🌾 Unhinged Disclaimer
I’m not a doctor, a dietitian, or the Gluten Police. I’m just a girl with celiac disease, too many opinions, and an unfortunate amount of lived experience. Everything here is based on my personal experiences and is meant to educate, entertain, and hopefully make you feel a little less alone. Always talk to your healthcare provider about your own medical needs.
The Story (Continued)
And so the drinking continued.
Throughout the summer, I’d bounce between bonfires, graduation parties, and houses with the laid-back “cool moms” who’d take my car keys, press a finger to their lips with a wink, and quietly usher me toward the full-blown party happening out on the poolside patio.
I started college and somehow became besties with all the frat boys. They introduced me to their very-not-secret secret beer fridge, and I happily accepted the invitation.
My body felt fine.
Honestly, I felt finer.
I was on top of the world.
College came and went, and eventually I slowed down on the drinking.
Not because it made me sick. It didn’t.
Life just changed.
I’d started drinking because I wanted to socialize and have the same experiences everyone else my age was having. But as I settled into adulthood, I started focusing more on my career than my weekends.
Then things really started looking up.
I landed my dream job.
Not long after that, I even got promoted.
To celebrate, a few coworkers invited me out to the little pub around the corner after work.
I hadn’t had a drink in quite a while.
One couldn’t hurt…
Right?
Turns out…
This is where the story actually begins.
My first hangover hit like a freight train.
I’d barely had anything to drink, so why did it feel like I’d personally offended the alcohol gods?
I was sweating through my sheets.
My head was pounding.
The room spun every time I tried to stand up.
I barely made it from my bed to the bathroom before all hell broke loose.
My entire weekend disappeared beneath a heating pad, a bottle of Pedialyte, and several increasingly dramatic declarations that I was “literally dying.”
Monday rolled around, and everyone at work started talking about their weekends.
Some of them had drank way more than I had.
They went to the beach.
Visited family.
Saw movies.
Ran errands.
Lived their lives.
Meanwhile, I had barely survived Saturday.
Weird…
But whatever.
Maybe it was a fluke.
Friday came around again.
My coworkers wanted to grab drinks.
I knew I probably shouldn’t.
But I wanted to.
Maybe last weekend had just been bad luck.
Maybe I hadn’t eaten enough.
Maybe I hadn’t drank enough water.
Maybe Mercury was in retrograde.
Who knows?
This time, I’d be careful.
I nursed one drink the entire evening.
I ordered dinner.
I drank water alongside it.
I did everything right.
It didn’t matter.
The hangover came back.
Worse than before.
Then it happened again the following weekend.
And again.
Every single time, it got worse.
Eventually, it stopped feeling like a hangover altogether.
It felt like my body was turning against me.
My hair started thinning.
My fingernails became flimsy and developed little dents.
I woke up exhausted no matter how much I slept.
There was a weird rash that…you know what?
Let’s keep a little mystery alive.
Everything hurt.
Everything felt heavy.
And deep down, I knew.
This couldn’t just be alcohol.
It didn’t make any sense.
I’d been drinking for years without a problem.
My friends were all perfectly fine.
Why was I the only one whose body had suddenly declared war?
I started playing detective.
Maybe it was vodka.
Nope.
Maybe tequila.
Definitely not.
Rum?
Wine?
Beer?
Fancy cocktails with fruit and tiny umbrellas?
Same result.
No matter what I ordered, I always ended up in exactly the same place.
Curled up in bed.
Miserable.
Wondering what on earth had changed.
Finally, I admitted defeat.
It was time to see a doctor.
Because clearly something bigger was going on.
I just wanted someone to tell me what was wrong so I could fix it and get back to being a normal twenty-something who could enjoy a night out with friends without paying for it until Tuesday.
One doctor’s appointment turned into two.
Two became four.
Four became what felt like my second full-time job.
Bloodwork.
Questions.
More bloodwork.
More questions.
Waiting.
More waiting.
Every week between appointments, I kept going out with friends.
Even though I was starting to notice the pattern.
Even though every fiber of my being knew I’d regret it.
I’d watch someone set a colorful drink down in front of me.
Sugar around the rim.
Fresh strawberries.
A wedge of lime.
Tiny umbrella if the bartender was feeling extra.
It smelled amazing.
It looked refreshing.
My brain would whisper,
“Maybe this time.”
Spoiler alert.
It was never “this time.”
Eventually, I reached a point where I didn’t even want alcohol anymore.
Not really.
The drinks still tasted good.
But my body had become so traumatized by what came after that just hearing the word “alcohol” made me feel a little nauseous.
I’d think,
“Absolutely not.”
Then someone would order one.
I’d smell it.
I’d watch everyone else enjoying theirs without a second thought.
And suddenly my own brain would start negotiating against me.
“Come on.”
“One won’t hurt.”
“It’s probably fine.”
Narrator:
It was, in fact…
Not fine.
Three months.
Five appointments.
More blood tests than I care to remember.
Finally, my doctor walked into the room, sat down across from me, and gave me the face.
You know the one.
The serious face.
The “I’m about to change your life” face.
“We need to discuss your test results.”
Every horrible possibility I’d imagined came rushing into my head at once.
I took a deep breath.
Braced myself.
She looked down at the chart one last time before saying,
“It appears that you have…”
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