A year ago, I took my health for granted as a runner. I enjoyed kicking the crap out of myself before dawn along the Charles, and I savored the pain of distance. My calloused feet and tough yellowed toenails were like merit badges in my marathon training quest. I was 24 years old and running thirty-five miles a week last May when I started feeling “off”. Almost obsessively goal-oriented (some say masochistic), I was simultaneously preparing for the Law School Admissions Test (LSAT) and doing some intensive training for a series of runs that would help me build up mileage for the 2009 Boston Marathon. My body and mind were under stress and I was doing what I do best: fretting badly. In a constant state of fight or flight, I started growing tired and sluggish. I attributed my fatigue to these strains and the weather. It rained all spring. General malaise seemed pandemic around Boston. Then one Friday in early June, I woke up stiff and short of breath. The LSAT was in a week, and hyperventilation had become as ritual as a cup of morning coffee. I tried to shrug it off and even went for a run. But as the day passed, the anxiety metastasized. I came home after work, almost panting, and stepped into the shower desperate for any sort of rejuvenation.
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