Brain Buffering...

Tap Tap… is this brain on?

Recently, I was diagnosed with histamine intolerance—because, clearly, my medical bingo card wasn’t full enough.

I’d vaguely heard of it a few years ago while spiraling down the rabbit hole of B6 and B12 deficiencies, but I didn’t pay it much attention.

Now? It’s got my full, foggy attention.

One of the hallmark symptoms?

Brain fog.

Oh, fabulous. Just what I needed—another haze to layer on top of menopause fog, grief fog, and the delightful post-TIA neuropathy fog. At this point, I should be charging rent for all this mental condensation.

And I want to write. The stories are there—just out of reach. I catch glimpses.

Snippets.

Like fireflies blinking in a jar I can’t quite open.

So I wait.

Wait for the fog to lift just enough to catch one, pin it to the page, and pray it doesn’t fade before I hit “save.”

I've been living in this cerebral soup since my TIA event. Then came the meds.

Then grief.

Then menopause.

And now histamine.

Honestly, I’m one diagnosis away from being declared a full-blown medical mystery on an NPR podcast.

I’m on antihistamine therapy, and it’s helping—but the mornings are still brutal. That’s when the fog rolls in thickest, right when I want to be at my most productive.

Guess what, I’m not.

I sit at my desk, determined to write, and my brain’s like, “Hmm. No.”

Everywhere I turn, I see wellness advice like, “Wake up at 4 AM, do a cold plunge, journal in Sanskrit, weight lift, journal, eat like a monk, and your life will change!”

My body’s like, “That’s cute. Try again later.”

So here I am—pivoting, processing, adapting daily.

I am determined to finish my manuscript by the end of summer. But if it spills over into next year? I won’t shame myself for that. What matters is that I finish.

And I will.

I’ve already shredded entire chapters, reworked dialogue, and rewritten the same scene three times because brain fog makes me forget I already wrote it.

Thank God for voice transcription apps—on the days when my fingers don’t cooperate and holding anything feels like gripping sand.

Yes, I have memory issues.

Yes, descriptions sometimes float away mid-sentence.

Yes, writing can feel like trying to herd feral cats.

But I’m still here. Still writing. Still stubborn as hell.

Sometimes, I repeat myself—memories, moments, Substack rambles—because repetition helps me remember.

I know it is probably annoying for those listening.

But it anchors me.

Especially when parts of my brain feel like a chalkboard someone partially erased.

The morning the TIA hit, it came out of nowhere—like getting sideswiped by a freight train.

I remember fragments.

Not all.

I was able to tell Logan to get Phil. I told him I thought I was having a stroke.

After that?

Nada.

Fragments of riding in the ambulance.

Flashes of being in the CT machine.

The neurologist saying words.

Failing the stroke test.

That scares me the most—not knowing what I lost.

Afterward, there’s a six-month gap that’s just… gone.

Like someone took an eraser to part of my life and didn’t bother to warn me. I look at photos and think, Was I even there?

I know I had conversations with my parents and with my grandpa.

Precious, fleeting words.

And I can’t recall them.

That kind of loss aches in a place painkillers can’t touch.

Phil told me later that when he called my parents, my mom screamed, “We have to get to South Carolina now!” My dad told her to wait and see. Phil cried while telling his mom he was terrified I’d die—or never remember him again.

I was aware.

But trapped.

Inside a body that wouldn’t cooperate.

And that helplessness?

That’s what haunts me. Not the pain. Not the endless tests.

But the fact that I couldn’t stop the ripple effect hitting everyone I love like a sledgehammer.

So now, I soak in every damn moment like it’s holy. Because it is.

I write. I remember. I put words on paper not just to tell stories, but to reclaim the ones I lost.

Four years ago, I could barely walk.

My mouth drooped.

I was terrified to leave the house because of how my face looked.

And yet—here I am.

Still healing. Still writing. Still stubbornly alive.

Midlife has been a wild ride—equal parts dumpster fire and sacred rebirth.

And no, I’m not done.

Not even close.