I can't eat Mexican food anymore, I told my wife with the gravity of a death in the family.
She laughed so hard. My seriousness had become so lofty that it ascended to comedy. My hands in the air surrendered to the situation. "I don't even think I can do tacos," I revealed to my lifetime partner and counselor. Tears ran down her face. I wanted to laugh too but my body hurts. I spent the evening unloading myself to the entrails of the earth. There’s a local water waste manager who's concerned about things. An expert has been brought in to figure out the increased volume. And it was me. Scream vomiting. I'm a screamer. The whole neighborhood knows when I have the flu or have eaten bad sushi. It's something I can't help. When I got sick at my in-laws, I violated their Christmas morning by Rambo shrieking in the furthest bathroom I could find. It was not far enough. Traumatized people trying open gifts and be merry while I yelled at their plumbing.
My son heard it first. He sat alone in the quiet terror between blasts. He said he was so happy to hear it was just me. No offense, you know, he said, but it was a relief it was only his dad hemorrhaging groceries and not Voldemort writhing out of the sewer. His mom would shuffle into the room with that look you get when you're brain is trying to sort out unusual stimuli. "It's dad," my middle guy said. "OH" she popped off with newfound comfort.
That was last night and my throat still hurts. I feel like I was in a shouting match with Satan. I thought yelling into the drains would startle him away. It didn't, I don't think. It only made me weaker. And now I’m emotional as I implore my wife to take my plight seriously. "I’m down to like apples and organic peanut butter," I told her. My appeal still more comedic than I wanted it to be. "If I were a kid I'd have to sit at the special table!"
Nothing. She's been through this. Stopping gluten changed my life in 2006. And then meat. And then I found out I was pre-diabetic. I've been sick since about 2020. It was a good time to start getting sick as everyone has been so I blend. Although there's the side effect of living and working in the same building that has me grinding my mental bonsai down to a stub.
"And now this. No Mexican." I laid out one more time.
"Not even tacos?" she asked.
"I don't know. But certainly not beans." I don't know when it happened but beans turned on me, and not in the comical way we're all used to. Real issues here. The scromiting. Scream vomiting. What in the hell? Who am I?
My son walked by and said "You're a necessarian." I'm glad that stuck. I told the kids I'm not a vegetarian but a necessarian. What is that? I'm pretty much a vegetarian. But sometimes, if the kids don't eat their meat, then I do. So my new ingestion category is what's necessary. It's necessary we don't waste food, and it's necessary that I eat. It's also necessary we lean plant based as much as possible. Nessie for short.
“And now it’s necessary to figure out what’s wrong with me,” I finished with soft and needy pledge drive deliver.
"OK, oh gosh. I wish you could have seen you," my wife said wiping her eyes. All therapists should be able to laugh their asses off at your spiraling vibes. I mean she lives with it so there's a certain catharsis to openly discussing the hollering in the potty.