The Not-So-Popular Diet

Cocktail Selection

• Sleepytime Slinger
  Organic Chamomile blossoms, dried Valerian root, and Lavender blossoms boiled in magnesium-heavy tap water with a dissolved tablet of Ashwagandha and garnished with a non-gelatin Melatonin gummy

• Cherry Tartlet
  Tart cherry juice—in a glass

I am a connoisseur of sleep remedies. If it’s out there (and at least moderately legal), I’ve tried it. At this point, it’s become a game, a lottery scratch-off of “Will it work? Will this be the asinine suggestion that breaks the stranglehold fibro has on my brain?” How else to explain why I thought magnesium—a freaking random element found naturally in foods—might hold the key to resetting my fucked up internal clock?

(Newsflash: That’s where desperation will get you)

(Secondary newsflash: It didn’t work. Of course)

My nightly routine became an insane apothecary poured down my throat: herbal tisanes followed by tart cherry followed by supplements. Followed by staring at the wall and contemplating how bad blunt force trauma could actually be if it resulted in a few precious hours of unconsciousness. At which point I started Googling whether insomnia caused psychosis. (It doesn’t) Or whether you could die of insomnia. (You can’t)

I’ve lost track of the hours spent conversing with…my brain? My body? Whatever entity fibro is and wherever it exists inside me? Explaining—in excruciating detail—our need for rest and recuperation. Attempting to bargain for four hours of sleep. Then three. Then two. Screaming (silently, of course, because the other human, four cats, and dog in the house don’t suffer from the same inability to find repose) at the insanity of preventing sleep and then whining over our exhaustion the following day.

Reflecting on fond memories of childhood when sleep happened so easily.

All so I can drag myself out of bed with the alarm clock (have to preserve that sleep schedule) and hear someone with a chipper, well-rested smile ask, “Hey, have you tried…?”

Appetizers

• Salted Banana Wafers
  Water biscuits (the most bland crackers on the planet) adorned with delicate banana slices and sprinkled with sea salt

• Consomme of Bone Broth
  Free-range, organic bone broth boiled beyond all recognition, thinned down and mixed with a liquid that may or may not be saltwater, garnished with a sugar cube

• Vegetarian Flight
  Organic carrots, avocado, green beans, squash, and pumpkin boiled, mashed, and presented in a row of miniature Mason jars—complete with a tiny spoon

There’s a diet out there for everything—even IBD run rampant. Doctors call it the BRAT diet, for “Bananas, Rice, Applesauce, and Toast.” (Intestinal system being a brat? Time to treat it like a small child!)

Naturally, it’s the perfect opportunity to revert to an infantile state and baby the very organs that were wreaking havoc on my life.

Because rewarding bad behavior is exactly how you teach bratty children to behave. (Why is the medical community riddled with irony?)

I love receiving my BRAT diet list from the doctor. But I feel it’s a missed opportunity: Why not hand me a lunchbox and blankie while they’re at it? Or deliver the stern lecture while presenting me with the opportunity to choose a toy for my good behavior? (I’m overlooking the fact I’m never on my best behavior during these ER visits for the sake of this hypothetical situation) If I’m supposed to behave like a five-year-old, I should get more out of it than stomach cramps and vague nausea.

I demand bland animal crackers! Grilled chicken in the shape of dinosaurs! Broth in sippy cups!

My intestines and stomach had me heaving and questioning whether food was actually necessary; where’s my compensation for that? If I’m going to be reduced to downing mush and sand for the next week, I should at least get to enjoy the process.

Why has no one started the marketing on this?

Entree

• Bacon-Wrapped Grilled Chicken with Creamy Roasted Potatoes
  Free-range chicken breast intended for a coat of thick-cut pork belly, now relegated to a naked and sequestered corner of the grill, accompanied by potato spears hastily shoved in the back of a spare oven and sprinkled with salt (sea salt?) and pepper in a desperate attempt to convey flavor

• Flaky Deconstructed Beef Duck Pot Pie
  Roast duck and vegetables in a rich brown gravy jus served alongside a whole-wheat multigrain roll with zero resemblance to the delicate handmade pie crust distributed to the remainder of the table

• Authentic Fish and Chips
  Just no

There is nothing quite as entertaining as eating in public with a random food allergy. It isn’t the strange looks people give (“Wait, you’re allergic to what?”), although that is fun—for the first five minutes. It’s the anticipation of discovering what I will—or won’t—have delivered to my plate.

Some chefs get downright creative in their attempts to avoid my triggers, finding substitutions for the whey, gelatin, glycerin, and lard that have somehow come to prevail in all modern cooking. (What the literal fuck are you people doing with whey protein in everything?) Others stare at an entire kitchen of ingredients, scramble through their years of culinary education, and throw their hands in the air before delivering a bland chicken breast and sad boiled vegetables to my table. Because asking them to do anything “outside the box” is simply too much.

Dinner on the cruise (where I must give credit; they were fantastic) became a hysterical game. Would I get the food I’d ordered? Or would something else arrive? Would I even recognize what was on the plate?

And I did my best to help!

I read through every description on the menu, trying to guess what might hide a nefarious ingredient. But whey? That sucker sneaks its way into damn near everything! Not just dairy, either (you know, where you might expect it?). We’re talking every other dough item. And random sauces.

And even a chocolate chip. (Because why the hell not)

Removing dairy or gluten or meat? No problem. The culinary industry has figured those out by now.

But tackling a few more ingredients to help a poor girl with alpha-gal out? That’s asking for way too much.

Dessert

• Chocolate Decadence
  Rich Devil’s Food chocolate cake, iced in dark chocolate ganache, topped with a milk chocolate drizzle, and accompanied by a bowl of triple chocolate ice cream

• Truffle Assortment
  Selection of six gourmet truffles, hand-painted with cocoa butter: White chocolate macadamia nut, Rich dark chocolate, Salted caramel, Milk chocolate peanut butter, Cherry cordial, and (to fuck you up and teach you never to trust a chocolate assortment ever again) Sour apple pucker.

There is no cure for depression.

I’m going to say that one more time for the back row: There is no cure for depression.

But chocolate helps. (And I will go to my grave on that platform)

I’ve gone through the usual routes of treatment, from pills to therapy. (Remind me to tell you about my experience with Paxil, as a teenager—yes, before they realized it was a terrible drug for teens) And, yes, even the hokum nonsense of sunshine, exercise, and journaling my feelings. None of it holds a candle to a single bite of chocolate bar.

Even in the middle of a sobbing breakdown.

Or a pitch-black fugue where nothing is ever going to go right again.

I could probably go into the details of the reward center in the brain or research the chemical compounds in chocolate (theobromine is toxic to dogs and cats—never let them share in your gustatory therapy!), but why? The damn delightful sweetness works; what else is there to know?

Spending an hour a week in therapy might keep me from descending into an endless spiral of anxiety. And it might convince me to interrupt the constant flow of “You’re a worthless bitch no one cares about” dialogue I partake in (for funsies). But it doesn’t hold a candle to the moment of pure bliss and rainbows that explode in my brain when I take that bite of brownie and focus on the taste of cocoa and sugar swirling in my mouth.

Not one medication ever did a damn bit of good, so we’re not even going there.

Is it an addiction? Yeah, probably. But it won’t get me arrested, land me in the hospital, or drain my bank account, so I’m not going to fuss about it. Besides, it’s doing a decidedly solid job of keeping me away from the psych ward, so the world should appreciate its position in my life.

The psychological community needs to invest in chocolate therapy. I’d freaking sign my ass up for that in a heartbeat.