(Hopefully) Beating IBS or How I Got My Life Quality Back

Anyone suffering from IBS knows exactly what I’m talking about. The constant issues, often coming out of the blue, when you least expect or need it.

I first came in touch with this illness three years ago while on my first trip to a friend who lives in Scotland. The day we planned on going to explore beautiful Edinburgh (which required a car drive of about one and a half hours from where she lives), I suddenly had those symptoms – I could barely get out of the bathroom, thinking maybe the cereal I ate that morning was the problem, that my digestive tract didn’t like what it was given, that it couldn’t cope with the dietary fibre inside it. Today I know that I actually am not able to actually digest the dietary fibres and other stuff that’s in oatmeal, for example, but back then, it was all new. I felt so tired the entire morning that I felt like sleeping for the rest of my life. And even though it was sort of embarrassing to talk about that stuff with one of the most important people/friends in my life, face to face, when she asked me about all the symptoms I had had before and that day, it was soon clear that I obviously suffered from IBS. And though it was a bit of a shock to have a name for it, it was also a relief knowing that I might be able to do something about it, because ever since knowing, I realized how limited my life had become.

I finally knew what happened when I was in new or uncomfortable (e.g. nervousness because of dates or job interviews, meeting new people for the first time, doctor’s appointments), or, especially recently, psychologically stressful and challenging situations (my current work situation, constant worries that “something” will happen while I’m out and can’t go to a bathroom I’m comfortable with, hygiene-wise). It went so far that ever since I had a protracted stomach bug last december, my every day life was often a fight. I basically lived on rusk, Perenterol, charcoal tablets and Loperamide for months – with especially the latter not being healthy if you take it longer than two days in a row, but I felt like I had no choice. I popped those things like Tic Tac’s, and I ate even less than I already do (due to a slight eating disorder) because I felt like no matter what I put into my mouth, it would result in new issues all over again, and even the slightest weird feeling in my stomach made me start to panic – resulting in me weighing as little as I ever have in the past couple of years (46,7kg at 1,71m). I have lost count of the number of sick days I pulled at work because I was feeling like “something was coming on”, and though my boss always seems understanding about it (because he claims having similar problems), there’s only so much understanding a boss can feign and have.

I avoided my beloved Latte Macchiato or cereal in the mornings because the milk and/or the caffeine would result in hours of feeling uncomfortable and the urge to run to the bathroom, “just in case”. I stopped eating pizza and cake/pie because I was paranoid that those things also made me react with IBS symptoms (especially the cake, it seemed, when it came out of a freezer). I even went to a gastroenterologist to test whether it was actually a lactose/fructose/gluten intolerance, and the results of all of them came back negative, which left me absolutely desperate and hopeless, because I just didn’t know what to do to stop this.

This was the moment I decided that no matter how skint I was, how little I should and could actually afford it, I needed to take action and get a special medication from the pharmacy called “Kijimea”, which is known to be quite expensive, but the only REAL help with IBS if you take it constantly every day for at least 4 weeks, better 6 weeks. It is proven that after that time, the IBS symptoms and whatever comes with it disappear for good, and though I never actually believed it, I found myself at a point where I was so desperate and trapped in some sort of depression because of my limited life quality that I decided to give it a shot. And today, after two weeks and one day, I can honestly say: FUCK, IT WORKS.

The pharmacist said it would still take quite a while for my body/digestive tract to get used to it and regenerate completely, but that the first results will already be palpable after two or three days. I never believed that kind of stuff, but in that case, I say it again: FUCK IT WORKS. It’s not completely gone yet, but I can say with pride and relief that I already got back some of my life quality. I barely take the fore mentioned pills anymore, I feel more relaxed (although almost every morning when I’m almost at the office, I have a short, tiny setback, but that’s probably due to the current stressful situation) and safer about it than I have in years. I even feel happier and calmer when I’m out for a walk through the city, or meeting up with friends, or walk home for one and a half hours instead of taking the tube where I can sit safely. There are still days that I feel the bubbling in my stomach and am slightly worried what is going on, but those moments have become a bit rarer in the past two weeks.

And though there are still two weeks left of the Kijimea treatment, I can actually say that I have part of my life quality back, and there’s barely anything these days that leaves me happier and more satisfied than that. They say that health is the most important thing, that it doesn’t matter whether you’re rich of have loads of friends or a loving boyfriend/husband. I never believed that before, I admit that, but ever since that treatment is actually helping, I do.

There’s nothing more important than health, and you have to cherish it as long as you can possibly do, because you only have this one life.

The enemy in my own head: ramblings of a woman with an eating disorder.

700.000 people in Germany suffer from an Eating Disorder. I admit that I am one of them.

I honestly can’t remember the last time I didn’t watch out for what or how much I eat, when I didn’t count my calorie intake almost daily. Probably somewhen last year, before I got knowledge of an App called “My Fitness Pal”. This App is a curse and a blessing at the same time, because it helps you keep up to date with your nutrition, the best case scenario being that you start living healthier, cutting the sugar and all the bad stuff that hides in food out of your life, and feeling happier, healthier and more active. It also helps keeping track of your workouts, seeing your progress with it and gives advices through blogs that pop up on the home screen from time to time. And I can’t begin to tell how damn much I enjoy my weekly workouts. They give me a boost like nothing else in my life. They help me forget worries, money issues, and let me focus on the right breathing technique, the numbers of pulls or pushes of whatever strength training gadget I am using. I practically feel the endorphines running free and wild in my system, and the feeling that you have actually DONE something, that you reached some tiny goal you’ve put out for your day – it’s the best feeling in the entire world.

But what that App also does is making you absolutely paranoid about how much you eat during the day. At least that’s what has happened to me over the course of the past 485 days.

So how did I get in this situation?

When you’re not a naturally good-looking person, when you’re the subject of jokes and slandering behind your back because of the way you look, when your father dies when you’re 7 years old and your mother later marries an aggressive, abusive alcoholic who’s favourite thing is to slap you across the face at the rare moments when you defend yourself towards him and to tell you daily that you’re ugly, worthless, that you will never reach anything in your life and will always be alone, when the person who too quickly became your entire life screws you over in the most cowardish way, when you lose your girly friends of almost 10 years because of emotional deficits and the kind of person you’ve been…when you keep experiencing and hearing this long enough, it doesn’t take long for you to believe it in your heart and soul that anything horrible that has ever been said and done to you is true and you deserve nothing, especially if your self-esteem has never been the biggest. People say, of course, that you should never blame your past “mistakes”, or the past in general, for your problems. That you shouldn’t dwell on the past. Yeah, that’s an easy one. Piece of cake. Anyways.

I am not someone who naturally surrounds herself with people; I am a natural loner. I love to sit at home, watch TV, read a lot, get lost in books, TV shows, movies, or get my mind off things in front of a gaming console. But even I feel more lonely than I have in months, despite having amazing friends in the UK and in other parts of Germany. And although I’ve never been that kind of person, I have turned into someone needing “comfort food” in her life, especially chocolate, to make up for said…”deficits”.

And I hate how out of control it has become. I constantly worry about gaining weight, especially getting a double chin. And at the same time, I don’t seem to be able to cut it out of my life because my mind tells me it’s comforting. I deny myself a lot of the stuff that in the past I practically gobbled up, fast food, cake, etc. for that sole reason. I always try not to eat anything after 6pm. If I eat dinner after 6pm, I watch out that the food doesn’t have more than 150/200 calories.I’ve probably developed an adverse food reaction. Sometimes, I don’t feel like going out with a friend and have a nice evening because I knoe I will probably eat later than usual and not watch out what I eat because that’s what happens when I’m out with friends. And still, it’s an absolute horror for me, I want to scream every time I feel like my chin’s become bigger and fatter. I know it’s stupid, irrational, and paranoid, but as much as I hate feeling like that, I hate people telling me that I am stupid, irrational and paranoid about my weight. Because having this disorder, I live with the thought that if I gain weight, if I become overweight, fat even, one day maybe, that I will not have anything about me anymore that would make a man I might fall in love with have any interest in me. I know that it’s not the looks that are important, that it’s superficial and that a man who doesn’t accept you for how you look and how you are, he doesn’t deserve you, but come on: everybody who says he does NOT care about someone’s looks when they see them for the first time, is a damn liar.

I don’t want pity for any of the stuff I said in past three paragraphs – believe it or not, I am not an attention whore and rather keep under the radar (which might be part of my problem), or for the worried thoughts I get whenever I stare at myself in the mirror these past few months. I just want to get it out of my system in written words because I’m not ready to say any of this out loud to someone who’s profession it is to help people like me.

I hate when people try telling me to “get over it”. To “stop being so paranoid”. To “stop constantly worrying”. To “get help, for god’s sake”. If it was that easy, I would just do it, enjoy my life and never mention it again, wouldn’t I? It’s like telling a person suffering depression to “stop being sad”. It’s an illness, and though I have now come to terms with the fact that I actually have it, I am by far not at the point where I am able to go and seek professional help, because it means saying all that’s written down here out loud to a stranger. I know normal people can’t understand how hard it is for someone like me to just talk about your problems without hesitation, face to face, not even to their best friend. I also am very aware of the fact that all this is a clear sign I’m slowly also drifting into a severe depression if nothing is done about it, but for now, I can’t do anything about it.

Writing it down here, though, is some kind of therapy for me, for now. I just want people to stop putting me into a drawer, characterize me as insane, crazy or stupid anymore. I want people to stop and think next time they say something about it to me, or try and understand my situation next time they feel annoyed when I talk about it over and over again. Most people I know always had a happy life – an intact family, friends, a good job, enough money and things to make life even better in their childhood and teens, – and so, naturally, they don’t understand the fight I’m fighting inside my own head and body. They often even feel uncomfortable around you due to that, because they aren’t used to “bad” stuff like that. They categorize you and that’s that, and IT MAKES ME SICK.

I admire happy people, people who do not have that tiny voice in their head making them feel things that aren’t even true, who do not have to fight their own little wars with themselves every day, and I really hope that one day, I can finally count myself as one of them.

And to whoever reads this: thank you for spending your precious time reading my words. It definitely means a lot.