“Please tell me this won’t last forever,” I say in desperation.

Utterly weary of the last week, I laid my head in an easy rest while Chase drove us to dinner. Not that I would be able to eat. I had hardly gotten a bowl of cereal down for all the adrenaline raging through me like an angry river. I’d spent days avoiding Facebook, cramping my hand with journal entries and searching the book of Job for any semblance of an answer to my plea.

I’d taken medication for over three years, been through cognitive behavioral therapy (a lot of mumbo jumbo to say that I changed my thinking) and was feeling free. Plus, I was up on the big organic and vitamin supplement scene so I thought, pshh, totally got this under control.

Chase, didn’t really see the need in spending double the money on produce, God bless him. I, in contrast, thought I might die if our apples weren’t pesticide-free, hormone-free, antibiotic-free, gluten-free, tree-free, and apple-free (?).

“But we’ll surely get cancer and suffer a slow, painful, and otherwise ugly death if we don’t rid our pantry of junk.”
“An apple, is an apple.”
“No it’s not. It’s an apple, and MORE. It’s poison.”
“You’re going to end up dying from the stress of worrying about it before I die of the so-called chemicals.”

And then I found myself six months in whispering, I can’t do this. That’s all it took for my equilibrium to kick off balance, my belt to need tightening, my anti-anxiety pills to become my avenue for getting out of bed in the morning.

“Exercise,” my doctor said. Gladly. With my heal on your nose. How, when I feel like Snow White in that scary forest every second I’m awake? Sure, I’ll do a little jog really quickly.

Do I think organic eating is wrong? No.
Do I think certain diets like salt-free, sugar-free, or gluten-free don’t make a marked difference for some people? Not at all. Sometimes a simple change in what we consume can reverse a debilitating ailment.

It’s the extremism that bothers me. It’s the fear, and thinking I could control the outcome.
Fear of illness.
Fear of pain.
Fear of suffering.
Fear of death.

The medicine finally did it’s thing and now you’d be lucky to pry a Dr. Pepper from my clenched fists. Two years later I’m more me, and less psychotic about toxic celery. 

I’m going to get sick from time to time. Maybe even terminally someday.
I will have pain, the physical and the heart-rendering variety.
I will likely suffer in some way.
And well, we know how the story goes.

So why not have a double cheeseburger and some brownies along the way?