imalrightjack
New Member
Hi all,
I’ll try not to get too deep into storytelling, but I think some context is important for where I’ve ended up. I’m 49, and it’s only in the past year that I’ve really begun to see my health journey through a different lens—one that finally feels like it might lead somewhere grounded and sustainable.
A Quick(ish) Backstory
In my early teens—possibly even earlier—I began feigning illness to avoid school. It worked well: my dad worked shifts, and my mum (as she later admitted) liked having me at home. Looking back, I now see this as an early coping mechanism. I was undiagnosed neurodivergent (later diagnosed with ADHD and autistic traits), and I just didn’t "get" school. I masked well, as I have most of my life, but internally I struggled deeply.
Over time, I developed the ability to manifest symptoms—not intentionally lying, but embodying discomfort to escape overwhelm and seek comfort. That pattern persisted into adulthood. If something socially or emotionally overwhelming came up, I'd feel unwell or fixate on a physical symptom. I sang for years but suffered from chronic anxiety around performing and frequent vocal issues. Often, if I had a slightly sore throat, I’d cancel gigs—not because I couldn’t sing, but because I couldn’t face the worry.
In my late twenties and early thirties, I experienced serious trauma. I won’t go into details here, but it led to chronic mental distress and a profound injustice trigger from what happened to me. Around that time, I had surgery that went badly wrong—ironically, a procedure I partly pursued just to get time off work. The outcome was long-term pain and disillusionment with both the medical system and my own body.
The whole of my thirties felt like a blur—trapped in a ten-year relationship that was broken early on, held together mostly by financial ties and insolvency. I became very angry and very stuck. This is when mindfulness first entered my life, and in many ways, it saved me. It certainly moderated the all-consuming anger.
At that time, early 30s, I also developed reflux, insomnia, night terrors, and a dependence on various medications. I went through a horrific clonazepam withdrawal around age 40. I tried every supplement, elimination diet, and remedy going (I’d done the same for my voice years before—TCP gargles, manuka honey, zinc lozenges, the works). Eventually, I turned my back on medication altogether, although I still kept chasing cures through food, supplements, and routines.
Despite that, my sleep remained poor and the reflux (dry throat, never much regurgitation) persisted. I’ve never breathed well through my nose, and that’s not helped things.
What I’ve Come to Understand
Only in recent years did I realise I’ve been living with severe health anxiety, especially over the past two or three years. I became consumed with body scanning, obsessing over my dry throat, sleep, diet, and the sensation of a hiatal hernia I was diagnosed with—but couldn’t accept. I spiralled into daily panic, and although I never planned anything, I began to think about suicide regularly. I was completely overwhelmed.
I also developed a rash last year that became a new focus, pushing the hernia fears to one side—until the rash cleared, and back came the throat.
Physically, the last year has been marked by chronic body aches: shoulders, ribs, solar plexus, chest, thoracic spine. My long-time lower back issues have oddly largely vanished. My shoulders remain very tense, which I’m consciously trying to let go of. I’d stopped HIIT due to the hernia and now walk about five miles a day, but the aches remain. They shift, they change—but they’re always there.
More recently, I’ve begun to understand that, while I’ve become very good at accepting other people and life circumstances (thanks to mindfulness), I have never truly accepted my body. I’ve always been at war with it—trying to fix it, soothe it, or escape from it.
Where I Am Now
My mum is in the late stages of dementia. My dad has a long on/off relationship with alcohol. But I’ve finally stopped trying to fix them. I've realised I can’t live my life for other people—not even my parents.
After years of chasing specialists and harassing GPs (who mostly wanted to put me back on PPIs and H2 blockers that made me feel worse), I recently told my doctor I’m done. I have a few outstanding bloods relating to possible Sjögren’s, but I’ve let go of the need for a label. At this point, it would just lead to more monitoring and symptom management.
Right now:
Why I’m Posting
I suppose I am seeking some reassurance—though I know that’s not the point. What I really want is perspective. Does what I’ve described sound familiar to anyone here? Do you see threads of TMS, learned coping, or chronic stress patterns in what I’ve shared?
I wonder if I should continue using Gaviscon? Raising the bed? Is it all continuing a belief that I’m broken? That’s where it gets very confusing for me. Being an over-thinker doesn’t help.
Thanks for reading if you got this far. I’m just trying to live again.
I’ll try not to get too deep into storytelling, but I think some context is important for where I’ve ended up. I’m 49, and it’s only in the past year that I’ve really begun to see my health journey through a different lens—one that finally feels like it might lead somewhere grounded and sustainable.
A Quick(ish) Backstory
In my early teens—possibly even earlier—I began feigning illness to avoid school. It worked well: my dad worked shifts, and my mum (as she later admitted) liked having me at home. Looking back, I now see this as an early coping mechanism. I was undiagnosed neurodivergent (later diagnosed with ADHD and autistic traits), and I just didn’t "get" school. I masked well, as I have most of my life, but internally I struggled deeply.
Over time, I developed the ability to manifest symptoms—not intentionally lying, but embodying discomfort to escape overwhelm and seek comfort. That pattern persisted into adulthood. If something socially or emotionally overwhelming came up, I'd feel unwell or fixate on a physical symptom. I sang for years but suffered from chronic anxiety around performing and frequent vocal issues. Often, if I had a slightly sore throat, I’d cancel gigs—not because I couldn’t sing, but because I couldn’t face the worry.
In my late twenties and early thirties, I experienced serious trauma. I won’t go into details here, but it led to chronic mental distress and a profound injustice trigger from what happened to me. Around that time, I had surgery that went badly wrong—ironically, a procedure I partly pursued just to get time off work. The outcome was long-term pain and disillusionment with both the medical system and my own body.
The whole of my thirties felt like a blur—trapped in a ten-year relationship that was broken early on, held together mostly by financial ties and insolvency. I became very angry and very stuck. This is when mindfulness first entered my life, and in many ways, it saved me. It certainly moderated the all-consuming anger.
At that time, early 30s, I also developed reflux, insomnia, night terrors, and a dependence on various medications. I went through a horrific clonazepam withdrawal around age 40. I tried every supplement, elimination diet, and remedy going (I’d done the same for my voice years before—TCP gargles, manuka honey, zinc lozenges, the works). Eventually, I turned my back on medication altogether, although I still kept chasing cures through food, supplements, and routines.
Despite that, my sleep remained poor and the reflux (dry throat, never much regurgitation) persisted. I’ve never breathed well through my nose, and that’s not helped things.
What I’ve Come to Understand
Only in recent years did I realise I’ve been living with severe health anxiety, especially over the past two or three years. I became consumed with body scanning, obsessing over my dry throat, sleep, diet, and the sensation of a hiatal hernia I was diagnosed with—but couldn’t accept. I spiralled into daily panic, and although I never planned anything, I began to think about suicide regularly. I was completely overwhelmed.
I also developed a rash last year that became a new focus, pushing the hernia fears to one side—until the rash cleared, and back came the throat.
Physically, the last year has been marked by chronic body aches: shoulders, ribs, solar plexus, chest, thoracic spine. My long-time lower back issues have oddly largely vanished. My shoulders remain very tense, which I’m consciously trying to let go of. I’d stopped HIIT due to the hernia and now walk about five miles a day, but the aches remain. They shift, they change—but they’re always there.
More recently, I’ve begun to understand that, while I’ve become very good at accepting other people and life circumstances (thanks to mindfulness), I have never truly accepted my body. I’ve always been at war with it—trying to fix it, soothe it, or escape from it.
Where I Am Now
My mum is in the late stages of dementia. My dad has a long on/off relationship with alcohol. But I’ve finally stopped trying to fix them. I've realised I can’t live my life for other people—not even my parents.
After years of chasing specialists and harassing GPs (who mostly wanted to put me back on PPIs and H2 blockers that made me feel worse), I recently told my doctor I’m done. I have a few outstanding bloods relating to possible Sjögren’s, but I’ve let go of the need for a label. At this point, it would just lead to more monitoring and symptom management.
Right now:
- I mouth tape and use nose strips at night.
- I’ve stopped all supplements and just take Gaviscon when needed.
- I follow the process of “Allowing” (from The Mindful Gardener and Dan Buglio’s TMS work).
- I meditate regularly, use body scans, and practise ACT-style diffusion and grounding.
- When I’m occupied and meaningfully engaged, symptoms often disappear.
- I use medical cannabis mostly on weekends and find it helps me allow better.
- I let my hair down on a weekend and enjoy a few beers and eat freely. I’m very disciplined midweek mostly.
- I’ve started to feel more emotionally present. Generally more present. I think I am feeling anger more again but in a controlled way.
- My sleep is still poor. I wake regularly but sometimes it’s a bit better.
- I still don’t have classic regurgitation or heartburn but remain belchy, gurgling at times.
- My torso aches pretty much always feel better for lying down.
Why I’m Posting
I suppose I am seeking some reassurance—though I know that’s not the point. What I really want is perspective. Does what I’ve described sound familiar to anyone here? Do you see threads of TMS, learned coping, or chronic stress patterns in what I’ve shared?
I wonder if I should continue using Gaviscon? Raising the bed? Is it all continuing a belief that I’m broken? That’s where it gets very confusing for me. Being an over-thinker doesn’t help.
Thanks for reading if you got this far. I’m just trying to live again.
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