The Unluckiest Lucky Person in the World

The pain is coming in waves. I need to get past it, before I can recall for you. Talk to you.

It exists as a cramp, all the way up from my gut to the bottom of my ribs. As if, yesterday, I did too many sit-ups and my muscles have been irreparably shredded. It hurts so bad I can't look at my phone - as one so often does - can't think. Several times I've eyed up nearby bins, a favourite being ones with detachable insides, to heave up whatever is left within me. I must have silence. I've begged to a God I don't believe in before, promised Satan all kinds; I'll trade you my degree. My youth. I'll never fall in love, just please - please make the pain stop.

For now, I digress.

The water is aquamarine blue. It's so potent in colour it doesn't look real, like diamonds by the gallon have been crushed and spread about the island. With the melting sun reflecting on it as she is, it looks like the hell that had, finally, frozen over, has found itself to be melting. It's another world. The definition of serenity. To not feel peace here - well, something must be wrong with you.

I don't entirely feel at peace.

Before me, obscuring half of the sunset beyond, is a dine-in hotel menu. The food is delicious; freshly caught sea basses, seasoned crab tacos, all manner of regional curries with sides of sticky rice and handmade spiced flatbread. It's mouth-watering. My family, behind, are fawning over the choice. The epitome of luxury.

Instead, I am filled with mixed feelings. I'm grateful, so grateful, to have this experience. To be here, see this - it is a blessing so few have at my age. At any age. Regardless of all my appreciation - and, honestly, my joy - I could cry. I cannot eat anything on the menu. It's such a small facet, but when something like food (or more broadly, choice) is taken away from you, it's difficult not to feel hard done by.

I wrestle with these thoughts. The guilt. So much guilt. The unworthiness. I could cry, it's too much to bear and I'm not strong enough. There is no diagnosis for my gut problems, nor does there seem to be (it's been eight years) a cure. I have been told not to eat gluten, dairy, onions, garlic, FODMAP's in general, caffeine, alcohol... the list is so long, allow me to surmise: only the plainest, unseasoned food. My mum is the first to notice,

"What can you eat, Sweetie?"

I shrug.

"I'm not really sure."

"Don't worry," she comforts, writing down her order of coconut monkfish curry, "we'll ask if they can do you something." Her dessert will be sticky toffee pudding, with a side of fresh vanilla ice cream. A favourite of mine. Previously.

Again, I shouldn't complain. This is the kind of the place that caters to anything, and they do. And it tastes nice. On our small outdoor table - to better enjoy the sunset - are a buffet of global delicacies. Breads and burgers and sauces and spices and wines and decadently arranged chocolate desserts. The difference is stark, the microwaved gluten-free bread still warm in its plastic bag is out of place. The unseasoned beef looks simple, bland. Comparison is the thief of joy - they say, and boy, am I comparing.

Over the edge of our twelve-man (and one woman) table, the ocean is magnificent. It doesn't glow in fantastic colours but against the strong cliff-face surrounding us the gentle waves make me feel like I'm a small bug in a large basin. Around me are powerhouses of industry, incredibly clever men who have rose through the ranks to this al fresco table, now. They are getting drunk. Let rephrase - they're already drunk, they're getting drunker. The wine that comes is in another language and the man beside me speaks it with a fluent accuracy that allows him to joke with the waiter. They teach me how to drink it, properly. To swirl, breathe it in, the legs, the grape, the age, the soil. It is an art. I do it again and again. I love(d) alcohol. I have never been more intimidated in my life.

Surrounded by people like this is an opportunity few come by. I can tell the restaurant is expensive because it smells expensive. In the air. In the count of the tablecloth. In the bottles of wine I now know about, sinking faster than any ship could. I swim as fast as I can. My head is barely above the surface.

Since I have been forced off alcohol - a sore spot, for someone whose Hinge bio gloated how I could drink anyone under the table - I have a distaste for it. The thick, cloying smell on a man's breath. How the inebriated act. Their lack of control, over body and language. How everything is funny. Nothing is funny.

And yet, I drink. Everything I am presented with, I drink. I keep up. I tell a former Mayor of London I could tell vodka out of a lineup of any white spirit, and they challenge me. The powerhouses take me up on it. They scheme which white spirits they'll choose. With each new glass comes plates of complicated food that reeks of onion and garlic, but I clean every plate. I turn down the bread - it's only a side, and it's my only saving grace. Mary isn't proud, but Hades is.

At the next venue, I leave the pack to desperately find a quiet place. A toilet of some form. The pain is coming, I can feel it in the sick feeling in my throat. My thoughts make it worse, as they always do, expediting the pain. What if something happens? Who is going to help you? What if you can't move? What if you cry and ruin your makeup, and embarrass yourself? I will be here for three more hours, at least.

I find the toilet. The queue is short, but it's unisex and suddenly the bodies pile up. I'm in the dirty space, alone, and I'm doubled over so the tears drop straight out my eyes onto the floor, and not down my face. I worry when the banging will start, as the queue urges me to hurry.

Here, the water is a sweet trickster. She laps at the edges of a small cove, sometimes a muddy brown but often an unearthly shade of aquamarine and lime. I love her, and have for over half my life. This cove has shaped me. Kept me safe. Watched me cry. Heard me tilt my head back to admire a shower of fallen stars, and wish on them for every boy I ever meet to love me.

Wishes can be a cruel mistress, then.

Now, I sit in my home. It has a 'clear line of sight'. From the tennis court, to croquet lawn, grapevine-alfresco-dining, kitchen and dining room, one can see straight through to the sea. It lives in a fishbowl in this valley, but somehow maintains privacy. Privacy is a big deal, for my parents, who bought and designed this house. We do not like to be perceived unwittingly.

I'm writing this from the fish shaped glass bartop. It's beautiful. I'm so lucky to live here.

My 24th birthday just passed, and, naturally, i've been suffering. At midnight I stood sober in a favourite haunt of mine and my friends, and felt the breath of the airconditioning. I had never noticed before. The urge to accept the free drinks was terrible - I love a bargain. I get a phone call from someone very pretty and very drunk, and they wish me a happy birthday. They are too drunk, they say. I miss so much.

At this table, I write because I'm in pain. I always write when I'm hurting. It's both cathartic, and, sometimes, when men are the instigator - my best work. I am creative if nothing. I don't want to tell my dear parents that the food they've given me, food they've spent time and thought on not to hurt me, has done just that. My dad scrutinises me over my laptop, one G&T in. "What are you writing?" "Nothing."