Sunday, November 30, 2008

Getting Pissy About Diarrhea

True story time! Also, the second Nest of Grump entry.

Please note that this is a post about my guts. I have written a letter to my stomach. Don't enjoy belly aching? Well, you're never gonna get anywhere with that attitude. And if you're reading this while taking a poo, I love you unconditionally.
(via Fart Party. Love ya, girl)

First, some recent history...

I have stomach issues. Straight up. I had an endoscope put down my esophagus in July. In fact, that experience was the catalyst for this blog. The GI doctor that performed the procedure didn't find anything physically wrong with me, therefore limiting any effective treatment. Official diagnosis, dyspepsia. Essentially, I have IBS of the upper intestines. He put me on some muscle relaxants that supposedly target the intestines, but the results have been mixed at best.

I've also been told (and believe) that 80% of my stomach problems are caused by my mind and the anxieties that dwell within it. Nerves in the gut have the highest amount of serotonin in the body. Serotonin is a neurotransmitter that regulates mood. I'm a moody fucker. Correlation? You bet your cthulhu.

In conclusion, I have the capacity to cause my own physical suffering. Neat!

Onto my letter...

Dear My Stomach,
I know we haven't really talked in a while, but I feel that some things need to be addressed. About us. Please bear with me and take what I say into consideration. You'll always be a part of me, that's a given. But, tell me, how did it ever come to this?

We used to be so close. Remember back in high school, when I fed you grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch and Mongolian Beef for dinner, with a couple Twix bars in between? Yeah, you remember. You broke down all that stuff with the grace of a figure skater. Those were some good times. We had a great love for each other back then. An excess of love, actually. I was fat. Remember?

But you were industrious and I was happy back then. Even when I was eating entire pizzas, 4 times a week, you never hassled me. We were in love with amounts and flavors. Chinese buffets and microwaveable junk food. Pop Tarts and burritos. Cheddar Sun Chips and peanut butter. Crab Rangoon! Those were the days.

Sure, I felt bad about my body. Buying larger pants and trying to conceal man-boobs took a toll on my self-esteem. Forever. But you never betrayed me with pain or digestive difficulty. You did your job and I did mine.

Then, about six years ago, you started to rebel against my cavalier eating habits. You stopped breaking down dairy. Pizza, once a source of delight, became an agent of distress. Horrible cramps and diarrhea occurred. I had to sacrifice all lactose. I felt greatly restricted at first. But with a little time and some perspective, I got over it. After all, everything else was still fair game. We were still pals. There was no use lamenting the things I could not change. Tacos without cheese are still delicious. And without cheese in my diet, I was able to drop a few pounds. Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise. I went from 255 to 180. Not bad.

But the hostility didn't stop there. It grew. Tacos soon brought with them a nauseous wrath. Butter made my belly bubble. Eggs, spicy foods, green peppers, pie. All became forbidden after incurring hefty penalties. And the list of verboten vittles continued to swell.

What exactly were you trying to prove? I mean, what the fuck?!

And lately, you've gotten mean. For the past three years, you have made my life a living hell, not to mention severely limiting my food options. I have discovered that you will not tolerate anything with fats or oils in them. There's not a fried thing I can eat without indigestion, nausea, bloating, and heartburn. Nuts are out. Guacamole? Nope. Chocolate? Not unless I want some Chernobyl farts. No more steak, either. Peanut butter cookies, gone.

You tyrant!

The things I can eat without problems? Cereal, oatmeal, toast, rice, chicken, turkey, dry crackers, pasta, soy milk, and other bland edibles. Woo-fucking-hoo.

If you disapprove of anything I give to you, anything that even slightly glistens, you make the next 6 or 7 hours of my life unbearable. All I can do is drink water and ride it out while watching TV. I can't go out. I can't write or be funny. All my efforts are put into recovering from these erratic bouts of lousiness. Do you realize that my quality of life, our quality of life, suffers from your never ending wickedness? Something has to change. And soon.

I know that I may have overworked you in the past, but those days are long over. There's no need for revenge, partner. I cut a lot of bad shit out of my diet for you. We've hit a rough patch, sure, but without your appetite suppression tactics, I wouldn't own the lean body that I sport today. I'm grateful to you for that.
Sex-machine. Minus the sex.

But, this can't go on forever. It just can't. The future I desire doesn't include agonizing nights curled up in a ball, clutching my stomach. I'm at the end of my rope. If you stop this war right now, all will be forgiven. I want a truce. I want for us to be buddies again. I'm reaching out to you. Please take my hand.

All My Love,
Kid Douche

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