It's just a happy little protein to you

One of the most frustrating things about Celiac disease is that it behaves very differently in different people. So, you really aren't going to know what it's like, until you've lived through an episode with me.
The other thing is that people can't see inside my gut (which is really a good thing, I know), but if I walked up to you with Poison Ivy covering more than 50 percent of my body, or, say, 15 or 20 stitches from a dog bite, you'd immediately know something was wrong.
A few years ago, a friend asked me, standing there by the banks of some fork of the Trinity on a hot Memorial Day afternoon, what would happen if I drank (drink) a cup of beer?
Well, my tongue swells up and I get really, really tired.
I mean so tired that I could fall asleep driving or sitting at my desk (which I've done) or standing in the shower (yup, done that too).
If I get exposed at lunch, I will be working away when to me that I feel like I've been hit by a bus. I notice some time around 2 p.m. Seriously. Within an hour the fatigue hits.
I feel like every muscle and every joint and every bone is under attack. It doesn't really hurt immediately. It just makes me utterly exhausted.
On Day 1, after the fight's been going on for a while, it hurts. It's not a sharp pain. It's a pervasive ache. I hold my self rigid and try not to breathe too much.
And I go stupid. My head hurts and everything is fuzzy. I cannot focus and I feel drained of mental sharpness.
At this point, I also get depressed and everything seems much more stressful than it should be.
There is a chemical component to the depression, to be sure, but it's also a psychological hit every time I go through this. One, because I did it to myself. A person with my disease should be more vigilant than I am. Two, because it's robbing me of my life. It makes me vulnerable and different and takes a physical toll on my body. It will age me faster than I would likely otherwise age. Three, because I cannot participate in the activities that make me. Make me feel better, yes. But also, define me.
Day No. 2 begins with diarrhea. Not a pleasant topic; but it's true. As the gluten is processed out of my system, it ulcerates the lining of my intestines. That hurts in a completely different way. Raw and inflamed. Knife blades in my gut if you touch me. But also empty and unsettled.
And my head hurts. It's like a hang-over gone nuts. My liver is busy processing and my normal allergies become active, and on top of that, I'm fighting to get rid of this stupid poison that I've voluntarily ingested 36 hours earlier.
And on Day 2, I am tired in a different way. I am tired because I've gotten no nutrients for 36 hours. I'm tired because I've been struggling against the mental fogginess and stressing about maintaining effectiveness and normalcy. Sometimes, I'm tired because stupid people say stupid things to me. "Will a tablespoon and a half in that whole pot really hurt you?" Yes. A single molecule can set me off. "Why aren't you drinking with us?" Because it will make me even sicker. Beer is not Gluten-free except in special cases.
But mostly, I'm tired of worrying if I've been stupid and said stupid things to people I love. I worry that someone - who doesn't know and hasn't asked - has just wondered why I'm looking so sour, or has judged me for standing around frowning or crying on the Physical Therapists table. I worry that I lashed out, or ignored someone's needs, or failed to be there when it was important, all because of a protein I was born unable to digest.
Most of the time I am surprised and grateful at how those who love me go out of their way to read labels, make substitutions to recipes so that I might partake, or do research and ask questions that might help me in the future.
To you, who do so much for me, my earnest thanks.
I'm sorry I'm so difficult, but it's not something I can help.
And for those who discount how rotten this disease is: I am very glad you never have to find out.