Gluten Anger and Anxiety: a hissy fit thrown in honor of all those armchair gluten experts

Last night my partner and I went out for dinner. And I ended up eating two slices of very glutinous pizza by accident. We had ordered the gluten free crust (for an additional 4 bucks) but I guess it was too loud or something to hear/remember that.

A few bites into the second slice (I'd wolfed the first down because I was viciously hungry) I noticed that it was very sticky and doughy in my mouth, in a way that most GF stuff never is. My chest was also beginning to feel a bit tight. I'd been struggling with some hunger-related anxiety before we'd ordered food and just assumed I was being paranoid and feeling the tail end of my anxiety in my chest. But when the bill came there was no extra charge for a wheat free crust, and from my side glances at the pizza on other guests' plates I knew that I'd been served the regular crust.

When my partner informed the waitperson of the mistake she said the discomfort I feel after eating wheat must be psychosomatic. She said this instead of apologizing. She recommended herbal tea and a change of perspective.

Now I do have a level of empathy for this waiter. I work a customer service job too. I know it's tough to find the the right thing to say and how easy it is to say something offensive or inappropriate when you're trying express concern or get on a customer's wave length. Mistakes are inevitable. Sometimes customers walk away from my register with weirded out looks on their faces. And most of the time I blame them for their not getting me. So I get it.

But fuck. I am angry at her.

I spent last night feeling like I'd wolfed down a handful of Grow Monsters, my chest tight and joints aching.


I haven't been able to take a shit today. And I only made it through my work day by balancing a cocktail of ibuprofen, imodium, and diet pepsi. I'm thankful I only ate two (small) slices. It could have been worse.

Sure I may be an anecdote in a sea of data that throws question on the whole concept of "gluten sensitivity/intolerance", but it's not like my definition and treatment of what is going on in my own body is the same thing as denying climate change or evolution. 

Gut science is extremely complex. Believe me. I had to dip just a toe in for a while and whoa are those depths ever huge and terrifying! Out of necessity I spent several months studying the digestive tract. I learned a fews things and the least of which was that it would take me years to even scratch the surface.

Some people think they have enough information to dismiss the reality of my health issues and shelve them as beneath their concerns. They do this because reading a pop-sci article on the internet apparently makes them an expert on my body.

And also something being "psychosomatic" or "all in your head" most assuredly doesn't makes the pain and discomfort any less real. When you say "it's just psychosomatic." What I hear is "Well you're not really hurting, so um can yo just get over that already. Stop being an idiot/wuss."

I'm willing to concede that my gluten sensitivity might be caused by something in my head (though why I'd deprive myself of tasty beers I'll never know). But you know what is also in people's heads?Their emotional and mental issues and that stuff is all too fucking real.

Now imagine that wall is on top of your stomach.
(image source)

It affects those afflicted deeply in a very real way.

But let's chuck that (perfectly good) analogy for a second and assume I am lying about how much gluten hurts me and that the sensitivity I feel is psychosomatic.

Doing nothing to soothe/address that "made up" pain and just telling me to "get over it" is as useless as telling yourself not to sweat, get teary, and reach for a glass of water because that pepper you just ate isn't really hurting you, it's just that your brain that thinks it is. (This is actually how capsaicin works people).

If someone ate a habanero pepper and asked you to get them some milk to calm their supposedly blazing palate, you wouldn't lecture them about how there's nothing wrong with their mouth. You wouldn't tell them "it's all in your head." You'd get them a fucking glass of milk.

So pretty please, all you sanctimonious fucks who read about some science on the internet please shut the fuck up, and learn yourself some stuff about FODMAPs. Because avoiding that shit is what I have to deal with every day. WHICH INCLUDES AVOIDING GLUTEN.

And no I was not born this way. I caught a parasite two years ago and it completely fucked up my ability to deal with most of the things that contain FODMAPS. Last year I went on an intensive four month elimination diet in order to find our what foods agitated my system. It was long and hard. If it's in my head, then my subconscious commitment to this beer-depriving bit is incredibly strong.

And yes. I am an anecdote but that doesn't me my experience isn't true and my pain is not real.


PS: There's some sort of parallel between the anger I have surrounding the doubts people express about my diet and the doubts people express gender. Perhaps I'll get to that on another day.

I've taken on the impossible (Essay a Day Challenge)

It is an absolutely true fact that I have no time at all to write this essay. Or any of the daily essays to follow that I have now pledged myself into cobbling together. For instance I am right this very moment writing this sentence from the bathroom at the yoga studio where I 'm already late for the noon reverie.

I spent the morning neck deep in all sorts of poetry (the genre I'm angling to have masters in 18 months from now) and will be at work til 11 tonight. The only time for additional scribblings are the half hour gap between yoga and work (that's if I skip the shower) and a 45 minute lunch I generally like to spend in the parking lot as the token non smoker in the smoking area.

This project is impossible. But then what is the process of creating, if not slinging ourselves at the impossible and aching for others to follow us through nonlinear implication into some semblance of mutual understanding. Which isn't really the same, but close enough that resonance can be achieved

Yes. This project is impossible. Which is part of what attracts me to it.

I am an impossible person. My body and my genders are impossible. I mean things my body will likely never be able to reflect and encapsulate and my words are always too short, to calm the constant fever of confusion that heats my life and pushes my engines forward.

....

I am skipping the shower. The smell of my motor oil be dammed. Now each sentence is coming between furtive bites of cottage cheese and leftover ratatouille: my makeshift lunch. I gobble between keyboard flicks before I fly off to my grueling sentence of customer service numbness. There I'll have to get over how under the skin my temper gets when someone asks "how are you?" without ever wanting to really know that answer. As if such a personal question could be a stand in for the beige conversational rocking horse of "hello".

The answer of course is "I am impossible." A terribly unreasonable greeting by most counts. And we must not upset the customers!

I've begun to worry about my bicycle which, for expediency's was sake, was left the porch. But now I worry her wheels are beneath someone else's pumping. And fuck.

I thought that by committing to this impossible task, I might find some fucking reprieve from the anxious thoughts that plague. I thought that if I could plan away every minute and even cover up the possibility of a fallow moment that the worrisome waves would stop smashing into me. I thought I'd reached dry land with American perseverance. But I guess there's still some saltwater in my engine.

I hate how this is turning into a prose poem. This is supposed to be an essay. An impossible piece of literature that is ragged on the edges and long in the mouth, yes, but still very much so an essay.

Secret confession: I have no idea what I am doing. And without that knowing, impossible is not really a thing I can define is it? So here is my challenge to you, oh few, and bodacious readers.

Do something impossible. Trust that your logic brain is unable to compute the parameters of what is statistically possible. Give up im/possible. With the greatest love, throw your body through artists tools and ritual, at something distant, worthwhile, and impossible

I'll see you all tomorrow!

No-home Sickness

My partner and I are currently between cities; in the process of leaving Seattle and finding a new city. Our roots are raw and recently cut. It's hard to be without a real home. It's even harder when I get sick.

I'm sick today and I was sick yesterday. I thought I might not be for a full 12 hours. But i was wrong. I suited up in an unapologetically dapper ensemble and took my sweetie out for fancy french food. It was excellent except for the vapid couple sitting next to us prattling on about the pounce of internet speculation. Though even through that my companion and I enjoyed exchanging mutually disdainful looks.  My partner tweeted about his fears and cynicism surrounding the tech culture and ruthless gentrification in San Francisco.

Neither of us want to live here but the job might be the right thing for my partner. So for now, we tolerate it.

After dinner and the 3 tablets of acetaminophen one of the waitstaff was kind enough to give me we left to go to a party. It was a party hosted by my partner's employer and the second one of this type that I've been to.

I had great conversations and even remembered a lot of people's names this time around. I was having a good time but found myself a bit lonely.

My partner was doing some "work" (having private conversations and bolstering confidence of students and coworkers). This meant I had less access to him and  ended up talking to people I didn't know very well. I don't mind this, but it takes energy.

And I like the people my partner works with and for. They are friendly and think well of me. This is apparent in every interaction I have with them. But the conversation fatigue set in much faster than I'd anticipated. But I miss the ease of a crowd that include people who're already my friends. A social slight completely unintentional and certainly indiscernible to anyone but myself  started me down a spiral of thought about how I don't belong.

One of the funny on-topic things I'd tried to put forth didn't fly and was passed over in favor of input from a community member. In that moment my joviality came crashing down. I made myself some tea and crawled out to the fire escape to spend some time alone. It was restorative but even then I felt my muscles shuddering softly in fatigue.

It took us an hour after that to leave. The long good byes were very long. We got wrapped up in an engaging but ultimately draining conversation about health insurance (which only served to remind us of how very uninsured we  currently are). I knew I was tired when we got out on to the street. I let my partner talk as we walked toward the BART station. I wasn't really listening and found myself grateful that one of my partner's friends accompanied us and that they conversed while I could concentrate on walking.

When we got on the BART I felt good to be away from the party (crowds can be an big energy suck) I felt almost normal, minus the slight nausea and high sensitivity to the hot stuffy  atmosphere of the train. My partner and I spent the whole ride back to the East Bay barely touching staring sappily into each other eyes. I was grateful for this elongated moment of emotional intimacy.

Unfortunately the instant I stepped off of the train I felt my energy crash again. On the escalator up to the terminal my partner stepped up to embrace me and I said "No. Too close."

The escalator up to the street was out of service so I had to climb the steps. The first two seemed fine, but each of the 25 or so after that seemed to threaten me with upheaval. I had to stop at the top and rest for a moment to make sure I didn't hurk.

During the seemingly endless four blocks from the BART station to our for-now-home in oakland I had a hard time walking and talking at the same time. The poet in my tried to consolidate what I was experiencing "I feel like a ghost".

My lungs worked half time, even the slow steps I took shortened my breath considerably. I felt my heat beat like an echo. The lag in my body's transmission of sensory information made legs clumsy and inarticulate. My marrow turned heavy like mercury in my bones. Last night was the first time I've ever asked a loved one "will you help me up the stairs?" If I'd had any energy left to feel I might have felt ashamed. But all I had room for was frustration and effort.

I wish I could just talk about just one of the three things that happened to me last night. My sickness, my social anxieties, my partner's bitter fears about career/location/health insurance, but all three happened in a drawn out mixed up progression that left my heart exhausted and my body ghostly.

This afternoon there is a part of me that thinks "maybe I shouldn't have gone out last night." It was extremely spoon-expensive and nearly drained all my bodily resources. I had no idea how fully it was going to take my energy. But ultimately I'm glad I could and I'm glad I did make it out last night. I'm lucky to have had the small burst of energy I did. And to have the energy I richly enjoy most of the time.

Fancy clothes and fancy dinner, flirty party conversations were worth the risk and the cost. But it's important for me to talk about that cost. At the end of the night I was a wreck. I needed my partner to help me up the stairs and into bed. I didn't have the energy to empathize with his fears about my health or our future I could only ask for tea and help taking off my clothes.

We're both scared about the future and uncertain about what we can handle and what will sustain us. Cobbling together hard limits and expectations form the world around us is nearly impossible. But we're working on it. Together. For that I am endlessly thankful.

On Anxiety and Organization: Lists are my Medicine

I have social and generalized anxiety. I occasionally suffer from anxiety/panic attacks. My stress level often has immediate and massive effects on my body. It usually starts with decision paralysis. For me the first signs of an anxiety attack are words like "I don't know", "I guess", and "whatever you want should be fine". Most of my friends will tell you that, despite how much I try to be a tough guy, I have pretty particular tastes and sensitivities when it comes to my comfort levels. When I am not in touch with these preferences I stop trusting my own senses. That's when my breath begins to shorten and the knots start tying up my stomach. Sometimes my heart will ache or feel pinched.

I've used a lot of things to mitigate my anxiety in the past. None of them are actual medicine or where prescribed by a doctor. Often it's been foodstuffs. I find comfort in foods like cupcakes or cheese plates or toast (it's usually sweet but doesn't have to be).

I started a very restrictive diet six weeks ago. One of the things I noticed right away is how often would crave certain food when I felt down. In some ways this makes sense. I'm the kind of person who will have some kind of mini-meltdown if I skip a meal or two.

This new awareness of how I've used food to regulate my feelings made me start to wonder. What else am I doing to manage my mood and keep anxiety levels to a minimum?

In the absence of consumable anti-anxiety measures (like of cheese, beer, and sugars) I've been noticing what I have been doing to maintain a healthy mood. Having direct online contact with my friends has been indispensable (my internet was cut for a mere 36 hours this week it affected my mood acutely). I also take walks and ride a bike.

Though lately I've been biking less and less. It occurs to me that I always forget how much I really like cycling alone until I am actually out there cycling by myself. I feel power and resonance with the landscape. I feel confident and in control.

Consequently this is also how I feel when I'm writing or editing something I've written (which also falls under the category of writing for me). And yes, free-writing regularly (every day) has also been one of the ways I manage my anxiety. Fortunately these days free-writing now feels like a reflex. I've been writing every day for more than three years. But I've only edited spurts when working on projects. The editing itself feels marvelous and in control and not the least bit anxious.

When I'm editing I can feel as "in the zone" and electric as I've felt while jotting down the first draft of a striking poem. I feel just as resonant as I do when riding my bike a long way solo. But for some reason it is devilishly difficult to get myself to schedule and start doing either of these things.

Why is that?

Well the anxious parts of me fight viciously against the memory of how powerful, liberating, and healthy these experiences are. I used to think I was just not the type of person like to organize. But what I've come to learn over the years is that it's not ME that doesn't like to organize or prioritize (or at least not all of me). It's the anxiety that doesn't like it when I organize.

I feel resistance to organizing my shit. Whether it be my actual physical stuff (my partner can attest to this) or the less physical more conceptual stuff involved in my life. For instance I have trouble showing up for physical fitness activities like yoga or bike rides unless it is made clear that there is going to be some social component. It's a battle for me to schedule things to do alone that enjoy, especially if they require me to be independent or decisive. This doesn't mean that I'm can't or don't enjoy being independent and decisive. I can and do. But my anxiety tries to convince me otherwise.

It's tell though that even on the brink of an anxiety attack I am able to do simple non-demanding organizational tasks that combat my stress and anxiety. One of the more reliable methods of staving off an anxiety attack is to make a list. It's usually a to do list, but it can also be a random list; What groceries do I need? How many blue things can I think of? What countries have I visited, which ones would I like to visit? how many prime numbers can I list until I feel better?

The fact that I find such solace in lists makes apparent to me how much I actually DO value organization. As the most stripped down, basic definition what is a list but an organizational tool? The tool of lists is often what I need to keep my anxiety levels down and my mind clear of self doubt and blame.

A list provides me with an organization system, a way of prioritizing. It lets me know that as a human I can reliably identify what deserves priority. I can discern what matters to me and to my surroundings. A list is concrete proof that I can be trusted as a decider, me and my senses know what's what. (remember that my anxiety attacks start with the decision paralysis of not trusting myself).

And really what is writing but constantly trusting your own instincts of organizing words and meaning? I take joy in choosing the right words or choosing the right idea. All writers do. But I have this force in me this anxious mess of untrusting. A force that even if, while I try to manage it, can derail and discourage me from taking the decisive actions I so enjoy.

I'd love to end this post triumphantly proclaiming "and this is how I beat anxiety!" but the struggle is not like that. All of the above conclusions were slow to germinate. And while I know a few flimsy, but effective techniques for managing my anxiety and combating its effects, the progress is slow going and complex. This post, while empowering to write, is only an exercise in shining light on the mechanisms of my anxiety. A declaration against the conniving, invalidating, anxious parts of me, a message that says "I see what's going on here buster."