That kind of crazy

I’ve been trying not to say anything about “gluten.”

I know, I know, gluten is a real word and so there is no need for the air quotes.  But you know what I mean. That person. That person who espouses the evil of one ingredient or another, then borders on a zealot in their need to change what every one else eats.

I don’t want to be that person. Or rather I don’t want to be seen as that person. Because I am not. Even saying grains makes me feel pretentious.

Maybe it’s just because I want to eat a cookie. Or maybe it’s because I know how bad it made me feel when people suggested I cut out gluten instead of taking my medication. Maybe that’s the person I am truly afraid of.  It’s the same people that assume I am diabetic because I am overweight (I am not diabetic, it’s just an assumption.) Or a flake, instead of anxious. Or dramatic, instead of sensitive.

It’s about culpability. They don’t want you to skate on all the things you have done, the way you let yourself go, the deadlines you have missed, or the projects you’ve abandoned. If gluten is to blame, then so are you. Because you don’t have the will power to stop. Which comes back to personal responsibility and the dreaded “fomo,” or fear-of-missing-out.  If I can claim bankruptcy on my failings, then why can’t they? Why am I getting a get out of jail free card when they can’t.  Of course, what they don’t get is when you are mentally ill you never get out of jail. Never.

Personally I would love to be “out of my mind.” I want that kind of crazy. I would love that kind of crazy.  This kind of crazy… this kind of crazy is like being chained to the worst version of yourself. And every time you feel free of it, she drags you back in.

But also the cookie. I really, really want a cookie.

Update: I ate the cookie. It wasn’t that great.  So I stopped at just one. Progress.

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