Hold the Cheese

Hold the Cheese

In college, I would drink milk straight from the jug. My roommate and I started each week with a gallon apiece and by Friday, we were usually out. We didn't think anything of it. It was college, and we were expected to binge drink. Excess was the rule, and I was into following rules. To satisfy my cravings when I wasn't in close proximity to the mini-fridge, I would chug a glass at the cafeteria or pound a milkshake between classes. A hamburger without cheese seemed unfinished, like shoes without socks. There was butter on my bread, cream in my coffee and cheese and sour cream on my taco. But this isn't a story about pasteurized cuisine. This is a tale of pain, denial and abuse.

I was addicted to dairy.

Over the last decade, I've tried to stop several times before. But it would always end the same way, with my lips wrapped around the sweet utter of a cow. Not literally (well, once, but not usually literally). Meantime, I suffered from chronic gas and nasal decongestion. I never made the connection between my dairy habit and the swamp-gasses that filled my bedroom nightly. It never occurred to me that the milk I drank could be causing the stink I stank. I certainly never pictured my four sinus infections per year and general inability to breath through my nose could be the result of my daily cheeseburgers.

But it was.

I was addicted to the very thing that was giving me the most pain. But I wasn't ready to admit it. I'm sure I knew in my heart of hearts that dairy was slowly killing me, but to say so would mean the unthinkable: no pizza, no ice cream, no cheeseburgers, no...happiness. And I needed happiness. So I ate more dairy just to silence the nagging fear. I drowned by dairy devil in a pint of Ben & Jerry's Phish Food ice cream and farted myself to sleep.

Like all addicts, getting off dairy took me hitting rock bottom. It was a Sunday and a Monday. I was writing until the wee hours with Raygan, trying to hit a screenplay contest deadline. In a strange choice caused by equal parts pressure, fatigue and poor snack planning, we consumed only coffee and a plate of cheese the entire marathon session. That was it. That was the moment my body drew a line in the sand. My body said, "Really? Really, Drew? What the hell are we supposed to do with this? Oh, right, survive and be creative. You're a douche, Drew." The following day at work, I was doubled over in the kind of gaseous pain that only hot air balloons and Takeru Kobayashi must know. I thought about going to the hospital (but who can afford that?). I broke down the symptoms and recent diet to Erika that night. In her um-hey-dumbass-but-I-love-you way, she said, "You think you might be lactose intolerant?" The truth stabbed me like a knife. I clenched my fists and cried, "Noooooo."

"No?" Erika was confused. "No, I mean, yes. Yes, I am. It was an ironic 'no'."

I've been off dairy now for two months. The change has been a salvation. I no longer have any sinus issues (or need for the tissues), the air in and around me has ceased to be toxic, my breath improved and I lost about eight pounds. I have discovered soy cheese, soy ice cream and self control. Sometimes I still slip up, but I pay for it. Well, I and everyone within three feet of me pays for it.