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From Confinement to Freedom: A Journey of Recovery

For several years, my existence was largely confined to the walls of my home. My daily routine revolved completely around my physical condition. A consistent feature of those times was my inability to remain awake past 5 p.m., as my cognitive abilities diminished throughout the day, making it difficult to recall even basic words like milk. Under such dire circumstances, my world became limited to my bedroom. While I developed a more critical view of social media as time passed, platforms like Instagram and Twitter allowed me to connect with fellow writers and to experience life through their adventures. Instead of feeling envious of their trips to exotic locales such as Italy and South Korea, I found joy in their vivid photographs of deep blue oceans and exotic cuisines that starkly contrasted with the bland Ensure protein shakes that formed the basis of my diet.

The most telling illustration of my life during that challenging period can be found in a private investigator’s report commissioned by my insurance company to assess whether I was sufficiently “disabled” to qualify for my benefits. Much of his documentation consisted of accountings of days spent parked outside my home, where he witnessed nothing during his shifts. His observations, or lack thereof, highlighted the reality that I was confined to my bed due to illness.

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As 2018 came to a close, I began to experience a renewed sense of hope and ambition for the upcoming year. My symptoms had lessened, and my energy levels were improving. What contributed to this change remained a mystery—was it the low-dose naltrexone, the automated hemotherapy treatments, or the weekly injections I had been receiving? Regardless, the timing was fortuitous. My initial book tour for my debut novel, The Border of Paradise, had been limited due to my health constraints. However, by the time I released my second book, The Collected Schizophrenias, I had sufficiently recovered to embark on a brief tour across the UK.

Upon arriving in London, I felt transformed, imbued with a new sense of vitality. After a prolonged period of isolation, stepping out of my hotel near the West End filled me with a rush of overwhelming energy as I re-entered the bustling fabric of life.

Previously, London had been a source of my illness; now, it became a buoy of encouragement.

When not engaged with my publisher’s representative, I took to exploring the city—a stark contrast to my previous visit when I had been too unwell to enjoy it. I found myself swept along with the throngs of people rushing towards their destinations, absorbed in the rich array of English accents that surrounded me. I felt the powerful whoosh of passing cars, reminding me to look in the right direction—a welcome, albeit frightening, reminder of my regained mobility. I reveled in the cheerful exchanges between couples and the firm instructions from mothers to their children. Though my physical capabilities still had constraints, I had momentarily forgotten the beauty of feeling relatively free. The limits of my life felt stretched; I could choose to visit a fish-and-chips shop to enjoy battered cod drizzled with malt vinegar, or I could explore a bookstore—perusing familiar titles adorned with foreign covers that held an allure of their own. Despite the obligations that came with my book tour, the very structure of my schedule felt liberating compared to the confinement I had endured.

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www.cntraveler.com