The dizzy spells should have been the first warning.
A year after launching my debut novel, I was vaccinated, caffeinated and hard at work on my second book. By age thirty, I'd achieved almost every goal I'd set for myself in my teens: I was self-employed, lived alone, had cash in the bank. Hollywood was (literally) calling. I worked out five days a week. I ate organic. I was doing everything right.
Yet every few weeks I found myself muddled with bouts of dizziness that took minutes, then hours, to clear. More troubling, they were soon joined by bouts of confusion and brain fog that made routine tasks like emptying the dishwasher or folding laundry into endless, labyrinthine time-sinks. Some days I woke up so tired I could barely get out of bed.
