A side effect of my dietary restrictions is that I’m in constant awe of the healthy body’s ability to digest food. It is, to quote Rilke, like a book written in a very foreign language. Sure, I knew the language once but it is long forgotten. Watching other people eat, as odd as it sounds, holds a deep fascination for me. Friends, family, acquaintances, strangers, TV characters. I observe as they absentmindedly grab a snack, eat it, and move on, watching with wonderment the halo of golden light that surrounds organs and intestines that just…work. I took it for granted for so many years. They are most likely taking it for granted now. Truly, you don’t know what you have until it’s gone.
My current enchantment with the functioning digestive system has not always been the case. Now, there is hardly ever any craving attached to watching others eat; just a sense of curiosity. However, it has taken quite a long time to reach this place. The first several months of my drastic change in diet were most definitely not spent curiously observing others eating habits; they were instead spent in an agonizing combination of torture and ecstasy as I stared down anyone who could eat solid food and be okay. It wasn’t only processed junk food or sweets that I missed, it was any and all food that wasn’t my stupid plate of pureed cooked carrots and baked chicken. I lived to eat, and being deprived of food was completely unbearable. Cravings paraded through my mind in an unbroken stream and I thought about food constantly.
I remember tormenting myself with food TV shows, recipe blogs, YouTube demonstrations, and Pinterest pages. I would salivate and sob and sit in a quiet rage of jealousy and frustration because it wasn’t fair that these people could try all kinds of exotic dishes, street food delicacies and desserts lavished with butter and chocolate. And yet, at the same time, the stimulation of seeing others eat luxurious meals held a masochistic pleasure. Even the simplest and healthiest of meals would send me spinning. One of my more visceral memories is of watching my roommate eat her dinner of zucchini noodles with olive oil and a fried egg. Compared to my sad plate, it looked like a feast fit for a king. I wanted those zoodles and that egg more than anything I had ever wanted in my life, but I knew that if I ate it, the dull ache in my stomach would increase exponentially and I would be completely screwed.
Even when I did begin to incorporate solid food into my diet, it was the same thing. What was a relatively thoughtless activity to others required from me a massive amount of preparation and energy. It went like this: Hunger pants would hit. Instead of eating, I’d sit in fear for about twenty minutes until I got hungry enough to lose my inhibition and eat anyway. I would thoroughly cook my food, take a fistful of digestive enzymes, wait 10 minutes, and take 5 deep breaths. I would then stare each bite in the face and go on to chew it 70-100 times. An hour later, I would find myself sprawled in bed while parasites threw an out-of-control rager in my stomach. I swear they were at Coachella in the rave tent, waving fiery glow sticks and fist-pumping in the farthest reaches of my small intestine. More than a couple of them got into drunken brawls. I think one may have vomited all over her crop top and booty shorts.
There was a concrete wall between myself and the surrounding world. It was such a strange thing to know that that person over there could eat a hamburger or a donut without thinking about it, but the same item of food would leave me bedridden for days. It was impossible to conceptualize that someone else’s body could process it without pain but mine couldn’t. I felt a perpetual desire to reach for that donut, but a deep-seated fear always stopped me. Why were those around me able to eat so easily while I had to sit in tense desperation as I used every last ounce of willpower to not eat a dozen donuts and then an extra for good measure?
I increasingly became aware of just how just how many activities involved food. Of course, I’ve always known that food is a central element of life’s goings-on, but it only hit home when I started attending these events and had to exercise that begrudging self-control around any food or drink item. No more popcorn at a movie or Dippin’ Dots at a baseball game. No more biscotti with my Americano at a coffee shop. No more hot dogs with chili and onions at my friend’s Fourth of July party on the beach. And when I could no longer eat, it became clear that a large reason I had enjoyed going to these functions in the first place was because of the food. I was so used to being able to interlace my outing with a handful of pretzels here, a cupcake there and a fun cocktail to top it all off. I didn’t know how to enjoy activities anymore without food, so I would watch the others partake, be miserable, go home, stare at a jar of almond butter, decide that it wasn’t worth the hassle and go to sleep. Eventually, it was too much and I stopped going out altogether.
I spent a long time in that state of self-pity and resentment. I lived to eat, and if I couldn’t eat, well, I didn’t want to live. So I stopped going out. I stopped attending functions. I became a hermit because it was easier to not engage with the world than to live in a world in which I couldn’t eat. More than anything, it was exhausting. I had no willpower left and no emotional energy to watch others enjoy that which I craved so badly. I stayed home, ate low-fermentable cooked vegetables with plain chicken breast, and watched and re-watched every sitcom I could find on Netflix and Hulu.
But even in the darkest of times, things have a way of working themselves out. Somehow, slowly, the frustration and exhaustion started to transform. After months of renouncing the world, I was exhausted of being exhausted. It started to be less about the food and more about my need to feel like a part of the human race. What if – GASP– life isn’t all about food? What if it’s possible to enjoy something even when I know I can’t have the cake and eat it too?
I began to step out again with the idea that watching from the sidelines might not be all that bad. I started to observe those around me take joy in food and drink without needing it myself. I watched their indulgence with detached amusement, remembering the same fuzzy feeling I used to get when I ate something truly delicious. But something had changed (I’m still not quite sure what), and I didn’t need the food to feel that same satisfaction. I didn’t have to be like that anymore, and, in fact, I couldn’t be like that anymore. My body was different. And this way of seeing the world, instead of filling me with panic and rage, was actually a huge relief. I didn’t have to give up my life just because I couldn’t have food. Life does not equal food; life includes food, but it is only one of many sources of nourishment and connection that I am lucky enough to be surrounded by.
When I see food that I can’t have now, it might as well be a toy in a children’s store. After enough time passes, even the deepest of associations can fade away. Yes, occasionally it’s still a bummer that I can’t eat double fudge chocolate brownie ice cream when I’m sad. Sometimes I smell the wafting scent of a freshly baked loaf of bread coming from the bakery down the street and wish I could have a slice. But it doesn’t ruin my entire day. My life doesn’t depend on ice cream or bread, my body doesn’t want it, and that’s ok. I get to eat two home-cooked, carefully curated meals per day, and I’ve learned enough by now to cook meals that are both satisfying and don’t set off an all-night rager in my tummy. As a matter of fact, the other night I cooked myself some zoodles, drenched them in olive oil and put a fried egg on top. And I’ll be damned if it wasn’t delicious.
For information on living a gluten free lifestyle, please visit Gluten Free 101 at www.glutenfree.com.
SaveSave
 |
|
|
|
