Of Bodies, Brains and Barfing

I've always had a sensitive stomach. 

Like....really sensitive. 

Why I have a really sensitive stomach is actually pretty straightforward. The explanation can easily be divided into two parts, the first part being: 

CHILDHOOD PANIC ATTACKS 

Anxiety runs in my family. Grandparents on both sides had it, my mom has it, various aunts/uncles/cousins have it, it's just a part of our genetic code. But we all experience it a little differently. 

My anxiety was all in my stomach. 

I'm not 100% sure on the origin of this manifestation, but if I had to guess....I'd say that a long time ago I was really scared of throwing up. Really, really scared. This isn't an entirely uncommon fear - I've met plenty of people who are terrified at the prospect of vomit - but for some reason this was the one fear that my anxiety latched on to. Whenever I started feeling nauseated, I would immediately freak out because I knew - I knew - that I was going to throw up. While all previous experience showed me that throwing up would not, in fact, kill me, I was still pretty convinced that it was the WORST THING EVER and that if I threw up, terrible terrible things would happen and I would probably not live through it. 

So, my anxiety aggravated my nausea, which aggravated my anxiety, which aggravated my nausea, etc. etc. etc. 

And so it came to be that whenever I was nervous or scared, I immediately started feeling my stomach turning inside out, ready to relinquish its contents if I so much as breathed. Later on, this evolved to include diarrhea and cramps and basically anything having to do with my digestive system. 

And when I actually had actual stomach flu or something similar....

Yeah, let's not talk about that. 

This leads to the second part of my explanation, which is:

FOOD

So....I've always kind of had trouble with food.

I like food. Love it, even. Trouble is, it hasn't always loved me back.

My mom (a nurse) always suspected that I was sensitive to some foods, but it was never so serious that it warranted a lot of concern. She would just remind me that I needed to be careful about what I ate, and I - in true childlike fashion - completely ignored her and ate what I wanted anyway. Regardless of how it made me feel later. 

Fast forward several years later, to me as a young, idealistic, seriously stressed out missionary serving in Tucson, Arizona. 

One of the areas where my anxiety is strongest is social interaction, and missions are pretty much nothing but social interaction with complete strangers. You live with someone you don't know 24/7, weekends and holidays included. If you get along, it's great. If you don't....well, it's pretty much hell. 

Not only that, there is a lot work that a missionary does besides going out and talking to people about religion. There's planning, studying, training, service, counseling, teaching, teaching, teaching, worrying about teaching and the people you teach, and so on. One of the rules states that you have to have a productive activity planned for every hour of your day. You cannot skimp here. You have to be doing something at any given time. It is a must. Always. 

So it was really stressful. But most missionaries actually handle it pretty well. It's a difficult adjustment, but with practice it's easy to get into a routine. And you do get breaks, every so often, so it's not constant work. 

I did get used to it. Kind of. My brain did, anyway. Kind of.

As you might have guessed by now, though, my brain and my body have a very dysfunctional relationship, and my body had decided that I had asked too much of it and it was now time to rebel.

I started getting sick. A lot. And it wasn't something that came from anxiety attacks. It was something that felt downright sinister. I would feel fine one day, and then the next I would be sitting on the bathroom floor praying for death as my body  attempted to expunge what felt like all of its fluids. The funny thing was, this wasn't accompanied by a fever or fatigue (except that borne of, y'know, throwing up) like the flu would be, and it was happening too often to be a stomach bug. When I wasn't being sick all over the place, I was capable of getting out of bed and being a (somewhat) productive member of society. It was happening more and more often, as well. Which was worrying.

Again, my Mother the Nurse had her suspicions. When I eventually came home from my mission (early, due in great part to my reappearing illness), she immediately had me go and see a doctor, who took some of my blood in order to run allergy tests. 

About two weeks later, I got the results back, and my whole life suddenly made complete sense. 

Turns out, I was allergic to everything. 

Well, okay, not to everything, but to the three things I and the rest of the American population ate on a regular basis (beef, whey and eggs), with at least minor sensitivity of pretty much everything else. 

Adjustment, as you might imagine, was hard. 

In fact, it still is. 

Food is a very integral part of any culture. It's a basic need for all forms of life, whether it's human or plant or germ or whatever. And for many people in first world countries, food is also a major part of our entertainment and comfort. It's weird, but it's true. I get cranky when I look in the fridge and don't see anything I like. I'm very spoiled that way, I guess.

Short story, food is special. It affects us in ways that we don't even realize. A quiet dinner table becomes alight with conversation when good food is shared. Apologies are always accepted (well, almost always) when food is involved. (Apology cookies, anyone?) Tempers are soothed, sadness is comforted, exhaustion is eased when you smell the warm smells of cooking and baking from the kitchen. You can't help but feel so loved when someone cooks for you. It's just a deeply ingrained part of who we are.

So, you can imagine how I felt when I was told to avoid anything I was even slightly sensitive to for three weeks after getting my diagnosis. 

I tried to have a good attitude about it, I really did. Finally, I knew what was wrong with me (well, the physical part of it, anyway), and finally, I was going to do something about it. I knew it would be hard, but it would totally be worth it. And I wouldn't throw up quite so often anymore, which was nice.

And so it began. 

And it....just.....sucked. 

I loathed my new diet. With a deep-seated vengeance normally reserved for things like people who abuse animals and Donald Trump. I absolutely detested every meal. Oh, sure, I put on a brave face, maybe even said I liked it, but deep down inside the monster of anger was howling with suppressed rage. 

Sure, I felt better. Sure, I was losing weight. But I hated every single hateful minute of it. 

And the thing was, I just couldn't understand why.

WHY did I feel like crying when I sat down to eat dinner with my family? WHY was this such a big deal? It was only food. I should be grateful to live in a country where I have access to food like this. Even if it is a stale block of ground rice and glue failing at being bread. I've never been super picky eater. I take pride in being open to (almost) anything edible. 

So why in the name of all that is good and holy was I so freaking miserable? 

It wasn't until I talked about it with my counselor that I figured it out. I told her what I was feeling, and raged and cried for a bit for no apparent reason. She observed me, and then, smiling sadly, said, "Laura, what you're feeling is grief. You've lost something, and you're sad about it. That's perfectly normal."

And once again, everything made sense.

I was grieving. I was grieving for the food I couldn't eat anymore.

It sounded so incredibly stupid. But it made absolutely perfect sense.

At that time, my mind was not at its most stable. I had just returned home after an incredibly stressful, depressing, occasionally traumatic period in my life, and was getting used to being a part of the "normal" world again. Now I was being told that an integral part of my life that had stayed constant even on my mission - food - was going to change. Dramatically. And unless I was okay with being sick again, there was nothing I could do about it. 

I realized, then, that I wasn't just having a tantrum because I couldn't eat ice cream and pizza anymore. 

I was sad and angry because my life was changing. Because I had to change, if I wanted to get better. I was angry because I felt like I was being forced into it. I was sad because no one else seemed to think it was a big deal.

Even though it really was.

I think we forget how much those seemingly small things mean to us. When those things are taken away, or are changed permanently, we react. We rage, we cry, we sit in dumb silence as we process what's going on. We're just a big mess for while, while the whole world rearranges itself and we get rearranged with it.

And that's okay. 

For everyone having to adjust to a new lifestyle, even if that adjustment doesn't seem like a big deal: 

It's okay to be angry. 

It's okay to be sad. 

You are not being unreasonable. 

You're just being human. 

Anyone who tells you that it's not a big deal either doesn't understand or is trying to downplay it. They probably mean well. But that doesn't mean they're right.

You are allowed to be imperfect. You are allowed to be you. And you will sometimes have to change.

But that doesn't mean the world is ending. You just need to take a few moments to understand what's going on. Even if you never really come to understand it at all.

 I did eventually get used to my new diet. More or less. After 3 weeks, I had calmed down a little (entering into the Acceptance part of the grieving process, I guess) and was more willing to experiment with new recipes. I started eating some of the food I was sensitive to again (it's kind of impossible to avoid garlic, gluten and peanut butter all at the same time in modern day America. I choose my battles.) and my body was okay with it. I've had many, many, many, many slip-ups with the other, much more deadly foods I'm supposed to avoid. And my body has made me regret it every single time.

I'm constantly renewing my promise to myself to be healthier. Like this: "TODAY, from this day FORTH, now and FOREVER, I am AVOIDING anything with BEEF, DAIRY, or EGGS." 

"SO MOTE IT BE." 

"seriously guys it's for real this time." 

And then two days later there's a birthday party or someone orders a delicious-looking pizza or I'm just tired and hungry and stop caring about my future self, and I relapse. 

It's a process. A long, long process. 

And that is okay. 

I am getting better, slowly but surely. I'm taking more responsibility for what I eat, and how I act. I'm better at being assertive and telling people about my needs, as well as refusing offered food if it contains things I can't eat. Even if I unintentionally hurt someone's feelings. 

I'm learning to take care of myself. And that takes time. 

Over the past few years, I've decided that, rather than make a goal about losing weight or earning more money or whatever, I'm going to make a goal to be happy. Now, it's not the "fake it till you make it" kind of "positive attitude". Man, I hate those attitudes. It's more, "I am going to do what I can to be happy. Not skinny, not famous, not rich, not pretty. Just happy."

And happy, as I'm sure you know, is not something you catch and hold forever. It comes and it goes. But there is an overall feeling that, even if everything else is going to hell, you at least know that good things are somewhere ahead. Even if they seem kind of far away.

I'm not going to pretend that I'm an expert on positive thinking. In fact, for years I absolutely detested anything having to do with the "power of positive thinking". I still kind of do sometimes. Mostly when other people are telling me about it. But I think that's because it gets a little lost in translation. Sometimes, all positive thinking is is just having the will to make it through another thirty seconds. Sometimes it's having dance parties in your living room. Sometimes it's just being thankful for what you have.

All the time, though, it's a journey. And definitely not a destination.