The Hangover...

I had made it 16 days.

Sixteen tedious, hand wringing days.

I went through the headaches.

The numbness.

The jitters.

I had been clean for 16 days.

Not only had I not had any caffeine, but no refined sugar, no dairy, no artificial anything, no processed foods of any kind.  For sixteen. whole. days. And after the initial detox, I felt good. I even felt full, long before hitting my daily calorie intake level, sometimes even before I hit 1,000 calories for the day.

The day started off good.  A banana. A clementine orange. Then Youngest suggested we go to breakfast out which I knew would be a challenge.  But hey, I'd been doing so well, a Greek omelet wouldn't hurt. Cooked dry, with no butter, spinach, olives and feta.  Feta would be fine, right?  It's not as bad as whole milk dairy, right?  Oh, and I splurged on a piece of toast, gluten free of course, and a teeny bit of butter. I would be fine.

Then we visited my mother who had purchased my favorite olive hummus. So, I had a wee bit of chips to dip in the hummus.  Which turned into 4 hand fulls of highly processed, salty Tostitos corn chips. The dip-able kind of course.

When we got home I was depressed.  I should have resisted.  And since I'm a moody eater, I went to the freezer, and found a dark chocolate Klondike.  Dark chocolate is good for you right?  And I've eaten dairy all my life, surely it would be fine just this one time.

By the time I got to dinner time there was no hope for the gluten free butternut squash ravioli with butter and Parmesan cheese.  I mean, the day was already done, right?

Oh, but it hadn't even started.

By seven o'clock, my stomach had swelled into the pregnancy zone at five months along. Not only was it swollen from ribs to button, but suddenly I felt like I had a fever.  I opened all the windows, put on lighter weight pajamas.  I started moving around just to try and get the bubble inside me to move around, shift, do something.  Then the pain started.  Piercing pain through my stomach and lower abdomen making it hard to walk.  It subsided in about fifteen minutes, creeping back up on me in smaller, duller waves. Water.  Water would get things moving. Moving about the house I slowly drank two large glasses of water before settling into the couch, utilizing my Lamaze breathing from so many years ago.

I finally gave in and went to bed at 930.  By one in the morning I was up.  In and out of the bathroom, burping up a storm, the giant bubble in my belly trying to escape any way it possibly could.  I propped pillows up to sleep on with no luck.  By three in the morning I was praying to throw up but too much of a baby to make myself do it. By five, although I had managed to fall asleep, my whole body just hurt.  My belly was no longer swollen but it was sore. I could not move, I didn't want to open my eyes. I wanted to just curl up and stay there all day.

But that's not the life I live nor a luxury I have.  There were kids to drop off, dinner to be started in the crock pot, and a full day of work ahead. Slowly, painfully, one eye at a time I began to wake up. Showered.  Made lunches for the kids.  Prepped the stew for tonight.  The thought of food literally made my stomach turn, but I knew better than to go on empty all day.  I grabbed an almond milk juice box from the fridge to try and settle my stomach.

I felt like crap all day.  Every time I moved, lifted something or bent over I thought I may toss cookies. I swore over and over I'll never do it again.  I never want to feel like this again.

The hangover is just not worth it.

And yet, I know it's only a matter of time.

Why do I do this to myself?