#I ate my plain pasta and frankly I was happy with it

[shinkei-shinto]

this one requires a little bit of context:

so I make faces when I taste things. I've wondered if I have the "supertaster" thing, but an ex verbally berated me about that so I've stopped claiming it, plus I think there's something else going on.

anyways, I make faces when I taste things. as long as it's strong in taste (alcohol always does it, most fruits do it) my face will screw up and be weird -- so much so, that a friend in college specifically stole me away to feed me a shot of absinthe and record my face contorting over it, once.

And, of course, I've always done this - ever since I was aware of awareness, anyways, which means I did this as a little kid. And I think lots of little kids probably do this! These flavors are new and intense in strange ways! I bet kids make faces even when they eat something they like, much less a new thing with a strong flavor.

So now, the not-normal-story part:

I've never had a meatball. Before college, I had never had oranges, grapes, I've still never had an enchilada (grew up in Texas, hello!) there are so many things that I've only gotten to try as an adult,

because my mother didn't believe in little kids, I guess?

I made faces as a kid, too. For everything. I'd try something and my face would screw up, and she would instantly declare, out loud, while taking away whatever I had tried, "oh, [they're] picky, [they] won't eat this!"

Didn't matter what it was, didn't matter how I felt about it, didn't matter what I said afterwards, didn't matter if I could later "prove" I "liked it" by eating more elsewhere. Once she had Decided that I was "too picky" and "didn't like it", that was it! I was never allowed to even try that foodstuff ever again.

Oh, except for things she thought her children should eat. "Try two bites" every single time she put asparagus on the table. "Two bites! Your tastebuds change!" every single time there were brussel sprouts. I ate the fuck out of peas, green beans, broccoli, btw. It wasn't a greens issue.

Eventually, I grew up, and while I now get to try things on my own, I've also discovered other things that came of this horrible treatment of children: I can't handle spice. Like, at all. I used to be able to tell when pepper had been added into a dish because that would cause it to be "too spicy" for me. Regular black pepper! I used to cut the edges off of nice steaks bc the pepper crust was too much for me! It has taken years for me to get to the point where I can have pepper and a couple of other spices inside of food without my mouth registering them as "spicy". Years of slowly raising my tolerance and trying things every single opportunity I get.

So today, as I was walking through my kitchen, getting my breakfast, and I saw the jar of four-cheese red pasta sauce my partner and I picked up from a grocery store to have with pasta at some point, I realized:

I've never had a meatball. While my whole family was eating homemade meatballs, red sauce, and spaghetti every single sunday, I sat there, having nothing but plain - unbuttered! - pasta.

If any of this sounds familiar in any way, congratulations: you were abused! I'm sorry to be the bearer of this news, but there's good news too!

Now that I'm an adult, I get to try everything. I have experiences as an adult that I've never had before in my life. Do you know how incredible it is to taste a fruit for the first time while in full control of my faculties? To have the ability to try things, to spit them out without judgement if I need to, and to discover that things actually taste good! There are things out there that I have NEVER even thought about, that I never had the chance to try as a kid, and now I get to try it as an adult, and that means I can buy as much of that stuff as I want. Ha!

[colitisandme]

“I thought you said that this was going to be a nice, gentle walk” I gently enquired to my husband through gritted teeth, eyes bulging and frankly sweating so much I could have filled a swimming pool. He looked encouragingly at me as we entered an area of forest that could easily have been the prime setting in an Enid Blyton story book. The sun dappled the ground, making patterns of light through the trees, surrounded by the glorious Snowdon mountain and lakes, making it look like a fairy glen. It truly was glorious and I was trying to soak it all in, whilst trying not to fall over or cry at the thought of trying to encourage my screaming body up another steep incline. My face must have given away my fear and my pain, because my Husband held me close, and whispered in my ear “I am so proud of you.”

It was my idea to come to Snowdonia. I knew that if I attempted to climb the mountain, I would have become the star of ‘Welsh Mountain Rescue’ and I had no wish for 7 well trained, probably disgusted huskies, to drag my poor bedraggled self down the mountain by their teeth. As I try but fail to hide my shame and my face from the camera crew, while my husband attempts to deny all knowledge of my existence let alone marriage to what could only be described as a cross between Worzel Gummage and Stig of the dump. So the ‘gentle walk’ was a compromise. However after 3 hours of steep inclines, tromping up jagged rocks, hauling myself up hills and singing to my husband the ‘push the Jess, push the Jess, push the Jess right up the hill’ song, I had come to the conclusion I was not Bear sodding Grylls and that if this ‘gentle walk’ didn’t live up to its title soon, I was going to have a serious temper tantrum or just resign myself to the fact I was going to have to become a cliff dweller because there was no way I would have the will or energy to get back to the cocking car park.

By this point I had walked 12 glorious miles in 3 days and my body and I were not friends. I had decided to defy its incessant wailing, whining and imploring, and thought if I used encouraging soft tones, gentle voice and using the beautiful scenery as a incentive it would sulk and huff but eventually, reluctantly come round to my way of thinking. Nope. Not today. It had had enough. It felt like it lay down, dug its nails into the carpet and refused to co-operate.

The last time we came to Wales, we walked for miles. We did nothing but walk and explore and immerse ourselves in the atmosphere of this beautiful country and I so desperately wanted to do the same this trip. This trip was different though because I was different. At first the difference was in the luggage I took- pants, soft trousers, pants, pads, soft fabrics, pants, enough pills to start a herbarium, remedies, did I mention pants. Then another difference. The food. Last time, I ate what I wanted. I enjoyed ice creams, cheese, wine, scones, I gorged pasties, fish n chips, luxurious breads and meats... I indulged completely. Not this time... It’s funny when you are forced to scavenge for your food like a scrabbling, starving, rodent I realised that most food in Wales is designed to make me explode! Like everything. EVERYTHING! I have discovered that Wales is a land of wheat and gluten. Everything has sodding gluten in it or dairy. Everything delicious is out of bounds. This holiday I have watched my husband tuck into delicious pastas, ice creams and cakes with murderous eyes, quietly muttering phrases like ‘life insurance’ and ‘divorce’ and I was forced to eat what can only be described as cardboard in various flavours. When my mum and dad joined us in Wales, I had to watch them and all the other happy tourists who don’t have bowels like lit sticks of dynamite, tuck into cakes, breads and glug down wine and beers joyfully, explaining in great sodding detail how truly delicious it was as if I was watching an episode of food and drink, witnessing the guy next to us transform into Oz Clarke before my eyes. Meanwhile, I was forced to grumpily eat plain prawns out of a cup, stare longingly at the piece of bread and butter, perched on my plate, and cry over the lack of selection of gluten free and dairy free cakes available in grabbing distance. At one point I remember staring with rage at a mum enjoying a giant slab of cake, with her child on the next table who had decided to cover himself and the table in milkshake, wondering if it would be completely inappropriate to push the adorable family out of the way, lick the spillage off their table, steal the mums chunk of cake of her plate, then run away and hide in a corner stuffing the cake into my face at 300 miles an hour like a fat hamster making inaudible sounds of joy and ecstasy like that scene in Harry met Sally, growling at anyone who attempted to come anywhere near me, as frightened mother’s cover their children’s eyes and back out of the restaurant, probably calling animal control to report me.

Next difference - my energy levels. My energy has certainly dwindled in the last few months. In fact at times, I feel that a 109 year old with one working hip has more energy than me. My husband, however has more energy than 5 Duracell bunnies, which is why he explodes out of bed with joy and verve at 5am to propel himself to his Cross fit sessions before work, and I, well. I do not.

And so, here I was, sitting on a rock in the middle of the forest, eyes watering, sweating, swearing under my breath, smelling like a kennel and desperately imploring and willing my poor tired body to make it to the end of this walk without turning into a puddle. I was hurting. Not just aching, but every fibre in my body was on fire and I was concerned that my belly was making the familiar gurgling noises of a swamp monster. I had no desire to s**t myself in the woods, but I was bloody determined to finish this. I said at the beginning of this journey that this disease will not defeat me and I have scrapped, fought and clawed like a feisty, feral animal for that not to happen. Even though at times, it has definitely felt like ‘Colin the Colon’ has begun to take over my Jessness, sanity, equilibrium and tastebuds, I have always fought back against IBD and my hyperactive immune system. to remain standing, or sitting in this case. And so with determination and stupidity, I gritted my teeth and hauled myself up, scrabbled up the last hill, no doubt, looking like a creature from the black lagoon, and flailing like a drunk at 2am, staggered back to the beginning of the trail. My husband beamed at me as I practically fell into him, covered in sweat, crying, legs shaking and bones searing. He knew how much it meant to me. How much it hurt. It may have just been a walk in the park for someone else. It may have been a regular daily exercise, a joyful romp around the mountain filled with songs, hiking music and laughter. For me it was everything. It was massive, It was another victory. Another chance to say to my IBD ‘I will not let you win today.’ Another test, I have overcome. Another joyful moment experienced. And at a time when a disease is trying to claim victory, set up a flag and camp in my body, joy is everything. And despite having to eat beige food, stuff pants into every spare space of my suitcase, and become a walking advertisement for a holistic remedy emporium, this holiday has been full of joy, full of laughter, full of love and full of adventures. IBD has not tainted that. So as I dragged myself back to the car and collapsed into my seat, my husband turned to me, hair rugged, eyes shining and said “I loved that, that was amazing.” I turned to look at him, trying to catch my breath, hair on end, desperately willing the normal feeling to return back to my screaming limbs and said with as much sweetness as I could utter... “Tomorrow we are having a rest day.”