The Text I Kept Retyping
Staring at the ceiling from bed while the sun was beginning to set, I sent the text I kept retyping in my notes.
Maybe you should tell your parents before you leave for the retreat. Or maybe it's something to meditate on while you're away. I think they would be proud of you for going to them for help.
After five hours of ignoring the thinning of my gut, the response, I'll consider it, lit up my screen.
Switching on do not disturb and setting my phone face down on my nightstand, I heard the pages turn on my vintage alarm clock with each hour that passed through the night. The silence in between felt heavier than it should, my stomach dropping in a way my mind hadn't yet caught up to.
Four Texts at Four in the Morning
I woke to four texts he had sent at four in the morning, and I read them in that slow careful way you read something that deep down, you already know.
…that's the truth, I'm sorry I lied.
I've been addicted for a long time… it has sucked the joy from my life…
…I am going to beat it.
I will see you again soon.
I choked out a loose breath while my shoulders tightened; spine went taut. My fingers typed of their own accord, handing out mercy before I had deemed it earned.
It's okay, I figured.
We'll get through it together.
Though while typing with their own mind, my fingers suddenly pivoted.
But how long is a long time?
Trying to Be Everything at Once
I tried to convince myself that this was something I could handle; the addiction and the complexity of it, the lies that had brought us to this point of secrecy, to this degree of a confession. I researched rehabilitation institutions and the insurance plans that covered them. I compiled Narcotics Anonymous information, trying my hardest to make resources attainable so all he had to do was reach for it; so all he had to do was want it.
I tried to tell myself that this was not too much for me, and that I could do it all. I told myself I could be a good partner, as well as an addiction sponsor. I could mother him when he needed it, and be his girlfriend once again in the moments he felt independent.
But I've always been a bad liar, and my body doesn't let me believe lies anymore, even the bad ones — especially the bad ones.
When My Body Refused to Be Silent
I tried to carry on with my normal routines for that week.
I called into all my work shifts and I didn't go to school.
While I consciously avoided what I now knew, I could not run from it on every level. What initially began as sleepless nights and uneven breathing, had escalated into running to the washroom in the middle of the night and throwing up all of my dinner. Food became a point of fear where it was typically a sense of comfort. Keeping water down became a luxury, buttered toast became a delicacy, and through it all I became ashamed of my apparent weakness; my overly sensitive stomach. Through the week he had been away with a conversation left on hold, the week I had suffered thoroughly, I never once told him of the way my gut betrayed him.
While he sent videos of him running nearly naked through snowy forests and meditating in blankets next to fireplaces, I visited doctors and worked on my breathing. I researched medications and attempted ancient remedies. I even picked up books on shadowwork, books I quickly put back down upon understanding washing over me all too quickly.
My gut didn't fully return until he was fully gone. It still took me a while to realize my stomach wasn't being dramatic.
Understanding the Gut's Own Nervous System
What I've come to understand since is that the gut contains its own nervous system. Over 100 million neurons line the digestive tract, communicating directly with the brain through something called the vagus nerve — which is why, when the mind is handed something it cannot yet process, the body volunteers to carry it instead.
My stomach wasn't weak. It was working.
Learning to Listen Before It Screams
Now I see the shift before it happens, and it runs deeper than I once gave it credit for. When my schedule ahead of me is dense and the end is seemingly out of sight, I know I must lighten my load, or my body will lighten it for me. What once felt like a guessing game, I now understand as a system with functioning parts. Now when I feel my heart race, I focus on my breathing; I balance my inhales with my exhales.
Now when I feel my gut flip, I slow down and scan — moving my attention through my body the way you'd stand in the doorway of a room after forgetting why you had entered; feeling the weight of what you may have come to put down.
I have never been a good liar — and neither has my body. There was a time my gut had to flip to get my attention, but now it is a gentle tug on a delicate string — one I know will snap if left ignored.
.webp)
