Mary + Her Mental Health

It’s time to get off the Diet Coke. It just is. And I’m not saying completely. I’m saying Diet Coke can no longer be my only beverage every waking hour.

I suppose it could be construed as a blessing, but the fact is my stomach hates me with an ardent passion. About three days ago, I actually started having sharp pains in my abdomen. Lately, every time I finish a glass, I feel ill. These are not good signs. Not good. This is impacting my enjoyment of the Diet Coke. It makes me feel a little wistful, I have to say. Gone are the days when I could drink a 40-ouncer and not feel a thing. I am way too young to be talking like this.

It is a known fact that my family carries an addict gene. I think most of my siblings dodged it; I did not. I have an addict gene that lives inside me, and she’s a nasty little thing. I’m not sure which of my ancestral lines I should thank for this: The Irish One, with their unhealthy passion for pints; the Scottish One, for their scandalous abuse of single malt whiskey; or the German One for their weakness in abstaining from totalitarian leadership - - also, copious amounts of beer.

Personally, Diet Coke is not the only substance I’ve allowed myself to become unhealthily attached to, and I say with shame it likely will not be the last. I know it won’t be, because there is still the matter of the Chocolate. I haven’t even begun to look into the depth of dysfunction embedded within that little habit. I can’t bring myself to go there just yet. Come on, people, it’s chocolate. Everybody’s doing it. Leave me alone. Chocolate was there when no one else was, so back it off cowboy.

But back to the Diet Coke. I imagine what I’ll need to do is abstain completely for the next week or so. Cleanse the innards. Then, at an appropriate time, I shall introduce the nectar of intestinal death slowly back into my beverage regime, careful not to imbibe more than 12 ounces per day. I shall place the Diet Coke on a diet. Small portions, moderate, controlled. Yes. I can do that. This way, maybe I’ll have a little stomach lining left for when the kids start hanging out with the potheads at school and telling me they need money for their next body piercing.

It’s easier than saying I can’t ever have it again. A little slack, please.