Fooking Shieetteee

Okay, once again, in case you missed it the last time you I AM NOT AMUSED! Got it? I AM NOT AMUSED ONE FUCKING LITTLE BIT.

With all the work you've got to do in this world how on earth and heaven do you find time to fuck with me? Come on, you got cyclones and tornados and earthquakes in your arsenal, why bother with penny anty nonsense like fucking with my little insignificant life? Go fuck with a continent or two and leave me alone for awhile okay? How hard would that be?

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See, there's a problem for people with Celiac disease that no one really thinks or talks much about. We're damned if we do and damned if we don't, forever stuck in this no man's land in between your worlds of experience knowledge and attitudes. I will attempt to explain. But given how fucked my head is right now I make no guarantees.

I shop more and more at the organic store; necessity really, they carry gluten free products no one else does. But the organic industry thinks all things organic are good for you. This would include small organic farmers. Here in lies the issue. Strawberry farmers in California almost universally grow strawberries on a synthetic bedding material that is at best, well, plastic. Organic farmers prefer older more organic methods. This would mean they grow them on straw. In theory I should be able to buy California grown strawberries and be safe. But I bought some from the organic store, from an organic grower who believes straw, which is essentially wheat and barley shaft, is a far superior growing method. The strawberries grown that way are simply cross contaminated from birth with gluten, no way around it, no way to wash it off. I didn't know that. Nor did I know about organic strawberry farmers until this week.

I bought and ate some organic strawberries grown on straw Thursday. I was deathly violently ill Thursday night. Accidental gluten has never made me this sick before. My body has become more sensitive as time goes on. That scares me. I was close to calling an ambulance Thursday night. Fortunately the abdominal distress came and went within an hour after I upchucked everything in my stomach and then some. But the side effects then began to set in. The rage and depression came back with a vengance yesterday and today. I know this will pass, but I hate it. And the more I understand about myself, the more I also understand about my mother and I hate that too. I hate being anything like her even for a day. And today is mothers day. Fuck fuck fuck. I'm afraid to go out. I need to go to the store, but I'm afraid of what I'll say if anyone mistakenly wishes me a Happy Mother's Day. I should wear a sign or something if I do go out.

I've been sitting here thinking. I realize now she never was much of a mother, not ever really. I don't think she knew how to be and I don't think she really tried. I grew up without a whole lot of nurturing. So I've been seeking that from other people, in bits and pieces when my pride would allow me, and doing without, and now lastly trying to figure out how to nurture myself. That is a recent development and I don't think I understood on a conscious level that I was doing that. I get it now. I have no fucking clue how, but I get that I have been trying to do that the last few months in bits and pieces. It's nice when the subconscious and the conscious finally start to read each other. So what the fuck do I do with Mothers Day? I never really had a mother. I'll never have one. You can't go back, you can't recapture or recreate or even reinvent. There is no one out there who can make up for twenty five years of abuse and neglect and abandonment. I've never felt so alone. I know, I know, it's the gluten talking too, but Gods it's just so fucking hard.