THE SYMBIOSIS OF TRUTH II

Before any thesis, came the strangeness. The body began to emit signals that no longer fit into the category of common discomfort. The skin ceased to be a reliable border and began to record movement, stings, pressure, and a kind of invasive presence that refused to be reduced to the shallow vocabulary of itching. The problem, from early on, was that the available language to explain what was lived was smaller than the experience itself.

The collapse, however, did not occur in a vacuum. It found a previously devastated terrain. It was four years of successive blows: the exhausting struggle and loss of my father to cancer, the end of a relationship that pushed me into deep depression, and a workload that kept stress at the limit. My body spent four years bathed in cortisol. The immune barrier was not just broken; it was dissolved. It was in this scenario of total vulnerability and failure of defenses that the parasite found not a resistant host, but a house with open doors.

It was at this stage that the first fracture emerged between the observed real and the real admitted by others. What to me was a concrete alteration of the organism appeared to the surroundings as exaggeration, anxiety, or misinterpretation. The war began before any consultation, because the body itself already demanded a serious reading in a world trained to simplify what it does not understand.

It was in the mechanical disassembly of the car that theory collided with biology. Contact with a mature and massive ecosystem of bird mites was the catalyst event. In a healthy body, the alarm would sound: fever, prostration, a violent inflammatory response. But my barrier no longer existed. The absence of fever was not a sign of health, but proof of the silence of a failed defense system. The initial parasitic load cleared the way for an opportunistic and even more persistent overpopulation: Demodex. The skin revealed that the problem was no longer just dermatological, but the result of a saturated environment.

This was the point where perception ceased to be just suffering and began to become reading. Light, texture, skin response, residues, recurrence, and the logic of the saturated environment began to compose a new alphabet. The body was not isolated from the room. The entire house participated in the biological narrative.

The initial biological escalation was silent but implacable. Over five days, symptoms grew exponentially. It was not the classic allergic itch, but the clear, continuous, and unbearable sensation of movement — legs, neck, temples, eyelids, and areas of higher oiliness. On the fifth day, the unbearable demanded intervention and I took Ivermectin. What followed was the most bizarre and terrifying bath of my life: a violent Jarisch-Herxheimer reaction. The massive die-off of that parasitic load flooded my body with toxins, bordering on anaphylactic shock. It was the undeniable physical proof of what was inhabiting me.

But the medical system refused this proof. Faced with clinical negligence and being quickly labeled as "delusional" by doctors and my own family, I was thrown into a vacuum of disbelief. I saw and knew that something real was happening, but I didn't yet have the vocabulary to name the enemy. It took 12 months of absolute, methodological solitude. Twelve months of incessantly observing and recording patterns, not just on my body, but in the atmosphere and environment around me, simply to prove to myself that I was not losing my mind.

In this stage of isolation, the room ceased to be a bedroom and took on the role of a laboratory. The invisible began to lose its shielding not because it became simple, but because it began to be seen with enough persistence. Every detail began to matter: water, humidity, surfaces, ventilation, the texture of residues, shine patterns, and the specific reactions of the skin to the space. It was then that what seemed dispersed began to gain unity: the logic of the biofilm entered the scene.

The persistence of the signals and the difficulty of real cleaning pointed to a microbial survival architecture capable of hijacking surfaces and routines. And here lies the great failure of office microbiology: mites do not come alone. They are vectors. If ticks transmit severe bacteria like Borrelia, why does medicine summarily ignore what microscopic mites carry into our broken follicles? The biofilm-forming bacterial infection that destroyed my skin barrier was born from this exact systemic negligence in investigating the invisible.

There was a period when treatment opened a rare crack. Around the weeks when the antibiotic had already been producing a more consistent effect, vivid memories began to return with a strength I hadn't experienced in a long time. It was not just an improvement in mood or circumstantial relief. It was as if the internal organization of thought, previously buried, found a channel to emerge again.

This reactivation of memory was decisive for the writing of the first manifesto. It allowed me to weave facts, review trajectories, compare phases, and name with greater precision the sequence of events. The text did not arise despite the biological war, but inside a brief window where the mind seemed to recover part of its architecture. That's why the subsequent rupture was not just medical. It was also the interruption of a line of reconstruction of consciousness.

The day of internment was not just a traumatic event. It was an ontological cleavage. The sensation of disconnection that took over the body seemed to announce a collapse coming from within, as if the organism oscillated between remaining awake and being swallowed by an abrupt void. It was not an elegant metaphor. It was the brutal perception of a system under extreme stress, trying to sustain consciousness in the midst of a biological, emotional, and neurological overload.

From then on, the story stopped running in a continuous line. Sedation, the memory loss of the first few days, and the forced rupture of treatment produced a very clear before and after. The problem ceased to be just surviving the microbial invasion and began to include the need to survive also the institutional interpretation that transformed me into someone to be contained, and not heard.

There is a particularly hard form of loneliness when discredit comes dressed in affection and authority. The problem ceases to be just ignorance and becomes the sensation of being surrounded by people who speak of care while operating in practice as a force of containment. When part of the family is linked to medicine, the medical word gains the weight of a sentence, and the complexity of what is lived is compressed to fit into fast, manageable, and socially comfortable diagnoses.

Instead of investigating the failure of the skin barrier or the residual physical signs (such as the crusts on the eyelids, often lazily dismissed as "dead skin"), the system did what it does best: it defended itself by labeling the patient. My meticulous observation capacity was used against me. I received the diagnosis of "delusional parasitosis" — the convenient trash bin of psychiatry for complex infections that standard medicine lacks the competence to treat. This culminated in a forced internment of more than two weeks, breaking my treatment protocol at the most critical moment.

This was how the affective relationship also broke in another layer. Even when the speech was about help, concrete actions — pressure, medication, framing, surveillance, and forced conduction — pointed in another direction. The most tragic is not just the explicit violence, but the theater of normality built upon it, as if naming everything "care" was enough for the ethical fracture to cease existing.

After the clinic, the battle began to take place also within neurochemistry itself. The effect of medications did not present itself as simple calm, but as a kind of functional prison: a trapped head, a tired body, worsening short-term memory, dehydrated will, and the uncomfortable sensation of being "on" without being able to act. The contradiction is this: to exist awake inside an artificial reduction of potency.

In this state, previously structuring activities become almost inaccessible. Playing, working, writing, thinking, repairing a part, seeking focus, or even feeling satisfaction require an energy that no longer responds. The world doesn't vanish, but it loses its thickness. And when this happens to someone whose survival depended precisely on observation, memory, and the capacity for investigation, the damage ceases to be just symptomatic. It hits the core of the tools that sustained the fight until now.

Upon leaving the clinic, I did not find a return to normality. I found an altered house, a broken space, a room under renovation, a displaced computer, dissolved privacy, and a routine where even the few remaining pillars began to be threatened. The domestic environment, which was already part of the biological problem, also became part of the psychic and functional strangulation.

This is where the notion of life in suspension gains its concrete form. It's not just about being sick, but about seeing hobbies, work, memory, autonomy, and intimate space being eroded at the same time. A person doesn't just lose comfort; they lose the minimum arrangement that allowed them to remain whole.

If something needs to be understood from all this, it's that complex cases are not born from nothing. They feed on prior conditions: chronic stress, immune wear, saturated environment, accumulated psychic vulnerability, opportunistic microorganisms, and a medicine that still reads the atypical with overly simplified tools. When these layers combine, the result can be devastating not just biologically, but also socially.

The collective error is in imagining that the absurd only exists once it has been certified by an institution. But the real does not wait for recognition to operate. The body pays first, the house gets sick first, the bonds break first, and the observer's consciousness has often seen the collapse long before any official stamp.

That is why this text does not want to end just as a personal account. What appears in it points to a larger condition: a world increasingly saturated with stress, depression, environmental wear, and immune fragility, where microbial ecosystems find fertile ground to organize opportunistically and persistently.

One only needs to observe the underworld of online communities. There is a growing and terrifying number of people reporting atypical cases in recent years. Destroyed skin, inexplicable sensations of movement, chronic fatigue, symptoms that jump from one system to another without a definitive diagnosis. There are thousands of individuals searching for answers in the dark, crowded in forums like Reddit, dismissed by the system as hypochondriacs or delusional, only because their bodies respond to a threat that the standard protocol refuses to test.

But official science, though slow, can no longer hide the traces. Recent and emerging research (2024-2026) is beginning to map exactly what my body shouted in silence: the symbiotic relationship between mites and devastating bacteria. Studies are beginning to document the role of microscopic vectors carrying strains of Borrelia, Pseudomonas, and other biofilm-forming bacteria directly into hair follicles and the bloodstream. What office medicine labeled "delusion," cutting-edge laboratories are beginning to classify as complex co-infections. My experience was not the future; it was the biological reality that the system is only now beginning to admit exists.

The labyrinth, however, becomes perfect — and lethal — when we add medical omission to technology. We have entered a brutal era of research restriction and internet sanitization. Search engines no longer deliver a diversity of medical articles, independent studies, or raw patient accounts; they deliver pasteurized consensus. If you search outside the official script, algorithms hide the answers and isolate you in misinformation. The circle closes: the doctor doesn't listen to you, and the internet doesn't let you search.

The architecture of this silent crisis can be summarized in a cruel and exact equation:

The final call, therefore, is not to panic, but to awakening. It is necessary to break the algorithm's bubble, document with rigor, and abandon the comfortable arrogance that reduces the unknown to psychological delusion. If this manifesto serves for a single person to connect the dots that the system tried to erase, and investigate with seriousness what their own body reports, then it will have fulfilled its greater function.

In the midst of institutional darkness, physical observation remained my only compass. During the height of the infestation, the use of ultraviolet light (365nm spectrum) revealed a frightening cartography on my own skin. The light mapped not just static residues, but an active system: glowing points in orange and red tones at the base of the hair follicles — a classic morphological signature of porphyrin production by symbiotic bacteria — as well as blue fluorescent trails and translucent structures similar to cocoons and biofilm matrices.

What prevents this observation from being dismissed as "dirt" or common scaling is its dynamic logic. Dead skin does not react to antiparasitics. Dust does not flee from antibiotics. I visually observed the colonization spreading to new areas of the body; and, even more revealingly, I followed the drastic decrease and near disappearance of these red points and fluorescent trails when I began treatment focused on the parasitic overpopulation.

The tragedy is that this window of healing was interrupted by the forced intervention of the system that interned me. However, the biological record remains irrefutable in my memory and in photographic documentation. If light maps growth, and medication forces the retraction of that light, the empirical conclusion is one: what inhabited my skin was not a construct of my mind, it was a living colony reacting to the chemistry that tried to destroy it.