Drinking in moderation has been the name of the game for the last nine months or so at the suggestion of every piece of literature I've read about healing your gut and halting the progression of autoimmune diseases. For me thus far, moderation has meant spells of no alcohol at all for two or three months at a time, peppered with a couple of weeks where I had a glass or two every day, and the worst hangover of my life somewhere in the midst of all the rest. I really like alcohol, because I really like to party, and being diagnosed with Hashi's and Celiacs has put a wet blanket on my fun-loving, freewheeling lifestyle. I haven't entirely made peace with that fact, at this early stage on my journey to recovery, and I'm still a little pissed.
Social drinking is an awesome pastime for the extrovert that likes to stay up late...which I do. Stimulating conversation with smart and funny people after a couple glasses of booze could summarize the memory of many of my fondest evenings in North Carolina...and Massachusetts...and New York...and Pennsylvania...and Oregon...and and and and. I've recognized my tendencies (hey, genetics, hey.) and regulated my drinking to a mostly healthy space of being able to have two glasses of wine on a special occasion, and calling it a night before I drink a whole bottle. A magic formula exists in my brain where I can drink two drinks, or I'll have a third, and later, a seventh. Binge drinking at its finest, and lo and behold, completely incompatible with the lifestyle changes that are required to save my life.
Tonight at dinner with some of my best friends, there was a moment of temptation when the hostess asked if I "was still off of the wine." She's thoughtful for remembering that I'm trying not to drink, but damn, she serves good wine, ordered by the case from a local bottle shop specializing in small batch vintage, so delightfully bougie. Every single time I dine with them, or my family, or socialize with anyone, really, after 6 pm, I have to give myself a quick and stern pep talk in an attempt to push FOMO from my brain. Tonight, all I had to do was recall the handful of hair in the shower from two nights ago, a hateful side effect of Celiac, and it was easy to be content with drinking water. These autoimmune disorders are forcing me to examine and eliminate some unhealthy habits that I've held onto for decades, and that is one positive to this shitty equation.
The irony is not lost on me that it is most certainly the decades of reckless abandon with alcohol, food, and drugs that has painted the picture of ill health I'm now experiencing, and for a long time, I was mad at myself--my body--for betraying me with addictions and depression that led me to this place. I knew for a long time that there were underlying issues that weren't being tended to, with imbalanced hormones and something that can look a whole lot like childish aversion to sleep that kept me teetering on the line of nonfunctional. I remember holding a minimum wage job at a Michael's Arts & Crafts in small-town Appalachia on five nights of sleep a week; the only stop I made on the way home every night was for $5 in malt liquor from the gas station. Self-medication was the unconscious decision I made when poverty kept doctors out of reach, and a youthful sense of immortality told me there was time for all that business later.
Now it's later. 15 years have passed, and I could still enjoy binge drinking with the best of them, if only I didn't understand that because I've got these three autoimmune conditions, chances are almost 100% that I'd have seven or eight in the next decade, if nothing changes. MS, Lupus, rheumatoid arthritis--they scare the ever-living shit out of me, and with good reason. I've started forcing myself to acknowledge every time I'm tempted with wine or cake or delicious cheese that I have to make a choice in the moment: enjoy the indulgence and accept that I'm not committed to living a long and happy life, or find the discipline inside of myself to pass on the buzz and continue moving towards a life less limited by my current physical constraints.
Some days I worry that rigid thinking like that could lead to disordered eating, and that occasional indulgence has to be okay...and it is, but not yet, and maybe not for a few years. That thought is overwhelming and scary to me, because who am I without any fog? What do I look like undiluted? What will my definition of fun become in this world of social drinkers and phenomenal cooks? How will I fill all of my time? Years of questionable decisions have been chalked up to doing the best I could at the time, and self-forgiveness is quieting the inwardly directed anger I feel at having to give up things I thought I loved. Perhaps I've had my lifetime allotment of that kind of fun, and now I have to shift my perception and develop new friendships, new interests based on more than a rollicking good time. I have a lot of questions, and no one can provide the answers except me. That's heavy. Hopeful, but heavy.
Thursday, September 15, 2016
Wednesday, September 14, 2016
First, the Old Business
Sifting. That's what I'm doing these days; a lot of sifting. Lately, there seems to be no shortage of topics to ponder, mull over, analyze, filter through and file away in tidy compartments for later reference. Mostly, I find myself focusing on my desire to gain a sense of health and vitality that has escaped me lately. I do not feel well. I do not feel like I'm living my best life, and I'm desperately tired of juggling shame and sadness and anger for the many obstacles that are not of my own creation; that juggling begets a weariness I've had to shoulder that has started to become a crutch to avoid the obstacles that I am, indeed, responsible for perpetuating by avoiding some unsavory truths I struggle to embrace about my existence.
Some facts: I'm 38. I'm freshly single, mere months out of five and a half years of struggle and strife with a woman I hope to be friends with again one day. I work in electoral politics and I can't stomach it anymore. I haven't had a good night's sleep in 28 years, no bullshit. I have degenerative arthritis in my left ankle that could certainly be classified as a legitimate disability if my pride would allow for such classifications. I have a cluster of autoimmune diseases: Hashimoto's thyroiditis, vitiligo, and a sparkly-fresh diagnosis of Celiac disease. I am morbidly obese, and I have been since I was a preteen. I had the Lap-Band surgery eight years ago, which promptly failed due to faulty installation, but I managed to lose 90 pounds anyway. Then I managed to gain back 120 pounds in the last five years. My blood sugar, blood pressure, cholesterol, and pulse-ox are inexplicably and thankfully perfect. I can't absorb vitamins D or B12, the latter of which begin presenting neurologically because my levels fell so critically low. My hair has started falling out, and thus, I have a new routine of crying in the shower. Great genetics have blessed me in regards to good skin, a hungry mind, and yeah, a touch of beauty, even for a fat girl. [I also inherited my stepmother's sarcasm. I'm easy on the eyes, full stop.]
A recent burst of understanding has led me to see that this piecemeal bio is not a random collection of facts and stats that stand alone, but an interconnected web of conditions that cannot be taken as separate issues to tackle. I feel old beyond my years, fixating on my health like a person twice my age, but it's hard to disconnect from the aches, pains, and worries, and get on with things like the smart, creative, driven, social, active, popular early-middle-aged woman that I am. My dance card is full, and I'm exhausted. And so, this evening, as I stood in the shower and cried over the chunk of my lovely curly hair that I held in my hand, I promised myself that I'd remember that moment in all of its brutally horrifying clarity--something to hang onto when I falter and start thinking about how I miss breve lattes and flour tortillas and cake from the Hayes Barton Pharmacy, how maybe it wouldn't be so bad to let myself have those treats, just once, just today.
Because the reality is that I can't have those things anymore, probably not ever again. I've been about 85% compliant on the Autoimmune Protocol for eight months, since I was diagnosed with Hashis, and if I understand correctly, 85% equates to healthier choices that, while positive, won't amount to true healing unless I can commit to 100%. And man, that is hard, a giant, bitter horse pill for a lifelong emotional eater to swallow. After four-plus years of therapy, the emotional eating is very much more controlled than it ever has been, but I'm a food addict, and like any other addict, the risk of relapse is always looming, forever and ever, amen. But that handful of hair tonight...that was Real with a capital R, a symptom of Celiac, along with the loss of enamel on my teeth, that I can't willfully ignore any longer, not if I want to live a happy, vibrant, full life.
Some more facts: I badly want to learn to kiteboard. My first solo art show opens in the spring of next year. A mural project in my booming town is interested in showcasing my work. I'm in pre-production for a documentary film that lights me on fire every time I think of it. One of my best friends of 25 years wants to produce a radio show with me on a local radio station. There's a book inside of me that I've been thinking about for the last six years which simply must come out of my head, and soon. My family is supportive and amazing, and we all like and love one another fiercely. My friends are an incredible, expansive bunch of the most hilarious, interesting, intelligent, talented people I've ever met. I live in a perfect little house with an amazing screened in porch and a big yard that my two crazy cats roll around in all day long. The gratitude I feel every day for the rich abundance of gifts life has given me are humbling and motivating to do better, be my best self.
Which is exactly why I'm going to come here and write about my journey to better health and a greater understanding of all that goes into obtaining my best life, instead of standing in the shower and crying over handfuls of hair. My hair will probably grow back. I can live without breve lattes. Happiness and fulfillment are achievable goals, if I'm willing to put in the hard work. Nothing worthwhile was ever easy, I hear.
Some facts: I'm 38. I'm freshly single, mere months out of five and a half years of struggle and strife with a woman I hope to be friends with again one day. I work in electoral politics and I can't stomach it anymore. I haven't had a good night's sleep in 28 years, no bullshit. I have degenerative arthritis in my left ankle that could certainly be classified as a legitimate disability if my pride would allow for such classifications. I have a cluster of autoimmune diseases: Hashimoto's thyroiditis, vitiligo, and a sparkly-fresh diagnosis of Celiac disease. I am morbidly obese, and I have been since I was a preteen. I had the Lap-Band surgery eight years ago, which promptly failed due to faulty installation, but I managed to lose 90 pounds anyway. Then I managed to gain back 120 pounds in the last five years. My blood sugar, blood pressure, cholesterol, and pulse-ox are inexplicably and thankfully perfect. I can't absorb vitamins D or B12, the latter of which begin presenting neurologically because my levels fell so critically low. My hair has started falling out, and thus, I have a new routine of crying in the shower. Great genetics have blessed me in regards to good skin, a hungry mind, and yeah, a touch of beauty, even for a fat girl. [I also inherited my stepmother's sarcasm. I'm easy on the eyes, full stop.]
A recent burst of understanding has led me to see that this piecemeal bio is not a random collection of facts and stats that stand alone, but an interconnected web of conditions that cannot be taken as separate issues to tackle. I feel old beyond my years, fixating on my health like a person twice my age, but it's hard to disconnect from the aches, pains, and worries, and get on with things like the smart, creative, driven, social, active, popular early-middle-aged woman that I am. My dance card is full, and I'm exhausted. And so, this evening, as I stood in the shower and cried over the chunk of my lovely curly hair that I held in my hand, I promised myself that I'd remember that moment in all of its brutally horrifying clarity--something to hang onto when I falter and start thinking about how I miss breve lattes and flour tortillas and cake from the Hayes Barton Pharmacy, how maybe it wouldn't be so bad to let myself have those treats, just once, just today.
Because the reality is that I can't have those things anymore, probably not ever again. I've been about 85% compliant on the Autoimmune Protocol for eight months, since I was diagnosed with Hashis, and if I understand correctly, 85% equates to healthier choices that, while positive, won't amount to true healing unless I can commit to 100%. And man, that is hard, a giant, bitter horse pill for a lifelong emotional eater to swallow. After four-plus years of therapy, the emotional eating is very much more controlled than it ever has been, but I'm a food addict, and like any other addict, the risk of relapse is always looming, forever and ever, amen. But that handful of hair tonight...that was Real with a capital R, a symptom of Celiac, along with the loss of enamel on my teeth, that I can't willfully ignore any longer, not if I want to live a happy, vibrant, full life.
Some more facts: I badly want to learn to kiteboard. My first solo art show opens in the spring of next year. A mural project in my booming town is interested in showcasing my work. I'm in pre-production for a documentary film that lights me on fire every time I think of it. One of my best friends of 25 years wants to produce a radio show with me on a local radio station. There's a book inside of me that I've been thinking about for the last six years which simply must come out of my head, and soon. My family is supportive and amazing, and we all like and love one another fiercely. My friends are an incredible, expansive bunch of the most hilarious, interesting, intelligent, talented people I've ever met. I live in a perfect little house with an amazing screened in porch and a big yard that my two crazy cats roll around in all day long. The gratitude I feel every day for the rich abundance of gifts life has given me are humbling and motivating to do better, be my best self.
Which is exactly why I'm going to come here and write about my journey to better health and a greater understanding of all that goes into obtaining my best life, instead of standing in the shower and crying over handfuls of hair. My hair will probably grow back. I can live without breve lattes. Happiness and fulfillment are achievable goals, if I'm willing to put in the hard work. Nothing worthwhile was ever easy, I hear.
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