I love food. I have
great difficulty imagining life without certain foods, without cherries and mangos
and the color of fruit in it, without baked goods, and indulgences. In the last year, I have gained back nearly
30 pounds in a stint I’d like to call Guerilla Warfare on Restrictions. Imagine insulin resistance as a slimey
dictactor and you get the picture.
Four years ago, in the summer of 2002, my body was a
tranquil Vegan country. Sure, we had
rules and regulations just like any country, but they were ones adopted by
choice. I had my bread, my beloved
bread, and sugar, and it was a fun adventure to emulate anything I missed from
the animal kingdom. Plus, it was
always just a short hike to Vegetarian
land should the missing of the dairy be overwhelming.
I remember the pleasures of making molasses cookie-peach
pie, and eating it for dinner with soy ice cream. I remember making batches of brownies and
cakes and eating them in the name of Vegan science. Something sinister was a foot then, and I
know about it only in vague rumblings. Then
the revolution swept my happy kingdom in great huge waves of resistance until
all that was left was brown rice and corn tortillas and so much tofu that it
felt like surrender might be the only option. Left bitter by the gluten-free revolution, I was able to listen when the
edict of “eat meat or die” came down from on high.
During the low carb occupation, it felt as if all pleasure
was gone, distilled into small moments alone with my fruit. Berries and cream was nirvana, bliss. Unfortunately, these little moments weren’t
enough. Hungry, oh so hungry, I let the low carb merchandisers sell their
swill in my borders, living on sugar free ice cream and poor substitutes of
everything I left behind.
Then, twin miracles named Diagnosis and Medication arrived
on the scene and low carb occupation was no longer necessary. Potatoes, rice, rice noodles, gluten-free
crackers all came home. But, the damage was done. I was so empty and hungry by this point that
I wanted them and my Splenda life raft to cling to.
Imagine a country after a war, where everything has changed
and no one wants to accept it. This is
me. I eat in anger because I cannot eat
what I really want to. I cannot eat
cake, no matter how much I want it, I cannot eat bread, so I settle for massive
binges of what I am “allowed” to eat. Cartons of sugar free ice cream while suffering guilt over a few
spoonfuls of the real thing. Packages of
gluten free baked goods while gazing longingly at the sour dough.
The war on food has left me bitter, angry, hollow
inside. I am done with diets, with portion control, with limits. I know that I am killing myself
with every pound gained, I hear the rebukes for bad numbers at the doctor’s
offices and still I eat. I cannot, will
not, accept a life with more restrictions, without what little pleasure is
left. So, while the last six months has
brought me lots of good things, there is this hanging over my head like a dark
specter: I am losing the war. I am inching closer to serious complications
and more medicines. And I am addicted
to food and I am not sure I can bear to be me without the addiction.
