Dear Tummy,
You may have been informed that earlier in the year I wrote
a letter to Brain – well, now it’s your turn. It would be far too unfair to
direct all my anger and frustration on brain when I know you’re, and I’m sorry
to have to say this via letter and please excuse my bluntness, a much greater
pain in the arse. In more than one way at that. So let’s start with number one
shall we.
When I was a baby, I had no control over the whole
hydrocephalus, operations, peritonitis, more operations…thing. I also
understand that in many ways that wasn’t your fault either. However, the whole
over-exaggerated reaction you started giving to me from about the age of 12 really
was a tad over the top. I get it, you’re kind of pissed off: ‘Oh the unfairness
to have suffered so much all because of that silly brain…again’ My My, he
really does seem to be causing trouble…but is there really so much need to mess
up one of the things I love most. I don’t know if you’d been communicating with
my brain before this all began but if you had you’d know I think about food
almost constantly.
Yes, I know that that doesn’t seem too unusual but if you
knew the number of times that a bowl of well-seasoned spinach or Brussel sprouts
passes through my head you would see the uniqueness in my case. I am not
someone who hallucinates pizzas or fish fingers or even bread. I want a roast
with all the trimmings – as fibrous as those can be. Only last year I had an
epiphany and discovered that the one vegetable that I had always rejected, pushed
aside with the image of school lunches on my mind, was actually pretty damn
delicious if cooked properly. I discovered corn on the cob and my world changed...ok,
a bit melodramatic I admit but it was a big excitement for my dad who has
always liked sweetcorn. Who has never been able to grow it because of the
distrust I, and my brother, had towards these peas disguised in yellow jackets.
So, so far this all sounds fine. Hunky dory. Pat on the back
for Ellie – a rare teenage specimen who eats more than just baked beans and has
done since she could chew. However, because of you – and yes I know not
entirely you – I have had to stop enjoying all of these. A bowl of delicious broccoli
is out of my reach. I can see it but I cannot touch it. You and your scar
tissue malarkey have led specialists to conclude, after many years of false appendicitis
scares and scanning machines, that the way to stop my frequent visits to the
see them is to ban me from eating what I enjoy most. They have created a world
where I must sit at the dinner table every Sunday watching dish after dish be
brought out of the oven filled with delicious steaming vegetables – purple sprouting
broccoli, cabbage, even blinkin’ peas. Food that I must watch but should not
touch. Unless, that is, I wish to be stuck in A&E for several hours only to
be attached to a drip and pumped full of drugs to numb the stabbing pain inside
you, my friend. Do you understand my
distress? Do you see where this letter of frustration has arisen from? But I’m
not done.
As I said before, I am not your average teenager with a
healthy appetite for unhealthy things. Chocolate is my main guilty pleasure but
beyond that I’m not a junk food type of gal. Yet for once, it would be better
if I was. It would be better for me if I loved to gorge on a huge pizza just
for me. I don’t want to be in hospital just as much as you seem to want to put
me there. However, the only way to fight you and your irritating reactions to
what I eat is to do just what I’ve always felt proud of not doing as much as
most my age. I have to eat things that are unhealthy just to keep me ‘healthy’.
As those I talk to like to point out, and quite rightly at that, I can still
eat chocolate. Now that’s great. As I say, I’m a chocolate lover, however I’ve
never been a confident girl. I’ve never been proud or particularly happy with
the way I look and I DO notice my hips are wider and squidgier than I would
like them. I notice the folds in my tummy when I look at a photograph before I even
notice what I’m wearing or where the picture was taken. I’m drawn to assessing
my body and feeling bad about it. I’ve felt this way ever since I can remember
and that’s despite all the vegetable consumption.
Now imagine how I feel
knowing that I can’t eat the healthy things I’ve always felt good about eating.
Knowing I am left to eat things that are, at least in some ways, not going to
be friends to my hips. Yes, I know it’s not all about that, and if I’m really
worried I should just exercise more…or exercise full stop. I will. I know that’s
partly the answer. My point is that it frustrates me that you go beyond
yourself. You get all infected from no fault of your own or me, then you wait
12 years and suddenly BAM! Morphine is my friend and cabbage is my foe.
Why now? Why this way? You could have responded differently.
But you didn’t and you won’t. There’s nothing you can do now you’ve started.
You’re like a snowball tumbling down a hill just picking up speed. There’s no
stopping you. I’ve been offered surgery but they’ll just cut out the bit of you
that’s narrow and then in years to come you’ll just thicken up again. The scar
tissue that dresses you will return and once again you’ll be my enemy. I could
have some years of peace, a break from this frustration. Or I could just let
you do your thing. We’ll see. You’ll see.
I just wish you’d been different.
Yours sadly,
P.S. Here's a paper chain I made from all the hospital bands from the past year and a half because of you...
