Dope-sick/Gluten-sick; Lessons of Recovery

The problem with having fallen in love, in lust with food in Hawaii (see my last delicious post) is that I have a violent case of celiac disease.  I cannot have wheat, barley, rye, and usually, oats (the highly debated controversy of celiacs).  I cannot have flour in any of its concocted spongy forms - breads, cakes, muffins, pancakes, flour tortillas . . . flour tortillas are one of my most favorite things on this earth, the soft, flowy texture gets me every time.

If I am cooking at home, which I have recently discovered a passion for, this is not a problem.  In fact, it has been a fun challenge, forcing me to new heights of healthful eating.  I can't have pasta?  No problem, I'll whip up some raw zucchini noodles instead.  Can't have breads?  No matter, refined carbs aren't good for you anyway.  Can't have any processed foods because they all contain gluten as an additive for some reason?  Who cares, processed foods are crap; I'll take intact and whole foods please.

The problem lies within the walls of restaurants, with their wafts of sumptuous flavors, soft lights and clinking glasses, exotic tastes caressing your palate.   Oh how I delight in eating out.  Champagne tastes - I've always had them.  Restaurants pull me in, sucking away reality in the outside world and affording me an hour or two deliciously free of all my cares.  Until gluten.  Back in Boulder, this wasn't as difficult.  Boulder is a mecca of health, and gluten-free is the latest fad.  Every restaurant has a separate gluten-free menu, or at least a plethora of gluten-free choices on their regular menu.  Kitchen contamination (flour has a tendency to poof-float into the air and get microscopic particles on every available surface) means that most things really aren't one-hundred percent absolutely gluten-free, but at least the wait-staff knows what the word gluten means and will try to accommodate (or at least humor) you.

Hawaii is another story.  Everything operates on "Island Time" here, and the gluten-free craze hasn't arrived yet - it's probably still floating over from the mainland on a coconut, and will wash up on shore in a year or two.  Waiters and waitresses look at me as if I've spoken greek when I mention gluten.  So I have a little prefabricated story, explaining that I am deathly allergic to flour (I hope the dramatic flair catches their attention), and can't have anything like bread or flour tortillas or sauces made with flour, or soy sauce.  Soy sauce ...  Known here mainly by its Japanese name, Shoyu.  It is a staple here, and everything is marinated in it.  Some of the waiters are nice, and try to help.  Most act as if I've suddenly become a whining and spoiled child, and I can see the cogs turning in their brains as they scramble to make up answers out of thin air when I ask for the ingredient list in sauces, marinades, spice rubs.  I should ask them to double-check with the kitchen.  I should be firm.  But I hate those disdaining looks.  If you read my "White, Blue, Blonde" post, you'll know that I struggle with desperately needing "you" to like me.  So instead I fold, and just hope for the best.  Which, I have found, in the case of gluten, is really to accept failure.  Just one teensy tiny gluten particle can make me sick, and when everything is cooked on the same grill, or waiters make up ingredients, I am doomed.

I have been gluten-sick a lot since we've arrived in Hawaii - confined to my bed, exhausted, puking, and swimming in the delirium of drowsiness that comes with my anti-nausea medication.  It is so reminiscent of withdrawal.

I can spend all of these paragraphs explaining the situation and blaming waiters and shared grills, but in reality, the solution lies with me.  Uggh sometimes I just hate having to be an adult and take responsibility for things!  Oh how I wish it could be "your" fault and then "you" would have to fix it!  It's the same childish foot-stomping retreat of denial.  But, then, at the end of the day, the nondescript "you" is never going to do anything about it, and I am the one lying in bed, violently nauseous, exhausted, and miserable.

I spent most of yesterday indulging in self pity, wallowing in the unfairness of it all.  Until my boyfriend cleverly reminded me that perhaps I was wasting my energy fighting it, and perhaps I should accept what is.  Ahh yes - let go - the theme of this entire blog and my life since I got sober almost two years ago(!).  How easy it is to forget.  So again, for the one millionth time, I take a deep breath, and I exhale, letting go of the struggle.  Letting go into the pain and the frustration and the fatigue.  The only way out, is through.  Slowly, I repeat the serenity prayer - Spirit, Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage the change the things I can,  and the wisdom to know the difference.

Accept the things I cannot change - I cannot change the fact that I have celiac disease.  Not just gluten sensitivity (I have an allele for that as well), but full-blown, autoimmune celiac disease.  When I ingest gluten, my body attacks itself and I get sick.  It seems silly that I have to consciously decide to accept that I have an allergy.  (Eerily similar to learning to accept my allergy to alcohol.)  I also cannot change the fact that people have no idea or interest in what gluten is, and therefore, have no sensitivity to my plight.  I cannot change that almost everything in restaurants is made with gluten or will be contaminated with it.

Courage to change the things I can: this is always, simply, myself.  I cannot change other people, situations, etc.  I CAN change how I react to those people and those situations.  I can choose what I put in my body.  I can choose to take care of myself - mentally and emotionally so that I will be secure enough in myself to not fold in the face of annoyance by waiters, and patient enough with myself so that I make good choices.  I can take care of myself physically so that I don't spend days in bed and then addictively repeat the pattern: eating gluten because I don't want to be a hassle or because I want a certain delicacy, and then insanely expecting different results.

Last night, I decided that I would start taking care of myself (again).  And today, I did.  I woke up, and I ran - a great feat for someone who smoked for fifteen years.  I quit cold-turkey ten months ago, but my lungs still burn at a high pitch when I force my body into exercise.  Surprisingly, as my feet rhythmically hit the pavement, I felt fantastic.  I came home, and started a gentle detox - a simple program of fresh, nutrient-packed whole foods blended together to give my digestive system a break.  I am determined to cleanse that nasty gluten out of me.  I am determined to realize my intentions for this trip - adventure, strength, and health.  Every day, as I take life one day at a time, I am astounded how the simple lessons of recovery apply to all of my struggles.