Odd title maybe, but I happened to catch a segment on 20/20 this evening about Jenny McCarthy and her son Evan. He was diagnosed with autism and she has put him on a casein and gluten free diet as part of his treatment. The link between Autism and gluten intolerance has been whispered about by so many, as has the link between mercury based preservatives in vaccines and autism. But main stream media doesn't really want to talk about it and the medical community surely doesn't want to talk about it. I admire her determination and her outspokenness. The passion she brought to that interview left me in tears, huge sobbing tears. So few people take charge of the health of themselves and their family and follow their instincts, choosing instead to abdicate control and healing to some supposedly all powerful doctor. It was heartening to see someone stand in the public light and talk about autism and gluten and damn the so called experts. I'm not sure she realizes how strong the opposition to her simple determination to make her sons life better may turn out to be. But you go Jenny! You'll find a whole lot of us Celiacs standing right behind you.
More and more I find it disheartening and disgusting this hold western medicine is determined to have on our lives. They want to sell you a pill or a surgery as the answer to your problems. They don't want you to seek your own answers that lie outside their reign of influence. I find it revolutionary and yet so common sense this idea that diet and how you live your life has more influence on your health and well being than all the pills in the universe. They would insist that any cure lies outside your body and mind, and couldn't possibly reside within it's very fiber; that they must control your health and well being because you don't have their expertise and knowledge. We've been so brainwashed by them that we've abdicated our bodies and souls to them, keeping very little decisions making capabilities for ourselves.
And I am guilt of falling prey to that mindset. I've been itching for ohhh, about ten months now. Some days are better than others. Some days are misery. The best guess I can come up with, because the doctor was absolutely no help, is that it's a result of nerve damage caused probably by B vitamin deficiencies or pernicious anemia and or gluten antibodies. It seems to be a somewhat common symptom among both Celiacs and people diagnosed with MS and other auto immune diseases. I was desperate for something anything that would stop the itching. I was hoping for some miracle drug and I'd searched the Internet for it repeatedly to no avail. I wanted some drug with a complicated name that had side effects I could live with as long as the damn itching stopped. I'd beg my way into a prescription or sell my soul which ever had to come first.
I found nothing, no drug, no pharmaceutical wonder, nothing. What I did find were references to everything from tea tree oil to milk baths. I was sure they'd have some miracle cure. Surely something must be out there since so many suffer from this itching? But western medicine has nothing, nada, zilch, zero to offer. Then I came across references to Capsicum as being useful in treating pain from things like arthritis and *ta da* itching. I will try anything. You don't know till you have to live with it how powerfully the itch can motivate. So I found a local pharmacy that has topical cream with Capsicum in it.
Okay, there's an upside to this story and a downside. Capsicum is basically the pepper family. The hot side of the pepper family. On the upside it's virtually orderless when applied to the skin. It does indeed do a really nifty job of numbing the nerves in the skin. And I do mean NUMB. It's a miracle. Applied to the most common areas where I itch the itching stopped. But the skin is numb, LOL. It's an odd sensation. Oh, and while the numbness set in rather quickly it was followed by a mild BURNING where I applied it too heavily. Still, as I sat there with my left forearm on fire I came to the conclusion that it was preferable to the itching. And soap and water don't really wash it off your hands. I still get a mild sting every time I get my hands anywhere near my eyes nose or mouth in spite of having washed a dozen or more times since applying the cream. I'm gonna need to buy some gloves for this stuff I can see that.
But I came to realize something curious about the itching. It's one of those self perpetuating miseries that is as much about my mindset as it is about my physical body. Now on some level I knew that before I began burning myself with capsicum. I knew that I was allowing the itching to aggravate me and take over my life, but there is something about having the power to stop it dead in it's tracks that gave my brain the ability to suddenly cope much better. I am no longer powerless to stop it, and can stop it any time I choose, and that power is liberating. The endless chasing of my tail so to speak has been stopped cold. Just in a matter of ten hours I've gone from obsessed to relaxed. So then the question is, and this is an old question, could I have gotten here without the capsicum cream? Ha. Who knows. And right at the moment I don't much care.
So there's the whole point. I allow myself to be victim to this western medicine mind set. I think I've kicked it, the dependency on pills and doctors, but I still search for the miracle cure outside myself first. I scream in desperation "Heal ME" when I should be quietly saying "I must heal myself". How many times must that happen before the first thought is not "Someone heal me", but "How do I heal myself this time?"
Showing posts with label Gluten Intolerance. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Gluten Intolerance. Show all posts
Friday, September 21, 2007
Friday, April 6, 2007
On Finding Balance
I've been unconsciously and consciously seeking balance for the last ten years of my life. To say I do not come from a long line of balanced individuals would be a gross understatement of history in every possible way, LOL. So I started out at a disadvantage.
I used to work in the non-profit world where they frown on balance. They want you obsessed by the cause, devoting all your waking hours to it. They want to fix all the ills of the world and they truly believe you can do it with money alone. Well, and the slave labor of grossly underpaid brilliant college educated women. And that was what began to wake me up. I came to realize I was spending all my time and energy "out there" trying to fix the world that I had begun to suspect didn't really want to be fixed. It was some version of saving the world I guess, and I truly thought it was the most noble of professions. Then someone introduced me to a revolutionary concept: The most profound radical change you can make in the world is to change yourself. And I have been relearning that one simple idea over and over again, with deeper and newer meaning for the last ten years. I cannot change other people. People change when they are ready to change. I can change me.
I was working for a Non profit Women's Foundation in Los Angeles in the fundraising department about ten years ago when Celiac Disease first reared it's head. I had no idea what was wrong with me, only that I had this terrible sickening nausea most of the time and had hideous bouts of joint pain that even massive doses of Advil could not touch. Several doctors shrugged their shoulders after running batteries of tests. This was not, and still unfortunately is not an uncommon response by doctors. That it took ten years to get a diagnosis is also not unusual. I read somewhere that 9 years is the average now.
Still, I read between the doctors frowns and concluded, as they had, that it must all be in my head; a product of a stress filled purposeful modern dedicated life. So I went off seeking stress management training so that I could "handle" what was a pretty hideous, stress filled, difficult, unappreciated job. I went to a hypnotherapist named Michael Benner. I had listened to Michael for years on KLOS and other stations in L.A.. I signed up for his stress management course and inadvertently jump started a search for balance and peace and personal growth that continues to this day.
You could ask I suppose, which did I truly need at that point; stress management or a gluten free diet? It's irrelevant what I needed then. I realize that profoundly and deeply. What was, does not matter. All that matters is what I learned from it that brought me to here and now. Had I never met Michael I would not be where I am. He was as much a catalyst as a teacher; a spring board into a world of concepts and ideas I'd only danced around at that point. He was the one who planted the idea in my head that changing and growing me was the most radical peaceful relevant thing I could do with my life.
Still it took me another four years and yet another even more stress filled non profit job for me to finally go in search of balance. When I did, we're talking leap off into the deep end of the pool search. I do nothing the easy way. Many is the time I've wished I could. Why dip your toe in when you can plunge into the deep end without a life jacket? It's quicker and saves a lot of deliberating along the way I guess, but damn it can be cold and frightening.
I began to find myself up here in the mountains, my true self. It was a difficult search though, complicated by the symptoms of Celiac Disease; most notably depression and rage and varying degrees of physical discomfort. Which brings me to this moment. This diagnosis. The need to understand why and how and what it was all for. All the symptoms I've experienced over that last ten years were a result of Celiac Disease. But what "caused" the Celiac? No one knows what turns on the Celiac genes. Many more people have the genes than will be diagnosed with or suffer from Celiacs. Something like 80% of the population has genes for either Celiac or simple Gluten Intolerance. What turns those genes on in some and not in others?
In my case I now understand. It was stress. It was stress all along, at each point where the Celiac symptoms got worse it corresponded to the stress levels in my life. It was stress from the very start. Celiac is just an expression of that stress. An expression I will have to live with for the rest of my life. Talk about an overkill lesson. But again, I do nothing the easy way so who is surprised? So, here's the funny part, I'm back at it, trying to actively manage the stress in my life. I know now that I have to take it a lot further than I already have or I will in all likelihood suffer even more as a result of Celiac Disease.
Celiac Disease tends to cause allergies for those who have it. In simple terms it does that by altering the walls of the small intestine so that larger particles than normal pass through the intestine into the blood and into the abdominal cavity. The body sees these "abnormal" size particles and attacks them because they are out of place. In the process the body memorizes the particle make up and responds with the same immune reaction the next time they encounter a similar particle anywhere in the body. In simple terms, that is what allergies are; the body remembering. Because of the intestinal damage it is believed Celiacs are prone to multiple significant allergies. I was determined when I was diagnosed that I would not be one of those people. Yeah. Well. No. By the time I had decided that I already was.
Once I got all the gluten out of my body I could tell that there was still something wrong. So I went through several elimination diets. I know now that I am allergic to corn and vegetables/fruits in the nightshade family. So life without bread was bad huh? Try life without mashed potatoes or french fries. And corn is in everything, as I found out last night. I mean come on, how many people know that there's cornstarch in powdered sugar? I know it now.
That new knowledge sent me into a tail spin. I'd barely adjusted to being gluten free when I faced the task of cutting corn and nightshades out of my diet as well. Here's a good one. I'd started making bunless hamburgers. That's cool. Most of the taste is in the meat and condiments anyway. Okay, now try a bunless hamburger WITHOUT ketchup. I'm sure somewhere out there is someone who prefers it that way. They're just not me. So I was insufferable for about two weeks after finding out about corn and nightshades. And I am afraid. I live in fear of what might be next. Will there be something else? Will there be anything left to eat?
That is why I started to ask myself what all of THIS is about? And the answer once I asked and shut up long enough to listen was stress. This need to control the uncontrollable. Which led me to the concept of peace and the idea that it all must begin with me. I can change nothing. I can only change myself. I cannot change what is, I can only change how I react to it. I am trying to unlearn forty something years of learning and reacting. I'm trying to find the most peaceful way to get through each day. I want to live. That is it. I want to live, and Celiacs have a whole host of illnesses waiting for them out there. The only way I know of to short circuit all of that is to learn to relax and respond with peace. I'm convinced, that and diet are all that stand between me and being six feet under.
I was sitting watching the snow fall, in April of all things, yesterday when it struck me how far I have come from ten years ago to now. But it has all of it, that parts that are worth talking about, been an inward journey. I'm not richer or thinner or prettier. Everything I've gained holds worth only to me. It also struck me that I'm somehow on a fast track here. As if I need to cram more into this life than the average person. That is the way it feels. Or I could just still be feeling sorry for myself. Gods I miss salsa and ketchup and BBQ sauce and . . . I could go . . . As I wrote once before, someone better have a damned good explanation for all this in Summerland. If this is just some twisted joke of the Gods I am not amused.
I used to work in the non-profit world where they frown on balance. They want you obsessed by the cause, devoting all your waking hours to it. They want to fix all the ills of the world and they truly believe you can do it with money alone. Well, and the slave labor of grossly underpaid brilliant college educated women. And that was what began to wake me up. I came to realize I was spending all my time and energy "out there" trying to fix the world that I had begun to suspect didn't really want to be fixed. It was some version of saving the world I guess, and I truly thought it was the most noble of professions. Then someone introduced me to a revolutionary concept: The most profound radical change you can make in the world is to change yourself. And I have been relearning that one simple idea over and over again, with deeper and newer meaning for the last ten years. I cannot change other people. People change when they are ready to change. I can change me.
I was working for a Non profit Women's Foundation in Los Angeles in the fundraising department about ten years ago when Celiac Disease first reared it's head. I had no idea what was wrong with me, only that I had this terrible sickening nausea most of the time and had hideous bouts of joint pain that even massive doses of Advil could not touch. Several doctors shrugged their shoulders after running batteries of tests. This was not, and still unfortunately is not an uncommon response by doctors. That it took ten years to get a diagnosis is also not unusual. I read somewhere that 9 years is the average now.
Still, I read between the doctors frowns and concluded, as they had, that it must all be in my head; a product of a stress filled purposeful modern dedicated life. So I went off seeking stress management training so that I could "handle" what was a pretty hideous, stress filled, difficult, unappreciated job. I went to a hypnotherapist named Michael Benner. I had listened to Michael for years on KLOS and other stations in L.A.. I signed up for his stress management course and inadvertently jump started a search for balance and peace and personal growth that continues to this day.
You could ask I suppose, which did I truly need at that point; stress management or a gluten free diet? It's irrelevant what I needed then. I realize that profoundly and deeply. What was, does not matter. All that matters is what I learned from it that brought me to here and now. Had I never met Michael I would not be where I am. He was as much a catalyst as a teacher; a spring board into a world of concepts and ideas I'd only danced around at that point. He was the one who planted the idea in my head that changing and growing me was the most radical peaceful relevant thing I could do with my life.
Still it took me another four years and yet another even more stress filled non profit job for me to finally go in search of balance. When I did, we're talking leap off into the deep end of the pool search. I do nothing the easy way. Many is the time I've wished I could. Why dip your toe in when you can plunge into the deep end without a life jacket? It's quicker and saves a lot of deliberating along the way I guess, but damn it can be cold and frightening.
I began to find myself up here in the mountains, my true self. It was a difficult search though, complicated by the symptoms of Celiac Disease; most notably depression and rage and varying degrees of physical discomfort. Which brings me to this moment. This diagnosis. The need to understand why and how and what it was all for. All the symptoms I've experienced over that last ten years were a result of Celiac Disease. But what "caused" the Celiac? No one knows what turns on the Celiac genes. Many more people have the genes than will be diagnosed with or suffer from Celiacs. Something like 80% of the population has genes for either Celiac or simple Gluten Intolerance. What turns those genes on in some and not in others?
In my case I now understand. It was stress. It was stress all along, at each point where the Celiac symptoms got worse it corresponded to the stress levels in my life. It was stress from the very start. Celiac is just an expression of that stress. An expression I will have to live with for the rest of my life. Talk about an overkill lesson. But again, I do nothing the easy way so who is surprised? So, here's the funny part, I'm back at it, trying to actively manage the stress in my life. I know now that I have to take it a lot further than I already have or I will in all likelihood suffer even more as a result of Celiac Disease.
Celiac Disease tends to cause allergies for those who have it. In simple terms it does that by altering the walls of the small intestine so that larger particles than normal pass through the intestine into the blood and into the abdominal cavity. The body sees these "abnormal" size particles and attacks them because they are out of place. In the process the body memorizes the particle make up and responds with the same immune reaction the next time they encounter a similar particle anywhere in the body. In simple terms, that is what allergies are; the body remembering. Because of the intestinal damage it is believed Celiacs are prone to multiple significant allergies. I was determined when I was diagnosed that I would not be one of those people. Yeah. Well. No. By the time I had decided that I already was.
Once I got all the gluten out of my body I could tell that there was still something wrong. So I went through several elimination diets. I know now that I am allergic to corn and vegetables/fruits in the nightshade family. So life without bread was bad huh? Try life without mashed potatoes or french fries. And corn is in everything, as I found out last night. I mean come on, how many people know that there's cornstarch in powdered sugar? I know it now.
That new knowledge sent me into a tail spin. I'd barely adjusted to being gluten free when I faced the task of cutting corn and nightshades out of my diet as well. Here's a good one. I'd started making bunless hamburgers. That's cool. Most of the taste is in the meat and condiments anyway. Okay, now try a bunless hamburger WITHOUT ketchup. I'm sure somewhere out there is someone who prefers it that way. They're just not me. So I was insufferable for about two weeks after finding out about corn and nightshades. And I am afraid. I live in fear of what might be next. Will there be something else? Will there be anything left to eat?
That is why I started to ask myself what all of THIS is about? And the answer once I asked and shut up long enough to listen was stress. This need to control the uncontrollable. Which led me to the concept of peace and the idea that it all must begin with me. I can change nothing. I can only change myself. I cannot change what is, I can only change how I react to it. I am trying to unlearn forty something years of learning and reacting. I'm trying to find the most peaceful way to get through each day. I want to live. That is it. I want to live, and Celiacs have a whole host of illnesses waiting for them out there. The only way I know of to short circuit all of that is to learn to relax and respond with peace. I'm convinced, that and diet are all that stand between me and being six feet under.
I was sitting watching the snow fall, in April of all things, yesterday when it struck me how far I have come from ten years ago to now. But it has all of it, that parts that are worth talking about, been an inward journey. I'm not richer or thinner or prettier. Everything I've gained holds worth only to me. It also struck me that I'm somehow on a fast track here. As if I need to cram more into this life than the average person. That is the way it feels. Or I could just still be feeling sorry for myself. Gods I miss salsa and ketchup and BBQ sauce and . . . I could go . . . As I wrote once before, someone better have a damned good explanation for all this in Summerland. If this is just some twisted joke of the Gods I am not amused.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Is This How It's Going to Be?
A new book came highly recommended to me: Celiac Disease: A Hidden Epidemic by Peter Green. I'll do anything at this point to better understand my body, my mind this Disease. When I ordered this book I was determined and forcefully optimistic. I think that I thought if I learned everything I could, that would someone make it all okay and safe and painless. Hey, I'm strange. I've always found comfort in information, sheer volumes of information. After all, that's how a rational mind comes to the correct conclusions right? It's what guarantees success.
I started reading it last night. Much of it I've already learned, but it's all there in the one book. I guess it's having all the bad stuff, every negative I've read in bits and pieces on the web now staring me in the face all in one place, page after page, that turned out to be too hard today.
There's a lovely chapter about the significantly increased risk of cancer. Then there's that paragraph that caught my eye about Celiac Disease possibly bringing on early menopause. And I think what finally did it was the chapter on Depression. That's when I lost it. I haven't found it yet by the way. I'm sobbing as I type this.
Well, at least the periods in between the overwhelming fear terror anger and despair are getting longer. I'll take whatever little perk I can get. Gods, shouldn't have used the word perk. I'd kill for a cup of coffee or a spoon of ice cream right now. Anything to take my mind of it all. But coffee this late would give me indigestion and I have no ice cream in the house at the moment. Note to self: Never ever run out of ice cream again. It's days like this I wish I could drink and forget. Unfortunately drinking has never worked for me. It anything it makes it worse. So the only way out is through it and hope I get to the other side really soon. For whatever reason this is the way it's supposed to be. I don't have any other comfort in my life, with the possible exception of my very life. I've survived a shit load of crap and I'm still alive. I've lost so much and I'm still here. But some days I feel like I'm surviving by the skin of my teeth.
Perhaps I'll read a few fairy tales tonight before bed instead of another chapter. I've had enough reality for now.
I started reading it last night. Much of it I've already learned, but it's all there in the one book. I guess it's having all the bad stuff, every negative I've read in bits and pieces on the web now staring me in the face all in one place, page after page, that turned out to be too hard today.
There's a lovely chapter about the significantly increased risk of cancer. Then there's that paragraph that caught my eye about Celiac Disease possibly bringing on early menopause. And I think what finally did it was the chapter on Depression. That's when I lost it. I haven't found it yet by the way. I'm sobbing as I type this.
Well, at least the periods in between the overwhelming fear terror anger and despair are getting longer. I'll take whatever little perk I can get. Gods, shouldn't have used the word perk. I'd kill for a cup of coffee or a spoon of ice cream right now. Anything to take my mind of it all. But coffee this late would give me indigestion and I have no ice cream in the house at the moment. Note to self: Never ever run out of ice cream again. It's days like this I wish I could drink and forget. Unfortunately drinking has never worked for me. It anything it makes it worse. So the only way out is through it and hope I get to the other side really soon. For whatever reason this is the way it's supposed to be. I don't have any other comfort in my life, with the possible exception of my very life. I've survived a shit load of crap and I'm still alive. I've lost so much and I'm still here. But some days I feel like I'm surviving by the skin of my teeth.
Perhaps I'll read a few fairy tales tonight before bed instead of another chapter. I've had enough reality for now.
Friday, March 2, 2007
Winter Never Ends
So when does grief end? Does it ever end? I'm beginning to think that it doesn't end, it just evolves, transmutes ever so gently and slowly with time. I suspect that each new day, each new discovery, each moment of life transforms grief. Grief is a living breathing entity. I should probably name it since it seems it will be with me for the rest of my life.
No one can apparently escape grief. Everyone looses someone or something if they live long enough. The some things are little or big. The someones are life long companions or peripheral parts of your life. The loss brings a moment or a lifetime of grief.
My mother died twenty years ago this month. My father died seventeen years ago this month. I'd love to know which one of them gave me which of these genes of mine. I can look in the mirror and at photographs and figure out where the eyes and the nose and the other physical things came from. But the genes that determine the inner workings are a mystery. I could well have gotten the Celiac genes from both of them. That would suck. They're both candidates. Of course I'm the only one in the family diagnosed as a Celiac, but that is neither surprising nor unusual. Most people don't want to know, even given the information. My sister is in denial, I can hear it when I talk to her about it. She doesn't want to know. I can feel her backpedaling on the phone when we talk. I can't make her listen or make her do the research, or make her take a blood test. I can't make anyone change. Just another train headed down the tracks. And it leaves me that much more alone. Is it any wonder I sometimes feel like the adopted step child? They couldn't possibly have inherited the same genes for kidney or Celiac Disease that I did. Nope. I must have gotten it from someone else, that's the only explanation. If I didn't inherit them from my mother or my father what does that leave, ehhhhh?
It was ten years after my mother's death before I could look at a photograph of her. To say our relationship was difficult would be an understatement. Grief, what there was of it, was mostly on hold while I got past the anger. By then, ten years later grief was tempered with forgiveness and understanding. It was grief that she wasn't there for each milestone or achievement. It was grief that she could not have been the mother her children needed her to be, and forgiveness because she never had a role model to work from, and now forgiveness because she may well have had to live with the same gluten designed depression and rage that I have. My grief at her loss has evolved from day one to now in fits and spurts, through bouts of anger and moments of recognition.
The grief at my father's passing has changed the least. What little forgiving there was to do was more about what he didn't do than what he did. And perhaps it's been tempered by the knowledge that he is the voice in my head. It is his logic, his response, his view point that guides the choices I make. It is his voice that the conversations in my head speak with. He has never left me in so many ways. At the same time his loss was the hardest to take. Our relationship was the one that had the least amount of time to grow.
So what to name my grief? Winter I think. In mythology Pluto abducted Proserpine, and Proserpine's mother Ceres brought about winter with her grief at the loss. It somehow seems fitting. More appropriate than George or Cindy. Ceres was the goddess of growing plants and of motherly love. Appropriate, yes.
No one can apparently escape grief. Everyone looses someone or something if they live long enough. The some things are little or big. The someones are life long companions or peripheral parts of your life. The loss brings a moment or a lifetime of grief.
My mother died twenty years ago this month. My father died seventeen years ago this month. I'd love to know which one of them gave me which of these genes of mine. I can look in the mirror and at photographs and figure out where the eyes and the nose and the other physical things came from. But the genes that determine the inner workings are a mystery. I could well have gotten the Celiac genes from both of them. That would suck. They're both candidates. Of course I'm the only one in the family diagnosed as a Celiac, but that is neither surprising nor unusual. Most people don't want to know, even given the information. My sister is in denial, I can hear it when I talk to her about it. She doesn't want to know. I can feel her backpedaling on the phone when we talk. I can't make her listen or make her do the research, or make her take a blood test. I can't make anyone change. Just another train headed down the tracks. And it leaves me that much more alone. Is it any wonder I sometimes feel like the adopted step child? They couldn't possibly have inherited the same genes for kidney or Celiac Disease that I did. Nope. I must have gotten it from someone else, that's the only explanation. If I didn't inherit them from my mother or my father what does that leave, ehhhhh?
It was ten years after my mother's death before I could look at a photograph of her. To say our relationship was difficult would be an understatement. Grief, what there was of it, was mostly on hold while I got past the anger. By then, ten years later grief was tempered with forgiveness and understanding. It was grief that she wasn't there for each milestone or achievement. It was grief that she could not have been the mother her children needed her to be, and forgiveness because she never had a role model to work from, and now forgiveness because she may well have had to live with the same gluten designed depression and rage that I have. My grief at her loss has evolved from day one to now in fits and spurts, through bouts of anger and moments of recognition.
The grief at my father's passing has changed the least. What little forgiving there was to do was more about what he didn't do than what he did. And perhaps it's been tempered by the knowledge that he is the voice in my head. It is his logic, his response, his view point that guides the choices I make. It is his voice that the conversations in my head speak with. He has never left me in so many ways. At the same time his loss was the hardest to take. Our relationship was the one that had the least amount of time to grow.
So what to name my grief? Winter I think. In mythology Pluto abducted Proserpine, and Proserpine's mother Ceres brought about winter with her grief at the loss. It somehow seems fitting. More appropriate than George or Cindy. Ceres was the goddess of growing plants and of motherly love. Appropriate, yes.
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Mountain Sunsets
I'm sitting here watching the sun set. In a mountain valley it's not so much of a sunset as a long slow slide into deepening twilight. That comes from being surrounded by a ring of mountain peaks. People in the flatlands get sunsets, we get an hour of these lovely pale blues and pinks and purples. Then there are the stars. Oh the stars. I spend more and more of my time watching the sunsets now, and waiting for the billions of stars to slide into view. I seem to have more time now. My life seems more focused of late, more confined, but by the same token richer.
It's been a tough weekend. In my new quest to live a healthier life I decided to try the sweetener Stevia. I've read repeatedly about how terrible white sugar is, and how artificial sweeteners are full of chemicals. Stevia seemed a good answer. Unfortunately it didn't occur to me to wonder what family the Stevia plant was a part of. Turns out it's second cousin to both sunflower and ragweed. And I'm allergic to both. It took three days of two packets a morning in my coffee to make me sicker than I've been in a long time. Saturday was a total loss. Initially I just figured I'd somehow glutened myself, but by Saturday I figured it out when I looked up info on Stevia.
What was even more alarming where the somewhat psychotropic effects it had on me. I have a rather distinct memory of thinking I was a chicken there at one point. Fortunately I had the good sense to stay in bed with the covers over my head. Yeah, weird stuff. But you know it's "100% safe all natural and there's never been one single adverse reaction to it reported." Uh, until now. So where do I go to report this? You gotta love the whole new green marketing machine out there. I now realize they're no more honest than all the other marketers out there. Everyone wants to sell you, but no one is going to be around later when you start clucking in your sleep and hunting for bugs.
But there are so many opinions out there about what is good for you and what is bad. I encounter that daily as I read more and more about gluten intolerance on the web. In the end I think you have to keep reading and figure it out for yourself: figure out what works for you and discard the rest. The Federal Government is convinced that wheat is good for me and should be the basis of a good healthy diet, whether it kills me or not. I seem to recall grains being the foundation of their silly food triangle. But I read a statistic the other day from a doctor doing research on Celiac Disease. He thinks as much as 80% of the population has one or more genes for gluten intolerance. I saw another figure, more widely accepted, that 1 in 113 people are gluten intolerant, most without knowing it. But wheat is good for you, any school girl knows that; it's just common sense.
I don't particularly enjoy listening to people prattle on about common sense these days. "Well, it's just common sense you know." Lately when I hear someone use the phrase common sense it seems to be emotional shorthand for "I don't understand" or "I'm afraid of learning that I don't already know everything." People just want to return to a time when common sense ruled, whatever that means. Things have gotten too complicated for them, and they just want to curl up in their cocoon and wrap themselves in what they've always known and eat their Wonder Bread. Gods, here's a thought - death by Wonder Bread. What a way to go.
But common sense to me has always meant something different. It's always meant listening to what my head and heart and soul are telling me. To me, in a very real way that is COMMON sense. I subscribe to the theory that we're all of one soul, all connected by this invisible thread. We can all, in theory, tap into the common knowledge, the common brain, the common sense, a common past and future. I said in theory. Actually achieving that has only been accomplished in bits and pieces in my life.
Of course my common sense theories puts me at odds with most other people's common sense. They'd tell me to shut up and eat my bread, it's good for me because the Federal government has always said so. The government knows these things and they wouldn't lie. These are the same people who think I should be married with 1.4 children and a Labrador Retriever, be Christian and living down in the flatlands in some suburban sprawl like place. Obviously I've never much listened to them or subscribed to their theories.
So I live in a mountain valley. I somehow figured when I moved here I'd encounter like souls. I'd find people here who aren't cut out of normal square cloth just by nature of the place they've chosen to settle. It hasn't worked out that way. Not at all. I'm surrounded by common sense people. They don't much like that I'm single or Pagan, or a single female Pagan. There is no community up here for single women, no way for them to fit in. We live on the fringes of their common sense view of the world. Then you throw in gluten intolerance and you rule out the one mode of socialization that exists for the single woman in these mountains; restaurants and bars.
So here I sit, watching sunsets. Watching the wind bend the trees against a darkening sky. I've always been more solitary a person than not. At one point in my life I did a lot of past life work and got glimpses, little vignettes of the past out of it. One moment I remember was unexpectedly loosing someone who was my world and the crashing agony of that. Who knows, maybe that's why I keep a distance in this life. Who knows how much hangs on from one life to another, how much of who we are is not just the sum experience of this life, but of other lives.
I used to worry that I was living this life backwards. That I was here to get past this need for solitude that seems to be hardwired into me. That somehow I was supposed to discover some magic, some point of view, some relationship that would make me a happy people person. But I don't think so anymore. Perhaps that's my karma. Yeah, I know, never second guess karma. But perhaps part of the lessons to be learned here is how to be alone, be still, be focused, be just me. How does that Eagles song go:
Though the world is torn and shaken
Even if your heart is breakin'
It's waiting for you to awaken
And someday you will-
Learn to be still
Learn to be still
It's been a tough weekend. In my new quest to live a healthier life I decided to try the sweetener Stevia. I've read repeatedly about how terrible white sugar is, and how artificial sweeteners are full of chemicals. Stevia seemed a good answer. Unfortunately it didn't occur to me to wonder what family the Stevia plant was a part of. Turns out it's second cousin to both sunflower and ragweed. And I'm allergic to both. It took three days of two packets a morning in my coffee to make me sicker than I've been in a long time. Saturday was a total loss. Initially I just figured I'd somehow glutened myself, but by Saturday I figured it out when I looked up info on Stevia.
What was even more alarming where the somewhat psychotropic effects it had on me. I have a rather distinct memory of thinking I was a chicken there at one point. Fortunately I had the good sense to stay in bed with the covers over my head. Yeah, weird stuff. But you know it's "100% safe all natural and there's never been one single adverse reaction to it reported." Uh, until now. So where do I go to report this? You gotta love the whole new green marketing machine out there. I now realize they're no more honest than all the other marketers out there. Everyone wants to sell you, but no one is going to be around later when you start clucking in your sleep and hunting for bugs.
But there are so many opinions out there about what is good for you and what is bad. I encounter that daily as I read more and more about gluten intolerance on the web. In the end I think you have to keep reading and figure it out for yourself: figure out what works for you and discard the rest. The Federal Government is convinced that wheat is good for me and should be the basis of a good healthy diet, whether it kills me or not. I seem to recall grains being the foundation of their silly food triangle. But I read a statistic the other day from a doctor doing research on Celiac Disease. He thinks as much as 80% of the population has one or more genes for gluten intolerance. I saw another figure, more widely accepted, that 1 in 113 people are gluten intolerant, most without knowing it. But wheat is good for you, any school girl knows that; it's just common sense.
I don't particularly enjoy listening to people prattle on about common sense these days. "Well, it's just common sense you know." Lately when I hear someone use the phrase common sense it seems to be emotional shorthand for "I don't understand" or "I'm afraid of learning that I don't already know everything." People just want to return to a time when common sense ruled, whatever that means. Things have gotten too complicated for them, and they just want to curl up in their cocoon and wrap themselves in what they've always known and eat their Wonder Bread. Gods, here's a thought - death by Wonder Bread. What a way to go.
But common sense to me has always meant something different. It's always meant listening to what my head and heart and soul are telling me. To me, in a very real way that is COMMON sense. I subscribe to the theory that we're all of one soul, all connected by this invisible thread. We can all, in theory, tap into the common knowledge, the common brain, the common sense, a common past and future. I said in theory. Actually achieving that has only been accomplished in bits and pieces in my life.
Of course my common sense theories puts me at odds with most other people's common sense. They'd tell me to shut up and eat my bread, it's good for me because the Federal government has always said so. The government knows these things and they wouldn't lie. These are the same people who think I should be married with 1.4 children and a Labrador Retriever, be Christian and living down in the flatlands in some suburban sprawl like place. Obviously I've never much listened to them or subscribed to their theories.
So I live in a mountain valley. I somehow figured when I moved here I'd encounter like souls. I'd find people here who aren't cut out of normal square cloth just by nature of the place they've chosen to settle. It hasn't worked out that way. Not at all. I'm surrounded by common sense people. They don't much like that I'm single or Pagan, or a single female Pagan. There is no community up here for single women, no way for them to fit in. We live on the fringes of their common sense view of the world. Then you throw in gluten intolerance and you rule out the one mode of socialization that exists for the single woman in these mountains; restaurants and bars.
So here I sit, watching sunsets. Watching the wind bend the trees against a darkening sky. I've always been more solitary a person than not. At one point in my life I did a lot of past life work and got glimpses, little vignettes of the past out of it. One moment I remember was unexpectedly loosing someone who was my world and the crashing agony of that. Who knows, maybe that's why I keep a distance in this life. Who knows how much hangs on from one life to another, how much of who we are is not just the sum experience of this life, but of other lives.
I used to worry that I was living this life backwards. That I was here to get past this need for solitude that seems to be hardwired into me. That somehow I was supposed to discover some magic, some point of view, some relationship that would make me a happy people person. But I don't think so anymore. Perhaps that's my karma. Yeah, I know, never second guess karma. But perhaps part of the lessons to be learned here is how to be alone, be still, be focused, be just me. How does that Eagles song go:
Though the world is torn and shaken
Even if your heart is breakin'
It's waiting for you to awaken
And someday you will-
Learn to be still
Learn to be still
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Moving On?
I need to remember for future reference just how bad bad was. I don't want to forget because I don't want to let denial or carelessness or frustration take hold in my life. I can see that happening. But this cannot be a short fling of passion. This has to be a lifetime commitment. I have to let go of the past and move into this life finally and permanently.
Uh, well, okay, commitment has never been a favorite word in my vocabulary. And no, that's not the reason I'm still and always have been single. Shut up. Anyway, I never cared for the concept of commitment; not to anyone or anything. Hell, even the animals, if you think about it, are a short term thing. The dog at the outside will live to be 16 if she's lucky. The cats, may the Gods help me, could live to be 20. I have no clue how long house finches live, but I'd say since Fidget has already survived what should have killed her that she's been on borrowed time since I met her. The point is, I've never said "Forever" to anyone or anything in my life before now, most particularly to myself. I can't even imagine how extraordinary a man would have to be for me to agree to that whole "Till death do us part" thing. Me and forever do not have a stellar track history.
But we're talking about my physical life on this earth in this incarnation. I'm here for a reason and I know I haven't finished up here yet, not even close. I'm also positive that this whole experience is part of that grand sick twisted plan the Gods have for me. I've grown to hate their sense of humor - truly. At any rate, I would prefer to die quietly in my sleep at 98 than in pain from some horrible malady at 50. So in many ways I'm up against a do it right or die enemy. I've never contemplated that before. And in truth I always figured cancer or diabetes would be the bugaboos that would eventually come along to frighten the crap out of me. I was so not prepared to face an enemy masquerading as soft chewy golden brown and warm out of the oven. The enemy is supposed to be dark and menacing. It is not supposed to arrive in the person of a loaf of crusty french bread. How do you take an enemy like that seriously?
But the lifetime complications of gluten intolerance read like a who's who of chronic disease and disorder. The complications I've already experienced are chronic diarrhea, indigestion and acid reflux, severe anemia and vitamin deficiencies, brain fog, depression, extreme exhaustion, nausea, horrible joint pain, kidney disease, chronic bronchitis and various and assorted minor auto immune issues. I'm lucky. No - really. The real nasty complications can kill you.
The depression was probably the worse side effect. I suspect that it's colored my entire life, how I've lived, the choices I've made, all of it. It leaves me to wonder when people throw around the phrase "chemical imbalance" if they even get the implications. Do they get how profound a link there is between what you put in your body and how you feel? Body and mind are not separate entities. Vitamins and minerals play a big part in how well the brain functions. Gluten intolerance destroys the small intestines ability to absorb many crucial vitamins and minerals which in turn effects the thyroid and hormone output which throws everything out of whack. It's a cascade effect. The perfect balancing of the body's mechanisms is so fragile in some ways. I wonder if some day we won't come to understand that we create the chemical imbalances, all of them by not understanding our physical bodies, our very genes?
I came across a diet concept the other day called the Paleolithic diet. It's the idea that man evolved as a hunter gathering, and his genes are programmed to a hunter gatherer's diet. Then there are my genes which specifically do not allow my body to process gluten. Genetically speaking I was never meant to eat grains. So what else is there we don't yet understand about the human body? We know it needs sunlight, some people need it more than others. What else are we as individuals genetically programmed to need that we're not giving out bodies, or what is it we're giving our bodies that they can't handle? Western medicine wants to hand us a pill, all of us, the same pill and be done with it. I don't think it's that simple.
I'm not knocking the pill. I took an anti-depressant for about a year. I remember the profound sense of relief when it kicked in. The lows were gone, there was just this calming steady plateau suddenly in my life. I began to understand for the first time what life without depression is like. It saw everything with new eyes. It was a tremendous lesson. But it came to the point where I couldn't afford it. With no insurance to pick up the cost I couldn't manage the $120 dollars a month. But just knowing that life can be like that was a revelation and later, there were many days when that knowing sustained me.
As the effects of Celiac Disease got worse and worse over the last year the depressions came one on top of the other, just piling up, incredibly dark. I could feel it coming most days, and it had started to scare me. It was all I could do to breath, to sneak a breath in between crashing blows. It was no longer just a vague grayness that colored my life, but sudden, devastating descents into pitch black holes, over and over, like riding a roller coaster that periodically got close to the light, but never really saw it. I was scared and puzzled and devastated by it, and that was on top of all the other bodily effects going on. Once I began to understand what was happening to my body I began to see the patterns in the roller coaster ride. Hell, I can now see the pattern running throughout most of the last ten years of my life.
Yeah, then a new kind of depression took hold. Once I went gluten free the sudden descents into the deep dark holes stopped, but it was replaced by a persistent anger fueled depression. I'm still trying to find my way out of that. But that's okay. It's not the bleak insane darkness, and I prefer it. I don't know exactly how to explain it. Behind the anger fueled depression is a calm backdrop. The insanity is gone. I'm not on the roller coaster anymore. Now I just have to come to terms with the anger.
And that's where letting go and moving on comes in. I've got to find a way to do it. I haven't watched cooking shows for awhile. I tried watching one last night. Bridget goes to Belgium or something like that. Well, in Belgium they eat a lot of gluten. Turns out waffles, well duh, are the national food. Fortunately I've never really much wanted to visit Belgium. Cross number 94 on the list of places to someday go off the list. I suppose someone not understanding reading this would think I was just a big baby. So you can't eat everything Paula makes, you can eat some of it so shut up. What's your problem? The problem is every single time I see something I can't eat, I can't cook, I can't bake I'm angry and I'm hurt. And boy, let me tell you, I'm freaking surrounded by anger and hurt. It's everywhere, on TV, on the radio, in the paper, on the Internet, on billboards, in stores, everywhere. Here it is, and you can't ever have it again, nahhhh nah na nah nahhhhhh. Yeah, there damn well better be some big meaningful all encompassing outstandingly significant cosmic lesson in this. If this is just a joke guys, I'm not amused.
So I'm still casting around, trying to find a way to be happy with what my life is. I need some way to make it all right that doesn't involve me sneering at everyone who deigns to eat a croissant with their morning coffee, or breaking down in tears during a Burger Bust commercial. I have to find a way or I'm doomed to fail.
Uh, well, okay, commitment has never been a favorite word in my vocabulary. And no, that's not the reason I'm still and always have been single. Shut up. Anyway, I never cared for the concept of commitment; not to anyone or anything. Hell, even the animals, if you think about it, are a short term thing. The dog at the outside will live to be 16 if she's lucky. The cats, may the Gods help me, could live to be 20. I have no clue how long house finches live, but I'd say since Fidget has already survived what should have killed her that she's been on borrowed time since I met her. The point is, I've never said "Forever" to anyone or anything in my life before now, most particularly to myself. I can't even imagine how extraordinary a man would have to be for me to agree to that whole "Till death do us part" thing. Me and forever do not have a stellar track history.
But we're talking about my physical life on this earth in this incarnation. I'm here for a reason and I know I haven't finished up here yet, not even close. I'm also positive that this whole experience is part of that grand sick twisted plan the Gods have for me. I've grown to hate their sense of humor - truly. At any rate, I would prefer to die quietly in my sleep at 98 than in pain from some horrible malady at 50. So in many ways I'm up against a do it right or die enemy. I've never contemplated that before. And in truth I always figured cancer or diabetes would be the bugaboos that would eventually come along to frighten the crap out of me. I was so not prepared to face an enemy masquerading as soft chewy golden brown and warm out of the oven. The enemy is supposed to be dark and menacing. It is not supposed to arrive in the person of a loaf of crusty french bread. How do you take an enemy like that seriously?
But the lifetime complications of gluten intolerance read like a who's who of chronic disease and disorder. The complications I've already experienced are chronic diarrhea, indigestion and acid reflux, severe anemia and vitamin deficiencies, brain fog, depression, extreme exhaustion, nausea, horrible joint pain, kidney disease, chronic bronchitis and various and assorted minor auto immune issues. I'm lucky. No - really. The real nasty complications can kill you.
The depression was probably the worse side effect. I suspect that it's colored my entire life, how I've lived, the choices I've made, all of it. It leaves me to wonder when people throw around the phrase "chemical imbalance" if they even get the implications. Do they get how profound a link there is between what you put in your body and how you feel? Body and mind are not separate entities. Vitamins and minerals play a big part in how well the brain functions. Gluten intolerance destroys the small intestines ability to absorb many crucial vitamins and minerals which in turn effects the thyroid and hormone output which throws everything out of whack. It's a cascade effect. The perfect balancing of the body's mechanisms is so fragile in some ways. I wonder if some day we won't come to understand that we create the chemical imbalances, all of them by not understanding our physical bodies, our very genes?
I came across a diet concept the other day called the Paleolithic diet. It's the idea that man evolved as a hunter gathering, and his genes are programmed to a hunter gatherer's diet. Then there are my genes which specifically do not allow my body to process gluten. Genetically speaking I was never meant to eat grains. So what else is there we don't yet understand about the human body? We know it needs sunlight, some people need it more than others. What else are we as individuals genetically programmed to need that we're not giving out bodies, or what is it we're giving our bodies that they can't handle? Western medicine wants to hand us a pill, all of us, the same pill and be done with it. I don't think it's that simple.
I'm not knocking the pill. I took an anti-depressant for about a year. I remember the profound sense of relief when it kicked in. The lows were gone, there was just this calming steady plateau suddenly in my life. I began to understand for the first time what life without depression is like. It saw everything with new eyes. It was a tremendous lesson. But it came to the point where I couldn't afford it. With no insurance to pick up the cost I couldn't manage the $120 dollars a month. But just knowing that life can be like that was a revelation and later, there were many days when that knowing sustained me.
As the effects of Celiac Disease got worse and worse over the last year the depressions came one on top of the other, just piling up, incredibly dark. I could feel it coming most days, and it had started to scare me. It was all I could do to breath, to sneak a breath in between crashing blows. It was no longer just a vague grayness that colored my life, but sudden, devastating descents into pitch black holes, over and over, like riding a roller coaster that periodically got close to the light, but never really saw it. I was scared and puzzled and devastated by it, and that was on top of all the other bodily effects going on. Once I began to understand what was happening to my body I began to see the patterns in the roller coaster ride. Hell, I can now see the pattern running throughout most of the last ten years of my life.
Yeah, then a new kind of depression took hold. Once I went gluten free the sudden descents into the deep dark holes stopped, but it was replaced by a persistent anger fueled depression. I'm still trying to find my way out of that. But that's okay. It's not the bleak insane darkness, and I prefer it. I don't know exactly how to explain it. Behind the anger fueled depression is a calm backdrop. The insanity is gone. I'm not on the roller coaster anymore. Now I just have to come to terms with the anger.
And that's where letting go and moving on comes in. I've got to find a way to do it. I haven't watched cooking shows for awhile. I tried watching one last night. Bridget goes to Belgium or something like that. Well, in Belgium they eat a lot of gluten. Turns out waffles, well duh, are the national food. Fortunately I've never really much wanted to visit Belgium. Cross number 94 on the list of places to someday go off the list. I suppose someone not understanding reading this would think I was just a big baby. So you can't eat everything Paula makes, you can eat some of it so shut up. What's your problem? The problem is every single time I see something I can't eat, I can't cook, I can't bake I'm angry and I'm hurt. And boy, let me tell you, I'm freaking surrounded by anger and hurt. It's everywhere, on TV, on the radio, in the paper, on the Internet, on billboards, in stores, everywhere. Here it is, and you can't ever have it again, nahhhh nah na nah nahhhhhh. Yeah, there damn well better be some big meaningful all encompassing outstandingly significant cosmic lesson in this. If this is just a joke guys, I'm not amused.
So I'm still casting around, trying to find a way to be happy with what my life is. I need some way to make it all right that doesn't involve me sneering at everyone who deigns to eat a croissant with their morning coffee, or breaking down in tears during a Burger Bust commercial. I have to find a way or I'm doomed to fail.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Damn . . . well just DAMN!
Life is a double edged sword. I have come to that unequivocal conclusion. There are no exceptions, period. All of life is give and take, get and give, good and bad, dark and light. All good results come with unwelcome conclusions. In theory the good outweighs the bad, though I sometimes think good gets extra points just on account. Then there's also that mischievous brain function that makes it so much easier for the body to remember good and forget bad. Bet you remember more about your last orgasm than you do your last bout of indigestion? The body is programmed to remember and want the good stuff over and over again, and jettison the bad body memories in pursuit of even more good stuff. The deck is stacked.
So here I am. A 44 year old woman trying to read labels in grocery stores who is at that age where she is not only extremely near sighted, but also now far sighted. In short, there is no acceptable workable distance at which I can hold a label with teeny tiny itsy bitsy print and actually be able to read it. I take my reading glasses to the store now, and sometimes even that isn't enough. Anyway, having to read labels is a pain in the ass, and by most accounts bad. Still it's an eye opener when you read label after label and realize you do not recognize two thirds of the things in most canned, frozen, boxed and jarred foods. The more I read labels, the more articles I read, the more amazed I am by what we put in our bodies daily. I think that's both a good thing and a bad thing. I know it frightens me.
Reading labels is one of those distance creating exercises. Having read Gods knows how many labels in the last several weeks, I now look at the food in the grocery store from a whole different place. There is me, over here standing in a vacuum with the wind whistling through my ears, trying to eat a gluten free diet and not bore myself to tears, and over there is this whole ugly, messy, dark, frightening building full of chemical preservatives, flavor enhancers, anti-caking agents, soy additives and gluten thickeners. I'm afraid of food. This is a new experience for me. I've taken to shopping around the outside of the aisles these days in the dairy and meat and veggie places. I make an occasional forage into the aisles for rice noodles and club soda, but mostly I'm buying whole foods and making from that what I need. I spent an hour last weekend cooking up a batch of salsa. It's not bad and I know exactly what's in it, plus or minus the bug spray they used on the tomatoes. So I can spend five minutes reading labels on jarred salsa trying to pick the one that I hope truly has no gluten in it, or I can spend an hour making my own salsa from whole foods and know it's gluten free. Spend five minutes reading and then toss a jar in the cart - good. Spend one hour mixing raw ingredients and cooking - bad. Or is it the other way around?
I'm amazed now at all the people who unconsciously shuffle their way through the aisles tossing things into their cart. Had you told me I was one of them three months ago I would have denied it. I learned to shop cheap several years ago when my gross personal profit went down drastically. I never much changed my habits after that no matter how much was in my bank account. I thought I was a good, aware conscious shopper. But in truth I had no idea what I'd been putting in my cart and my body. I'm by no means standing up on a soapbox here and screaming "ORGANIC OR DIE". I don't care much for people like that. They're the ones that keep insisting I should eat Carob instead of chocolate . . . Pffthhhhhhh . . . But the sheer weight of chemicals and preservatives I've consumed in my life now saddens and scares me. The thought of driving by a McDonald's makes me want to hurl. I don't want to risk breathing in the putrid air of frying chemicals ever again. Yeah, I know they sell nice salads that are probably safe, but being that close to the chemical vats would make me puke, I just know it. I feel like I'm standing on the edge of a precipice watching train after train hurtle towards each other from opposite sides of the same track. And down there in the valley people are quietly saying in between crashes "I don't understand why these trains keep running into each other." There is an almost horrified resigned acceptance about it. This is the way it works after all. Corporations make convenient products for you, sparing you hours in the kitchen, and in return you pay them vast sums of money. You don't ask and they don't spill the details about that trade you've just signed off on. Good and bad. But again, which is which.
But that's not even the worst of it. No, not even. I feel wonderful these days. I'm told it will take six months to a year for all the side effects to work their way out of my body and for me to feel normal. I don't know what normal will feel like having never been normal, but it should be interesting. I no longer get bouts of extreme exhaustion. The other bodily effects have diminished. I'm more alert and have a better memory that I have had in quite some time. The huge vicious mood swings are gone. It's been such a relief. It's all good. Right?
I've been menopausal for about a year and a half. I've been told repeatedly by other women and doctors that my sex drive will diminish or disappear all together with menopause and it may or may not come back. That was the one cheery bit of news to come out of the whole surprise menopausal revelation. That was supposed to be a good thing. When you're a single woman, living on a mountain, surrounded by some of the scariest single men on earth, being horny is an exercise in terror and frustration. But it turns out menopause had the exact opposite effect on me it was supposed to have. Instead of my desire for hot sweaty dirty sex diminishing, it increased. Noticeably increased. When a 300 pound man with a gray beard down to his crotch in overalls with a stud in his ear starts to look good, well, Huston, we've got a BIG problem. Still I retained some hoped that as time when on I'd get some little relief from the ramped up sex drive. Sure enough, slowly last year, as I began to feel worse and worse the sex drive pretty much disappeared. I was thrilled. I had no idea at that point about the gluten intolerance. I just thought "Score, finally menopause is coming through for me with something I can use!"
Yeah . . . you can probably figure out the rest. DAMN! So, I feel better, healthier, stronger than I have in a long time, and now I'd willingly jump the bone of any man who can get it up and keep it there for more than 60 seconds. Yes, I cry myself to sleep most nights. The cord on my favorite vibration is starting to go too. It's just not fair! Why the hell can't I just be normal? Why can't I have a normal menopause where I spit on strange men and turn all my vibrators into foot massagers? My whole life seems so far to be an experience in being different. I used to think that was a good thing. I used to be proud of that. Now it's turned on me so abruptly and cruelly that I'd kill for the opportunity to unzip the pants of Jethro's second cousin's uncle. I feel so good I think I'm going to go cry now.
So here I am. A 44 year old woman trying to read labels in grocery stores who is at that age where she is not only extremely near sighted, but also now far sighted. In short, there is no acceptable workable distance at which I can hold a label with teeny tiny itsy bitsy print and actually be able to read it. I take my reading glasses to the store now, and sometimes even that isn't enough. Anyway, having to read labels is a pain in the ass, and by most accounts bad. Still it's an eye opener when you read label after label and realize you do not recognize two thirds of the things in most canned, frozen, boxed and jarred foods. The more I read labels, the more articles I read, the more amazed I am by what we put in our bodies daily. I think that's both a good thing and a bad thing. I know it frightens me.
Reading labels is one of those distance creating exercises. Having read Gods knows how many labels in the last several weeks, I now look at the food in the grocery store from a whole different place. There is me, over here standing in a vacuum with the wind whistling through my ears, trying to eat a gluten free diet and not bore myself to tears, and over there is this whole ugly, messy, dark, frightening building full of chemical preservatives, flavor enhancers, anti-caking agents, soy additives and gluten thickeners. I'm afraid of food. This is a new experience for me. I've taken to shopping around the outside of the aisles these days in the dairy and meat and veggie places. I make an occasional forage into the aisles for rice noodles and club soda, but mostly I'm buying whole foods and making from that what I need. I spent an hour last weekend cooking up a batch of salsa. It's not bad and I know exactly what's in it, plus or minus the bug spray they used on the tomatoes. So I can spend five minutes reading labels on jarred salsa trying to pick the one that I hope truly has no gluten in it, or I can spend an hour making my own salsa from whole foods and know it's gluten free. Spend five minutes reading and then toss a jar in the cart - good. Spend one hour mixing raw ingredients and cooking - bad. Or is it the other way around?
I'm amazed now at all the people who unconsciously shuffle their way through the aisles tossing things into their cart. Had you told me I was one of them three months ago I would have denied it. I learned to shop cheap several years ago when my gross personal profit went down drastically. I never much changed my habits after that no matter how much was in my bank account. I thought I was a good, aware conscious shopper. But in truth I had no idea what I'd been putting in my cart and my body. I'm by no means standing up on a soapbox here and screaming "ORGANIC OR DIE". I don't care much for people like that. They're the ones that keep insisting I should eat Carob instead of chocolate . . . Pffthhhhhhh . . . But the sheer weight of chemicals and preservatives I've consumed in my life now saddens and scares me. The thought of driving by a McDonald's makes me want to hurl. I don't want to risk breathing in the putrid air of frying chemicals ever again. Yeah, I know they sell nice salads that are probably safe, but being that close to the chemical vats would make me puke, I just know it. I feel like I'm standing on the edge of a precipice watching train after train hurtle towards each other from opposite sides of the same track. And down there in the valley people are quietly saying in between crashes "I don't understand why these trains keep running into each other." There is an almost horrified resigned acceptance about it. This is the way it works after all. Corporations make convenient products for you, sparing you hours in the kitchen, and in return you pay them vast sums of money. You don't ask and they don't spill the details about that trade you've just signed off on. Good and bad. But again, which is which.
But that's not even the worst of it. No, not even. I feel wonderful these days. I'm told it will take six months to a year for all the side effects to work their way out of my body and for me to feel normal. I don't know what normal will feel like having never been normal, but it should be interesting. I no longer get bouts of extreme exhaustion. The other bodily effects have diminished. I'm more alert and have a better memory that I have had in quite some time. The huge vicious mood swings are gone. It's been such a relief. It's all good. Right?
I've been menopausal for about a year and a half. I've been told repeatedly by other women and doctors that my sex drive will diminish or disappear all together with menopause and it may or may not come back. That was the one cheery bit of news to come out of the whole surprise menopausal revelation. That was supposed to be a good thing. When you're a single woman, living on a mountain, surrounded by some of the scariest single men on earth, being horny is an exercise in terror and frustration. But it turns out menopause had the exact opposite effect on me it was supposed to have. Instead of my desire for hot sweaty dirty sex diminishing, it increased. Noticeably increased. When a 300 pound man with a gray beard down to his crotch in overalls with a stud in his ear starts to look good, well, Huston, we've got a BIG problem. Still I retained some hoped that as time when on I'd get some little relief from the ramped up sex drive. Sure enough, slowly last year, as I began to feel worse and worse the sex drive pretty much disappeared. I was thrilled. I had no idea at that point about the gluten intolerance. I just thought "Score, finally menopause is coming through for me with something I can use!"
Yeah . . . you can probably figure out the rest. DAMN! So, I feel better, healthier, stronger than I have in a long time, and now I'd willingly jump the bone of any man who can get it up and keep it there for more than 60 seconds. Yes, I cry myself to sleep most nights. The cord on my favorite vibration is starting to go too. It's just not fair! Why the hell can't I just be normal? Why can't I have a normal menopause where I spit on strange men and turn all my vibrators into foot massagers? My whole life seems so far to be an experience in being different. I used to think that was a good thing. I used to be proud of that. Now it's turned on me so abruptly and cruelly that I'd kill for the opportunity to unzip the pants of Jethro's second cousin's uncle. I feel so good I think I'm going to go cry now.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Good Bye Old Friends
Life has become a daily bargaining experience. How much am I willing to give up and what is non-negotiable?
I bought a new rolling pin and wooden spoons at the grocery store today. I accept that gluten can linger on some food utensils, particularly porous ones like wood. I'm willing to replace the wooden spoons and the rolling pin. Wooden spoons have always been a staple in my kitchen. I need them. I don't know how anyone cooks without them. Some of them were old friends I've had since the day I moved out on my own. I had them in all shapes and sizes and colors. Each was unique. The rolling pin was my first. I pretty much learned from cook books and cooking shows. The utensils and pots and pans shared in my triumphs and abysmal disasters. They were the only company I had in the kitchen as I was learning.
But okay, I can accept that they had to go. I'm willing to concede that one. And that is what it has become: how much am I willing to give up? Rather than live in fear of what might lurk in the wood grain of the spoons I agreed to toss them. But that's as far as I'll go today. I will not toss the virtually new pots. They are the first real semi-expensive matching set of good pots I have ever owned. I bought them last year. They were kind of a coming of age for me. I will not give them up.
I refuse to accept that gluten can linger on the surface of pots and pans and bowls. If it does? If I'm wrong? Too bad. I'm not willing to give them up right now. I have to draw the line somewhere don't you understand? It cannot have everything. I will not allow that. If that's not rational well so be it. I can only handle so much truth these days okay? There's what's true and rational and there's what I can handle.
I bought a new rolling pin and wooden spoons at the grocery store today. I accept that gluten can linger on some food utensils, particularly porous ones like wood. I'm willing to replace the wooden spoons and the rolling pin. Wooden spoons have always been a staple in my kitchen. I need them. I don't know how anyone cooks without them. Some of them were old friends I've had since the day I moved out on my own. I had them in all shapes and sizes and colors. Each was unique. The rolling pin was my first. I pretty much learned from cook books and cooking shows. The utensils and pots and pans shared in my triumphs and abysmal disasters. They were the only company I had in the kitchen as I was learning.
But okay, I can accept that they had to go. I'm willing to concede that one. And that is what it has become: how much am I willing to give up? Rather than live in fear of what might lurk in the wood grain of the spoons I agreed to toss them. But that's as far as I'll go today. I will not toss the virtually new pots. They are the first real semi-expensive matching set of good pots I have ever owned. I bought them last year. They were kind of a coming of age for me. I will not give them up.
I refuse to accept that gluten can linger on the surface of pots and pans and bowls. If it does? If I'm wrong? Too bad. I'm not willing to give them up right now. I have to draw the line somewhere don't you understand? It cannot have everything. I will not allow that. If that's not rational well so be it. I can only handle so much truth these days okay? There's what's true and rational and there's what I can handle.
I Think I Shall Never See
I think I shall never see
A more amazing snack than thee
Only three ingredients abide
and none be hidden inside.
A food the Gods surely have blessed
I have become addicted I confess
It reigns supreme in the snack aisle
And ever time I see it's brilliant facade I smile.
So hail all the mighty Frito
a creature of salt and corn
fear not the calories and sodium
for gluten free it was born.
All can consume it's goodness
that lovely golden crunchy chip.
Give praise to the mightly Frito
and bring forth the sour cream dip.
You were expecting Shakespeare?
A more amazing snack than thee
Only three ingredients abide
and none be hidden inside.
A food the Gods surely have blessed
I have become addicted I confess
It reigns supreme in the snack aisle
And ever time I see it's brilliant facade I smile.
So hail all the mighty Frito
a creature of salt and corn
fear not the calories and sodium
for gluten free it was born.
All can consume it's goodness
that lovely golden crunchy chip.
Give praise to the mightly Frito
and bring forth the sour cream dip.
You were expecting Shakespeare?
Monday, January 15, 2007
NO - I Do NOT Have to Do What You Tell Me To Do
So this whole gluten free life that has been thrust upon me should be easy shouldn't it? I mean if I just avoid the damn stuff I'll be fine right? There are a couple classic, and fatal if not unobvious flaws to that belief.
Gluten is in so many things. Gluten gives things that have no texture texture. It gives things that need a nice rich caramel color color. Some genius out there even has the hair care gurus of the world convinced that wheat protein is good for your hair. Man, that was one hell of a sales job right there. Look up a few of your more expensive designer type shampoos and conditioners and you'll find some of them proudly proclaiming the enormous benefits of wheat protein for human hair. Never mind that it gives those of us with Gluten Intolerance hives or worse. It's good for you. Then there are the secondary ingredients on labels that mask what is truly in them; ingredients like "Natural Flavorings" or "Food Starch". I can either play Russian Roulette with Natural Flavorings or I can move on down the aisle.
I was in the one and only local organic food store yesterday. The owner and I are apparently going to become best friends whether we want to or not. I was somewhat befuddled by the number of organic and health food items that proudly proclaim on the label "Made from 100% Organic Wheat". Big whoop. I'm surrounded it seems by people who want to convince me that wheat is good for me. It's good in me, good for me and good on me. I live for the inevitable day when someone will tell me I'm UnAmerican because I don't eat wheat. How dare I not patronize the heavily subsidized wheat growers of America? Wheat and gluten have become an American way of life.
But that's the obvious stuff. The hard part is that its a lot like loosing my best friend all over again. I've known food longer than I knew Lilly. She and I met in kindergarten and she passed away in 1994. We knew each other for 27 years. For months after she passed I'd start to reach for the telephone to tell her something and then I'd remember and it would hurt all over again. In some ways this is the same.
All the stages of grief are there. And the toughest sneakiest one is denial. I've still got a big box full of gluten sitting on my dining room table. I need to get it out of the house. I know this. It needs to go to a food pantry or a starving waif or something. But it's been almost four weeks and I still can't let it out of the house. Blood tests diarrhea bloating and acid reflux be damned, maybe I'm not really gluten intolerant. So what if the last ten years of my life read like a text book for Celiac Disease? Doctors can be wrong. They're human. I also forget. I forget what it feels like twenty minutes after I ingest it. My brain has refused to retain the precise details of what gluten does to me. My mind is protecting me and damning me at the same time.
Then there's what I call the Rebel Factor. You see, ah, I have issues with authority. Well, it was inevitable really. How could I have turned out any different? I'm the youngest of four children. From the day I was born there were five people in this world who felt it was their God given right to tell me what to do, how to do it and when. Along about year five I got tired of that shit and nothing much has changed since.
So I came to be very good at circumventing authority, in a sweet passive aggressive sort of way. In my own defense, my family is big on passive aggressive. It's possible my mother invented it, but I'm not sure. If nothing else several of us have since gone on to perfect it.
These days, of course, I'm an adult and somewhat more aggressive than passive. I'm told that's a good thing. You be the judge. I've more or less come to terms with most of the necessary authority figures in my life. The boss always gets the last say because he pays the rent. I'm polite to the local Sheriff, particularly the cute one. I pay my bills on time because I like to be warm, have electricity and bath with water. Well, okay, so maybe me and the animal control lady had a little go around, but that's largely because she likes to lay the whole authority trip thing on really thick, she's anal as hell and she's an ugly BUTT.
But I digress. I'm an adult, but inside there is still this small person who doesn't like being told what to do. There is this person who would rather die than be forced to do something someone else thinks she should. This is why I've never gone on a diet. I instinctively knew how badly that would go. I cannot stomach someone else telling me what to eat and how much. I don't do precise measurements and ounces and calorie counting. I cannot deal with people who feel the need to define and measure every movement and moment in their lives. But here I am, being told what to eat and what not to eat. The rebel child in my is pretty much freaking out these days. She has so not come to terms with this. I'm my own worst enemy right now and I know it.
So it is a struggle. I can get the mechanics of this new life down. I can learn to read labels. I can learn how to cook all over again. I understand intellectually what is going on. But I just can't cope. I don't want to be one of those people who measures out and regulates their life. I see some of the people on the Celiac boards and forums and they make my skin crawl. After their name they have a list of diagnosis along with the date they were diagnosed with this malady or that one. I'm told that people with Celiac's Disease are more prone to other food intolerances and allergies and auto immune issues. Well I don't want to be told what I have to be. I refuse to be one of them! It's my body. It's mine! They can believe if they want that their lives have gotten smaller and their choices fewer, but I can't live like that. I don't know how to live like that.
Gluten is in so many things. Gluten gives things that have no texture texture. It gives things that need a nice rich caramel color color. Some genius out there even has the hair care gurus of the world convinced that wheat protein is good for your hair. Man, that was one hell of a sales job right there. Look up a few of your more expensive designer type shampoos and conditioners and you'll find some of them proudly proclaiming the enormous benefits of wheat protein for human hair. Never mind that it gives those of us with Gluten Intolerance hives or worse. It's good for you. Then there are the secondary ingredients on labels that mask what is truly in them; ingredients like "Natural Flavorings" or "Food Starch". I can either play Russian Roulette with Natural Flavorings or I can move on down the aisle.
I was in the one and only local organic food store yesterday. The owner and I are apparently going to become best friends whether we want to or not. I was somewhat befuddled by the number of organic and health food items that proudly proclaim on the label "Made from 100% Organic Wheat". Big whoop. I'm surrounded it seems by people who want to convince me that wheat is good for me. It's good in me, good for me and good on me. I live for the inevitable day when someone will tell me I'm UnAmerican because I don't eat wheat. How dare I not patronize the heavily subsidized wheat growers of America? Wheat and gluten have become an American way of life.
But that's the obvious stuff. The hard part is that its a lot like loosing my best friend all over again. I've known food longer than I knew Lilly. She and I met in kindergarten and she passed away in 1994. We knew each other for 27 years. For months after she passed I'd start to reach for the telephone to tell her something and then I'd remember and it would hurt all over again. In some ways this is the same.
All the stages of grief are there. And the toughest sneakiest one is denial. I've still got a big box full of gluten sitting on my dining room table. I need to get it out of the house. I know this. It needs to go to a food pantry or a starving waif or something. But it's been almost four weeks and I still can't let it out of the house. Blood tests diarrhea bloating and acid reflux be damned, maybe I'm not really gluten intolerant. So what if the last ten years of my life read like a text book for Celiac Disease? Doctors can be wrong. They're human. I also forget. I forget what it feels like twenty minutes after I ingest it. My brain has refused to retain the precise details of what gluten does to me. My mind is protecting me and damning me at the same time.
Then there's what I call the Rebel Factor. You see, ah, I have issues with authority. Well, it was inevitable really. How could I have turned out any different? I'm the youngest of four children. From the day I was born there were five people in this world who felt it was their God given right to tell me what to do, how to do it and when. Along about year five I got tired of that shit and nothing much has changed since.
So I came to be very good at circumventing authority, in a sweet passive aggressive sort of way. In my own defense, my family is big on passive aggressive. It's possible my mother invented it, but I'm not sure. If nothing else several of us have since gone on to perfect it.
These days, of course, I'm an adult and somewhat more aggressive than passive. I'm told that's a good thing. You be the judge. I've more or less come to terms with most of the necessary authority figures in my life. The boss always gets the last say because he pays the rent. I'm polite to the local Sheriff, particularly the cute one. I pay my bills on time because I like to be warm, have electricity and bath with water. Well, okay, so maybe me and the animal control lady had a little go around, but that's largely because she likes to lay the whole authority trip thing on really thick, she's anal as hell and she's an ugly BUTT.
But I digress. I'm an adult, but inside there is still this small person who doesn't like being told what to do. There is this person who would rather die than be forced to do something someone else thinks she should. This is why I've never gone on a diet. I instinctively knew how badly that would go. I cannot stomach someone else telling me what to eat and how much. I don't do precise measurements and ounces and calorie counting. I cannot deal with people who feel the need to define and measure every movement and moment in their lives. But here I am, being told what to eat and what not to eat. The rebel child in my is pretty much freaking out these days. She has so not come to terms with this. I'm my own worst enemy right now and I know it.
So it is a struggle. I can get the mechanics of this new life down. I can learn to read labels. I can learn how to cook all over again. I understand intellectually what is going on. But I just can't cope. I don't want to be one of those people who measures out and regulates their life. I see some of the people on the Celiac boards and forums and they make my skin crawl. After their name they have a list of diagnosis along with the date they were diagnosed with this malady or that one. I'm told that people with Celiac's Disease are more prone to other food intolerances and allergies and auto immune issues. Well I don't want to be told what I have to be. I refuse to be one of them! It's my body. It's mine! They can believe if they want that their lives have gotten smaller and their choices fewer, but I can't live like that. I don't know how to live like that.
Friday, January 12, 2007
Just Holding On for Now
I have yet to understand why people create blogs. But tonight I began to get a sense of why someone might. Well, this someone.
It always seemed like an odd concept and I even gave it a shot once, but, well, I had nothing to say and no reason to say it. Sure I have friends, on-line and off and email lists and boards where I read and post, but why be this lone voice on a page talking to yourself? Why would that appeal to anyone?
The answer for me came in a half second tonight when I screamed at no one in particular "Why. Why do people and things just keep getting taken away? When do I get something back?"
Once again the cats looked annoyed and ran for cover and the dog just cowered. That's what they always do when I scream at the walls. All this took place while I was boiling the lovely corn pasta I later choked down for dinner. If you don't have to eat corn pasta, my advice is don't. It reminds me vaguely of plastic. Remember this if you remember nothing else I say: Wheat is a miracle, never take it for granted. Maybe that's where I went wrong? Don't make my mistakes.
I've lost people I loved, and I've lost so many things in the last 15 years; things large and huge and small. I've lost the sense I had once that I would always land safely on my feet. I know now you don't always land feet first. Sometimes you crash and burn and it takes you years to get over the injuries. I have an odd list of the things I miss most. This is in no particular order: My father, my couch, my innocence, the ring my parents gave me twenty years ago that I sold so I could pay the rent and eat that month, and the first car I ever bought.
But what ran through all those years, what was always there to turn to when something or someone was taken away, what never let me down, what always sat quietly in the cold dark to comfort me, the one thing that I never realized how much I needed was food. There was always food. The ultimate drug. While I ate, all the pain, the loss, the grief, all of it took a back seat to reveling in the food for that moment. Lovely french bread, orange chicken, cakes, cookies, ice cream cones, pancakes, warm waffles . . . the list just goes on. And now everyday I realize I've lost yet another food on the list for friends, comrades, comforters, sympathizers.
I am gluten intolerant. Such simple words. They sound so simple. I'm intolerant of gluten. I can't eat gluten. I was born with a couple bad genes and now they've reared their ugly heads and told me in certain and precise measure that I can't have gluten anymore. Huh. So what's the big deal? Well, it is in everything. Gluten: it's not just for bread anymore. It's in wheat flour, it's in barely, it's in rye. And it shows up in some variation in a third of the foods in the grocery store. They put wheat in shampoos for Goddess sake! Anything brown is suspect. Anything thick is suspect. Anything low calorie is suspect.
My favorite place so far to find wheat was in the store brand of Lite Maple syrup I had in the pantry. Trust me, I had no illusions about that lite syrup tasting just like the real thing, but I liked the taste. It suited me. I bought it because it fit into my life in it's own sideways little cheat of a way. It made me feel good to know I was cutting out approximately twelve calories every time I used it, yet it still tasted like the syrup I grew up on and it was cheap. But now I have to buy the real stuff; 100% maple syrup, no additives no preservatives. Though it's debatable that I'll ever need maple syrup again since I can't eat pancakes waffles or oatmeal anymore. Yeah, I guess that one is a bit of a draw. That happens sometimes. What I can no longer eat is made irrelevant by something else I can no longer eat anyway.
Last night I went into the kitchen and stood there, staring at the frig. I could not figure out what to make for dinner. Every option, every meal I'd ever eaten was no longer an option. I paced up and down the kitchen floor for a few minutes, then turned off the light and went into the living room and sat down in the dark to watch TV all night. I never did get around to dinner. About ten thirty my stomach started to growl, but I ignored it and went to bed. Some nights I'm too frustrated to eat. Some nights I'm too heartbroken. Some nights I'm too angry. Some nights I seem to want to punish myself. For what I'm not entirely sure.
Then there are nights like tonight, where I convince myself it's not that bad, and I pump up my enthusiasm and venture out onto untrodden territory. So I decided to try the extremely expensive corn pasta I bought at the organic store last week. One hundred percent pure corn. No wheat stalks were shafted in the making of this pasta. I made a lovely garlic sauce with sour cream and butter and sauteed some shrimp. I now deeply regret dragging the shrimp into the whole fiasco. The shrimp deserved a better end than to wind up on top a plate of corn pasta. I feel like I cheated the shrimp out of a decent end to their scrumptious little lives. See, there I go again. I live for food. I love to cook. I love to bake. And now I'm reduced to eating overpriced plastic pasta.
And don't bother with the letters and emails. I fully realize that if this weren't so bone chillingly pathetic it might even be funny in an ironical, twisted, Machiavellian sort of way. You don't need to point out to me the insanity of my life. Its been brought home in a manner more pointed and vicious than any one person who reads this could ever muster.
So okay, let me get this straight. I'm a forty something single woman with no children, no parents, a dog, two cats and bird, and I live alone on a freaking mountain with no boyfriend, and now I can't eat bread. What exactly is the point to life?
So then why did I decide to create a blog? I realized tonight, sitting in front of the fire, crying my eyes out that no one was going to understand. There was no one to explain it to. I could say to people "I've lost my best friend". But can you imagine the embarrassment and shock when they ask my friends name and I say "Food". You're not supposed to love food you know. Not really.
So it came to me, if I can tell no one, if not a soul will understand, than perhaps I need to tell myself. Perhaps I need to type it all up safely and neatly somewhere just for me. Perhaps I need to be my own best friend. Yeah, yeah, life is a journey not a destination. Blah blah blah blah. Fine. But I can't shake this feeling that food was a better friend to me than I'll ever be to myself. I see the arrows on the highway. I know which way they're pointing. That doesn't mean I have to enjoy the journey. I reserve the right to go kicking and screaming till my lungs give out. Fine. I'll attempt to create a "healthy" relationship with food and with myself. LIKE I HAVE A FREAKING CHOICE!
Next installment: No I Don't Have To! - or why I'm such a freaking rebel
It always seemed like an odd concept and I even gave it a shot once, but, well, I had nothing to say and no reason to say it. Sure I have friends, on-line and off and email lists and boards where I read and post, but why be this lone voice on a page talking to yourself? Why would that appeal to anyone?
The answer for me came in a half second tonight when I screamed at no one in particular "Why. Why do people and things just keep getting taken away? When do I get something back?"
Once again the cats looked annoyed and ran for cover and the dog just cowered. That's what they always do when I scream at the walls. All this took place while I was boiling the lovely corn pasta I later choked down for dinner. If you don't have to eat corn pasta, my advice is don't. It reminds me vaguely of plastic. Remember this if you remember nothing else I say: Wheat is a miracle, never take it for granted. Maybe that's where I went wrong? Don't make my mistakes.
I've lost people I loved, and I've lost so many things in the last 15 years; things large and huge and small. I've lost the sense I had once that I would always land safely on my feet. I know now you don't always land feet first. Sometimes you crash and burn and it takes you years to get over the injuries. I have an odd list of the things I miss most. This is in no particular order: My father, my couch, my innocence, the ring my parents gave me twenty years ago that I sold so I could pay the rent and eat that month, and the first car I ever bought.
But what ran through all those years, what was always there to turn to when something or someone was taken away, what never let me down, what always sat quietly in the cold dark to comfort me, the one thing that I never realized how much I needed was food. There was always food. The ultimate drug. While I ate, all the pain, the loss, the grief, all of it took a back seat to reveling in the food for that moment. Lovely french bread, orange chicken, cakes, cookies, ice cream cones, pancakes, warm waffles . . . the list just goes on. And now everyday I realize I've lost yet another food on the list for friends, comrades, comforters, sympathizers.
I am gluten intolerant. Such simple words. They sound so simple. I'm intolerant of gluten. I can't eat gluten. I was born with a couple bad genes and now they've reared their ugly heads and told me in certain and precise measure that I can't have gluten anymore. Huh. So what's the big deal? Well, it is in everything. Gluten: it's not just for bread anymore. It's in wheat flour, it's in barely, it's in rye. And it shows up in some variation in a third of the foods in the grocery store. They put wheat in shampoos for Goddess sake! Anything brown is suspect. Anything thick is suspect. Anything low calorie is suspect.
My favorite place so far to find wheat was in the store brand of Lite Maple syrup I had in the pantry. Trust me, I had no illusions about that lite syrup tasting just like the real thing, but I liked the taste. It suited me. I bought it because it fit into my life in it's own sideways little cheat of a way. It made me feel good to know I was cutting out approximately twelve calories every time I used it, yet it still tasted like the syrup I grew up on and it was cheap. But now I have to buy the real stuff; 100% maple syrup, no additives no preservatives. Though it's debatable that I'll ever need maple syrup again since I can't eat pancakes waffles or oatmeal anymore. Yeah, I guess that one is a bit of a draw. That happens sometimes. What I can no longer eat is made irrelevant by something else I can no longer eat anyway.
Last night I went into the kitchen and stood there, staring at the frig. I could not figure out what to make for dinner. Every option, every meal I'd ever eaten was no longer an option. I paced up and down the kitchen floor for a few minutes, then turned off the light and went into the living room and sat down in the dark to watch TV all night. I never did get around to dinner. About ten thirty my stomach started to growl, but I ignored it and went to bed. Some nights I'm too frustrated to eat. Some nights I'm too heartbroken. Some nights I'm too angry. Some nights I seem to want to punish myself. For what I'm not entirely sure.
Then there are nights like tonight, where I convince myself it's not that bad, and I pump up my enthusiasm and venture out onto untrodden territory. So I decided to try the extremely expensive corn pasta I bought at the organic store last week. One hundred percent pure corn. No wheat stalks were shafted in the making of this pasta. I made a lovely garlic sauce with sour cream and butter and sauteed some shrimp. I now deeply regret dragging the shrimp into the whole fiasco. The shrimp deserved a better end than to wind up on top a plate of corn pasta. I feel like I cheated the shrimp out of a decent end to their scrumptious little lives. See, there I go again. I live for food. I love to cook. I love to bake. And now I'm reduced to eating overpriced plastic pasta.
And don't bother with the letters and emails. I fully realize that if this weren't so bone chillingly pathetic it might even be funny in an ironical, twisted, Machiavellian sort of way. You don't need to point out to me the insanity of my life. Its been brought home in a manner more pointed and vicious than any one person who reads this could ever muster.
So okay, let me get this straight. I'm a forty something single woman with no children, no parents, a dog, two cats and bird, and I live alone on a freaking mountain with no boyfriend, and now I can't eat bread. What exactly is the point to life?
So then why did I decide to create a blog? I realized tonight, sitting in front of the fire, crying my eyes out that no one was going to understand. There was no one to explain it to. I could say to people "I've lost my best friend". But can you imagine the embarrassment and shock when they ask my friends name and I say "Food". You're not supposed to love food you know. Not really.
So it came to me, if I can tell no one, if not a soul will understand, than perhaps I need to tell myself. Perhaps I need to type it all up safely and neatly somewhere just for me. Perhaps I need to be my own best friend. Yeah, yeah, life is a journey not a destination. Blah blah blah blah. Fine. But I can't shake this feeling that food was a better friend to me than I'll ever be to myself. I see the arrows on the highway. I know which way they're pointing. That doesn't mean I have to enjoy the journey. I reserve the right to go kicking and screaming till my lungs give out. Fine. I'll attempt to create a "healthy" relationship with food and with myself. LIKE I HAVE A FREAKING CHOICE!
Next installment: No I Don't Have To! - or why I'm such a freaking rebel
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