The accolades came in left and right, from people respect. It all fell on deaf ears. When the course finally went live, I did nothing to promote it. The project that had taken two years suddenly felt unbearable to touch—like a beautifully built aircraft abandoned on the runway (any chance I can get, I will use an aviation analogy). I told people it was “on the back burner,” but the truth was darker. Something inside me had gone numb. The steady rhythm of work became an escape and a trap, a slow burial under the sand of responsibility until breathing itself felt optional.

Is it Brain Fog or Depression: The Carousel of Doctors – Part I

It didn’t happen overnight. My sharpness dulled gradually, so subtly I could excuse it as middle age. But after months of checking with doctors and finding no answers, I started dreading every day. The fog felt like being fully awake yet submerged in pool of mental goo. My thoughts were scattered, the contents of a bag strewn about the pool. Everything was still there in the pool technically, I knew I had a great family, work that paid the bills, and friends, but it took enormous effort to wade across the goo to actually feel connected to any of these things. It became easier not to bother remembering what was in the bag in the first place.

To fight the fog, I doubled-down on fitness, and tripled-up on caffeine. Caring for my clients still took priority, but it took everything out of me. My mind seemed to be getting farther and farther away from me but all I could do was dose it with more caffeine, as if my problem was not being awake enough. It either had no effect on me whatsoever, or just made the brain fog worse.

First stop: nephrology. Maybe my hypertension meds were to blame. I arrived armed with NIH papers on Lisinopril and the scant evidence that it can have neuro-side effects. They humored me, switched prescriptions, ran tests. Nothing changed.

Next: rheumatology. Then cardiology. Dozens of blood draws, all clear. No lupus, no Lyme, no autoimmune culprit. One doctor said, “Your heart is unremarkable,” and I heard it as a pun. “Gee, thanks, Doc.

Meanwhile, I was getting worse. Perhaps it was a touch of hypochondriasis that led me to perceive that my lips tingled as if swollen. My thoughts were molasses, so I tried to avoid them. I found myself saying to my wife things like, “I don’t want to have a drink tonight but I guess I have to.” Write this down. If you ever say shit like that, it is time to turn yourself in. That’s some weak sauce.

The liquor cabinet in our house suddenly occupied an order of magnitude more real estate in my mind. It was like the long-lost brother to my brain fog—once paired up they began to feel inseparable. Fortunately, I am blessed with either the right genes or the fear in my soul of losing control, and I was able to speak to my wife about it and white-knuckle through it without boozes. But I can assure you that never in my life was alcohol so hard to resist.

But the fog stayed.

The Carousel of Doctors – Part II

Next came neurology—the visit I’d avoided. Over several weeks they ran cognitive tests, balance exams, brain scans. One day a technician who looked uncannily like Bob Ross attached electrodes to my body.

BOB ROSS: [in a happy whisper] I’m going to put this electrode on 16 different places on your body, one at a time, and pass current to it from the main lead on your toe.

ME: Current? Like electrical current?

BOB ROSS: Yes.

ME: Through my body?

TECHNICIAN: Yes.

ME: [Silence]

TECHNICAN: But if you have large fiber nerve damage you probably won’t feel anything.

After just the fifth consecutive jolt from Bob Ross sweat was beading down my forehead. I prayed for large fiber nerve damage. At least temporarily.

If you only remember one thing from my story, please remember this: getting unnecessary, invasive medical procedures because you’re in denial about depression is wacked. It’s also painful. I’m not even mentioning the upper endoscopy. Just go and see a good psychiatrist, for God’s sake. Ask for the good drugs. No kidding. I will get to this in detail in Part II of this story, so hang with me.

Everything came back normal. No MS, no tumors, no vitamin deficiency. But then came a simple tuning-fork test for peripheral nerve damage that is the worst possible match for a person like me who was acting like a hypochondriac. The doctor pressed the metal of the tuning fork stem to his finger and his finger under my toe.

“Tell me when the vibration stops,” he said.

I answered after a few seconds. He waited, and waited…and waited. Finally he said quietly, “Now it’s actually gone.”

The actual vibration lasted fifteen seconds longer than I felt it.

Something inside me dropped.

He took a pin next, dragging it along my foot and calf. I felt nothing until halfway up my leg. Same on both sides, and in my hands.

“Holy shit,” I said. “What’s going on?”

He called it small-fiber peripheral neuropathy—damage to the nerves that sense touch and pain. Invisible to the world, sometimes even to the person who has it.

There was no clear cause, and no real treatment. Despite other doctors overturning this finding (and debunking any link to cognitive/emotional affects), my mind grasped onto this as fresh evidence to help me avoid admitting I was depressed.