My heart rate is finally under control. It scares me, that my body doesn’t work the way it’s supposed to. I feel so weak. I wish I could be stronger. But when I push myself, I end up like this: miserable. I try to be positive about my body. I honestly don’t mind the way it looks. I just have a hard time accepting all my limitations. I can’t run, or hike, or do anything more strenuous than a brisk walk to campus. Yet there’s always a nagging voice at the back of my thoughts. You could do it if you worked harder. You lack dedication. This is what everybody has to deal with, why do you think you’re special? Suck it up.
You know what? I am a wimp. I have asthma and other health problems, and I know I could do better but I’m still a wimp. I dislike pain. When my heart rate gets to 190 and sweat’s pouring in my eyes, I don’t keep going. I quit. When the going gets tough, I stop.
My head aches, and I tremble. My vision starts to get hazy. I can’t feel my arms. I taste blood. I cough. Above all is the terrible pain as my heart pounds against my chest, as though it’s trying to escape from a prison. I still can’t fully breathe.
Every time this happens, when I push too hard, my dad is sympathetic. Maybe this time, something will come of it, unlike all the other times when he says we should get it checked out, do the tests the doctor recommended last time I went in six years ago. Now there’s health insurance. I have at least a little time until I find a job. Maybe. Even if I can’t have surgery, I’d like to at least know, have something quantifiable to justify this.
But you try.
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