I have always been what I would call ‘good’. I never gave my parents more than the normal level of trouble when I was growing up. I adhered to curfew, served my time when punished and avoided drugs when I got older. Overall, I would classify myself as a good person.
Having said that, I have harbored a dirty little secret for a long time…. I am addicted to the thrill you get right before you do something bad.
There is a brief moment right before I do something I know I shouldn’t, where my heart rate spikes, my cheeks flush, the adrenaline pumps and a slow smile creeps onto my face because I know I am about to do a bad thing and I am loving it.
Crohn’s has taken this sensation to a whole new level.
This week has been hell. I have been busy, stressed and have so many balls in the air I am literally busier than a one legged man on a tight rope. The shit show circus is in full swing and I am barely hanging on. I normally relish this type of stress, it helps me function. I normally love when I am right on the edge of busy and overwhelmed. But this week, it’s all a little too much.
The increase in steroids has me feeling gross and agitated. The agitation has me being antagonistic and more feral than a homeless cat looking for a mouse to gobble up. On top of all this I have PMS. It is literally the perfect shit storm of events – and yesterday it turned into the mother of all tornado’s.
After a rushed day where I literally moved from one thing to another without stopping, I finally had a moment to breathe and had to tackle some wedding stuff. This led to hubby and I having an argument. We very rarely argue, but when we do – its epic. Now, I would never admit this to anyone else, but I was probably fixing for an argument and being the adorable peach he is, hubby stepped up to the plate to take me on.
We did the usual – insult throwing, followed by name calling, veering off to bring up old historic shit that was totally irrelevant before careering into silent treatment. All in all, a successful fight. This is where we would normally stew and give it the appropriate couple of hours before apologising for our respective behaviour and making up with a cuddle.
But with the steroids coursing through my veins and my devil alter ego on board, that was never going to be enough. So I decided to just really take it to the next level and be bad.
In my opinion, no argument is complete without a door slam – problem is there is only one door in our house that you can actually slam to get the desired result. The front door. Now, my plan wasn’t well thought out when I decided that I would announce I wasn’t staying in the same house as hubby and proceeded to march out the front door, slamming it on my way.
Feeling very satisfied with my efforts, I marched to the car, got in and quickly realised I had no where to go. Yep, no where to go! Again, I admit this plan probably wasn’t given the thought it deserved.
With no real idea what I was doing I decided to keep my naughty streak going and diverted my car to the one place I know I shouldn’t go. The one place that is so bad for me, it’s worse than a drug addict walking into a crack house. The one place that has the ability to bring me to my knees and cripple me.
The Colonel was calling my name. I love fried chicken. I believe that I was born in the wrong country, I should have been a southern belle with a Texan accent, because my love for fried chicken runs so deep I swear I should be wearing a bonnet and calling myself Arabella!
I steered the car towards the red and white bucket and that thrilling feeling started at my toes, the closer I got the more it built and I knew I was going to do a bad thing. I arrived in the carpark and stopped to allow for a reversing car. While waiting I dropped the window in preparation for my arrival in the drive through and then it hit me. The smell.
Normally the smell of fried chicken sends my tummy into a fit of butterflies – today it had my stomach plummeting. My mouth started to water and I started to stress. My normal sensations were all over the place – NO. We love fried chicken.
My mouth started to water more and the heavy swallowing that you normally experience before your going to be sick kicked in. What the fuck is happening here?!
A car beeps behind me and I start to slowly move forward. The closer I get to the drive though entrance, the sicker I start to feel and then that ugly little bastard poked his head out of his box and started to ‘flutter’.
Fred was here. Quickly detouring and parking the car I sat there for a second to gain my wits. And that’s when I realised, my body was revolting against me. It knew I was about to be bad and send it some deliciously greasy chicken and it wasn’t having any of it. The two times I have eaten KFC since my diagnosis have been disasters.
First time, I ended up in a bathroom for ages while my friend had to keep herself occupied.
Second time, I made it through a couple of bites before I ended up in pain on the floor – this was the same night my family had to come to my aid and I mentally cracked it.
I started to cry (yep, I am still doing that apparently) and when I realised why, I felt like I had been struck by lighting.
You see, every time I get out of hospital or come off the back of a flare, I want KFC. My friends and family think this is weird, because I try to avoid bad food.
My grandmother died from bowel cancer and I remember a lot of what she went through in the lead up to her passing – it was horrible. One of the happy things I remember was that after her chemo treatments, she would request KFC. Nan hardly ever ate bad food, she always made meals – good old fashion cooking. Her requests were always granted and despite the fact she would inevitably end up really sick, I would watch as the devilish smile crept onto her face as we dipped our chicken and chips in potato and gravy and shared a cheeky look, because just like me – she loved that fried chicken!
So I cried. There in the KFC carpark. Because I knew I couldn’t eat the fried chicken like I wanted. I knew I had to go home and apologise for being a bitch. I knew I was wrong (this hurts the most out of all of it). But most of all, I knew that Hubby would be the bigger person and say sorry first and he would comfort me because he knows I am having a tough week.
I didn’t tell him about the chicken. He found me making eggs and toast in the kitchen when he got back from getting his own dinner and like an arsehole I continued the silent treatment for a while longer.
He did exactly what he always does and made me feel better, despite the fact a lesser man would have chucked the towel in. He rolled with my punches and absorbed my mean blows.
Today he gave me a kiss goodbye and announced that despite looking tired (I’m exhausted) I was still the most beautiful woman in the world. All was right again.
I’m still grumpy and agitated. I still can’t sleep properly. Fred is still not feeling that great and I still have all those balls in the air (how, I don’t know). And despite yesterday’s disaster, I am still not giving up on my fried chicken.
I don’t think there will be much of it in my future and I doubt I will even be able to stomach more than a couple of mouthfuls, but even thinking about it makes my toes tingle and that sensation of being naughty is enough to give me the hit I need until the next time I can be really bad.