I’m sitting at my desk right now covered in a glossy glaze of my own perspiration. It’s been quite a long time since I’ve felt this way. Hungry, bordering on ravenous. Tired, a fatigue has set into my legs and arms. My chest still feels the burn of a prolonged struggle for air. And happy, a curious sensation that manages to exceed mere contentment. I just went for a “run.”

My activity feed on Strava shows me that the last time I went and did this, with purpose, was early July of last year. In the intervening near-year, I’ve been seen at the ER a handful of times. Made near constant pilgrimage to a variety of doctors, including neurological specialists. Had my head scanned. My abdomen probed. My fat ass weighed. And from this, I’ve received a singular meaningful diagnosis. One that I could have probably figured out on my own had I just hit the trail.

“You don’t work well,” is a pretty good if somewhat broad summary of FND. Context being the missing component of that review. I don’t believe that I’m a particularly misanthropic person. In fact, I like most of you and even love a few of you. That said, when I’m around you all for too long there is this sensation of weight that sort of builds up on the back of my neck. I can’t shake it. Eventually, you’ll see me at the coffee shop and wanting to hang out with that nice guy you met once you’ll great me. I’ll trip all over myself, saturated in self-consciousness that makes my throat tighten and turns my words into an aphasic mess. Often, it feels like it gets worse as we chat. Eventually, I’ll slink off to my castle on this island where I can be alone.

Last night I got a call from my Cousin Chad who suggested that I just go for a walk. Chad, I did. And while I’m not cured I can feel some small fraction of the weight I’ve taken on lifting.