We started slow with Jackson hovering. I walked. He upped the incline. I could feel my anxiety rising, but I pressed on. One foot in front of the other until I had a rhythm going. I was feeling pretty good about it. I upped the speed, and Jackson sent me a considering look. I pushed on, keeping my hands suspended over the rails in case I needed to catch myself.

I increased the incline again and upped the speed some more. Now I was breathing heavily but it felt good. I felt whole and strong. I broke into a light jog. Jackson moved in closer. I thought I might be making him nervous. I wanted to laugh but I was too winded and it was taking all of my concentration to keep the pace. This was the best I’d felt in months.

A memory of that horrible day flashed through my mind. The feeling of complete helplessness, being unable to speak or think clearly while they’d slid me into the MRI machine. I could feel my heart rate picking up, and I was sweating harder than I should have been from just jogging on a treadmill. Suddenly, I couldn’t get enough air and I thought I might throw up.

Bam! Just like that, I was falling, crashing into the handrail before I could grab it, my muscles limp and unresponsive no matter how hard I tried to control them.

Two big burly arms grabbed me around the middle and Jackson hauled me off the treadmill as if I were no bigger than a child. And wasn’t that just the humiliation cherry on top of the shit sundae?

I wanted to push him off but that was stupid as I’d only succeed in falling on my face. Jackson pulled my left arm over his behemoth shoulders and dragged me back to the bench. He turned so I could sit and then he went back to the machine to shut it off.

I sat there, feeling a level of anger and frustration that I had never felt before, not even during my most desperate days as a kid, and believe me, I’d had more than my share of those.

“I told you I didn’t feel like it,” I snapped.

“You did,” he agreed. He handed me my water bottle. “You also managed to go longer and harder on the treadmill than you ever have before. I call that progress.”

“Progress?” I scoffed. I gestured to my body. “I collapsed—again. How is my life ever supposed to be normal if I keep collapsing?”

Jackson raised his hands. “You have to talk to your doctors about that. I am a trainer. I know how to make you strong. I don’t know how to fix what’s broken on the inside.”