of weakness

I check the clock and do a double take. I've only been walking on the treadmill for 15 minutes? I'm gripping the rail, my feet speed walking up the eternal hill that is a treadmill incline. There's sweat dripping down my face, and all I really want to do is let the treadmill dump me on the floor so I can lay down.

15 minutes?

I usually do this for at least an hour.

I push myself to 40 minutes and by the time I get off, my hands are shaking. I wearily climb the stairs from the basement, my brain furiously working the numbers. It's not enough, I realize with a stab of panic. 40 minutes is just simply not enough.

I make it to my bedroom, where I collapse in front of my computer. I crunch the numbers on the calculator so I can see them. So I have to look at them. So I can know how badly I failed.

I didn't drink enough water today. 

I didn't get enough sleep.

I was just being lazy.

I should have just pushed myself harder.

I'm out of shape from that one day I missed last week.

I'm trying to rationalize my sudden weakness, but I'm too tired. I should shower, but I don't want to go back down the stairs. I should go get back on the treadmill, but my willpower isn't strong enough. I give up and strip, climbing into bed next to him. I'm shivering now. My fingers are numb chunks of ice attached to my hand. I curl up against his warm back and try to warm up. I fall asleep before I stop shivering.

I wake up several times in the night, blearily uncomfortable, but too half asleep to figure out why. The early sun finally wakes me enough to realize I'm drenched in sweat and freezing cold. I can't warm up. I'm not hot, I'm not feverish. So I guess this is what cold sweats are like. Damp and freezing and miserable. I pile all of the blankets on top of me and attempt to get warm. I never do.

I reached 117 lbs.