I hate my guts. The feeling is mutual.

I think it was in the summer of 2000, right before 11^th grade, when I realized that my digestive system hated me. The spring before, I had finally made my high school’s dance team (a miracle really, since I had never taken dance classes, had failed to make it the year before, and was just your typical self-conscious unattractive dork with a mouth full of metal).  I think it was around June when we all piled into a school bus, our bags full of make-up, curling irons, sparkly spandex, and flowing hair ribbons with our names down the side in puff paint. I was intimidated by the other girls, with their tan legs, Baywatch figures, and bouncy hair. I, in contrast, was pasty white, with too much around the middle and not enough on top, and had been blessed with thin, sad, stringy hair that did nothing but hang limp around my spotty forehead. But no matter. We were headed to the University of North Alabama (a real college!) for dance camp, and I couldn’t wait. I was finally going to learn how to be a real sexy woman. Or at least that was my glorious delusion beforehand.

The whole miserable week was spent with my butt cheeks clenched together, trying to keep from letting one rip in the middle of a set of high kicks or messing myself because I hated doing number two in a public place. At the time, I didn’t know if it was the cafeteria food, some unlucky bug, or something to do with the stealing of feminine hygiene products from my roommate (I was too embarrassed to tell the team sponsor that I needed to make a run to the drugstore), but I did know that I was very uncomfortable. And bloated. And rumbly. Somehow I made it through the entire week without making a massive fool of myself. I didn’t dance very well though. I was too preoccupied with containing my bowels. And I was angry at my body for making me feel so horrible. Thus began the greatest battle of my life, that between me and my intestinal tract.

Fast forward about 10 years. I’ve had enough. Seriously, ENOUGH! An occasional bout of gas is normal, I know, especially considering the amount of Mexican food I eat. But every freakin’ day for 10 freakin’ years? It’s time to take matters into my own hands. I eventually visited several doctors to try to figure everything out, both general practitioners and gastroenterologists, but all that resulted was several weeks of vomitrocious pills and a trip to the local MRI machine, with the revelation that I have an extra spleen and a sideways uterus. Conclusion: doctors are quacks. Thus I begin this chronicle of my efforts to cure my digestive woes all on my own, and my subsequent slide into all things homeopathic, green, and just generally hippy dippy. Hang onto your hemp. Here we go!