Thank you, Brattus Rattus, friend from the internets, and also my dear friend Cherry for pointing out how truly fucked up my stomach has been, and for a long time at that. No thanks to my parents or the non-BF because, in his words, I never listen to them. (Okay, you all were right, too. See? I’m not afraid to admit it.)
I’m doing a FUN little experiment while I wait to get in to see one of those gastro-what-the-fuck-ever-you-call-them belly doctors. This experiment was devised by the non-BF, as you will more than be able to tell in just a few moments. I would never think of something so crazy as part of this plan, but I’m on Day Two of semi-compliance and my stomach isn’t hurting and I haven’t wanted to hurl and I haven’t tossed my lunch (breakfast or dinner) at all. Two days may not seem like a long time to you but two days with no stomach problems here lately for me? Paradise.
“The first rule about the Fucked Up Stomach Eating Club is that we don’t talk about the Fucked Up Stomach Eating Club.” This, I hope, will be the last time I mention my goddamned Food Baby and the torture it is putting me through.
Crazy Ass Rule No. 1: Only bland food for two weeks.
This could be: mashed potatoes, no gravy; macaroni and cheese (the plain kind, boring, and without bacon or other accoutrements); chicken broth; Cream of Wheat; oatmeal.
Crazy Ass Rule No. 2: No alcohol for two weeks.
Okay, well this isn’t working so well, as I had some wine last night. I’m not worried about being “caught” because the non-BF doesn’t read this crap that I churn out, but I didn’t have enough to do anything stupid like, say, CUT MY OWN HAIR. (Thanks again, Brattus – you were spot on with that one.)
Crazy Ass Rule No. 3: No spicy food, no drowning my food in Tabasco and/or cracked black pepper. No crazy rich and/or spicy sauces.
This part? Just sucks. I put pepper on everything, love Tabasco and sauces? I prefer them to the foods they cover. I could stick my face into a bowl of Bernaise sauce and be happy as a clam.
Whatever that means. Because I bet clams aren’t that happy – I’ve never seen a happy one. Maybe the ones who don’t get caught are happy? I’ll be happy as a clam who didn’t get caught and end up on a bed of ice at a local Red Lobster. What a sad, tragic ending. But I digress.
Crazy Ass Rule No. 4: (I get credit for this one) Get some counseling.
While the symptoms are very similar to when I had what docs said was the “beginning” of an ulcer in my very early 20s, I also know I can think myself into feeling nauseous. I was anorexic in my teens and while I am definitely far from it now (hence the Food Baby), in times of stress and/or depression, I can start to really exhibit anorexic tendencies.
Which would be a great name for a band, or so a boyfriend told me years ago. Anorexic Tendencies. I’d go see them play on principle alone.
Crazy Ass Rule No. 4: Go to a fucking doctor already!!!
I believe that rule came from the parents, the non-BF and my very best friends. Because they know me, and yep, I’d rather self-misdiagnose than go to a doctor. I’m afraid of the C word, and I probably should really be more worried about the damage I’ve done to my esophagus.
Yeah, yeah, yeah – you all thought I was this perfectly well adjusted, fabulous person. I am SO sorry to disappoint.