My health has been somewhat rocky this summer. My doctor increased the dose of the medicine I’m on. That was about two weeks ago, and while it’s gotten me out of the danger zone in regards to mental health, my appetite has flatlined. (The fact that the servery food is abysmal hasn’t really helped.) I’ve been consistently nauseous for about three days, but fortunately liberal applications of CaCl2 have kept that in check. (While I don’t precisely have emetophobia, I’d prefer to keep what little food I ingest inside.)
Ever since the incident in May, I’ve tried to refrain from talking too much about my health, since I know it’s exhausting for people. The downside of the incident is that there is no longer anyone I can really trust, even if I do need someone to talk to. I’d prefer to avoid upsetting or inconveniencing anyone, if possible.
Yesterday (and this is probably indicative of how much of a teenage girl I still am) I was reading some Winter Soldier fanfiction. Somehow, the way the author described Bucky’s state of mind after the events of the movie really clicked with how I am feeling. There are routines that are safe and it’s best not to break them, at least not right now.
I’ve read that diet and exercise are supposed to be good for alleviating depression. Somehow, my subconscious has latched on to that “diet” part quite fiercely. It feels good to eat smaller portions of things and to rely more on raw fruits and vegetables, but some things, such as my continuing Starbucks-and-soda addiction, are not to be messed with.
I’d probably exercise more if it weren’t so terribly hot outside. I try to explore a little on the weekends, but the ever-increasing temperature is making it more and more difficult to work up the courage to go outside. Unfortunately, I have a long weekend this week (less money and more ennui) so I’ll try and get off my butt and do something exciting.
I so, so desperately want those diet-and-exercise pushers to be right.