Ordinarily, I’m a sensible person – at least part-time. A journalist, an asker of questions, a checker of sources. Historically, a big fan of research.
But three years into a debilitating chronic illness, I am willing to try anything to get well. Even things that would have once made me roll my eyes. Chromotherapy, sound baths, mushroom extract. Reiki, leg compression boots, strategic humming.
If the devil (hopefully the Liz Hurley Bedazzled version) offered me full health in exchange for my soul, I would have a hard time saying no.
And so, I am an easy target. I have become a selectively gullible person – disillusioned with mainstream medicine, waiting for a cure, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of an infrared light panel wearing nothing but a pair of protective wraparound sunglasses and hoping for the best.
I contracted Covid-19 at a Harry Styles concert in June 2022. Three months later, I was diagnosed with post-Covid-19 syndrome, colloquially known as long Covid because, well, it does like to hang around.
Since then, I have sampled from the 200+ available symptoms, including but not limited to heart palpitations, gastrointestinal chaos, joint pain, the ability to feel my heartbeat in my arms, brain fog so bad I once forgot how to turn off the shower and the type of fatigue that regularly makes me Google “can you die from tiredness”. At times, a five-minute phone conversation has sent me to bed for days. I’d have to rest halfway up a small set of stairs. I’d answer a single email then slip into a sleep that felt much closer to a coma than a nap.
When things are that grim, the promises made by the wellness industry sound very, very appealing. An industry worth $6.3tn globally, with some of the most diabolically persuasive advocates available – celebrities, influencers, internet strangers, a friend’s sister’s boyfriend’s colleague who swears this one supplement made him better in a week. I shudder to think what my own contribution to that figure has been – and I will not be voluntarily doing maths to find out. I’ve been through enough.
Whenever someone recommends something new, I haven’t had it in me to ask “where’s the rigorous scientific proof of this thing’s efficacy?” when I’ve had “help me! I will do anything to feel well” playing inside my head on a loop for thousands of days. Sometimes this is fine, even great – there are many alternative things that really work for me – I love my acupuncturist! Somatic dance! Shiatsu!
Other times, it’s been more sinister.
During the screening call for a wellness program I now believe to be at best a pyramid scheme, at worst a cult, I was asked if I felt able to “put aside” my “critical thinking” before they signed me up. I practically begged them to let me.
Thankfully, one day into a dangerously stupid three-day initiation course designed by some guy called Paul or Peter or Ian, I saw it for what it was, sent an eviscerating email and received a full refund. I had found the limit of my wilful gullibility.
I found it again by accidentally taking part in a ceremony to commune with angels because it was advertised as a nice relaxing group meditation. And again, when my local gym offered a free rehabilitation program that went against all the prevailing advice on treating my condition but conveniently herded me towards a long-term membership.
These are times when suspending my scepticism has felt like a betrayal to myself, when I feel that I’ve been exploited. Now I feel extremely protective of other people like me, too sick to necessarily have the clarity of mind to tell the false promises of wellness culture from the legit.
What else? I’ve done 90-minute sessions lying in a sealed hyperbaric oxygen chamber, which felt somewhat like road-testing my own coffin.
A small, frighteningly positive man poked my spine and pulled my arms and pummelled my back while he bellowed things like “your immune system works perfectly”.
I’ve submerged myself in ice-cold bath tubs. Sweated in saunas. Let a man strike a drum balanced on my belly so the vibrations would stimulate my cells. Stirred mushroom powders into hot water for an alleged boost to my cognitive function. Prodded my collar bones, armpits and groin to drain my lymphatic system. Had my chakras realigned. Asked a psychic what to do. Drunk what must now be gallons of celery juice.
All of these things exist on a spectrum of efficacy and intentions – from a floret of kale to a full-blown cult. We will each have our own quota of what we are able to believe. On hard days, I still worry I’m too vulnerable and not discerning enough. On better days, I’m just grateful to have things to try.
Recently I’ve been going outside first thing, to ask the sun to set my circadian rhythm. I down a pint of water and electrolytes. Place a little device that looks like a high-end sex toy on my sternum to stimulate my vagus nerve. Stand on a vibration plate to move muscles that may otherwise atrophy after roughly 900 days of lying down. Dance aggressively to a Selena Gomez-heavy playlist to release trapped emotion from my body. Put my legs up a wall at every possible opportunity. And guzzle a handful of supplements, thinking to myself, at the very least, maybe I can have some placebo effect, as a little treat.
Do I think these things have helped? Yes.
Am I sure about that? No.
But what else can I do? There is no treatment protocol, no known cure for long Covid. Experts disagree on what it even is – tiny blood clots preventing oxygen from circulating my body properly? Mitochondrial dysfunction? Inflammation? An extreme histamine reaction? Dysautonomia?
So long as we know so little about something that affects my life so completely, there is always the possibility that something wacky could help.
Until there is an advance in medical science and evidence-based treatments, all I can do is hope. Hope, rest, stay hydrated and try my very best not to join a cult again.
