This afternoon, I squatted down on the kitchen floor and sobbed.
It was ugly sounding.
It wasn’t gut-wrenching. Just a normal cry.
I felt sad and angry. A normal sad and angry.
My GI specialist confirmed today that I will likely have to live with my restricted and complicated diet for the rest of my life. As he put it, “You will always be sensitive.”
Truth be told: I miss endless and uninterrupted bread. The rest I can deal with. But I miss eating bread whenever the hell I want.
So I said, “drat” and moved on with my day. My dad called and I gave him the news. He wasn’t concerned; he just wanted to make sure that an end is in sight to the monthly “episodes” that still sneak up on me and ruin an unsuspecting evening. And then my roommate called: she was at the grocery store picking up fixings for dinner and wanted to make me something. I replied that I was on a non-wheat, rice, and meat day so I had to eat tofu and quinoa tonight. She was totally fine with it. But I abruptly realized that I would have to have similar conversations with people for the rest of my life. Meals would never be easy again. Never. So I hung up and cried.
And then, I finished crying, stood up, and went about my day. I was okay. Life went on. I felt no residual desperation, depression, or black cloud.
The tears welled up briefly when my roomie got home and I explained why I’d been upset on the phone. But they never erupted. They just pooled a little and dissapeared.
I forgot what it feels like to be able to feel an emotion and then let it go.
My body hasn’t done that in what feels like forever. My body is remembering to let go. To shift, to move, to flow, to fly, to breath.
It also helps that the air has finally cooled off and I sat my wi-fi self out on the porch to write by candle light in the dusk while the wind blows through the trees and the neighborhood children shriek.
This is also good.