Madness Is A House

Waking up every 3 hours to evict the mercury, the toxic truth about "health" foods, and remembering the person I used to be.

Madness is a house I no longer wish to live in.
The only people who understand it, have lived it.

I started chelating heavy metals again, at the start of the year. It’s been more than a year since my last failed attempts. What feels like a few lifetimes has passed since.

Who knew eating a few steaks of swordfish could turn into this?

To be fair, it was more than a few. But still, less than what’s advertised safe.

The Poisonous Plan

Thought I was really doing something great, something grand and healthy. At this point, I’m convinced all of the health foods are nothing but poisonous plans.

The greatest seafood is full of mercury. White rice has less arsenic and cadmium than brown, but you’re not supposed to eat the white foods right?! No white rice, no white flour. Oh, the flour... sprayed with glyphosate to dry it before being ground up and put in a bag, preserved with bromide. Toxins sprayed on all the produce. Heavy metals in the dried herbs and spices. Dairy is cooked until it’s dead, sometimes even irradiated because dead wasn’t dead enough.

Every one of these things has a documented white paper. It’s not imagined or made up, but we’d rather buy a story told by an advertiser than believe the real stuff.

Humans are such contrary creatures.

Myself included. My madness being no preclusion.

Weirdo. Trying the Ganzfeld experiment with fresh ping pong balls.

The In-Between

I’ve been more sick than this. I’m in the space where hope is once-again allowed to exist, but full escape not yet confirmed by fate.

Sometimes it was easier being closer to death. To have left behind all attachments and saying, “fuck it, take all the risks.”

My adrenal glands have become tender baby oysters, too easily mashed by life’s basic standards.

The Math of Eviction

Chelation goes something like this:

Pick a Friday, ideally, to start. Or late Thursday night. Because if you start on a Thursday you’re likely to have two bad work-days mentally instead of just one.

Every 3 hours, take a dose of alpha-lipoic acid (ALA). Every 6 hours, take a dose of DMPS with your ALA. Round the clock, through the night.

Repeat this process for at least 63 hours. I usually do 24 rounds, which turns out to be 72 hours, but I guess I could try a shorter one.

Wait at least 3 full days before doing it again.

That’s the theory anyways. For now, I’m only chelating every 2 weeks. My adrenals can’t handle more than that, it seems.

And I was doing so well. I chelated last weekend, and oddly enough felt really swell.

So well, in fact, that I spent 3 days in the sauna back to back a few days after. I forgot I need to hold myself back when I’m feeling better. Need to baby myself still, even in those few moments I get a glimmer of my old self.

Glimmering, with Millie.

Remembering Her

My neighbor lady, quite a bit older, is suffering some chronic health issues too. She said to me one day, “Oh! You remember the old you, before you got sick?!”

Yes, yes I do! The me that had endless energy. Who could go days without sleep and still fully operate. The one who’d hussle and grind, two full time jobs and still time to workout, travel, go dancing, attend family functions, and hold down a hobby on the side.

The one who made an impression at the gym because I’d out work everyone, 6 and 7 days a week.

Since then, I’ve lost all my muscling. One or two sets of anything light-weight, once a week leaves me needing one or two week’s full recovery. I had to give up anything resembling cardio completely.

I make no plans, not even a day in advance. I probably won’t be physically up for it, and the stress of having to cancel is even more tiring.

But I remember her. The version who could talk with friends for hours, laughing and joking and going on about dumb shit. The person so full of life, even in the moments when life was dragging her by it.

I hope my neighbor can remember the old version of herself soon too, before it’s entirely too late.

Vacating the House

I know these feelings I’m feeling won’t last. My adrenals will stop bleeding adrenaline to prop up my jacked up cortisol. The ruminations and obsessive thinking will once again die down.

I’m grateful for just how far I’ve come. I never imagined I’d be so well as to clearly recognize my misplacement.

I’ll keep saying it until I fully vacate it: madness is a house I no longer wish to live in.