Why I Always Have A Ding Dong In My Purse

Anyone who knows me knows that I eat pretty consistently throughout the day. Roughly every two hours. According to my mother I was like this as a baby, and while she cursed and prayed that I get over it soon so that she can get a full night’s sleep, I never did. I no longer wake her up to breast feed me at three am, but the sentiment is still the same.

When I don’t eat my blood sugar drops and my personality vanishes and is replaced by something that can only be described as ‘from the underworld’. Crying and or screaming usually ensues as a form of notifying myself, and the world, that I HAVE NOT HAD ANYTHING TO EAT SINCE BREAKFAST. A frequent response to my crying at a boyfriend for making the bed the wrong way, or screaming at my mother for putting my laundry in the dryer, or hysterically ranting to a friend that the nail lady made this one crooked, this one is crooked! is typically: When was the last time you ate?

And oh, how in those moments I hate that question. I loathe it. I want to send daggers flying across the room at anyone who deigns to even think that I might need food to calm me down, when can’t they just see, can’t they see that it’s the fact they bought corn tortiallas! Corn! Instead of flour! The horror! The humanity of this awfulness has absolutely nothing to do with my FOOD INTAKE FOR FUCK’S SAKE! Then after storming away and letting the full psychotic-ness sink in, I will eat a banana or some crackers with cheese and suddenly . . . suddenly the little girl from the Exorcist leaves my body and I’m my nice (somewhat) likable self again. I smile sheepishly at my friend, bat my eyes at the boyfriend, hang my head in front of my mother, and slowly daisies dance out of my mouth singing, “Gosh, I’m so sorry. I guess my blood sugar was a little low. I’m incredibly sorry I yelled at you, I’m such a jerk. Can I wash and detail your car for you?” Or better yet, if I’m still in the process of regulating from demon to a human again, almost there, I might say, “Oh wow. I’m sorry about that. Why didn’t you tell me to eat something?”

Luckily for me I am surrounded by people who also suffer from hypoglycemia, so when I have a meltdown they don’t stare at me in shock while rapidly dialing the police, because I’ve seen them in similar positions. We’re not all the same, that’s for sure, generally there’s a shorter temper than usual when we haven’t eaten in a while, but it doesn’t always go down like that. Well, my mother . . . my mother is just like me (not in reverse of course). But my sister, she snaps meanly and then gets quiet. Disturbingly, alarmingly quiet that is scarier than actual yelling. Gige usually just starts crying immediately, about anything, and I find it much more easy to handle than the yellers because I can just calmly steer her away from the restaurant that’s taking too long, towards a bench and hand feed her french fries. Gabi handles the question of “Have you eaten?” much better than me and while I’m sure she’s wishing she has a shotgun to blow a hole in my face for asking such a stupid fucking question, she wishes this quietly, says “No” and then drives us to the nearest Del Taco, and I’ve known her long enough to know, we do not speak until halfway through our burritos.
And once we feel better, we all hug and laugh and love each other again because we know what it’s like.

So thanks to all the boyfriends who have put up with us, and all the mothers who set down a plate of fruit in front of us despite the threat it could possibly be thrown at their heads. Thanks to the friends who call just to share how they almost started sobbing in the line at Trader Joe’s because it was moving too slow, and thanks to the friends who still love us when we’re making those calls.

It’s nice to know we’re not that hormonal. . . we just need some pizza.