Reclaiming Mint Chocolate Chip Ice Cream
The panic begins when I hear there’s a stomach flu going around. My face gets hot, my stomach cramps, my heart feels like it’s jumping. It doesn’t matter if I came into direct contact with a sick person or not, I’m convinced I’m coming down with norovirus, and the whole world seems to be moving while I’m frozen.
I cancel babysitting jobs because I’m positive that the stomach flu will visit me that night. I sleep with a trash can next to my bed and take an anti-anxiety pill to fall asleep, otherwise I will toss and turn all night, waiting for my dinner to make a comeback. I treat myself like I’m ill even though I have no symptoms. I’m unable to eat for half a day, then I remember that a bug will be more painful on an empty stomach, so I eat bland foods. I go to the store and stock up on norovirus-friendly snacks: saltines, bananas, broth, rice, the biggest case of ginger ale I can find. I turn down my friends when they want to go eat tacos because I’d rather not taste spicy meat when I inevitably get sick. I drink immune support tea and eat probiotic yogurt because a coworker told me that was the trick to avoid getting sick. Another coworker tells me Coca-Cola prevents stomach bugs, and while I know that can’t be true, I trade in my daily Diet Coke for its too-syrupy counterpart.
WebMD tells me it takes up to 48 hours for symptoms to appear after being exposed to someone with norovirus. I treat myself like I have the stomach flu until 48 hours go by without any cases occurring in my immediate circles, then I resume my normal life. Although a so-called-normal life never lasts long, especially since I work in childcare where cases of the norovirus are as common as the hiccups.
Even when it’s not stomach flu season, I struggle. Due to nearly 16 years of a wheat-based diet and undiagnosed Celiac disease, my intestines are in a permanent state of discomfort. If I eat too much or too little or one tiny drop of gluten, my stomach cramps up. I never know if my pain is because of something I ate, anxiety, or physical illness. I try to soothe my stomach, but I’m always nauseated. I avoid roller coasters, boats, and anything that can cause motion sickness. I don’t try new foods, and I never let myself get drunk. If it has caused at least one person to vomit, I will avoid it. It doesn’t matter how much I crave Chipotle, I can never eat there again.
I suffer from emetophobia, the fear of vomiting. This isn’t a cute little quirk like my fear of birds. This is a type of anxiety disorder stemming from a specific phobia. Mix emetophobia with my social anxiety disorder and OCD, and it can feel impossible at times. I want someone to cure me. I want to tell my doctor that I have this fear and I need help. But I’m afraid to do that. I don’t trust a doctor’s response. People are so quick to dismiss emetophobia. “Well no one likes to vomit,” they say. I don’t know how to explain that this is so much more than that. This fear consumes my every thought. I think about it all day long, every single day, and I’m terrified of a doctor belittling my fear.
I don’t know when or why this fear began, but it has become a huge part of who I am. I keep my Emetophobia Survival Kit with me at all times: spearmint gum, peppermint Tums, and candied ginger. If I’m especially panicky, I’ll even carry around a bottle of Pepto Bismol.
In third grade, I came down with a stomach bug a few hours after indulging in a big bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream. Logically, I knew the ice cream wasn’t the reason I was sick, but I couldn’t take any chances. It was my favorite dessert, but I cut it out of my life. When emetophobia meets OCD, rituals are born. Every time I threw up, I took careful note of everything I said, did, and ate that day, then I vowed to never repeat anything on that list. I stopped eating certain foods, wearing favorite outfits, and watching specific TV episodes. I couldn’t rest on my stomach in the bathtub, and the throw pillow on my bed had to face a certain way. I had so many stupid rules that I never broke because breaking one of those rules would lead to puking.
Last winter, I decided to start working towards recovery, so I went out and bought myself a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream. I was so sick of all those goddamn rules I created for myself, so I grabbed a spoon and took a big bite of ice cream.
It seems so trivial, but that bite of ice cream was supposed to cure me. It was supposed to push away my fear and allow me to be healthy. And while it would make an incredible story to say that my severe phobia has disappeared through the healing powers of doctors Ben and Jerry, I’m still a panicky mess at the thought of barfing. Ice cream didn’t cure me, although it was delicious.
But I am getting better. Yes, I still live on saltines and tell everyone I’m sick just because the news reports cases of norovirus in my city, but I used to be way worse. I can watch people throw up on TV now without choking back my own vomit. I can go on airplanes with minimum panic attacks during turbulence. I can even babysit a baby who throws up everything he eats. In the past, I would have run out of that house screaming, but I actually think it’s cute when he projectile vomits.
I’m the first to admit that I’m not okay, but I’m getting by. I’ve been this way for over a decade, long before I even knew what I was afraid of. Someday I will get help, but I’m not ready for that yet. For now, I’m just happy to have my favorite flavor of ice cream back in my life.
