Emetophobia: Sick With Worry (A Recollection and History of Being Emetophobic)
One of my earliest memories was of myself vomiting. I was around two or three years old at the YMCA with my mom. While there, we went swimming, played games, and just overall had a great time. Afterwards, I went with my cousins on a picnic. I remember eating watermelon for the first time ever in my life. It was such a delicious fruit, full of flavor. It packed such a wonderful taste with a dull undertone that one just couldn't resist. That was that, and I went home.
Later on that night, as I lay in bed, I sat up; abruptly. I don't remember any odd feelings, feeling ill, etc., but I vomited all over my bed and myself. The sound made my parents come to tend to me. I was sick all of that night, losing everything through both ends. I couldn't hold down saltines, water, even Emetrol, an anti-emetic. I just remember this experience so clearly. Sitting on the toilet with a bedpan underneath my chin, retching what was left inside of my stomach. Everything hurt me. My stomach furiously attempting to empty itself, my bottom hurting from passing such watery stools, and my heard from the combination of everything else. I fell asleep in my parent's bed that night, where I became quite attached to a floral-print blanket—a blanket I still sleep with to this day because of safety and security it gave me.
I can't remember what happened the following days, but I knew that my fear had been planted. Just a tiny seed it was, burrowed deep within the irrational subconscious mind, latching itself and growing. The fear was not intense, but it was enough to keep me cautious.
A few years later, with the arrival of my little brother, we learned to live with all of his little messes here and there. I was okay those few years. When I turned four, I remember my mom cooking dinner and I sitting on the couch watching Nickelodeon. Suddenly, without warning, my mom darted for the bathroom where she vomited. I remember the scene vividly. I remember the color, the décor of the bathroom, even what my mom was wearing. All I could do was scream and cry in the doorway, watching my mother being ill. I viewed it as someone I cared about being defeated by my fear, and I hated the feeling.
When my brother turned two years old, we gave him his first smoothie from a local smoothie shop. He loved it, strawberry-flavored it was. I was holding him on the couch, sharing this smoothie, when it all came back out. I was in shock. I was shivering, as pale as a ghost, holding my brother who had just gotten sick. I don't remember much else of the experience.
When I turned five years old and graduated from my local preschool academy, we moved to a new house in a nice family-neighborhood. The first few nights were great, until one night I felt odd. Panicking, I ran to my mom, shouting for her to make the nausea stop. It passed, and nothing happened that night.
At six years old, we took a trip to North Carolina where we flew Continental. On the way there, my mother vomited aboard the plane. We landed in South Carolina, where we stayed at a hotel until my mom recovered.
At seven, my brother and I now shared bunk beds in a room. I was on the top bunk while he was on the bottom. It was a nice arrangement which really worked out for me. I'll never forget one pajama outfit my brother had. It was a little lion, one-piece pajama. It had a little hood that had tiny ears. On the belly was a voice box, and the lion would growl. My brother wore those pajamas all of the time. Unfortunately, he would get ill in the often. One night in particular, my brother was sick at two in the morning for whatever reason. I remember covering my head with the pillow to block out the noise, shivering, trying to put myself to sleep so that when I wake up, it would all be over.
At eight years old, my brother wanted to try white chocolate Reese's peanut butter cups—king-sized, mind you. He chugged them down, only to be sick a few minutes after eating them. That same year, I remember eating a McDonald's meal. Afterwards, I had a terrible pain in my stomach, and I really couldn't move. I was panicking the whole time, but managed to avoid vomiting. Another time, I was playing at the McDonald's playground. As I made it to a tunnel, I stumbled upon a pile of vomit. The Florida sun had hated the pile, which made it give off such an awful stench. I remember crying and begging my mom to take me home.
When I turned nine years old and began the fourth grade, I began to brag about my life without many vomiting experiences. One day, I felt terribly sick, and was not willing to eat anything for lunch. I went home, but first stopped at the Post Office, where I managed to hold off the nausea and prevent myself from vomiting. Unfortunately, that same year, I lost my vomit-free streak.
The day was like no other. It had been a few weeks after my tenth birthday and I had just began my allergy injections. I woke up feeling fine. I don't recall much of the morning, but the night I recall quite vividly. I was on my way to my grandma's house for a seafood dinner. I was reading a book with a collection of classic horror stories. When we arrived at the house, we ate seafood. I wasn't in the mood to eat so much, so I ate just a little bit. Afterwards, my brother, cousin, and myself decided to run around and play for a little while. I stopped at the bathroom, suffering from cold-sweats, to see myself. I was pale, I felt nasty, and my head hurt. Fatigued, I sat down to watch some Sabado Gigante on the local Spanish network. I kissed my grandma goodbye and we were on our way.
When I got home, I spoke on the phone with a girl that I liked at the time for about an hour or so. She couldn't talk so much afterwards because she and her parents were having a game night. I hung up, took a shower, and went to eat a snack. I remember eating Jell-O-brand pudding, layered chocolate, vanilla, and chocolate. I decided to lie down and watch some TV. I remember watching 'All That', a sketch-comedy show. After 'All That' finished, 'Full House' came on, the episode where Michelle gets a gold fish, but puts him in the bathtub where he dies. At this point, I felt quite awful. I was wearing bulldog-print pajamas and a hand-me-down robe. I decided to try and put myself to bed to sleep off the feelings.
I couldn't do it. At 11:05 PM, I made my way to the bathroom to see if I maybe had to relieve myself. "Lord God, please don't let me vomit tonight," I prayed. I walked to the living room to watch TV with my dad. At 11:12 PM, I was sick on the floor.
It felt like a dream after I vomited. I felt so much better, but everything was surreal. Things appeared to move in slow motion, lights seemed so bright, noises seemed so dull. My mother had come out of the bedroom to my aide. I went to the bathroom where I was sick again. I laid in bed sipping ginger ale and watching 'That's So Raven'. I made my way to the bathroom where I was sick four times in a row, each retch contained less and less vomit. I feel asleep watching 'Toy Story 2'.
The next morning, I was confined to my bed. I refused to get up for fear that I might be ill. When I did manage to get up, I moved very slowly. I only had one meal that day: saltines and ginger ale. I remember watching 'Mythbusters' for the first time ever, and it is still one of my favorite shows today. I was like this for several days; bedridden, afraid to move. So it was that the seed that latched on to every precious piece of vomit-induced fear took roots. My emetophobia blossomed into the fear that it became today.
Weeks passed, and eventually months after my episode. Nothing changed. I was still fearful, still so cautious. So fragile at such a tender age. I had lost so much weight. As I began fifth grade, my fear was at its greatest. At this point, I was ten years old, yet riddled with so many worries.
Later that year, around October, Hurricane Wilma struck Florida. The fear the hurricane brought was incredible. The damage was too much for me to handle. I broke down crying in the middle of my lawn as my parents picked up loose roof shingles, wind and bitter rain nipping around me.
I caught my mother emptying out the fridge of everything that perished. Milk, yogurts, cheeses. We rummaged around the local supermarket, attempting to find some extra things we can buy. I refused to eat anything except for bread, merely out of the fear that it was expired and would make me sick. At ten years old, I weight 54 pounds, stood 4' 7". An anorexic due to the fear. I had to eat lunch with my teachers to make sure I was eating properly, though I swore I felt nauseous around any food. My mom, at her wit's end, took me to see the school psychologist.
I started sixth grade with new hope. I began to eat again. I felt myself hungry. I craved food and looked forward to meals. That's when my life turned around. I felt so much happier, gained so much needed weight, and just was happy. Two years passed and I began high school. Today, I'm so much better than I was before. I've gained about thirty pounds. Though still underweight, I'm no longer in the deathly grip of the anorexic stage of emetophobia.
I look forward to life, I enjoy food, and I snack often. Though I'm still cautious, some of my irrational habits faded away with time as I realized that they didn't help me.
This is my life thus far. From a simple seed to a powerful parasitic fear, emetophobia once consumed my life. With help from my religion, peers, and myself, I managed to prune this weed tree of fear in my mind. It's pruned to a point where I'm trying to keep it it at bay. Of course, I still do have my battles here and there, but for the most part, I've got things under control.
I wish all who read this inspiration and peace of mind. Knowing that I survived death's grip comforts me and those who've heard my story.
Best of luck.
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