I cut the sugar, all refined forms. Caffeine, never really a custom, is cut too. It’s so easy when your reason is the possibility of the “Big-D“.
I don’t know what to call an ‘attack’, but I’ve had one, if just a mild one. Maybe it’s just hypoglycemia, whatever. I don’t really care. I just want to stop it.
You’re ‘weirded-out’, as she described it. You get the shakes. Imperceptible, at first, but later you don’t trust your legs to walk to the garbage, though you do it and sirens go off in your head at your lack of control. You’re overclocked, like a hummingbird, but working in sped-up time in a body not meant to be that fast, that way. It’s not like losing yourself during exercise, acting, or anything else. The closest it comes to is a sustained-overheating on a very hot day, one that your body suspects can only be steadied by filling, overfuelling, to burn out all that go, with thick proteins and carbohydrates.
I’ve never done drugs, is it at all like drugs? Is it like artificially overclocking with speed? Is that just a synthetic version of this?
The result of six months of wedding cakes, eating-out, and fudge. Truncated workouts, if you can even call them that. Sitting at a desk. The spectre of FAMILY HISTORY, wailing in the corner over breakfast, dinner, and lunch. It’s on my mother’s side, but I worry about some on my father’s too. Two litres of carbonated sugar a day can probably do that to you, irregardless of ancestral claim.