A panic that sweeps through your system, pulsing through your veins, moving ever so slowly and all too fast. A panic that stops in your lungs and makes your breathing hollow. You are soaking wet, it is three o’clock in the morning. Time no longer exists. A minute is an hour. You know you are breathing because you are alive, but it feels like you are dying. Every inhale dissipates before your body can grasp the oxygen. Your heart skips a beat. Again, and yet again. Crocodile tears–big, whole tumultuous tears–escape from your tear ducts. Your body is in disarray.  

Just breathe, you tell yourself. You’re not dying. It’s not convincing enough, synapses are not properly connecting. 

All of this because you are trying to overcome an overwhelming fear of gaining weight. It is embedded in your ego: your dreams are nightmares and even when you have successfully tuned out the fury, it presents in your sleep. 

No one can help you. You have to help yourself. 

 

 

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