For the last couple of months I’ve been battling weird bouts of a stomach ailment.

I did what most logical people do these days and sought the advice of a doctor, well, Dr. Google that is, which told me I had Diverticulitis. Or Irritable Bowel Syndrome.

So I adjusted my diet and ate more carbs, then less carbs. No coffee and just tea. The BRAT diet will cure it!

Except it didn’t, really.

I even tried to find some pattern that was related to my menstrual cycle or what I had eaten the night before each time it started, which as it turns out were my feelings.

Yes, I’m eating my feelings and they are giving diarrhea. 

You’d think that after the second time it happened after a few weeks of regularity, I’d figure out that I needed to take better care of myself. I’m a therapist, after all, and a victim of major psychosomatic symptoms, so my stomach issues were pretty text book.

And to be fair, I thought that I had been doing a pretty decent job, with regular gym visits, earlier bedtimes. I’d cleansed my life of an unhealthy dating relationship.

But yet, I still couldn’t eat regular food.

Then just last week I had a parent visit with my daughter’s art therapist, and wouldn’t you know that all my own drawings (as part of our family evaluation) and all her observations of me wrangling my kids led her to one conclusion:
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