Was I Cursed in Salem, MA?
My chronic illness origin story
In October 2023, I went to Salem, Massachusetts for spooky vibes, fall leaves, and overpriced cider. What I got instead was a full-blown medical mystery and the beginning of a new chapter in my life — one that included acronyms like POTS and MCAS, and the realization that I might actually be allergic to existing.
Here’s how it went down…
My husband and I were exploring Salem the weekend before Halloween. We were doing the typical witchy-tourist thing — you know, browsing metaphysical shops, trying to spot ghosts, scouting Hocus Pocus locations. We stopped at the Hawthorne Hotel (to use the restroom) and there is little stand offering warm apple cider. I had a small sip. That’s it.
Not long after, I started feeling off.
Not in a "seasonal cold" kind of way. More like: I’m nauseous, my hands are shaking, and my legs are made of Jell-O. I tell my husband I don’t think I can make it to the walking tour we’d booked. I say, “I think I need a doctor,” and I mean it. This is not normal.
We look for urgent care. I can barely walk. I’m dizzy, I feel like I might pass out. My stomach is in full rebellion. We find a place, and I wobble in like a Victorian child with consumption. The nurse asks if I have diabetes. I don’t — at least not that I know of. They try to give me juice. I say no thanks and promptly throw up instead.
Eventually, we decide to go to the ER. In the car, I pass out. When I come to, I feel like I’ve been hit by a train full of existential dread and apple-based regret. At the ER, they run tests: heart, blood sugar, blood pressure. My BP is 160/95 and my heart is trying to break the sound barrier. Everything else? "Normal."
So they send me to the waiting room. For six hours.
While waiting, I continue vomiting. I also have diarrhea because why not. I ask for anti-nausea meds. I beg for an IV. I eventually get both. At 3 AM, they call me back, say it might’ve been food poisoning, and discharge me like I haven’t just spent the night having a medical exorcism.
We go back to the hotel. I crash. I wake up better — sort of. I still look like hell. Puffy eyes, pale skin, that special glow you get after purging your insides in a Massachusetts hospital bathroom. I sleep through most of the next day. We make it to Boston, but I skip our walking tour and nap in the car while my husband visits a church. I barely manage dinner.
I chalk it up to some bizarre flu or food mishap. But deep down, I know it wasn’t that. This felt like my body had been trying to tell me something — and I hadn’t been listening.
Months later, I start journaling every weird symptom I’ve ever had
The nausea, the bloating, the anxiety, the flushing, the fatigue, the way my limbs forget how to be limbs. I take it to my mom’s rheumatologist, thinking maybe I have Lupus or fibromyalgia or one of those autoimmune mysteries you need a whiteboard to track.
She doesn’t find anything obvious. But she writes down four letters: P-O-T-S.
I Google. My jaw drops. Every symptom fits.
And that rabbit hole leads me to another acronym: MCAS.
At first, I’m relieved I don’t have it. MCAS sounds intense. Unrelatable. A little too much. I push it aside. I focus on managing POTS, learning about hypermobility, ADHD, Raynaud’s. All the fun bonus conditions you unlock like chronic illness Pokémon.
Eventually, I find a doctor who knows what the hell she’s doing. She recognizes the patterns. She believes me. She tells me: it’s POTS and MCAS. And probably EDS, too.
She gives me tools. Medications. Explanations. Hope.
And now I’m here — functioning again. Learning to live with a body that’s sensitive to everything from temperature shifts to my own feelings. And building something called BodySoulCode™ to help other people who’ve been gaslit, dismissed, or stuck in the diagnostic void.
In some ways, my body was falling apart — but my soul was finally waking up. I couldn’t ignore it anymore. It wasn’t just a breakdown. It was a summons. A call to stop blaming myself and start listening differently. And once I did, I realized healing isn’t about going back to who I was — it’s about becoming someone who actually hears herself now.
So was I cursed in Salem?
No. But I did leave initiated.
And honestly, same difference.
