparing myself to the person I used to know myself to be and thinking to myself “how can anyone love the person that I have become?”. I began choosing loneliness over company, self-pity over conversations. I did not wish to “inflict” myself on others. I became withdrawn. I barely laughed anymore.
Mind you, this change was gradual. The two persona would be present at different times, the second gradually overshadowing the first. The person who I used to know I was would hide more and more often, letting the person I was becoming take the front stage. My friends and family did not notice for a while or they were too polite to say anything. I simply over time started receiving less invitations and honouring even fewer. I began breaking my commitments. I was too tired to even feel bad about it.
The person who did notice and was not too polite to say anything was one of my tutors. I will be grateful to her for the rest of my life. She had only known me for a few months by that point, but she knew that something was really really off with me when I started to underperform. I was no longer chatty in the classroom. I was forgetful, I would miss deadlines. By that point, however, I had been like that for at least a few years, I was just good at hiding it. I developed coping strategies. For example, I would revise for class on the day, so that the material was fresh in my mind, and would volunteer to answer the first question or start the discussion. This way I would be left alone for the rest of the class, the tutors satisfied that I had done my work. Except that I hadn’t (I only did about one third, which I so strategically volunteered, as I was simply too tired to do the rest. If I tried doing more the night before class, I would no longer remember the material when I woke up. I would stare at my highlighted and annotated pages and not recognise a single word.) But apparently I wasn’t fooling everyone. This tutor knew that something was amiss. Even though she never shared the details, she told me that she also went through something medical and had to make big changes in her life. She quit her high-stress job and became a tutor with more predictable working hours. Maybe this is why she saw the writing on the wall. At any rate, she approached me and broached the subject, advised me to take time off to figure things out. So I did. (In all fairness, a few more people noticed by then and talked to me, discretely. One of them was my yoga teacher who also hadn’t known me for very long by then, but for long enough to realise that on some days I was so weak and tired that I couldn’t even hold downward dog for longer than a few seconds).
I went back to my doctor, cried in his office and begged him to do every single blood test available – there had to be an answer to why I was feeling this way. Two years prior another doctor had already run a thyroid panel and my results showed a slightly underactive thyroid. Yet because my results were strictly speaking within the normal range, I was told to go away and eat more iodine-rich salt. I had gone back several times and was tested for diabetes and a range of other things, all testing negative. Doctors would dismiss me as a hypochondriac. By that point, nobody had bothered to check my antibodies. Nobody wondered about my high lymphocyte count. This time, as I sat in my (new) doctor’s office sobbing and using up a box of tissues, he agreed to run the full panel. I watched him tick all the boxes on the form and he himself drew several vials of my blood. A few days later I was asked to come in to discuss my results.
I was finally given a diagnosis. I was relieved. Finally I had two words to justify how I felt and why I had become this other person! My thyroid hormone levels were still only “subclinical”, but given the presence of thyroid antibodies, the doctor agreed to trial me on a low dosage of levothyroxine – 12,5 mcg leading up to 25 mcg over a couple of weeks. At first I felt worse. My body ached all over. Migraines were killing me. I would turn up to class and sit through it in sunglasses as my photophobia was so severe. I was asked whether I wanted to postpone my course. Grudgingly I agreed as at that point I felt I had no choice. And I’m glad I did. I was on bed rest for a week because my joint ache had become so bad I was barely able to move. I was sleeping on the floor as my back was too stiff and too painful to lie in (and get into) a bed. Apart from a few flashbacks of my “floorbed” (consisting of a memory foam bed topper dressed in bedlinen), the pain, pain medication and crying, I have no real memories of that time. I ordered a lot of books on Amazon. A lot of books about Hashimoto thyroiditis. I wanted to know what I could do about it, how I could reclaim my life, how I could again become the person that I used to know I used to be.
A couple of weeks later the fog lifted, the pain went away and I began to look at the light in the end of the tunnel. I began to crawl, walk, then run towards it. It was liberating! I was once again smiling, joking, making plans to see friends. I remembered what it was like to be the person I knew I was.
My excess weight melted off fairly rapidly. Perhaps it wasn’t just the medication but also me finally having some more energy and making better use of my yoga classes (spending more than half of it in child pose does not burn calories!). At any rate, I became leaner, keener and happier. I became me, again!
So far so good. But the symptoms returned a few months later. Again, like a silent ninja, they crept back, gradually, in disguise. Again it took me a while to realise that the person I knew I was had taken a few steps back, letting that other person come forward. I went back to the doctor and had my thyroid levels re-tested. My dosage was adjusted. I felt better. Then a few months later again, the same thing.
With my Hashimoto thyroiditis it is a continuous cycle. My dosage gets adjusted every few months. Sometimes too much and I go into hyperthyroidism, so have to go back, lower the dosage, get myself retested. I experience flare-ups, lately more commonly than before. It’s a wild rollercoaster ride. But through it all, I still remember the person that I know I am. Even when that person disappears for a while. I try to always remember that that person is the person I want to be. But I have also grown not to hate the other person, but to try and accept her. It is not her fault – she is my Hashimoto alter ego. She is a part of me and that’s how it will always be. This is how my little butterfly makes me lead a double life.
The hardest part of it is meeting expectations – the expectations of others and also my own. When I am the person that I know I am, I am still fearful that my Hashimoto alter ego will show herself at the most inopportune moment, especially in my professional life. When I am my Hashimoto alter ego, I pretend to be the person that I know I am, because this is the person that people expect me to be. It is exhausting. I sometimes feel like an imposter in my own body. How crazy is that, my little butterfly?