Desperate Remedies

I wanted to stop, but a voice in my head shouted, Don’t stop.

Every part of my body ached. Throbbing temples, stiffness traveling from my neck, with its destination my lower back, raging flames in my throat, needles piercing my calves and feet begged me to end this torture. My mind wanted the pain, needed the pain to cure the weakness.

         I had been running for three hours, ignoring the intense early morning heat to finish the ten mile loop I began in darkness. This was day 5 in the cycle, and I longed for a strong finish. 

 Beep. My damn watch was now conspiring to stop me, with its message, You have reached ten miles, your heart rate is excessively higher than normal.

           So I walked home instead, and stretched on the lawn when I arrived. Inside, I popped the extra strength tabs, washed down by the smoothie in the fridge that I grabbed on the way to get ready for the day. Thirty minutes later, back to my resting rate and feeling almost steady, I did it, noted no change, and continued my prep for the day. Sure, I wanted to crawl back under the covers, since sleep is another proven remedy, but it wasn’t possible. 

           The rest of the day rushed to a conclusion, and I felt sharper as my body rushed through mid-afternoon, powered by the second smoothie. 

             “Samantha, are you OK?” Theresa, my assistant asked.

              I shrugged. “Why do you ask?”

             “I mean, don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t look good.” She closed the distance and eyed me at my desk.

              “Well, I feel great.”

              “But, you see it don’t you?”

               I like Terry, and she’s my right hand, but I really didn’t like where this was going. A few eye bags might be cause for concern for some people, but what the hell?

               “I’m not sure what you mean.”

                She grasped my hand and pulled me out of the chair. Her eyes flew open, and I swear her eyelashes looked clumped as she looked me up and down.

               “I’m so worried, and I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but Samantha, Oh My God.”

                Terry shook her head and rushed from the room, clicking the door on the way to her cubicle.

                I sat back in my chair, and finished my drink. I had two hours left to complete the edit, and I planned to leave before 5;00.

               My pen flew over text, making notes and suggesting changes for the author. When I carried the box to Terry’s desk, she accepted it and walked away to send it out before the last pickup of the day.

              Later, I crawled into bed in my sweats with the house’s latest work to read when my watch beeps another alert. 12.5 miles, 4 floors climbed, 40 BPM appeared on the display. Not bad, though I needed to see the other numbers improve before I felt satisfied. 

              When I checked again before bed, the needle moved just a bit-just 5 more to go. I’ve stuck to the plan, and I didn’t think I would get this close to my goal so quickly. I can’t say I've worked hard to reach this point, because it’s been easy so far. Some people, maybe those who knew me before I began and see the changes, guess that it’s too much. It’s not about deprivation, but consistency. Working the plan, without fail, which I'll admit, has been a challenge. Could I have done less? Of course, but would I be this close? Probably not. 

       I want to exist as my best self. I need to exist as my best self.

Stronger, lighter, fitter. Perfect.

       I can do this, I will do this. I fear nothing.

      Then, I woke up with the worst headache, and I nixed the idea of doing miles before work. I make it into work right on time, and no one seems to have arrived. The meeting begins in an hour, so I power up my desktop for last-minute prep. I don’t see Theresa, maybe she’s running a bit behind, but "It's a Monday" is no excuse. She’s a great assistant, but she really should get here earlier, before I do. 

        I’m finishing up sweetening my tea when I hear the snatch of conversation from the storage closet down the hall.

        “...not Ok. “

    “Looks terrible, on dru-”

    “Maybe. She never takes a break, or has lunch. I don’t kno-”

    “Good Morning?”

    Theresa’s friend, Pat, and another assistant stare at me, hands empty of supplies, expressions full of emotion I couldn’t be bothered to identify. 

    “Good Morning, Samantha. May we help you?” the other one said. Natalie, or something like that.

    “Just wondering where everyone is this morning.” A check of my watch showed the office was late to begin its beginning of the week bustle.

    “Well, it’s only 6:45, Samantha. We’re just here a little earlier. New week and all,” Pat said.

     What? “It’s a quarter to eight, Pat.”

     They shook their heads. “You forgot about the switch back this weekend?"

      I felt a chilling dread creep over me. “Sorry, ladies.”  

      I was resetting my faulty watch, unable to understand why it didn’t automatically adjust when I felt a warm hand on my arm.

      “Samantha? Is there anything I can get for you, besides coffee? Have you had any breakfast?” Pat’s eyes looked moist, and for a moment, I wondered if she was truly concerned about my well-being.

       “Well, my tea is probably cold now. Why do you ask?”

       “Because, I don’t mean this as a criticism, but you look like you could use a meal, Samantha, and perhaps some rest,” Natalie-or whoever said.

       The pair exchanged a look, and they filed out past me. “Excuse us.” Pat’s voice was barely a whisper. 

       I gathered my cup from the counter and headed back to my office. The mirror on the back of the door had been Theresa’s idea, so I could check myself without having to use the ladies down the hall. I smoothed the waistband on my skirt, covering it with my blouse. I hadn’t bothered with more than moisturizer and eyeliner, which did nothing to hide the circles. I grabbed a bottle of water from the crate Theresa filled for me. I looked tired, yes, but who didn’t?

       I settled back at my desk to work on a manuscript after I set the timer for 35 minutes, leaving me with 15 to get to the conference room.

       “Sorry I’m a few minutes late, do you need anything?” Samantha said, poking her head in at 7:15.

      “All good, just getting a few things done before the meeting.”

       “Oh, it’s moved until next Monday, didn’t you receive my voicemail?”

       Shit. The blinking light matched the color forming on my cheeks.

       “Anyway, Constance wants to see you at 7:30.” Samantha gave me a small smile before she closed the door.

       I sip my water and gulp down the unease boiling in my stomach. Not a good sign, since my calendar showed no scheduled facetime with my supervising editor. We have a cordial relationship, but Connie is never here before 9 on any day of the week. I shouldn’t be worried, because all of my scripts have been submitted on or before the deadline, and she hasn’t expressed any concerns prior to this meeting. But I was terrified. 

        I draw the blinds and fumble in my bag for the needle. The drag across my skin brings a heightened awareness to the area I’d used for previous injections. I liked the sensation, the hole created in my flesh. The rush squeezed my eyes shut, a sweet surge of energy to remedy my every ache. Not an addiction. I look like ten million bucks, as I stuffed the empty vessel back into its spot, ready for anything.

       Until I lost my balance, and the world faded away.