Four years ago I wrote myself a letter. A strange thing to do, you might think. But at the time I was desperate. My health was in dire straits and, aged just 27, I was living a half-life.
Profound migraines left me trapped in my bed for days. I had terrible irritable bowel syndrome (IBS) – swinging between constipation and diarrhoea – and I was so bloated I often had to wear trousers two sizes bigger than my usual.
I'd also been afflicted by pneumonia, asthma, rosacea, unexplained skin rashes all over my body, chronic sinusitis and tonsillitis (the latter so bad that for 15 straight months, between the ages of 18 and 21, I was prescribed antibiotics every single month, which inevitably played havoc with my gut).
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