Hershey- Not the kisses

Hey guys!

It’s been a while. Life has continued, the dog and I are still getting settled, and not sure where I left off on the blog.

So, I think I officially have a boyfriend, he is super great, super supportive. Also good looking. We talked about ED, figured I’d give him time to jump off the crazy train, but he hasn’t. We will go out to eat, he has spent the night. I really like him. He went to Florida this week, but will be home soon.

I found an ED support group and have been going to that once a week. Life has been great, my eating- not so much. After going to the group a few times, and enjoying it, I checked in with a few people, and didn’t think the group was enough support and accountability for where I am. My restricting got worse, my purging became the worst it has been in a long, long time.

So, with a loving push, I made an appointment at the Hershey Penn State ED facility. I wore my heaviest boots, three shirts and a hoodie, and walked into the office. We talked for a while about the usual introductory stuff, my family, my eating disorder, the behaviors, treatment, etc. She thought I needed to stop running and eat “at least add a tiny bit more…”, stop taking the diet pills. You have othostatic hypotension….. yeah, that was fun.

I finally thought I was about done. ED was still sitting in the front of my mind reminding me of how fat I was, how I didn’t, and shouldn’t, be here. The doctor turned to me, handed me a gown and asked me to change for a blind weight.

Ah, FUCK. Nobody said anything about a gown.

So, did that.

I was expecting some kind of nice rejection speech, “You don’t fit the criteria.” “I am sorry, but…” Anything that would reinforce the fact that I’m not sick nor skinny.

“Just curious, what was your lowest.” Uhh, I don’t know, probably between xxx and xyz.

“Ok, well you are sitting at xxx right now.  I don’t think outpatient will be enough. I’d strongly suggest PHP.”

Oh hell no, I thought. I don’t have time for that shit. I moved to PA to start a life and career, not go back into treatment.

I explained that my work schedule would not allow that.

“Well, I think IOP would be a good start. They have dinner together, group….”


Sorry guys, I’m getting bored and stressed writing about this…. I start IOP tomorrow.

On my fun-o-meter, IOP is sitting somewhere between Dentist and Gynecologist….

Besides ED, my life is great. Support group, making friends, boyfriend. I feel kinda useless at work still, but I love being a BioChemist…. Dang, so nerdy. Love it.



Trust the Process!!


“Skinny as a rail” ED and the workplace

This is usually the part where I enter my journal entry from last year.
Talk about how difficult treatment was, how I wasn’t sick, didn’t deserve recovery.
                            More stories about wanting to run,
                                                       wanting to be thin,
                                                                            and more Ensure.
In my entry I wrote about how another resident was practically bragging about how sick she was, and how I had never really been sick.
I don’t remember much. I remember storming out, sitting on top of the shed, and smoking a cigarette (even though I don’t smoke). My friend climbed onto the shed with me and that’s all I really remember.

That had always been  is one of my biggest fears, being reassured I was fine, not sick, or too fat to have an ED.

So, anyway. Currently, I have moved. I am an Associate Scientist in Biochemistry.

It is so much work and training and preparation.

I am so excited I am finally back on a somewhat regular schedule again.

Unfortunately though,

I am probably only eating twice a day….. maybe.

Part of it is deliberate, wanting to restrict, or not wanting to be the only one eating in the room.  Another part is that I am just busy (which I use to my advantage).

I haven’t been taking a lunch break, but they don’t want us going over 40 hours.

So, a conversation after the lab went something like this:

#1 to #2 and I: “Yeah, that way you can take lunch and stuff some food in your face.”

Me: “For sure, that is important.”

#1: “Look at you, you must not think it is. You’re skinny as a rail.”

#2: “Oh my God, I know! Look at her!”

ED wasn’t impressed, or thankful. I wasn’t thrilled someone told me I was skinny. My first reaction was frustration.

Of course they don’t know, how could they, it isn’t their fault.

I didn’t know what to say. Do I say thank you? Do I walk away?

#1 went on and on about how when I get older I will get fat, but I am so tiny right now, it wouldn’t stop. So, as we were walking out I said, “Yeah, well, I am a recovering anorexic who spent months in treatment.”

I was so pissed at myself for even saying that. It was none of her damn business. I am new to this job. What the Fuck did I do??!!?!

I think though, I am just so frustrated because I see myself as very fat. I wish I could see myself as others see me, but I don’t. That is the most bothersome thing.



Wow, guys. This post is going to be short. But since Thanksgiving, I’ve been put in residential treatment. Met some wonderful people, had to have my meal plan brought down.
I came to placate everyone and hush the doctors, my friends, etc. My oh shit moment was involuntarily throwing up daily, having to have my meal plan lowered, and realizing that I do need to be here. It has been a crazy few weeks.
I didn’t go home for Christmas because the clinical staff didn’t think it was a good idea. I’m still so conflicted, but overall I’m glad I’m here.
Weigh in is Monday and Thursday. Eating 6x a day, no exercise approval, too many ensures to count. Therapists, art, yoga, grocery shopping, having to check in my razor.
I’m not where I want to be, but I’m sure not where I was.

“We don’t want you cheating.”

After being fed “hospitalization” “heart rate” more doctors, etc. I was slightly concerned about my heart, or maybe just more concerned that I was being threatened with the hospital. I called my grandma who told me she blames my mom, which isn’t helpful at all. I txted mom the next morning just saying, “Grandma told me she blames you for my struggle with food. It has nothing to do with you, and I’m just not sure if you want to be involved in whats going on or not. I know you have a lot going on.”  She told me that she did want to know, so I sent her a couple texts about my heart, inpatient, and S had told me yesterday, “It is starting to boil down to two options, involuntarily hospitalized, or voluntarily go into treatment.”

I called the treatment place back, I called mom, grandma, even my step dad. I was shocked at the different responses. Everything from:

Grandma: “This is going to be great, I bet you are so excited.” “I get to see you for Christmas.”

Mom: “This isn’t a vacation for you, I am so sorry.”

Step dad: “Go have a fucking beer, smoke some dope and relax.”

It honestly reminded me of the book Purge, My mom, of course was trying to bring it back to her, how SHE should have caught it sooner, how she is so sorry. My step dad doesn’t wanna spend the money (hell, I don’t blame him) but said, “Well, try and see what they will have you doing so you can get out of there sooner.”

I know my grandma was trying to be supportive, but telling me to “get excited” is such a stretch. This was not how I anticipated my Senior year of college, and my Christmas break going. So, I called the place back, she was super nice, funny. Looks like December 7th, I am checking into treatment……

So, next step was getting the paper work done from my other doctor, not the one on campus, my GP, that I was cleared and stable to go. The nurse, who also knows me by name, squeezed me in for the next day, which I was very appreciative of. I fly out on Tuesday and will be gone, to come back and go to inpatient. As I sat there I decided that since she was nice enough to squeeze me in I would make her life a little easier and not put up a fuss when she wants to weigh me. So, I waited for my name to be called as my plan of being sneaky was being put into play. “Yeah, I won’t put up a fuss,” I thought to myself, “so, maybe she won’t notice when I get on the scale with all of my stuff.”

The nurse called my name, I gathered my purse, coffee, and book and followed her. “You know what we have to do.” without any hesitation I said, “Yes, ma’am.” and turned around to step on the scale backwards. She stopped me, “Woah, wait a second, don’t you want to hand me some of that stuff.” she grabbed my book and coffee and gestured for my purse. “We don’t want you cheating.”  Well Damn.

After that was done, Dr. M came in shortly after, she is sassy and brutally honest as well. She came in and said, “So, how have you been since the last time? Anything new? Besides still losing MORE weight.” She said that in a matter of fact tone. I had gotten a glimpse of my chart before then and realized it had gone down. I handed her the paperwork, she looked at it wondering what it was. I explained it was paperwork for inpatient treatment. “Inpatient treatment…for the anorexia?”  “Yeah.” “Awesome! I’m so glad to hear this. This is great. I’m glad you are doing this.”

I asked her about the antidepressants, she also agreed that it could be helpful and that she didn’t have or see any problem with me taking them. She went through the routine questions and asked about the usual, getting her little snarky jabs in when possible. She asked if I had a fever or chills, I answered, “I am always cold.” “Well yeah, you have no body fat.”  “Sore throat, vomiting?” I looked at her… and she answered her own question…”Oh, yeah.” She had me get on the table, I stood up and she held out her hand so I wouldn’t fall. Looking back I feel like an old lady who had to be helped up. At the time I was just fixating on “Up, step, step, sit.”

She began to fill out the paperwork, less than thrilled I had lost more weight, but relieved that I was looking into inpatient. Dr. M stopped and looked at me, “We really don’t have that many anorexics or bulimics, but I want to schedule another appointment with you when you get back and touch base. I want to hear about your experience, if it was helpful, and see how you are doing. You will be my little educator about this. I will get this stuff turned in for you.”

The new therapist… I almost brought to tears.

My new therapist, S. She openly admitted that she doesn’t have much experience with eating disorder patients. She told me my BMI and weight, as a defense mechanism I become quiet and usually just shrug my shoulders, she told me, “That is something childish, that like a 5 year old does. I bet you don’t do that with your professors.” Yesterday she told me, “Why do you throw up?! It’s not like you eat!”

Yet, I still continue to go to her. You may ask “Why?” or “Wow, what the hell, how rude and ignorant.”

Admittedly, I thought these things, more than once too. I continue to go because she is right, and she is honest- brutally honest. While telling an eating disorder patient their BMI and weight might not be the best thing to do, she was trying to make a point. The shrugging of the shoulders? She was right. I made a conscious effort this week to not shrug, and surprise surprise, I opened up and spoke more.

I whole heartedly admire and respect the fact that she is honest. I may not always like what she has to say, but it serves a purpose. S told me she isn’t a specialist. “I work with many people with addictions, but not much experience with eating disorder patients. I have read and researched this and that…. I spoke to your old therapist, C, and she said…..  I called an inpatient place….”  I am grateful that she is putting effort forth, to not just placate me, but to actually do research, look into resources, she is trying. I also find it easier to talk to her, and she calls it as it is.  I really admire these things.

I expressed how I felt about not being healthy, but not being sick. She called me out on it. “Your body is sending you all of these signs…X,Y,Z…. You aren’t listening though, what are you waiting for? By the time your blood work comes back REALLY abnormal, it will be ICU and feeding tube time.”  “The first time I saw you I did think you weighed XX lbs. I thought to myself how small you are. When Dr. M told me how much you weighed I really questioned her and realized that you must have muscle from being an athlete.”

She expressed that she was really concerned about me, she is really worried about my throat. During my appointment it hurt me to talk so bad, I had thrown up so violently the night before and scratched my throat, I was sipping tea, and told her how bad it hurt. That just added to the concern.

I told her I had realized that it didn’t matter if I weighed 90 or 190, If I wasn’t happy with myself it didn’t matter. She told me that was something we could work on, the self esteem and not being so negative to myself.

Without breaking any confidentiality or anything S told me that there was someone who used to go there. They left one days, and a couple months later they died. S also expressed that she believes they were better off physically than she thinks I am. She began to get teary-eyed and I wasn’t sure what to do. It sincerely bothers me that others are so much more concerned about me than I am. I am yet so appreciative to have someone that I feel like genuinely cares, and I’m not just another case on her desk.

“Skip the dessert.” Recovery Shock

“Skip dessert.” “Order a salad.” “One cup of whole milk has the saturated fat of a Snickers.”

I read these “tips” as I sit in the dietitian’s office for the first time for my eating disorder.

If you have read my previous “Fucking Monday” post, then you are right where you need to be. I got done running, missed my doctor appointment, but made it to my dietitian appointment. I sat there, signing my life away, fees, privacy, no show policy. It was the spot light effect, I felt like I was in a bad rip-off scene of Juno. 

My back facing the entrance, that way nobody would recognize me. In my head everyone who walked in knew immediately, “Fat ass is here for an eating disorder.” It was plastered on my face, it was sewn into my clothes. A small wooden box sat on the receptionist’s counter held an enticing assortment of colored condoms with a scribbled sign “Only take 2.” with a printed sheet of “How to use a condom” beside it.

I began to feel panicky and nauseous, feeling light-headed. What had I done. Why was I here. My name was called. Time seemed to freeze and speed up simultaneously. I saw her, but she didn’t see me. She towered over everyone and I saw her eyes scan the waiting room of college kids with a sore throat, getting a flu shot… then me, not moving. I hesitantly got up and made my way to the door she was holding open. I made it to the room where one couch bench thing was, and a chair. I put my bag down next to the rickety scale and immediately thought, “Oh hell no.”  and had a seat in the chair.

She began by introducing herself, we will call her N, and explained that she didn’t have any of my information yet, that it was up to me to start from the beginning.

I tried to keep it as brief as possible. “I went to the doctor, she referred me and set me up with a therapist, S, and I guess S set me up here with you.”

She began to pry and attempt to lure me in. “Why were you at the doctor to begin with?” “Leg cramps, chest pains. I’m fine. Was my gallbladder, the cramps are ok.”

Ok guys, I just want to take a moment to set the scene for you. Here I am, had gone running this morning, I’m wearing my running leggings, two long sleeve shirts, and my thirteen year old brother’s hoodie over top of it. I was freezing, yet comfy. We are in this small room, very small, institutionalized vibe, with plain walls, one window, very high up, these two rickety looking seats, and a shelf of nutrition books. There is something that might possibly be a full length mirror, but it is covered with a sheet, one small coffee table to my left with a lamp, and a sink on the “far” end of the room. I say “far” because I could probably spit further than the wall.

“So, you’re here for….disordered eating?”  She asked, her long legs stretching and crossing her arms over her.  “Yeah…..” “Anorexia?”  What the hell, I’m not even small, plus I am wearing three long sleeves! “I’m not sure. My weight isn’t super low, but that’s the term that I keep hearing get thrown around.”

I briefly went on about Dr. M, how I was in outpatient, but quit going, Dr. M scheduled my appointment with the therapist, and low and behold now I’m sitting in a dietitian’s office.

We begin to talk about my running. I explain how far I run, she asks me if I lift, I say I used to more. She comments on how tiny I am and I just shake my head. I explain that unless I just completely quit lifting I don’t see my weight drastically going down. We briefly hit on the topic of antidepressants, and talked about the neurotransmitters, and receptors, I understood and was following. I asked if she thought they would help and she thought so. N asked me if I was really depressed or thought about killing myself. I told her, “Depressed? I guess a little, but not suicidal. I have little siblings and I would never do something that selfish to leave them.”

One thing N was concerned about was that she didn’t have a “starting point”. I explained I thought I was apathetic, S disagreed, but I just didn’t really care. I mentioned the oh shit moment, even though I had already had small issues with my body. I shared that I didn’t feel “sick”, but knew what I was doing wasn’t healthy. N was/is a runner, she understood. She was really patient and tried to reassure me that it isn’t necessarily “apathy”, but now my eating disorder had become more of a lifestyle. I agreed and said that I didn’t want to be stuck in this hell hole rut, but was scared of letting go of this.

After talking for quite a while, she sat up, elbows meeting her knees, her fingers laced together sat against her chin and lips. “I think it would be a good idea for us to work together. I have a lot of experience with eating disorder patients and I think this could be very beneficial.”  I nodded and agreed.  She asked about getting weighed and I said no. “Even if you step on backwards?” I repeated my first answer. I asked her a question that had been bothering me, “Is BMI reliable? S told me my weight and BMI, and I wasn’t happy with either.”  “Oh really? Well what was it?”  Hesitantly, and with a coaxing look being thrown from the lengthy dietitian, I told her what it had been a couple months ago.  She explained that it really wasn’t and was based more on stereotypical body types. She told me that my BMI would technically be considered “low or undernormal”.

I expressed irritation that others were more concerned about me than me. She agreed and also said, “Well, I don’t care. Why should I care about you if you don’t?” Trying to make a point. With that she also said in the same breath, “You are in a serious place though, and are very very close, if not should probably be in, inpatient right now.” N then said she wanted me to see a therapist there and was going to schedule me for that, I guess this one’s name is K, and is a runner too….

N also asked me what I wanted from her and that, “You’re in control here.”  I was brutally honest and said I am scared, I’m not sure how much you are going to try and get me to eat, I don’t want my running taken away. I don’t smoke or party, running is my outlet. I want to get better, but I am scared and nervous. When I was finished she gave me a small goal of, “Well, if we can plan on you eating, let’s say half a banana…” I began to frantically shake my head, “I don’t eat bananas.”  “What do you eat?” “Fruit, besides bananas. Greek yogurt, spinach, I don’t know.”

“Ok, how about this. I don’t want you running between now and Thursday, but I don’t really see that happening.” I gave her a reassuring look that said “Damn straight that isn’t going to happen.”

“How about a spoonful of Greek yogurt six times a day.” (no question mark, because it was said in more of a telling tone than questioning.)

Oh sheezus, I thought to myself. That is more than I eat in a fucking week.  With a disinclined look, and a reluctant tone I agreed. “Don’t say ok if you don’t plan on doing it.”  “It isn’t that. It is just scary and a lot. 6x a day?” “Yeah, two in the morning, two at lunch, you know.”  “I’m……I’m willing to try.”  “Is six overwhelming?” “Oh yeah.” “Ok. How about 4x.” “Deal.”

First appointment with my extremely tall dietitian, N, and I am practically being put on a:

“Eat. to be taken 4x a day” regimen with a side of,

“I don’t want you running.” to be taken as needed.

Refills Available.

There Goes My Week.

As I sit here, I think, “Fucking Monday.”

Cup of tea fastened tightly in the gap of my thighs,

flickering candle in my peripherals,

Evolutionary Biology staring at me from the floor needing to be read,

Organic Chemistry screaming for attention that it needs, yet doesn’t deserve,

Cell and Molecular “Exam 3 Study Guide” patiently waiting, peering out from the textbook pages.

Instead. I’m throwing “Annie’s Cheddar Bunnies- Baked Snack Crackers” at my dog, who is lazily enjoying the raining cracker snacks and seems undisturbed by the rhythmic pattern of my fingers along the keys.

“Annie’s Homegrown Cheddar Bunnies.” Like anyone gives a flying fuck…homegrown… hah

“Fucking Monday” I think again, as another orange-tinted silhouette bunny leaves my fingers.

S told me Wednesday that on campus they have a dietitian, health center, etc. She told me “Monday at 9.”  A little encryptic I thought. All weekend I was consumed with those words… Does that mean I have an appointment? Was that just a suggestion? Was that when the dietitian was there? What the fuck do I do? I, as usual, was up by 5:30. Pondering, wondering what to do.

My doctor had made me the appointment with S, the therapist. She knew that otherwise I wouldn’t go. So, in my mind, it also made logical sense that S or my Dr, had just gone ahead and made me an appointment with the dietitian as well….knowing I’m a pansy ass. I figured, in all honesty, that is was more of a suggestion than an actual appointment, I mean the clinic on campus was walk in-right? S wouldn’t make me an appointment and just leave it with, yeah, “Monday at 9.” Would she?  After much internal turmoil I relied back on the same logic I had when first going to see S.

“If S had enough concern or initiative to make me an appointment, then I should at least have the respect to show up.” Plus, if I really did have a set appointment I didn’t want to be THAT bitch that just doesn’t show up.

So, I started this morning with a nice long run in freezing temperatures. I was unsure if my rapid heartbeat was directly correlated to the run, or was also anxious about the clinic. At around 8:48 I made the long trudge to the Health Clinic and up the set of stairs. I apologized for being ignorant and that I wasn’t actually sure if I had an appointment or not, just that I was told “Monday at 9.”

The lady, peering at me with a mixed expression of polite patience and annoyance, told me that there was nothing so far today. I explained it was for a dietitian and another lady looked up and said my name in a more questioning tone. I nodded and said, “Yes ma’am.”

“Oh… here it is…. your appointment isn’t until 10.” said the patiently annoyed lady- maybe I should have offered her my coffee.

So, I sat around campus and waited. At about 9:40 my phone rang and I answered it… long story short I was supposed to have a Dr. appointment at the clinic at 9, and dietitian appointment following at 10. What the fuck people, really. She asked me if I had forgotten or what. I explained I had stopped by and was told 10… so that was fun.

I made it back to the clinic, signed my life away, and got called back to meet my dietitian. She towered over me and had an intimidating, yet empathetic smile. Neither the doctor nor S had sent over any of my papers. So the dietitian told me that it was up to me to explain everything to her. (This will probably be a separate post). Talking about everything from brain receptors to greek yogurt to my running… https://faithfoodfear.wordpress.com/2014/11/11/skip-the-dessert-recovery-shock/


After the talk that seemed to last eternity, she wanted to have me set up with a therapist there, and wanted to see me back again this week. I explained I was waiting for an “Oh shit” moment to really need help, when she told me that I was very close to having to go into inpatient.

So, my week so far:

Monday: Dietitian

Wednesday: S and Dr on campus

Thursday: Dietitian


Look out for flying orange bunnies.

Doctor and Therapist Gossip Time.

As I walked into meeting #2 with my new therapist, she grabbed a stack of something and sat down. I was thinking the stack was just something to bear down on while she wrote…then it dawned on me… she had my fucking medical records. Already feeling quite fractious at this, I hesitantly sat down and buckled up for what was to come. 
Last time she told me that I looked “healthy”, and this time told me my weight as well as BMI. To me, I think these things were slightly ignorant and had me upset and aggravated. BMI in itself bothers me, especially since I am an athlete, run, lift, etc. Unless I just quit working out completely and my body relies fully on muscle consumption, I don’t see it drastically changing- unfortunately. At the same time she told me, “I’ve never really had any eating disorder patients, I usually have addiction patients. What I have been reading and researching though says this…” To me, that meant a lot. It means she actually took interest, or enough shits, to give a damn and look into what she is dealing with and what to do; I really appreciated that.
So, as mentioned, she also had my charts, files, etc, which to be totally honest, I am not sure how she acquired access to all of that. I am well aware that my doctor was the one who referred/scheduled me to be seen since, “I know if I don’t make the appointment you won’t. So I’ll go ahead and call the clinic and make an appointment for you to be seen.”  Maybe that was enough grounds/permission, for S to get all of my files, maybe it wasn’t, not sure. Anyway, She had my weight, charts, bloodwork, cardiologist tests, etc from God only knows how far back. S asked if I wanted to know my weight from a while back, “Um, hell no, I was even fatter then than I am now.” Still stuck on the imperceptible fact that she had a long talk with my doctor about me and God only knows what else. 
“Dr. M and I both agree  that getting you plugged in with a dietitian is probably the best route to go at this point.”  listening incredulously at the fact she had talked with my doctor. S also told Dr. M something I had said. I had expressed that my main concern was my teeth and the rupturing of my esophagus, not so much electrolytes or heart since I am so active. To that, Dr. M told S (I feel like this is all code, sorry.) “Rupturing of her esophagus is very likely, especially with all of the purging. I didn’t stick anything down her throat to check, but it is very very likely at this point.”
Everyone is so much more fucking concerned than I am.
She and I were both shocked that my body has done so well given the little nutrients I put in and how much I work out. “You must really be on good standings with someone, or have someone looking out for you.” S is also setting me up with a nutritionist on campus. She said a few things that really kinda resonated with me.
>“I hope this bloodwork doesn't give you a false sense of security.”
Well, to be honest, it did/does.
This started a kaleidoscope of explanations, false hopes, how I felt like a failure for not even having an eating disorder the “correct” way.  S explained to me that the bloodwork she had ordered both times was just to skim the surface. “These results tell Dr. M that you don’t have diabetes, cancer, or an infection….Congratulations…. That’s about it. So I really hope this bloodwork doesn’t give you a false sense of security that you think you are so ‘healthy’.”
>“You think you’re so healthy, but your body is trying to tell you something. Your leg cramps. What about your period? Do you have that regularly?”
“Dr. M never asked me about it, I didn’t think to bring it up….no.”
“Maybe I know more about eating disorders than I thought. I was looking through your chart and didn’t see it anywhere.”
I told her I rarely, rarely get it.
This began a long session of “Your body is trying to tell you something, even with ok results, what is it going to take?” talk… which spiraled into a snarky off the cuff, “a feeding tube in a hospital bed probably.”
……Which, led to…….
>“Would it really be worth it to be, I don’t know, say 90 lbs, if you weren’t able to do the thing you love-like running?”
This one really had me thinking hard. This is such a valid point. When I was laid up from my surgery I was climbing the walls and so antsy, I can’t imagine not being able to work out whenever I want, even if I ever hit my UGW. Granted, There have been multiple occasions where I could barely stand long enough to get my shoes on, and I was so weak and tired I was barely to trudge through a couple of miles, but I was still ABLE to. 
S mentioned possibly having me consider taking antidepressants, not sure what I think about that. I don’t think that I need them, but if it would help ease the anxiety of eating in public, or grocery shopping, I’m not really sure… any opinions?
All of this happened Wednesday. Today, I ate for the first time since last week-ish, It hurts so bad. I missed class Thursday because I felt so weak and sick, Friday I had a test, but missed my workout. Thursday was awful, I could tell that I was so drained, felt absolutely miserable, could barely stand or stay awake. I managed to trudge through only three miles, but had to go home because I began throwing up stomach bile. 
Today, I felt better after attempting to eat something small for energy. During my run, I look up, and who drove past me, but S. She made a quick glimpse, as did I, unsure if we were both seeing each other for that split second. Then, I am not completely sure, I looked up about a mile later and she had driven around campus (or so I’m assuming) and was now driving toward me. Maybe she really wanted to make sure that it was me, or wanted to check that I wasn’t on the verge of passing out along my run.
Either way, I just heard her voice in the back of my head, “Running is your Prozac, so that way you don’t have to take it. It is your happy place.”