DO I WEIGH IN?

I’ve been going back and forth on whether to comment about a certain singer’s apparent weight loss, dramatic such as it seems. In general, I agree that people in the public eye can find the gaze too harsh and, frankly, inappropriate. Bodies change. Many have weight fluctuations—up, down, up again—that, for various reasons, seem hard to control. As a man in my (early) sixties, I’m finding weight stability tougher to attain even though my exercise and food intake are the same. Part of my life’s journey…my business and no one else’s.

 

But there may be exceptions when someone has to comment, not out of criticism but concern. I have written many times on this blog about the fact I have anorexia nervosa. The perceived weight issues I’m struggling with now aren’t much different than they’ve been since I was ten; I can just use the aging process as a “legitimate” excuse for my current weight concerns. It truly feels harder but I’d have said that when comparing fifty to forty and forty to twenty. One reality that underlies all the unrealistic personal body scrutiny is that it may always be there for me. An eating disorder can be a relentless impostor. It moves in to stay.

 

When I was seventeen, anorexia fully took over for the first time. I stumbled into a new eating regimen and the weight was coming off with ease, week after week. I was giddy. I had discovered my own special diet, one I will not share here since I know how easy it is for people with disordered eating to latch onto anything people proclaim is an effective way to lose weight. We all face scrutiny, even if sometimes it is only perceived. Over the course of a semester in university, I got down to fifty pounds below my current weight which is the same weight I was forty years ago, allowing me to still fit into a Hugo Boss suit I bought forty years ago.

 

Do you sense the desperation in my writing? I am always trying to tell myself I am a reasonable weight. I have to affirm this over and over because my eating disorder brain is just as persistent in saying otherwise. 

 

I managed to halt that prolonged eating disorder episode from when I was seventeen only on account of friends saying something. I would have kept on with my newfound dieting tricks but a small group of people I respected and cared about held some form of casual intervention. Yes, they were concerned. They could see the weight loss. I looked gaunt. I appeared unhealthy. Basically, I didn’t look good.

 

This is not what someone with an eating disorder wants to hear. I regularly beat myself up over many aspects of my appearance but weight is the biggest issue. When my eating disorder is really clicking—pounds are coming off; I can see ribs and abs—I think I am looking better. It’s quite a jolt to have people around me say, no, I am not.

 

The message was not just a shock. It scared me. Here I thought I looked not just better but healthier. Slim and trim! (Back then, I wasn’t a gym goer and muscles didn’t even think of making an appearance.) Something about the tone of voice and the looks on my friends’ faces made me listen. There was no doubt they were speaking out of compassion. The jolt they gave me allowed me to let go of my tricks. I regained weight and managed to spend a lot of time shirtless that summer in my role as a lifeguard without feeling any more repulsive than I had before. Merciless criticism over certain body parts has been a constant that I’ve been learning to live with. I tell myself the eating disorder voice is quieter, that I can muffle if not mute it. Maybe I’m just exhausted from decades of telling myself I’m not good enough. Yeah, yeah…broken record.

 

I am certain that, if friends hadn’t spoken up, I would have kept losing weight and I could very well have shifted from “too thin” and “unhealthy looking” to medically at risk. That may have only been a few weeks away. 

 

I have great reluctance to see a medical doctor for anything. I have a fear of all-things-medical. This includes blood tests and any and all needle pokes, drops in my eyes during vision tests, and apparently diagrams of organs. (I once fainted during a hearing exam due to glancing at the diagram on the wall.) It takes considerable mental preparation for me to consult a doctor about concerns my eating disorder is spiking. The first time I confided in a doctor that I thought I had an eating disorder, he immediately dismissed the matter, concluding that I was just very fit. I don’t want to feel like I’m a hypochondriac. I don’t want to waste a doctor’s time. All this goes to the matter that I would greatly appreciate if a friend, family member or anyone at all questioned whether I had an eating disorder and expressed concern. There were times I suffered and didn’t seek help. I couldn’t do it myself. All the while, I wondered, Doesn’t anyone see? Why isn’t anyone saying anything? 

I once had an essay published by CBC about my eating disorder and it opened doors to other people, including complete strangers, reaching out to talk to me about their own wonderings whether they had some degree of disordered eating. I can’t say enough about how gratifying it has been to be someone they could confide in and to share my own experiences with them while encouraging them to seek help.

 

It shouldn’t be members of the public having to express concern whether one of the world’s most successful singers has an eating disorder. At first, I wondered if the issue was being fanned by paparazzi and publications that feed off them. Capturing celebrities at their worst has long been a practice that means a big payday. I suspected photos were being photoshopped to accentuate thinness to generate online clicks, to create a buzz and to entice outlets to purchase (or produce) more severe photos. 

 

I’d been concerned when the singer promoted a movie last fall. At the very least, she looked fragile. But then I watched a video for her latest song yesterday—until a scene with a chainsaw and spewing blood. (Fear of blood, remember?) Presumably the scene represented the artist’s response to critics. The eating disorder can become stronger and more resistant when it’s poked at. The most alarming part of the video showed the singer as incredibly emaciated. Her exposed, protruding clavicle was disturbing. In various treatment programs, I’ve met many people with eating disorders and, while people who are afflicted have a range of body types and sizes, the singer’s body resembled the classic poster image of a young woman with an eating disorder. I’ve also noted that some people with eating disorders cover it up with loose-fitting sweatshirts while others seem to flaunt it, perhaps thinking they look good or crying for help or doing both at once. 

 

Like others, I wonder if the performer’s “team” has tried to intervene. Publicly, a statement on behalf of the singer has only implied she and her staff are doubling down, blinking so much so as to announce a cancellation of an upcoming commitment, but asserting it’s on account of the harshness of “public scrutiny” rather than based on a need to get help. 

 

Too often, I suspect a celebrity’s team enables concerning behaviour (think, Michael Jackson, Mike Tyson, Amy Winehouse, Donald Trump). Teams are paid to say yes. They’re general role is to fulfill their employer’s wants. Saying or doing otherwise risks being fired. (Um, again…Trump.) As with any job or relationship, however, the difficult conversations should not be avoided.

 

Perhaps it’s partly because of my own anorexia, but I think often of Karen Carpenter, one of the few female crushes I’ve had in life. As a kid, I used to sit on the step down to our sunken living room and stare at her image on the cover of Close to You while playing both sides on repeat on my father’s stereo. While I wasn’t born at the time so I can’t say, “I remember where I was when JFK was assassinated,” I do know where I was when I heard the news on February 4, 1983 that Karen Carpenter had died. (The date is permanently etched in my brain, no tattoo necessary.) It came nine months after my friends intervened. When I look back on photos and videos of the Carpenters, Karen often looks far too thin, particularly as shown in her face. I’ve always wondered if people in Karen’s world said enough, persisted enough and remained strong even as Karen’s ED voice presumably resisted. 

 

The current singer being scrutinized has, no doubt, plenty of haters. People resent success. For some inexplicable reason, they pit female singers against one another, as if there is only room at the top for one fave. For the most part, however, I think people are speaking out due to genuine concern. It should not have gotten to the point where it’s public opinion that is making pronouncements, but given images produced by the singer’s own team (e.g., her current music video), I don’t believe her fans want to be complicit in the silence. 

 

I sincerely hope that during some time off, the “yes” people, including enabling doctors, will step aside and allow those who truly care to guide the singer to proper assessments and, if there comes a diagnosis, then all possible treatments will be explored. Imagine if this artist comes out healthier on the other end. She doesn’t have to become a role model but she could positively impact so many. 

 

For now, a toast to the artist, maybe with a can of Boost or Ensure which I saw many times during my hospital admission: To her health!

 

 

 

 

 

  

“ANYTIME”…BUT NOT NOW

My ears pricked as I heard a line from the conversation from two women sitting on the two stools beside me in the café. A simple question: “How are you doing?”

 

So ordinary but it stood out. I’d been typing away from my perch for fifteen minutes. The women had preceded my arrival. A lovely back-and-forth between two women in their early seventies. It was clear they were catching up after some time apart. Every so often, one of the women would drop the f-bomb and I kinda loved it. Not delivered with rage. Same conversational tone. But refreshingly unexpected. Human. Be the seventy-something you want to be. 

 

When “How are you doing?” pops up mid-conversation instead of at the start, it means something. It’s not a throwaway alt version of hello. “Fine” or “Good” doesn’t seem to be the acceptable response. Confirming this hunch, I heard the questioner follow with a quick add-on: “Is it okay that I ask?”

 

A few words like sleep and treatment dotted a lengthy response. I made the assumption cancer was in there too, expressly or implied. My ears shut down. They knew this was private. They knew the period of being amused over f-bombs had passed. If another followed, the delivery would be much different. 

 

Oh, how I would love a mid-chat “How are you doing?” It doesn’t come. I can almost see the person I’m with doing an artful dance around it. Let’s maintain some levity, shall we? Laughter is good medicine, after all. Even when forced. 

 

So many topics. Pick from the following:

A.      “Unseasonable” weather

B.      Recent travels

C.      The Tony Awards (even though neither of us 

         has been to NYC this year)

D.      Any Trump trial

 

Hell, even Gaza or Ukraine will do. Anything but a meaningful “How are you doing?”

 

I totally get that a person with cancer doesn’t want every conversation to be dominated or interrupted by the topic. Sometimes it’s nice to instead posit whether Dua Lipa will have the staying power of Lady Gaga (Hope so.) or even talk about whether Edmonton can make the ultimate comeback in the NHL finals (Shrug.). That’s why the woman’s “Is it okay that I ask?” was a perfect followup. Her companion’s reply: “Of course!”

 

Ask me. 

 

Someone. Anyone.

 

I don’t have cancer. Cancer sucks. F-bomb that. In my family, it was a taboo topic with an asterisk, that little star meaning it wasn’t to be discussed with the person with cancer but was open for discussion with anyone else, a trickle down of intel acquired somehow—did someone break taboo or was it all speculation. I mean, just look at her. 

 

It wasn’t just my family that played things hush-hush. Laura Linney starred for four seasons in a Showtime series called The Big C. To be clear, the nasty c-word was cancer, not the nastier other c-word. I’m perfectly comfortable talking cancer; the other word? Nope. Never. Not even a men’s locker room. (Another c-word comes to mind: cavemen.) 

 

We are getting better at talking directly about tough physical health conditions. Cancer. COVID. AIDS versus HIV. It’s partly because I’m a guy of a certain age but colonoscopy has come up in conversation a few times in the past year. I’m not skittish about the topic, just procedure-averse. Any procedure. I’ll still ask questions. It’s part of acknowledging my friend, inquiring about what he’s going through and whether he has any concerns. A colonoscopy conversation sounds more pressing than his take on the Tony Awards. Let’s talk…if that’s what you need. 

 

The taboo is still entrenched when it comes to mental health. Every time another celebrity comes out about an experience with clinical depression, being bipolar or having an eating disorder, I feel hope just as I did thirty years ago when some famous person came out as gay. 

 

It’s not just me. 

 

There is a public name and face for this “quirk.” Regarding anorexia nervosa, few male celebrities have come forward. (Zayn Malik has referred to food restriction while part of One Direction but the oft-repeated quotes do not include a specific diagnosis. Not so helpful. It doesn’t bring a conversation forward. It’s the equivalent to if George Michael said in 1990 that he’d crushed on a guy. What exactly is that…if anything?)

 

Labels matter. Until they don’t. 

 

Me saying I’m gay? These days, so what. Anorexic? Um…How ’bout dem Tonys?

 

My current downward spiral into severe food restriction—beyond my normal restriction practice—began March 25. This is Day 86, an uninterrupted streak. I’m down to the last hole in my belt, a shift of four holes. My face is gaunt, my arms and legs significantly thinner. So much of the muscle gained through decades of disciplined gym workouts is gone even as I continue the same workouts. Muscle is lost before fat. 

 

There was a point during this streak when my body looked “hot.” Six pack, body fat presumably negligible. (I never weigh myself. When I must step on a scale at a doctor’s office, I close my eyes or stand backwards on the device. I’m very clear with the medical provider: Do not tell me my weight. If I know a number, it feeds into a warped game—how low can I go?)

 

I’m well past the point of “hot.” Now I try not to look because sometimes the sight in the mirror makes me cry. I’m doing damage. I can’t stop.

 

Someone who doesn’t have any understanding of eating disorders could easily say, “Just eat something.” A donut. Two. A lunch. A carrot. Hell, a “baby” carrot.

 

The understanding isn’t there because this is a food-obsessed society. I’m more aware of this when I’m in a phase of severe food restriction. Food is all around me. Ads. Signage. Tossed cups and wrappers. Restaurants. Grocery stores. Overheard conversations. The pair of seventy-somethings have left and, at this moment, sitting beside me, two young women have been talking for fifteen minutes about avocado toast, omelets, fried eggs and poached eggs. On and on and on…It’s progressed to “favorite chocolate bar.” This is what friends are willing to talk about. This is much more in the realm of normal than my current state. 

 

Sights. Smells. Imagined tastes plant themselves on my tongue.

 

I’m on a 3-4 month wait list for outpatient support despite having been officially diagnosed by several psychiatrists, assessing me independently of one another. I’ve previously had an extended hospitalization. I’ve been in a group home. 

 

The referral process started at zero again. 

 

So it’ll be September, maybe October before another round of the same ol’ outpatient oversight. I didn’t buy into before as part of an I’ll-try-anything twenty-one month period in 2018 and 2019. I’m not all that hopeful anything will resonate this time around. But I won’t be alone with this. All the group sessions will be filled with people like me. Sort of. People with eating disorders, at least. Women. Under thirty. But I’ll see and feel their nods as I talk. I’ll nod for them, too. The nods won’t be formalities. Instead, they will mean, I see you; I hear you. 

 

If I continue on the current path, I may wind up in Emergency first.  

 

Again, I can’t stop. Despite what I know rationally, the eating disorder owns me. It’s scary. It’s sad.

 

Whereas people with active eating disorder behaviors typically go to extremes to be secretive, I am open. I am hiding nothing. I have previously opened up in an essay published by CBC, in a podcast and as being the patient on a panel for Toronto nursing students (my co-panelists being a professor and a social worker). If I talk, it may help another guy who is struggling. Maybe he’ll seek help. Maybe interventions will come sooner. Maybe his habits won’t be ingrained over four decades before an initial diagnosis. Maybe he’ll move past it.

 

Right now, I’d love to talk, to be heard, to have someone ask away about what they don’t know or understand. Maybe my conversation will break down stigma and allow that person to “be there” to listen and support someone else…and maybe help me just by letting me babble for a few minutes, feeling heard, feeling less freakish, feeling less alone in all this.  

 

I’ve mentioned to my friends around me I’m struggling. The response is always the same, an empathetic spiel something like the following:

Oh, I’m so sorry. That’s awful. I’m here for you, you know? If you ever need to talk about it—anytime—know that you can talk to me. [Pause to catch a breath.] By the way, did you see The Tony Awards? I’m so glad Daniel Radcliffe won. Aren’t you?

 

No lie. A bizarre segue happens. Every. Single. Time.

 

This is what makes people give up. This is one-sided affirmation. What a good person for offering an ear. Not now, of course. But someday. As long as it remains indefinite, in the future, always beyond reach. 

 

I, in fact, feel worse from this demonstration. I know these are good people. I don’t have tolerance for people who aren’t. But they can’t handle it. Just the topic of mental health is too foreign, too scary, too taboo. 

 

If I hadn’t shared, I could have floated the possibility that Joe or Sue might be supportive. Someday, yes, in the future, always beyond reach. Instead, another door is shut.

 

A dream scenario...

I’m more alone in this just from raising the subject. 

 

How am I doing?

 

Fine.

 

Do you think these gray skies will ever go away?

 

 

 

 

NOW PLAYING, CENTER STAGE: AN EATING DISORDER

May is Mental Health Awareness Month. For myself, the awareness is a daily experience. Even on a good day, a worry will pop up—often—that a new chance to unravel could be moments away. The slightest glitch can do it. I hate when I crumble. I fight to be resilient. Sometimes, all I can do is surrender and wait things out. Things do pass.

 

I’m deep into a stint where my eating disorder has taken charge. It’s not altogether unwelcome. I journaled what appears below near the point when it shifted into higher gear. I thought it might have passed by now but this is Day 51. I have reached out for support but there’s a wait list. The thoughts and behaviors go on. I’m okay-ish for now. 

 

I’ve decided to post this because maybe it will help a reader understand what a friend, relative or colleague experiences. Perhaps it helps enlighten someone about the fact older, not-so-thin men can have an eating disorder, too. Maybe someone will recognize their struggle and begin the process for seeking help as well. 

 

To an outsider, the solution is maddeningly simple: eat something. I know this. I can tell myself this. However, it’s like telling someone who is clinically depressed to just smile. Cue Bobby McFerrin: Don’t Worry, Be Happy. Mental health, however, doesn’t correspond with a meme or a Hallmark card. 

 

March 31, 2024

It's another Easter weekend and I'm struggling. Easter is the longest weekend on the Canadian calendar. Things shut down for Good Friday throughout the weekend and for Easter Monday. This was especially problematic a decade ago in 2014 when I found myself admitted to the psych ward at Saint Paul's Hospital on a Thursday afternoon which just so happened to be the day before Good Friday. Ever since, Easter makes me feel uncomfortable. That stint in the psych ward left me with heightened anxiety and PTSD since the only bed they could place me in for that long weekend was in the most severe psych ward. (It had never dawned on me that a hospital would have multiple psych wards.) I was scared, I feared for my safety, I desperately wanted out and, having no control being involuntarily committed, the entire experience spiked my eating disorder behaviors.

 

It's not because it is once again Easter nor is it because this is the decade anniversary, but I am once again in the midst of a spiked eating disorder situation. This is day 7. I didn't plan this, but something about last Monday had me so busy that I missed lunch. I don't eat breakfast. Lunch is when my body finally receives a little fuel—cottage cheese or yogurt; rice cakes. Everything is limited and controlled. But having missed the lunch mark, it became a warped game. It was already 2:00 in the afternoon. I could clearly go without eating lunch. I could wait until 5:00. Dinner. A single meal. 5:00 came and went. I knew if I delayed dinner, I wouldn't have an evening snack as well. There would be a significant drop in my caloric intake for the day. This was victory. I was winning my game.

 

With the win on Monday, I decided to make it a streak. Let's go for Tuesday. Mission accomplished. Same for Wednesday, even though I swam 5 kilometers that morning, my maximum distance in the pool which I hadn't done in over a year. Usually, I am famished after a swim workout. My body craves carbs to restore whatever I swam off. But, no. One meal once again. Thursday, Friday, same.

 

This was easy. If I smiled, the smugness would show. I am in control. Not of life. That's a mess. I am still shocked and saddened by being dumped six weeks ago after a two-year relationship I thought would last. I feel especially alone here in Vancouver. My best friend moved to Montreal four months ago. 

 

I can no longer relate to my closest friend who still lives here. Every time I see him, the experience rings false. He launches into a monologue about a new hobby, a long-winded recitation I sense he has repeated many, many times to other people. It used to be about mushroom videos on YouTube. Zero interest from me. More recently, it became about fermenting onions and other vegetables. Zero interest from me. During our latest catch-up, he arrived uncharacteristically late, hauling a five-pound bag of sugar. His grand new hobby: making vinegar from scratch. Dear God, help me.

 

So, yeah, he is not someone I can lean on. Other friends seem to have disappeared. They have families, one is still dealing with the death of her spouse; another is so passive he never ever is the one to reach out to do something. I am as alone in this city and in this life as I have ever been.

 

I do not know how to change this. I am stuck. I can do nothing to get my relationship back. I don't have any idea how, at 59 years old, I can go out and make new friends. Good friends. People I could lean on. 

 

My immediate family is not helpful. “Get a dog.” That’s their solution to getting over a bad breakup, not that they have any sense of how bad it’s been. There is no depth of conversation about the loss I have experienced. It’s par. They just don't go deep. It does not seem to be within them. They have all been in longstanding relationships, decades and decades of anniversaries celebrated. They understand very little about me being gay—that would require conversations and questions. They understand less about my habitual boomeranging to singlehood.

 

He loves me. He loves me not. 

 

Some poor little flower got all its petals plucked. The City of Vancouver should take out a restraining order, keeping me a hundred meters away from all garden spaces.

 

So yes, hello anorexia nervosa. It has always been there with me. This is one of those times, however, when it is taking centre stage. It has the power. I have given it that power. 

 

Yesterday morning, I was in a different part of the city to get my haircut. I brought my backpack, slipping in my laptop and two canvas bags. A health food grocery store I love is a block away from the salon and I figured I would pick up some of my favorite products while in the area.

 

I entered the grocery store and was immediately confused. I'm not eating much at the moment. Should I even grab a hand basket? I hesitated, then took one. Maybe just holding the basket would encourage me to buy more items. 

 

As I walked down the first aisle, one of the dangling tags indicated a box of wafer crackers was on sale. I buy these crackers on occasion. I stopped and stared at them. It became a dilemma. Do I want these crackers? When would I eat them? My sense was I didn't want them. I certainly didn't need them. I put the box in the basket nonetheless. Let this be the start to my grocery haul. I picked up nothing else from that aisle nor the next. 

 

I glanced in frozen foods windows. Ice cream registered in my brain. Usually, a pint or three of Häagen-Dazs or Ben & Jerry’s become an irresistible temptation. Sometimes, I load up so many, I feel obliged to lie to the checkout clerk. “Having a little ice cream social.” 

 

I had no desire for ice cream. I had no desire for anything. As I reached the last aisle, I stopped again. I stared down a container of non-fat cottage cheese. This is the only store I know in Vancouver that still carries it. I do not like the taste of 1% or 2% fat cottage cheese. It tastes heavy, it tastes gross. This was my chance to get the cottage cheese I like. I checked the expiration date: April 27. It was good for a whole month. Still, I questioned whether I would be able to eat it before then. I put the container in my basket, a companion for the crackers.

 

I perused the fresh vegetables and fruit. Nothing appealed to me. I had gone through the entire store and picked up two items. I had my two canvas bags in my backpack. I suppose that meant one item in each bag. A very balanced walk home. I headed toward the checkout. I glanced down at the two items in my basket. No, I did not want them. I did not need them.

 

I went back to the dairy aisle to return the cottage cheese, then went to the other end of the store to place the box of crackers on the shelf where I had gotten it. I put the basket back in the stack of empty ones by the entrance and left.

 

Grocery stores have given me many problems over the years. I often become anxious in them for reasons I don't fully understand. But this was the first time I walked all the way through a grocery store having planned to buy food and then consciously decided to not buy anything. On the sidewalk, I felt stunned. I knew this was a problem. But nothing was going to change my decision. I walked a couple blocks farther from home, stepped in a favourite café, ordered an oat latte and had a writing session. Keeping with my new routine, coffee with oat milk is all I consume until my evening meal. 

 

Walking home, I passed that grocery store again along with two others where I frequently shop. Generally, I like going into grocery stores farther from home to pick up items on sale, to save a few bucks. I get this from my father. He is a man who glories in a bargain. He stocks up anytime any item he might possibly want to consume in the years ahead is on sale. This is a coup to him.

 

No. Grocery. Shopping. 

 

I realized I had a lot of food at home and I didn't know how I was ever going to eat it all. I passed bakeries, a donut shop, two of my ex’s favorite eating spots, a vegan restaurant I love. When would I ever go into any of these places again? In only one week, food had become the object of my rejection.

 

Still many blocks from home, I felt weak. I felt panicky. I didn't know if I could make it back to my place. I was vaguely aware of an emergency vehicle passing by me in the street. Not a police car; maybe an ambulance, maybe one of those smaller red trucks the fire department uses. It dawned on me after the fact that maybe I should have flagged it down. Maybe I really needed a ride back home. Maybe it was even an emergency. 

 

You can't tell if someone has an ED
just by looking at them or checking
their weight.

Although scared, I knew this would not be enough to change the level of restriction I am on. As I walked, I leaned into one of my regular distractions. I stopped and took a selfie against a background that matched my shirt. Usually, I do this for amusement. In the moment, however, it gave me a chance to pause and also a break from thinking about the struggle the walk was becoming. 

 

I walked down an alley I knew had a great deal of graffiti. I looked for more backgrounds to take more selfies. Then I continued the walk. With only a few blocks left, I was very weak, but I could make it. 

 

Despite this experience, I knew that after sitting on the sofa for a little while, I still had a three-hour workout to do involving ab crunches, time on the exercise bike and using weights to focus on working out my chest. This would not be compromised. In fact, I shortened my rest on the sofa, got up and got started with the workout. I didn't want a delay to make me complacent, to make me back out of the exercise I required of myself. 

 

All this is fucked up. I know it. 

 

I can't stop it.

**

IF YOU NEED HELP...See your doctor. Tell the doctor EVERYTHING. (People with eating disorders tend to minimize things or be secretive.) If the doctor dismisses your concerns (as first happened to me), get a second opinion. Don't settle for or freak out over whatever Google says. Seek actual supports in your community. 

If it feels like an emergency, go to Emergency at your nearest hospital.