I was a visitor at midnight
Ah, 'tis the season for sickness. I have an unfortunate association of the holidays with vomiting. Those who have lived with me know that I have an irrational fear of vomit. So when I hugged a friend earlier this week, and she told me she'd just gotten over the stomach flu that day, my first panic of the season flared up. It's been in remission for a long time, mainly because I think I discovered that the root of it is in the illness I had as a child that almost killed me, and which, like all childhood illnesses seem to do, involved vomiting. Now, there's an erroneous path burned in my brain that says, "vomiting = dying," and my fear of vomiting becomes as strong as the fear of death.
Because of this phobia, I know a lot about vomiting--how to avoid it, how to prevent it, the myriad causes. That's because I thought by learning enough about it, I could control it and somehow make myself "immune" to it ever happening to me. So when my most recent panic returned, I did something I've never done before. Rather than search "stomach flu," in a frantic attempt to find out what I could do to prevent getting sick after I'd been exposed (and reading stuff I've read 3,000 times before), I typed "vomit phobia" into the search engine instead. And I discovered it has a name--emetophobia--and that there are thousands of people out there who suffer from it. Now, I knew that others suffered from it because I have an uncle and a cousin who do, but somehow finding these sites made me feel more healed and calm than anything. I think before I was so judgmental of myself, but somehow giving it a name and assigning it categorically to mental illness makes me feel somehow saner. I feel saner knowing there are other people out there who have ordered their life the way I have ordered my life in the height of the phobia. I guess that's the power giving something a name has; once you find a name for something, you know that you aren't alone.
The most interesting thing I found in my research was that most emetophobes, like me, haven't vomited in years. My sister has goaded me before, saying things like, "I don't know why you're worried; you never throw up." And it's true. And now I find there's been research done on the physiological response to vomiting, and that there's a certain threshold at which an individual's breathing needs to change in order for vomiting to occur. Emetophobes apparently do NOT allow that breathing pattern to change, so they'll battle the sickness until either they "give in" and "let themselves" throw up, or the brain will "give up" on trying to make the body vomit. Since vomiting is a defensive response, it makes me wonder what the health implications are for emetophobes who don't allow themselves that defense. I imagine our illnesses are probably longer and a bit more painful, although, of course, very little could be more painful than vomiting.
I'll shut up about this now because I doubt anyone else finds this as fascinating as I do. Indulge me in this, my phobic, coming out.
Speaking of coming out, I have a letter ready to mail out to Ashley (big Ashley) coming out to her at last. Now I have to get it out of my apartment before I lose my nerve again. But this time feels like the right time. I feel more calm at the prospect of her knowing than I ever have before. I think it'll be OK.
In other good news, the elevator in the building is fixed after a six-month hiatus, which means my recycling finally goes out. I'll have so much room in my closet!
Because of this phobia, I know a lot about vomiting--how to avoid it, how to prevent it, the myriad causes. That's because I thought by learning enough about it, I could control it and somehow make myself "immune" to it ever happening to me. So when my most recent panic returned, I did something I've never done before. Rather than search "stomach flu," in a frantic attempt to find out what I could do to prevent getting sick after I'd been exposed (and reading stuff I've read 3,000 times before), I typed "vomit phobia" into the search engine instead. And I discovered it has a name--emetophobia--and that there are thousands of people out there who suffer from it. Now, I knew that others suffered from it because I have an uncle and a cousin who do, but somehow finding these sites made me feel more healed and calm than anything. I think before I was so judgmental of myself, but somehow giving it a name and assigning it categorically to mental illness makes me feel somehow saner. I feel saner knowing there are other people out there who have ordered their life the way I have ordered my life in the height of the phobia. I guess that's the power giving something a name has; once you find a name for something, you know that you aren't alone.
The most interesting thing I found in my research was that most emetophobes, like me, haven't vomited in years. My sister has goaded me before, saying things like, "I don't know why you're worried; you never throw up." And it's true. And now I find there's been research done on the physiological response to vomiting, and that there's a certain threshold at which an individual's breathing needs to change in order for vomiting to occur. Emetophobes apparently do NOT allow that breathing pattern to change, so they'll battle the sickness until either they "give in" and "let themselves" throw up, or the brain will "give up" on trying to make the body vomit. Since vomiting is a defensive response, it makes me wonder what the health implications are for emetophobes who don't allow themselves that defense. I imagine our illnesses are probably longer and a bit more painful, although, of course, very little could be more painful than vomiting.
I'll shut up about this now because I doubt anyone else finds this as fascinating as I do. Indulge me in this, my phobic, coming out.
Speaking of coming out, I have a letter ready to mail out to Ashley (big Ashley) coming out to her at last. Now I have to get it out of my apartment before I lose my nerve again. But this time feels like the right time. I feel more calm at the prospect of her knowing than I ever have before. I think it'll be OK.
In other good news, the elevator in the building is fixed after a six-month hiatus, which means my recycling finally goes out. I'll have so much room in my closet!