Got Me Feeling Emotions………

My name is Cellina…..and I’m a binge-a-holic.

There is a reason I blog about food.  It’s not just about the fact that I adore the art and science of all things edible, or the absolute joy it brings me to share these up and down adventures in gluten-free/sugar-free, allergy modified eating because I know that somewhere out there it’s bringing some down-trodden, swelled-up foodie hope.

It most absolutely goes deeper than that.  It goes down, people – way, way down, and if you’ll attach your SCUBA mask now and join me, I promise you we’ll get back to the surface in one big, flaky piece.

I had a revelation this week that showed me, through screaming fits, globs of mayonnaise, and pickle resistance that my food issues go way beyond yeasts and molds.  I’m learning that no matter how bad the sugar cravings get I won’t touch the stuff unless I’m seriously triggered.  The triggers have nothing to do with those globs of mayo, gooey squares of choco-chip banana bread, and drippy, rich vinegar marinades.

They all have to do with me.

I can stay on the wagon and eat in moderation until the grass-fed, free range cows come home.  Eating healthy is that good!  So what has pushed me off 5 separate times this year?  What has caused the eruption of four horrible migraines in one week?  What has me buying boxes of creamy mac and cheese that I would never touch during a so-called elimination?

Let me introduce to you: My Childhood.

It probably all started with a can of Manwich, a band of screaming parents, a hungry belly, and the will to live.

I remember being young and cooking.  I wish the setting to this memory was more pleasant, but nonetheless, it was probably the proudest moment of my life.  My parents were nuts.  I mean, like, “Take this child out of here and run for nearest functional household,” crazy.  Still, at age 9, I loved them to death.  Tippy-toeing at the stove, making my first real meal all by myself was a proud moment, mostly because in the middle of all of that dysfunction I found something I could do to survive.  If you need clean air you go outside. If you need a break, you hang with a friend.  But this was something that would help me live.  I wasn’t about to starve, so I picked up a can opener, scowled at them with disgust, and started cooking.

I don’t think I’ve stopped since.

Cooking helps me and that little child inside, as well as brings joy to others.  The fighting stopped at the dinner table that night as my parents sat in awe of what was in front of them.  It was more than an average meal – it was a really good meal (even if it came from a can) made by a child who had otherwise just watched in the kitchen.  Dinner was actually on the table.  Cellina did something right. She made the fighting stop and made people happy.

Oh, triggers.

I’d love to say that from then on,  cooking and eating was just pure joy.  What’s a story without tragedy and heartache, however?

The “tragedy” and “heartache” in this romantic tale of a girl and her fridge started when she got sick.  Learning that there was definitely something wrong with the way I was eating was a low blow.  Learning I had to completely modify the way I lived was even lower.

Mold allergies, Candidiasis, Systemic Yeast Disorder, aye yi, yi.  These terms and their symptoms were like a knife to the heart.  But I persevered.  I researched, I shopped, I payed $200 to see a Holistic MD, I eliminated. But I don’t think I’ve ever fully accepted this fate.  So I got angry, real angry, like a volcano of old, stale,  bitter, 100% cacao chocolate deep down inside, and when pushed – “Boom!”

Hello, bingeing.

The bitter end came to me yesterday after bloating up horribly during a party.  Un-named in-law was too wrapped up in keeping up appearances to even tell me what was in the spread.  This has been an on-going problem with this particular sister-in-law, who I suspects either doesn’t believe that I have genuine, call-the-ambulance food allergies; just thinks I’m a drama-queen; simply doesn’t care; or thinks that asking what’s in the fucking chicken skewers is a total violation of her “shut-your-mouth-and-enjoy-the-show” party etiquette.

Those of us who aren’t crazy know that the real violation is ignorance of what one is shoving down their pristine pie hole.  If it was mushrooms or eggplant my mouth would have blown up ten times its size.  Nothing ruins perfect party image like the human blimp being carried out of the perfectly painted front door in a stretcher by two tattooed lesbian EMTs on a Sunday afternoon in Perfectville!

Grrrr!  I didn’t blow up facially, mind you, but I was ignored, and I felt, denied my basic needs by someone who is supposed to be a caring family member (familiar, perhaps?).  I was pissed, offended and hungry.  So I ate.

I ate the chicken.  Fine.  I also ate the stupid sour cream potato salad (that wasn’t that good anyway) whose ingredients were not disclosed to me until after they were half-way digested.  Then, I went on to the deviled eggs, vinegar-drenched salad, skipping the parm-encrusted asparagus, and washed it all down with a big glass of Chesapeake Bay tap water.  Mmmmmm.

Maybe I’ve been spoiled (as my cousin, GlutenFreeWallflower said with a giggle last night as I screamed and vented into the reciever) with the wonders of gourmet delights, but God – if I’m gonna get sick and bloated can’t it at least be with good food that was worth it?

I wish the drama could have ended there, but as I started this entry with my confessional, I must indeed elaborate: as sick as I was, I binged.  I don’t know how, but I did.  That’s when it hit me:  after the nausea and pain, the sweating and flu-like symptoms, with a fork to my mouth and yet a second helping of homemade strawberry rhubarb pie on my plate, there I was, eating away the pain, my childhood, my mom, everything.

Sigh.

It’s the next day and after downing 15 supplements,  a shot of homemade Alka-Seltzer(thank you, Tim), and a charcoal-licorice root mixture I lovingly call Colon Blow, I’m feeling better.  If there is any lesson here, it’s to listen to one’s self and to love that flawed jumble of organ systems, blood, brains, heart and emotions as unconditionally as the human soul allows.

That, I will do, one biscuit and one step, at a time.

-Cellina

The Hopeful Foodie

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