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.
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