My whole life I have struggled with keeping on weight. I would always feel hunger intensely and when I would scramble for food, I would find moments later I would lose interest and leave where I lay this 70% full portion. I must eat a quarter of what normal Americans do, at that rate. It’s tough. It’s tough not because I do not want it but because anxiety claims my body. It makes the heart flutter uncontrollably and the brow furrow in strained musculature. It takes me so far from the reality I fight to reclaim.
Tonight, I have not had an easy time circling the bed. I could barely sit still without wanting to cry or puke. Last night was a similar story. I have been off my anxiety and depression meds a few months strong now. And combined with a full plate of labor before me, I have felt myself more likely circling the drain. I have slowly been losing ground and the simplest tasks have now become frustratingly impossible. This anxiety I have ridden to bad places. It has convinced me I’m dying, because it really does take a toll. I have never been more than 110 pounds in weight. I would wager I’m slimmer than 99 at this point. If my father’s concern for my lost presence is to be warranted. I am not too far gone, though. I see what is happening with great clarity even with such tired eyes.
I needed the medication. I never wanted to need it, and I convinced myself I did not. But for the time being, my life is too hectic to not have the extra support. I can’t afford to lose any more ground to the menace of the mind. So I fight back. I fight with drugs that counteract the poor wiring up top. I fight because I have to.
A lot of things can kill you in this world. To suspect the body attacking itself is a worse nightmare. But it claims a silent victim no longer. At least for me. And tonight I sleep.