Phobias are an interesting nemesis. Something that seems so inconsequential to one person feels like summiting a cliff to another. Every minute. Of every day.
Have you ever had a panic attack before? I hope that you never do.
I suffer from emetophobia, an intense and irrational fear of vomiting. You know that thing that you do to feel better? That thing that while gross and uncomfortable is just an inevitable and unpleasant part of life? Not so for me. Just the thought of it makes me incredibly anxious and afraid. I spend much of my life preoccupied with the possibility that it might happen.
I am afraid of eating in other people’s homes. I have difficulty eating food that I have not prepared myself, as I cannot control how it was cooked or the cleanliness of someone else’s home. This is not a reflection on you, but a reflection of my mental state.
I am afraid of restaurants. When you invite me to join you at a restaurant, it is a conscious effort on my part to go. Usually I just avoid them altogether.
I am afraid of sick people, in particular anyone with a contagious illness that causes vomiting. If I am at your house and find out that someone has thrown up at some point in the last two weeks, I will spend the entire night thinking about it, not eating anything and washing my hands repeatedly. You will probably have no idea the battle going on inside me, but I promise you, it is happening.
I am afraid of pregnancy. People wonder why I don’t have children. I don’t yet feel brave enough to sign myself up for a potential nine-month journey through morning sickness hell. And I want to be the mom who cuddles her sick children, not the mom who runs out of the room.
And for all of the things I do to protect myself from the risk, I don’t think it’s actually made a difference. It’s been almost 20 years since I last vomited. I don’t even know what it actually feels like. Sounds crazy, right? Right. And yet…I am unable to explain it away. I’m not able to use logic to figure this one out.
Living with a mental illness is hard. Mental illness. Mental. Illness. Ugh, I don’t even like to say the words out loud. While having a diagnosis has made treatment easier, being able to name it makes it more real. And I’ve been surprised by how uncomfortable that makes me. Me. Someone who champions therapists; someone who works in higher education for mental health workers; someone who truly believes that everyone would benefit from a counsellor at some point in their lives and has no issue seeing one myself.
But not everyone approaches it like I do. So I guess the stigma still exists for me too. I am not closed off about sharing, but I am selective. Some people try very hard to understand, which means the world to me, even if they don’t really get it. But not everyone gets it or even tries to. Heck, one of my relatives last week walked out on me when she found out why I was uncomfortable around her daughter’s vomit and she hasn’t spoken to me since. That leaves a mark.
I am one of the lucky ones, because I have amazing supports. Family, friends and in particular, a partner who loves meat but gave up cooking/eating it at home because of the stress it causes his wife and walks me through each moment of panic, no matter what he has going on.
Please don’t ever forget the effects mental illness has on those closest to us. They do not escape unscathed. My story is our story, just one side of it.
Discovering that there was someone else at Nexus who also shared this phobia was an affirming moment for me. While our triggers are different, to hear someone else’s first hand experience of the terror of vomiting and realizing that it was the same as mine made me feel safer. Not so crazy. And more empowered to conquer it. Most importantly, it helped me put into words a lot of what I was feeling that I hadn’t been able to yet.
I didn’t quite know how to end this piece. Probably because my journey is nowhere near complete. But sharing it here seems like a good start. It seems like such a random issue. Even writing about it, I am well aware that my fears are not rational. And yet it has consumed my reality for a long time.
Now that you know, please don’t stop inviting me to your homes or out to restaurants because you are now aware of my fears! I am working hard to conquer them. Just maybe give me a few extra days after your kid throws up all over your carpet. Or even better, just don’t tell me about it at all.
written by Caroline Hissa
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