…and speaking of Tacos, I allowed myself to be convinced to have one and have subsequently been cursing Tijuana Flats since. In fact, I’ve felt downright awful all weekend. I think the combination of some poor diet choices, this incredible heat, and maybe just the realizations that I’m taking…like…fourteen pills (including supplements) a day has something to do with it.
I just feel so toxic.
Which is always something I’ll feel like I’m on pins and needles discussing. Because I know there are always going to be people out there who look at me and think: She purposely chooses to take drugs because she’s lazy and doesn’t want to put in the effort to better her body naturally or holistically.
But that seriously could not be any further from the truth. And I could throw in a joke here about how someone would have to be pretty damn insane to want to head to a pediatrician’s office at fourteen with screaming infants and all those germs when they could just as easily get a massage and have that solve their ills. But maybe some back story will make a little more convincing of an argument.
I grew up with a naturopath mother. The kind who always had me do acupuncture, see the chiropractor, and take some digestive enzymes before I’d actually get to see a doctor. And that was a good thing. Because lord knows what kind of flippant attitude I would have had towards pharmaceuticals if they’d been my first line of defense.
But then, I do have this base acceptance for the fact that I’m basically taking fourteen capsules of necessary poison to get through my day. Eighteen if there is pain involved. It’s something I’ve always really struggled with. At least since I got diagnosed. I’ve tried weaning off my medications so many times, but at the end of the day I keep coming back to the same conclusion: I needed them in the first place. And my body still needs them to function.
Which is not to say I won’t go the chiropractor (because I do–and it makes me feel SO much better!) Or get acupuncture (which is not my favorite thing in the world, but doesn’t hurt.) Or even march myself over to the cranio-sacral therapists if my body is that bad.
But even I look at my pillbox in the morning and think: the world must think I’m so stupid. They must read my medical files and think: how can someone be so dumb, so disconnected from their body that they need THAT MUCH intervention on a daily basis to function?
And I hear the voices of every friend, family, or physician who’s asked me, “Have you tried a gluten free diet?”
and every nutritionist who’s asked me, “But do you incorporate whole grains into your meals?”
and that’s pretty much when I remember that I’m the only person in my body–and imagine this, I’ve been here this whole time! So I know what I’ve tried and how badly/ineffectively I’ve reacted to it to end up at this treatment plan.
Life with this disease is trial and error. You try a natural path. You try a chemical path. You try a safe food. You try to “adapt” to an unsafe food. You fuck-up. You hurt. You heal. And I know I ate a taco–and I made a bad decision that I’ll probably still be kicking myself for two weeks from now–but if I had some kind of roadmap for this thing that allowed me to be safe while being daring, to be exploratory while being exclusive, to test my parameters without inflicting self-harm–I would already be doing it. You forget that there’s really nobody standing next to me when I’m making those decisions saying: PICK THE BLUE ONE, PICK THE ONE RED ONE. It’s just me making an argument for what could or couldn’t happen: You could eat that popcorn and get sick like you did two years ago–or that could have just been a fluke of sensitivity and eating a handful now will show that you can add a whole new item to your diet!
Only I can make an emotional, philosophical unraveling of the soul come from the sadness I feel after eating a taco.
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