Food has taken control of me.
After two weeks of an elimination diet, where I scraped anything cheesy, fatty, and delicious, I’ve entered the final stage of the elimination where I cut out EVERYTHING. Instead of eating for sustenance, I’ve relied on a green water bottle full of a lemon juice, maple syrup, and cayenne pepper, to provide my daily energy and flush out my system. I ride the wave of food withdraw to varying to degrees of success through at least eight refills a day, taking solace in my computer and books while salivating at any Burger King commercial to grace the TV screen.
Anyone who knows my eating habits is aware that I’m more likely to pick a cheeseburger over salmon, french fries over broccoli, and coke over herbal tea. Needless to say, the past few weeks have been trying. All vices have been thrown out the window as I attempt to rid my body of this devil virus, and so far the results are mixed at best.
With only lemonade going in, I experience cravings that rival that of a pregnant woman. Dog food suddenly reminds me of delicious Cocoa Puffs (which I haven’t had since I was about ten). My mind begins creating new food products like the Burritza (a burrito with a slice of pizza in it, that was lovingly named by David) and I’ve become sensitive to any smell.
As foolish as it sounds, I never realized how dependent we are on food. Of course we look to it for energy, but cutting out snacking and flavorful enjoyment from your life is surprisingly difficult. There is an oral fixation that cannot be satisfied by lemonade.
In an effort to rid myself of food obsession, I’ve picked up a few books that are both fast (pun intended) reads. First came the classic “Siddhartha,” which was absent from my upbringing. As was the case with several other classics I picked up later in life, I wasn’t as moved by the story of a young man in search of Nirvana as I hoped to be.
Looking at it from a writing standpoint (as seems to be the case with everything I read these days) I was impressed with how effortlessly Hesse spanned time and place. To be able to condense a period of four years to a paragraph, and still develop a character is an astonishing feat to someone as inexperienced with fiction writing as I am.
The idea of a book revolving around a spiritual quest sounded enticing to me but as I put the novel down, I didn’t feel any particular enlightenment.
Between putting down “Siddhartha,” and picking up my next book “The Diving Bell and the Butterfly,” I imagined running through a cupcake mountain with milk rain and wafer trees. Needless to say, the second book couldn’t be opened quickly enough.
No matter how much I may lament the current state of my health, I’m not foolish enough to think that other people don’t have it much worse. “The Diving Bell and the Butterfly,” is a perfect, and heartbreaking example of this fact.
The memoir, which was recently turned into a movie, chronicles the life of a man who experienced a massive stroke at 45, that left him with “locked-in” syndrome. Essentially, he is a “prisoner to [his] own body,” where any movement except the turning of his head and blinking of his right eye is all but impossible.
If there was ever a person who is able to explain the heartache, frustration, and determination at overcoming life’s obstacles, it’s Jean-Dominique Bauby, the French editor of Elle, who dictated the memoir through a series of blinks on his hospital bed. He allows us to not only see the pain involved in his plight, but most importantly the power of the human spirit.
The prose is poetic, and full of some of the most beautiful word usage I have ever seen. He is concise, perhaps because of the difficulty of dictating it, but never too brief. It is a masterful work that gives us a hint of the freedom he experienced (and took for granted) as a fully functioning man, and the freedom he still allows his mind to have even when confined to a hospital bed.
Unlike Siddhartha, I found this book to be a spiritual experience. While it puts my situation into perspective, he also expresses the way I feel that I’ve been pulled away from the things I know, the things that defined me, and found a way to persevere. That’s not to say it’s a book only for the sick or confused, it is inspirational in a universal way.
When I closed the back cover on my freshly creased copy of the book, I looked to the table to my right and saw my handy green water bottle standing guard. Just a few more days…
Tonight I sat in a cage and rested my chin on a pole extending in front of my face. The pole connected to a post, which led the floor of the Metropolitan Opera House's downstage left wing. For three acts of a ballet, I hovered above the people who I used to see a daily basis as they performed “Don Q.” 
