Tipped. Going sideways. A family crisis threw all sense of dietary importance out of the window and I have not yet recovered. And I don't care.
This is essentially what happened last year when I attempted to undertake this experiment. With an aged, senile parent in my care, there will always be little emergencies going off like dirty bombs, coloring everything I do and food is right at ground zero.
The stress is just too much; I stepped out of the "game" of this experiment for a few days because I could. The idea of putting cold hard food in my mouth during an issue of this recent magnitude is so loathsome that even as I feel and see immediate consequences of exhaustion and joint pain and depression, I will not go back to raw food until I feel ready.
The difference is that this year, I acknowledge that I fell off the wagon (we're talking a few meals of 100% cooked food here, flour and sugar and everything bad) and that it's not permanent. Already I am tired of being too tired, and in a sick sort of way I look forward to being back on raw. The dynamic which interests me is the dance with my old friend, the Grandmother of All Demons (GOAD).
It started with going out to dinner the first night after discovering a potential major error on my senile mother's part; I simply deserved a respite from the panic, instant responsibilities, and knowing I'd be following up on this for days if not weeks. And after dropping off to sleep with a bloated wheat-full belly, the GOAD woke me up with the alluring memory of the scent of coffee in the air; oh yes, I remember what it was like to have something immediately to look forward to, a reason to get out of bed when the day promised to be hell beyond that first hour of caffeinated delight.
And for two days now I have not been able to stop the cycle; the damned broad keeps lulling me back into the somnambulant realms of gluten torpor, the dreamy escapism of glutting-into-oblivion where I'm just too tired to be responsible. This is not good, and at some level I know it's not going to continue for long. But when I imagine that this isn't a game, like as if I was diagnosed with cancer and I was "playing" for my life, I fear that the results might be just as hopeless. I feel out of control and all the information I just worked so hard to learn about liver metabolism and brain health and all might as well be in Swahili for all I want to hear it today.
Today I hate raw foods.