The Kiss of Death: How My Romantic Life Suffered after being Diagnosed with Celiac Disease

Celiac.com 07/09/2021 - In this age of "Sex & the City," more and more women are taking a headstrong, Samantha Jonesian approach to dating.  I used to be one of them.  I remember once shoving a guy I barely knew into a bedroom at a house party and slamming the door shut behind us.  But all that changed a year and a half ago when I was diagnosed with celiac disease.  

What's a Samantha Jones to do?  Whisper into someone's ear, "uh, listen, I'd love to shove you into that bedroom and kiss you but the list of things to which I'm severely allergic is so extensive that in order not to risk damaging my health I'll need you to first proceed to the bathroom and brush your teeth." As well as the toothbrush obstacle, other dating dilemmas plague us celiacs.  Most restaurants offer few dishes which we can feel confident are gluten-free.  Even at home, we have to be wary of slip-ups by our friends and family.  Constant vigilance is necessary, and this unfortunately takes the form of nagging.  

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I spent several months mourning the sudden loss of my spontaneous and care-free self.  With a faint and awkward hope I kept what I referred to as "the emergency make-out tooth brush" in my bag, but it remained entombed with my confidence beneath my wallet and ipod.  

My dating dry-spell had more to do with my sunken confidence than my strict diet.  I felt apprehensive about approaching people.  Whereas before I would guide the evening through my conversation and body language, now I feared to tread into overtly flirtatious territory because the dreaded tooth-brushing conversation loomed ominously over the beer bottle in the hand of every prospect.  

I dreamed that a handsome, confident individual would lift this downtrodden rag doll off the floor.  I imagined him taking me in his self-assured arms and reminding me how special and desirable I still was.

One weekend, at long last, I met someone.  We connected instantly.  I braved the tooth-brushing talk and he responded with a warm chuckle.  Finally, I thought, I am saved.  Yet when it came to discussing the severity of my lifestyle restrictions, I held back.  My health necessitated a forthright and extensive conversation.  Instead, I euphemized, tip-toed, and scurried ineffectually through the matter, hoping that he would put together the pieces.  

There was a constant procession of things I needed to bring up with him: What kind of toothpaste was he using?  I can't drink that kind of instant coffee; Was the buckwheat flour in those cookies ground on the same mill as wheat?  …and so on.  Embarrassing gastro-intestinal reactions occurred because I was sometimes too ashamed to assert my needs.  After a few weeks, my mind was so confused by the onslaught of insecurity and annoyance that our relationship soured.  

In the early stage of most relationships, it is probably better to touch upon our quirks rather than delve into the awkward details.  I do not think, however, that this is the case for celiacs.  We are a breed who must lead by example: If others see us taking a laid-back attitude toward our diet, they will think it's acceptable for them to do so, too.

I have been asking myself the same question ever since I was diagnosed: "Why should I feel ashamed?  I am meticulous for medical reasons.  I am not just ‘fussy' or ‘picky.'" I've come to realize that my new insecurity is the result of two things: first, I sadly admit that my pre-diagnosed self would probably not be very empathetic towards a celiac.  The second reason for this hang-up is that I wasn't that secure and confident to begin with.  

In retrospect, I see that I was simply enacting roles I'd seen successfully executed by others.  Clever remarks, flirtatious gestures, bold actions—these were facades which hid self-doubt.  Had I truly been confident, I would have accepted my disease as a unique quirk.  Instead I felt flawed, undesirable, even freakish.

I am slowly coming to terms with my new life.  Things are going to be different, but that doesn't mean they will be worse.  I can no longer be the same carefree person I once was.  Maybe that's okay.  Personal growth has come from no longer relying on spontaneous kisses to fulfill me.  I've also come to better empathize with the disabled and seriously ill.  Finally, I've accepted the fact this Raggedy-Ann must build her own muscle.  I am now developing the strength to stand tall from within, not searching for it from without.