espero

I fought a demon tonight.

For those of you who know I’m studying Inner Healing and Deliverance at the minute, be not alarmed – not that kind of demon. I mean the ones that sit on your shoulder, looking a lot like you only redder, with horns, and whisper all kinds of nasties about who you are, sticking their little prongs into your pain.

My wee shoulder demon has been sticking her prongs into a new pain of mine, maybe you could call it a grief. It may sound absurd but I promise you my loss is profound.

Gluten. Dairy. Sugar.

Apparently this unholy trinity and I do not a healthy life make. Actually, when the test results came back it was put a bit starker than that; rheumatoid arthritis, autoimmune diseases and cancer were mentioned. Nothing like the c-word to ensure compliance. And so as my body embraced a better way of being, a little bit of my soul died.

First it was the loss of the actual food, the worst being baguettes, scones, toast, chocolate and all baked goods. A cardboard box now sits sadly in my pantry, filled with all the banned baking ingredients that I used to get such joy from mixing and sifting. Markets and gourmet food halls are now avoided – I just get too sad. And any extended foray outside the front door is planned with military precision, ration bag stocked with rice cakes and nuts a-plenty. But as the months have gone on I have realized that the food itself is just the tip of the iceberg; that I can cope with. It’s the loss of community that I feel most sharply.

Suddenly you are no longer on anyone’s Must-have-to-dinner list. Pot-lucks become fraught with peril, as do church lunches and nipping out for a bite with friends. Take-away is a no-no. But the worst, the absolute worst is communion. Ribena and Hovis leave me empty handed, passing the plate on and feeling a little like an outcast.

And so back to the demon, who whispers words like freak, lonely, hopeless (and let’s not forget hungry) and prods me toward self-pity. But I fought back tonight. I got out my mixing bowl and my whisk and fended him off with chickpea flour and maple syrup. Twenty-four cardboard cookies later, it’s not quite a hallelujah moment, but it’s a start. Tonight I saw myself tiptoe out from resentment and sadness and sniff the air for hope.