My Story

Thousands upon thousands of bird mites lived under my skin for the better part of a year—and I’m still standing.
If you’re suffering and searching for answers, don’t lose faith. There are answers. I can and will help you find them.
My name is Soteria, and here is my story.

It started innocently enough: I opened my bedroom window in March of 2020. A few sharp pinpricks hit my side. I assumed it was no-see-ums and closed the window. The next day, the same thing. By day three, something was clearly wrong.

I sprayed the window screen with Home Defense. It didn’t help. Every day, more invisible attackers came.

Then one night, everything changed.
Microscopic bugs began crawling all over my body—legs, scalp, ears, nostrils, eyes. A living nightmare. My best friend, who lived with me, felt nothing.

I called an exterminator. He barely listened.

“The mind plays crazy tricks on people,” he said with a shrug.

It wasn’t in my mind. That night, the crawling intensified. Each night after, worse. I couldn’t sleep. I started sleeping in my car. I was terrified. Confused. Alone.

Searching online, I found one lonely site: birdmites dot org. No real help, but it confirmed I wasn’t the only one.

I begged the exterminator to return and spray something stronger.
That’s when the parasites went berserk.
I had become the only non-toxic living being in the house, and they turned on me with a vengeance.

They multiplied faster than I could cope. I fled. Said goodbye to my best friend and drove six hours to stay with another family.

The family tried to help. But I could tell—they were losing hope. I feared I’d be committed. I was crawling with invisible tormentors, and no one believed me.

I was breaking.
Alcohol. Peroxide. Any chemical I could find—I tried it. Nothing helped. My skin became raw.
I stopped sleeping. I stopped eating. I stopped being human.
I was just a host.

Nighttime was the worst.
Between 9 p.m. and 4 a.m., the attacks peaked. Pinpricks, swarms in my eyes, nose, ears. Crawling, crawling, crawling.

COVID meant hospitals weren’t seeing non-emergency patients—and I didn’t want to infest a hospital anyway.
I called a telehealth doctor.

“Sounds like delusional parasitosis,” he said.

I begged. Pleaded. Tried to explain that I was sane.
He told me to see a psychiatrist.

In a panic, I called a friend. Miraculously, she had once survived an atypical scabies infestation.

“Lie,” she said. “Say you were exposed to scabies at an Airbnb. Get the meds.”

So I did. The doctor reluctantly prescribed a single tube of permethrin.

That night, I coated my entire body.
The parasites retaliated.
They swarmed to any untreated patch of skin—bottoms of feet, small of back, ears. Piercing me with a thousand invisible needles. I passed out from exhaustion and woke up screaming.

The next morning, my face sagged from the weight of mites crawling beneath the surface. I could barely see. My skin burned from the permethrin. It felt like they were writhing beneath my flesh, furious at the poison.

Someone suggested oatmeal for relief. It helped—for 48 hours. Then they came back.
I learned later: permethrin is nearly useless long-term. It’s a slow poison, and repeated use is dangerous.

I spiraled.
No sleep. No break from the crawling.
I thought of ending my life. I was being tortured around the clock—and no one believed me.

Until one day, everything shifted.
Someone in the house looked at me and said:

“I can feel them crawling on me, too.”

I wasn’t alone anymore.

Soon, all three household members were affected.
Strength in numbers. Doctors began listening—though still unsure how to help.

We found a dermatologist who believed us but could only offer ivermectin, dosed by weight. It did nothing.

Then we noticed something: the sicker you were, the worse the attacks.
I was the “nest”—the main host—and suffered most.
Another member had underlying health issues that flared with the attacks. The healthiest among us had the mildest symptoms.

Eventually, visible signs appeared:
Tiny red papules. Pin-sized holes. Yellow-centered sores. Microscopic scratches.
The dermatologist took samples—but refused to identify the larvae-like substance I brought in.

The suffering continued—unseen, but real.
I’m telling you all of this not to scare you but because:

You’re not imagining things.
If this is happening to you, I see you. I believe you. And I will fight with you to uncover the answers no one else is willing to find.

I was unaware of how sick my body truly was—until the mites exposed it. What seemed like a skin issue was really a clue. A signal. A symptom of deeper dysfunction.

I’ve lived through the fire. I’ve clawed my way back from the edge of losing everything—my body, my sanity, my hope.

There is a way through.
There is healing.
You are not alone.

Welcome to Operation Soteria—a place for the unheard, the misdiagnosed, and the dismissed.
Let’s rise.