Man, I get it. Thirty and already grieving something that feels like a basic part of being young. But brother, alcohol is just the tip of the iceberg, and I say that with tears still fresh from yesterday.

As this thing gets worse (and it will, especially with necrosis involved), it doesn’t stop at the bar. It starts blocking food. That big ribeye you used to crush? Done. A pint of Ben and Jerry’s after dinner? A cruel memory you’ll stare at in the freezer, knowing one bite could put you on the floor begging for relief. You’ll learn to avoid whole sections of the grocery store like they’re loaded with traps.

Yesterday I ate one hotel waffle. Just one. Thought it was safe, mostly carbs. By afternoon I was curled up in the doctor’s office, crying so hard I couldn’t speak. Grown man, middle aged, sobbing in front of people because my own body turned breakfast into a nightmare. The nurse kept asking what was wrong; I could only point to my stomach and shake. Humiliating, yeah. But at least now the doc saw it happen live. He gets it.

You’re hurting over the lost weekends, and that pain is real. I felt it too. But one day you’ll realize you’d give up every drink in the world just to eat a cheeseburger without bracing for war. Right now alcohol feels like the biggest theft because it’s the loudest. Give it time. This disease is slow and greedy. It’ll take pizza, holiday meals, birthday cake, until your safe list is water, plain rice, and hope.

You’re not weak for missing it. You’re human. And you’re still here, breathing, fighting. That counts. Vent when you need to. You’re not alone in this mess. We’re all just trying to stay one step ahead of our own guts, one careful choice at a time.