Hey folks. Sorry for the delay over the course of the last, oh say, two years or so. The public writing has kind of taken a backseat to the living I guess I can say. My Crohn's hasn't been awful either for the most part and so I haven't been super inspired to write--which is kind of a good thing, but a little inspiration never hurt anyone. Lately though, I've been kind of having mini-flare ups that I think have more to do with stressful life situations rather than the active disease itself. Can anyone else sympathize with this? For me, I know that I have a pattern and it is very relationship-related. Anytime a romantic relationship begins to go down the tubes, or whenever I go on some kind of vacation, my whole digestive system kind of goes haywire.
Just a couple of weeks ago, I was feeling great. My appetite was amazing, I was exercising and feeling better about my body, and then I went on vacation. I became overconfident in my disease and ate waaaay too much. This is my cycle. I feel so good, that I think to myself, "I can eat just like everyone else! I can eat more than everyone else!" and that's when I get myself in trouble. Within a couple of hours of what seems like a binge eating session, now that I think about it, my stomach had that oh so familiar feeling again. Panic struck. I was out in public, in a city that wasn't my own. I barely knew where I was or how to get back to a place where I could be sick privately. I remember getting to the restaurant with my friend and thinking, "Relax, Brittany. You don't even have to eat anything, just sip on some water. You can make it. You'll be fine." But all this positive self-talk could not override the feelings that were looming from my guts. Tightness. Cramping. Sweat seeping out of my pores and a racing heart took the reigns and I found myself powerless. It was a panic attack like I hadn't had in years. A panic attack like I hadn't had since Jake died. I began to swallow a lot of air. "I need to go. I can't throw up all over this restaurant," I said. I left the restaurant swiftly and got into a cab, praying I wouldn't lose it right there in the backseat.
My cab driver was impressively chatty, which sort of helped to distract me from the situation happening inside of me. We talked about the DC Metro and the work they were doing on the Washington Monument. We talked about corporal punishment. We talked about the differences between our two cities. We talked about a lot in the span of those 8 minutes, and at the end, I thought to myself, "Maybe this was the distraction I needed. Maybe I am going to be fine." Then I stepped out of the cab. I rushed to the friend's apartment we were staying at, grossly aware of how each step intensified the unsteadiness I was feeling in my stomach. The fifty foot walk to the apartment may as well have been a mile to me in that moment.
When I finally reached the apartment, I propped myself up on a few pillows in bed and began frantically trying to journal my feelings away. Sometimes that works. Like it desensitizes my fear somehow, but it didn't work this time. All my turbulent scrawling did little more than add a layer of chicken scratch to my mini-travel journal. I lay there, trying to redirect my attention to anything. The view of the trees and the street from the wall-to-wall windows, a funny video clip that I was watching from my 2x3 inch cell phone screen. Nothing worked. Then I began to feel really sick. My stomach cramped in a way that made me pray that I would throw up and it would all be over. I never thought I'd see the day. Me and all my phobia, begging to evacuate my insides for a moment of relief. I thought it would happen. I hiccupped and felt something behind it and bee lined for the bathroom. I hung myself over the toilet like I had seen done in movies so many times before, but could never even fathom doing in real life. But there I was. Hunkered down on the floor in the bathroom, hoping for release but only dry heaving my brains out. God, just let it happen. I've accepted that it's gonna happen, so please just let it happen.
It was a very long night. My stomach hurt more than I can remember it hurting since I was a freshman in college. It cramped up so hard, that my back began to spasm. I forgot how absolutely painful these episodes could be. It's like having a Charlie horse throughout your whole mid-section that comes and goes when it pleases. I gripped the bathroom trash can tight by my face for 15 hours until I finally threw up, and even after it was finally over, I needed to continue monitoring how often the cramping was happening. I found that I would experience 37 seconds of intense contractions that tapered off during seconds 38 and 39 until finally vanishing by 40. Then I would have about two minutes of relief before the whole cycle started again. I felt like I was in labor, counting down the minutes and seconds and keeping track of them on a note in my phone. I had lived this way for months at a time in high school and college without ever thinking to call a doctor. What the hell was I thinking?
Just a couple of weeks ago, I was feeling great. My appetite was amazing, I was exercising and feeling better about my body, and then I went on vacation. I became overconfident in my disease and ate waaaay too much. This is my cycle. I feel so good, that I think to myself, "I can eat just like everyone else! I can eat more than everyone else!" and that's when I get myself in trouble. Within a couple of hours of what seems like a binge eating session, now that I think about it, my stomach had that oh so familiar feeling again. Panic struck. I was out in public, in a city that wasn't my own. I barely knew where I was or how to get back to a place where I could be sick privately. I remember getting to the restaurant with my friend and thinking, "Relax, Brittany. You don't even have to eat anything, just sip on some water. You can make it. You'll be fine." But all this positive self-talk could not override the feelings that were looming from my guts. Tightness. Cramping. Sweat seeping out of my pores and a racing heart took the reigns and I found myself powerless. It was a panic attack like I hadn't had in years. A panic attack like I hadn't had since Jake died. I began to swallow a lot of air. "I need to go. I can't throw up all over this restaurant," I said. I left the restaurant swiftly and got into a cab, praying I wouldn't lose it right there in the backseat.
My cab driver was impressively chatty, which sort of helped to distract me from the situation happening inside of me. We talked about the DC Metro and the work they were doing on the Washington Monument. We talked about corporal punishment. We talked about the differences between our two cities. We talked about a lot in the span of those 8 minutes, and at the end, I thought to myself, "Maybe this was the distraction I needed. Maybe I am going to be fine." Then I stepped out of the cab. I rushed to the friend's apartment we were staying at, grossly aware of how each step intensified the unsteadiness I was feeling in my stomach. The fifty foot walk to the apartment may as well have been a mile to me in that moment.
When I finally reached the apartment, I propped myself up on a few pillows in bed and began frantically trying to journal my feelings away. Sometimes that works. Like it desensitizes my fear somehow, but it didn't work this time. All my turbulent scrawling did little more than add a layer of chicken scratch to my mini-travel journal. I lay there, trying to redirect my attention to anything. The view of the trees and the street from the wall-to-wall windows, a funny video clip that I was watching from my 2x3 inch cell phone screen. Nothing worked. Then I began to feel really sick. My stomach cramped in a way that made me pray that I would throw up and it would all be over. I never thought I'd see the day. Me and all my phobia, begging to evacuate my insides for a moment of relief. I thought it would happen. I hiccupped and felt something behind it and bee lined for the bathroom. I hung myself over the toilet like I had seen done in movies so many times before, but could never even fathom doing in real life. But there I was. Hunkered down on the floor in the bathroom, hoping for release but only dry heaving my brains out. God, just let it happen. I've accepted that it's gonna happen, so please just let it happen.
It was a very long night. My stomach hurt more than I can remember it hurting since I was a freshman in college. It cramped up so hard, that my back began to spasm. I forgot how absolutely painful these episodes could be. It's like having a Charlie horse throughout your whole mid-section that comes and goes when it pleases. I gripped the bathroom trash can tight by my face for 15 hours until I finally threw up, and even after it was finally over, I needed to continue monitoring how often the cramping was happening. I found that I would experience 37 seconds of intense contractions that tapered off during seconds 38 and 39 until finally vanishing by 40. Then I would have about two minutes of relief before the whole cycle started again. I felt like I was in labor, counting down the minutes and seconds and keeping track of them on a note in my phone. I had lived this way for months at a time in high school and college without ever thinking to call a doctor. What the hell was I thinking?
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