Bornfamous

I’ve never understood people who don’t have, um, issues with food. Like the doctor who told me last summer to stop eating gluten, dairy and eggs. Or his nurse, who blithely ordered me to eat only steamed vegetables and rice. Did they have any idea who they were talking to?

Obviously not.

I am, as Overeaters Anonymous wants me to tell you, a compulsive overeater. Oh, but it’s so much more complicated than that. When Dr. Moss and his spunky nurse Theo gave me my marching orders, they were trying to pin down food allergies that were causing, let’s say gastrointestinal distress, for six months at that point. Now it’s been a year.

Let’s get Step One out of the way right now: I truly am powerless over food, and my life has been incredibly unmanageable.

There is a theory that food allergy and addiction are intimately related. Based on my miserable experience, I believe it. I was helpless in the face of all forms of bread, anything with sugar in it, and especially–oh, most especially–Dairy Queen chocolate dip cones. Helpless is exactly how I felt.

I made myself feel better when I was upset, or rewarded myself for doing anything the slightest bit strenuous [like driving to the Jiffy Lube for an oil change] by stopping at the nearest DQ. Please note the slogan on their front page:

CRAVE SATISFIED!
DQ is your place for great tasting meals for lunch or dinner and tempting cool treats to satisfy your crave anytime!

You think the corporate honchos don’t know a thing or two about food addiction? Please.

By January, the Volvo was on automatic pilot. Every time I drove to, through or anywhere near El Cajon, California, Brigitte [named after another big blonde Scandinavian] headed straight down Second Avenue to the Dairy Queen. I couldn’t stop her from pulling into the drivethrough lane, or my hands from opening my wallet, or my voice from saying, “Small dipped cone, please” to the squawk box. [Ordering a small cone made it more virtuous somehow, although DQ long ago eliminated the truly small cone in favor of the medium one. DQ=EVIL. ]

So, on this sunny January day, as Brigitte pulled into the left-turn lane at Jamacha and East Main, I saw to my simultaneous horror and relief that the only Dairy Queen for twenty miles had gone out of business. There is a God after all.

It was exactly like the moment some eighteen years earlier when I lit up a More Menthol, wondering how I was going to quit smoking now that I was finally pregnant again, and felt nausea. “Oh, morning sickness!” I said to myself, and put it out. That was my last cigarette. This moment was like that. The El Cajon DQ had gone out of business in spite of my sincere attempts to keep it afloat, so that was it. No more chocolate dipped cones. Thank God.

Since then, I have kicked sugar [and don't let anyone tell you sugar withdrawal isn't hell], gluten, dairy, and meat/fish/chicken for good measure. I’m a gluten-free vegan [such an attractive term] and I’m glad. Energy levels are slowly rising, pain levels slowly dropping, and my mental clarity is returning [or so my friends tell me.] Holy crap.

Oh, wait. About that: not much improvement in the gastrointestinal distress thing. In fact, not much change at all. Which indicates that I haven’t eliminated all my food allergens. Which means I need to go on an even more restrictive elimination diet and see what, uh, comes out. We’re talking steamed vegetables and rice, people. And a food diary.

Crap.