When I left the hospital, the joy of reuniting with my cats and being back home gave me full confidence that I’d recover quickly. We immediately set up physical therapy, occupational therapy, and speech therapy. After a few days of enjoying home again, I began an intense 6-day-a-week therapy schedule.
I was mobile with a wheelchair, my articulation was terrible (no one could really understand me), and my hands were still trembling. But in just a month, there was visible progress: I started walking with a walker, my speech became more understandable, and although my hands were still shaky, there was slight improvement. Still, my tremor made basic daily tasks—eating, showering, brushing teeth—extremely difficult. I needed help for almost everything, and it devastated me. I had constant mini breakdowns.
In mid-June, I took my first real step. It just happened—suddenly. And right after that step, my physical therapist and I cried together. I don’t even know how it happened. Some kind of strength inside me carried me forward… and then disappeared again.
My speech therapy was going well—my speech was clearer and my voice had grown a bit deeper.
My hands also began improving. I could finally do some daily activities on my own.
At the same time, I was in psychotherapy. Since there were no physical findings, they believed what I had was purely psychological. Two doctors followed my case, but after a month, I lost faith in them and began looking for a new therapist. The new one also believed it was psychological. She suggested electrical stimulation therapy. I agreed, but it hurt me in an unexpectedly intense way. I lost hope again—and once more, began looking for another therapist.
Meanwhile, I started using a cane, and my speech improved. I was still doing therapy six days a week. My entire life revolved around recovery. And I was filled with rage—rage at having spent my 29th year this way.
The worst part? Everyone—everyone—thought my mind was broken. But then why was I showing signs of recovery, even if rare? I finally got an answer from a new therapist: she didn’t believe it was only psychological.
“You went through something physical,” she said. “Yes, your mind can make things better or worse, but that doesn’t mean it all started in your head.”
She didn’t think I was delusional—and that brought me incredible relief.
Some days my balance is great. I walk better. The next day, I’m wobbly again. It’s a vicious cycle—if I have one good day, I’ll probably have five bad ones… or a whole bad month. No one can explain why.
Now, people can understand my speech. I speak a bit faster. But my voice never came back fully. Rarely, I catch a glimpse of my real voice.
My hands? Good one day, worse the next. It felt like nothing I did made a difference. At one point, I gave up on hand therapy. Of course, things got worse, so I went back to it.
In the middle of this endless loop, I felt something was off. More than that, I needed to know the truth. They’d told me I’d recover in 1 to 6 months after hospital discharge. But it had been 8 months…
I was still walking with a cane, still had dysarthria, still trembled.
So I started looking for a new neurologist and reached a well-known specialist. He said he wanted to admit me for further testing. Before the year ended, I was hospitalized again in December.
That’s when I learned:
I had ataxia.
There was cerebellar atrophy in my brain.
They suspected FND (functional neurological disorder) * as well.
Doctor said: “You’ve had ataxia. Continue your balance therapy. Psychiatry will follow you from here.”
Later, I met with an FND specialist who told me FND was highly likely in my case.
They recommended Jon Stone’s website.
When I explored it, I was shocked — my symptoms (loss of balance, dysarthria, hand tremor, swallowing difficulty) matched FND almost exactly.
That realization scared me deeply. Because even though FND can be treated, it can be triggered again in the future.
The idea of never fully escaping this disorder sent me straight to psychiatry.
According to the psychiatrists, here’s what likely happened:
I experienced both ataxia and lithium intoxication (my lithium level was elevated during the acute episode — which I only learned about much later).
That combination may have triggered the onset of FND.
They immediately discontinued lithium and prescribed new medications. Because if I kept taking it, the atrophy could worsen. They emphasized the importance of regular psychiatric follow-ups from now on.
***
So yes—they should’ve stopped the lithium from the start. But instead, they continued it. I was taking 900 mg daily. Once they stopped it, I felt a real change:
My balance improved.
I could hear my real voice again—clearly.
I was angry. Angry because I’d been mistreated for months. Because they didn’t stop the lithium. Because they insisted it was all in my head.
But the MRI scans were there, plain as day—showing cerebellar atrophy.
I entered the new year filled with the same hopes, but also with a deep, burning anger.
*You can think of Functional Neurological Disorder (FND) with a simple analogy:
Imagine your brain is a computer — its hardware is structurally intact.
Now, the software, which represents your brain’s neurological processes, starts to malfunction.
Even though the hardware is perfectly fine, if the software glitches, things don’t work as they should.
That’s what FND is: the brain appears physically healthy, but its functions — balance, movement, speech — are disrupted.
Symptoms can vary widely and include balance issues, movement disorders, muscle weakness, speech problems, tremor, migraines, and more — all under the FND umbrella.
Triggers for FND may include:
- A history of trauma
- Intense stress
- Anxiety or depression
- Genetic predisposition
- Feverish illnesses
One of the leading experts in this field is Professor Jon Stone from the University of Edinburgh. He shares all his research on FND at https://neurosymptoms.org.
