In 2020, during the peak of the COVID-19 pandemic, my life took a dramatic turn. In March, I was struck with pneumonia, a condition that kept me bedridden for 20 long days. The symptoms felt eerily similar to those of COVID-19, and at that time, the fear surrounding the virus was palpable. I couldn’t help but worry that I was infected with COVID. I had heard that the tests were often inaccurate and that many people who were truly infected received negative results. This uncertainty weighed heavily on my mind.

As I underwent various tests, including a CT scan at a local facility, I felt an overwhelming sense of dread. My CRP levels were normal, but I dismissed these results, convinced they were incorrect. My anxiety escalated to alarming levels, causing my blood pressure to drop, which ultimately led to a two-day hospital admission. A local nurse suggested I might have COVID and urged me to seek treatment at a larger hospital.

Panic set in as I rushed to the big hospital and met with a prominent doctor. After conducting more tests and another CT scan, the doctor confirmed my fears were unfounded; I was not infected with COVID. A wave of relief washed over me, and my anxiety levels began to subside.

However, my relief was short-lived. A month later, my uncle contracted COVID, and my brother and I rushed him to a major hospital. There, he was given oxygen and admitted for five days, receiving remdesivir shots. It was a horrifying experience; I witnessed countless bodies wrapped in black plastic, and the hospital took care of the cremations. Family members were not allowed to attend due to the risk of infection. It was a scene of utter despair.

Tragically, my grandmother also contracted COVID. Knowing there was no time to waste, my brother and I took her to a local hospital, as every larger facility was overwhelmed. Within two days, her oxygen levels plummeted, and she passed away. The shock hit me hard; I was consumed with the fear that I too might be infected and would meet the same fate as my grandmother. My anxiety skyrocketed. My hands shook, my mouth felt dry, and I had an incessant urge to drink water. My heart raced, feeling as though it would burst from my chest. These overwhelming feelings spiraled into insomnia, and for 15 consecutive days, I couldn’t find a moment of sleep.

After 20 to 25 days, my anxiety levels began to decrease slightly, but I still grappled with the fear of COVID. I convinced myself that if I hadn’t contracted the virus by now, I was in the clear. Yet, the insomnia persisted. I would lie in bed wide awake, and no matter how hard I tried, sleep eluded me.

In a desperate attempt to regain control, I tried everything I could think of—cardio workouts, an anxiety-relief diet, evening bananas, breathing exercises, morning yoga, and cutting out caffeine entirely. I took supplements like ashwagandha, lemongrass, and valerian root. I engaged in nighttime meditation, aromatherapy, and even massage therapy, but nothing seemed to help.

Feeling defeated, I reached out to doctors online who prescribed medication. My family advised against it, insisting it was all in my mind. But they couldn’t understand what I was going through. Only those who have suffered know the depths of such pain. I decided against taking medication and sought help from therapists instead. I attended sessions for 15 days, each costing around $100, yet still saw no improvement.

Each day felt like an uphill battle; I cried alone, feeling more isolated than ever. My diet dwindled to just one meal a day, exacerbating my anxiety. Frustrated, I stopped the therapy sessions, feeling like I was trapped in a cycle of despair. I reached out to 20 different doctors, both online and offline, but many dismissed my concerns, simply prescribing medication and scheduling follow-ups without really listening to my story.

Then, I found a doctor at AIIMS in Delhi. She listened intently to my struggles, comforting me with her empathy. With kindness, she recommended that I take medication temporarily to manage my anxiety and improve my sleep. I followed her advice and started on mirtazapine. To my astonishment, my anxiety began to ease, and I started to sleep again. It felt like I was the happiest person in the world.

However, my journey with medication continued for two years. I followed up with her monthly, and she monitored my progress closely. During those two years, my sleep would fluctuate, but I managed to maintain a routine of intense cardio. I pushed myself even when I was exhausted, fearing that if I didn’t, my sleep would suffer. Despite the pain, I believed that cardio was essential for my well-being.

After two years, my doctor suggested tapering off the medication. I began by taking half a tablet for one month, then halved it again, and eventually transitioned to taking no medication every other day. Sometimes it worked; sometimes it didn’t, but I persevered. One day, I decided to stop the medication altogether, and to my surprise, it worked. I was able to sleep without it, and I felt on top of the world.

I still avoided caffeine, as I knew it disturbed my sleep, and I refrained from screens after 9 PM. I maintained my cardio routine, pushing myself even through pain. But one day, I experienced such intense leg pain that I couldn’t even stand. Concerned about my body, I halted my cardio routine.

I consulted various doctors, each one conducting tests, only to tell me I had a spine problem. Deep down, I felt something was off. Then, a friend recommended a chiropractor. After reviewing my MRIs and test results, he diagnosed me with arthritis. I was taken aback—this diagnosis felt wrong to me. However, I decided to follow his dietary recommendations while remaining skeptical about the arthritis claim.

To my surprise, after adopting his suggested diet, my leg pain improved significantly. It was a revelation! Now, I continue to follow his advice for managing arthritis while keeping my mental health in check. I’m hopeful about my journey and eager to see how my body responds as I maintain this new lifestyle.