This is the end of the story, I think. A twist worthy of M. Night Shyamalan in high fettle; a Rashomon-style reframing of everything that has gone before. In order to understand where I’ve been, it would be best to start at the beginning, with the deglutening. You have to understand how sick I was, how desperate for help. You have to understand how transformative the deglutening was for me. Or… how it inevitably looked that way, at least. Because I think I was wrong. The whole time, I was wrong. Gluten may have never been the problem at all. And yet the evidence was insurmountable. Every time I was a little daring, the result pointed to the one deadly culprit. How could I have been so wrong, for so long?
Hooray for revelations and the ability to eat tasty things!
Reminder that science knows only a tad more than ABSOLUTELY FUCK ALL about our bodies and food.