Well this is awkward

I find myself outrageously embarrassed and laughably in disbelief at a thought that has repeatedly crossed my mind over the past year. Tucked in the dark corners, ever present but skulking so quietly that I needed absolute silence for it to truly divulge its presence: "Is my gastroparesis cured?" 

I should have known then and there to swat the notion out of my consciousness, saving myself from the bitter letdown of my reality-- there is no cure. The most frustrating part of all of this is that I knew this. I've known this. Somehow I really started to convince myself that maybe, somehow, my cosmic luck had finally kicked in. As much as that would be a sweet and peachy idea, my cosmic luck resides more in the realm of a cricket hopping into my slide as my heel comes down during my stride. So, it's safe to say I did not win the health- luck lottery.  As I lay in bed clutching my throw-up bag, I find myself shocked at the magnitude of how much I would be let down by this realization. I am not cured; I won't be cured. 

❤ ❤ ❤

The food jealousy is back. It's been a long time since I have had food envy to this degree. For about the past half of a year, I've pretty much eaten whatever I wanted. I noticed my body was tolerating pretty much everything, so I indulged...a little too much. It wasn't until recently, in a horrible flare-up, that my diet once again became incredibly restricted and dull. This means I've once more returned to side-eying the woman in Trader Joe's who is buying all of the foods I can't eat. 

damn it Linda, did you haaaaaave to grab the fresh, crisp, artfully tossed Cesar Salad?

So I'm just in a period of readjustment, grappling with re-learning some of my essential protocol that has now become scornfully foreign.  I'm upset that this is still me, and that this will be me. I don't want to feel scared to have a midnight snack or lie down. I'm over it and me.