For the past two weeks, I have been living in a small house in my mind built of these 2 questions:
Should I try to eat low-carb?
Should I stop drinking?
I think my body would thank me heartily if I YES and YES’d both of these things.
My blood sugar, in particular (which is the only reason I’m considering the low carb thing) would maybe look less like the inconceivable Rocky Mountains, and more like, I don’t know, some mild, rolling hills. Or even better, a straight line, a still morning lake.
I was doing a tarot reading recently and pulled the Ten of Disks, Wealth. A passage in the book that accompanies these cards stated, Clinging and grasping arise out of fear (conscious or unconscious) of deficiency.
A strange thing happens when you open yourself up to a wider range of possibility:
things and people find you or you find them or you find each other, and they are your guides.
This week, I’ve been stumbling upon story after story which answers questions and reinforces ideas that I hadn’t yet spoken out loud.
+ It’s Carbs.
+ This woman writes about sobriety better than anyone I’ve ever read. I cried, laughing at the truth.
I mean, if cheese were a carb, the game would be over before it began.
So there is my gratitude list.
There is this haunting little idea, Moderation. I decided a few days ago–I actually deliberated this for quite some time–that the word Moderation is my least favorite word in the English language.
I’d rather commit to something altogether than expend the mental energy on half-hearted things. Grey areas are okay, or even essential, in some scenarios, but in others it just makes every decision more complicated. It makes a choice feel heavier, which is ironic because generally the idea of 80/20, 99%, etc., is to give you some breathing room, some flexibility. I require a high level of accountability because when I don’t have it, I start making up my own counter-intuitive rules to get out and around and between things. I’m brilliant at it! So I require a bit (ok, a lot) of structure.
For better or worse, the way my brain works is akin to those black & white cookies they sell at Starbucks, which Carrie Bradshaw ate on Sex and The City that one time. You know the ones. They’re delicious. I wonder how many carbs are in them.
But I’m only 25!!!! I think to myself, breathless with grief for black & white cookies potentially uneaten, wine potentially undrunk.
It all comes down to the question of What is truly worth it?
The summer I turned 23, right after I graduated from college, everything I ate or drank made me feel sick. Everything. For months. And no doctor could tell me why. I had an endoscopy, to see if I had Celiac. I didn’t. I ate a radioactive egg sandwich and laid under a machine that tracked my digestion for two hours, to see if I had gastroparesis. I didn’t. I had bloodwork, x-rays, physical exams. Nothing, nothing, nothing. I laid in my bed on warm summer days and cried and wrote this in my journal:
If you don’t have a foundation of health, you don’t have anything.
Thinking of this simplifies certain decisions. But I’m young. And none of this is easy.