I had to split this up into three pieces just because it ended up being so long. There'll be links to take you to the other parts at the end of this post.
Disclaimer: this post is not meant to diagnose or treat any medical conditions. Though a Registered Nurse, I am not a doctor and cannot diagnose. This post is merely anecdotal with the intent that my personal experiences may resonate with others who experience similar symptoms. Also note that I've never been formally diagnosed with IBS, panic attacks or even anxiety.
I should also preface here that this post isn't going to portray my parents in a positive light. Know that there were plenty of aspects in mine and my brothers' lives in which our parents were perfectly involved with and supportive of; this was not one of them and I don't in the least hold that against them. My condition (because it had no apparent physical/medical origin) was only a source of annoyance for all involved because it couldn't be "fixed" via "regular" means. It meant that I was left to my own devices to deal with it.
The Problem
So to start: IBS is short for "Irritable Bowel Syndrome". The Mayo Clinic defines it as: "a common disorder that affects the large intestine. Signs and symptoms include cramping, abdominal pain, bloating, gas, and diarrhea or constipation, or both." Its root causes aren't wholly known, making treatment difficult.
You can read more about panic attacks here if you're interested, but I'm running on the assumption that most people know what they are. Here's also some interesting information from VeryWellMind.com about the connection between the two conditions.
So, if I've never been diagnoses with either IBS or panic attacks, why do I think I have one, the other or both? Well, I can say that I've always had a "nervous stomach" going back for as far as I could remember. I never dealt with new or stressful situations well and that nervousness/anxiety almost always manifested as an upset stomach. I rarely threw up during these episodes, but it was most definitely uncomfortable. I wanted nothing more than to huddle in a quiet place, clutching my stomach. My parents suffered my nervous fits with nary a comment. It was simply an inconvenience when I'd beg to go home from school as a small child for an upset stomach that never amounted to anything; and half the time my requests to go home were denied. These nervous attacks only got worse as I got older.
A couple notable events that particularly stand out from my youth: One time in late elementary school, a spring storm blew in from the west. The approaching leading edge of the storm cloud was pitch black. I've never seen a cloud so thoroughly dark before or since. This instantly threw me into a panic even though I intellectually knew it was "just a thunderstorm". Still, thunderstorms can harbor tornadoes and that threat was a recurring source of worry in my younger years despite my parents always assuring us kids that we had a plan to go to the basement in the event of such an emergency. (A tornado has never touched down anywhere near my parents' house by the way, though I've seen scars from past ones near where friends of the family lived.)
With this fear, I hid up in my room, in bed; trembling, breathing heavy and trying my best to deal with awful nausea as I listened to the storm approach and break overhead. Wind and rain pelted our drafty farm house for hardly more than fifteen minutes; and then it passed with no harm done. The power didn't even go out.
Another time, likely in middle school, I was staying overnight at a friend's house (a friend I'd stayed with many times before and after with no problems) and out of the blue I had a sudden sense that something terrible was going to happen; perhaps the furnace would explode or the house was going to blow up for no good reason. Either way, I couldn't shake this awful sense of dread and laid in bed for well over an hour (maybe two), trembling and fighting back waves of nausea while my heart pounded in my ears. At last I couldn't take it anymore and I asked her parents if they could take me home (her parents seemed to never sleep and they were still awake when I wandered into the kitchen to make my plaintive plea). Just an fyi: the house never did blow up and still stands to this day.
The worst was when I was a senior in high school, I had taken on a babysitting gig for a couple I hadn't met before, but whom were family of a classmate of mine. I had put out an ad in the local paper hoping to raise extra funds for college. I felt nervous and queasy the whole day of school leading up to my first time babysitting for perfect strangers . I'd met with the parents just a few days prior so they could get to know me before leaving their infant daughter and preschool-aged son in my care. I had seemed dependable enough and I tried my best to put on a brave front when showing up that evening to watch their kids. I was given thoroughly detailed instructions on what to do in various situations and then the parents headed out for a childless evening. I loved kids (still do) and my original plan had been to play with the boy and watch TV with him until bedtime while keeping a loose eye on the baby, who I'd been assured would sleep the whole evening - which she did. Instead my stomach just became increasingly sour and the shaking wouldn't stop. I rushed to the bathroom twice to throw up, which rather distressed the little boy (and myself! I was now convinced I had a stomach bug and I was going to get the kids sick). When I wasn't puking, I had diarrhea to contend with too.
I ended up calling the children's' grandparents to take my place in watching the kids and the grandfather was perfectly fine driving me the half mile home. There I parked myself on the couch with the "barf bucket" (a cleaning bucket that served double-duty for the gastrically challenged) and trembled from head to toe while breathing heavy, and was utterly unable to doze off despite feeling exhausted.
This was the first time my parents expressed any concern (that I noticed anyway) about one of these fits as it was so much more severe than anything previous. And I was convinced that it was utterly different from my other nervous episodes; certain that I was physically ill. When I expressed that I was dizzy, had a hard time forming complete sentences and my hands were starting to seize up and form claw shapes (in hindsight, that was all from hyperventilation), they decided it was time to take me to the emergency room where I got my first ride in a wheelchair because by then I was having a real hard time walking straight.
The staff ran some tests and hooked me up to a bag of fluids, but they couldn't find anything wrong with me. After being there for an hour or so I was suddenly feeling better and so was sent home. No one even mentioned the possibility that this was actually "just" a panic attack. It never crossed anyone's mind until much later.
I tried babysitting for that family one more time after that, and though I did make it through the whole time they'd hired me for, I was utterly miserable. My stomach just did flip-flops and my body shook so much that I couldn't play with the boy and he was sent to bed early while I watched TV to try to calm my nerves. I had to give up on my babysitting aspirations after that. I just couldn't handle it.
By the time I went to college, I had been around enough between trips through school and Girl Scouts to know that my first night sleeping in a strange place wasn't going to be pleasant (as symptoms typically only arose after dark). Those symptoms included: intense nausea (with no vomiting); uncontrollable shaking; heavy breathing; pounding heart; tender belly; and usually diarrhea/loose stools (though pooping sometimes made me feel worse, so I'd often try not to go to the bathroom). Sometimes my mouth would water and I'd have to spit into a tissue, or (gross!) just let myself drool because swallowing would only sour my stomach more. Laying down would make me feel far worse, so I'd have to sit up or walk around. I could typically doze lightly in this state (while sitting up of course), but I'd have weird dreams and wake often. Having the lights out would exacerbate symptoms, so lights needed to stay on for the duration. Stomach remedies like Pepto Bismol didn't really help, but they typically didn't make it worse either. Obviously I had no interest in food during these attacks and the smell, sometimes even just the thought of food was a big no-no; though I found nibbling of something very bland and simple, like lettuce wasn't a bad thing. I usually had no interest in drinking anything other than light sips of water. Symptoms tended to come on suddenly and leave just as quickly; the whole ordeal lasting several hours. Once it passed though, I'd feel perfectly fine. I could lay down again and sleep soundly. The dark posed absolutely no problem.
This pattern continued through college and then into living on my own. Around that time that I started calling my affliction "Travel Anxiety" because it seemed to only happen when traveling. This of course didn't stop me from taking trips, it just meant I had to plan for these inevitable inconveniences. The real problem arose when I starting having troubles eating at restaurants or at friend's houses. This is where my anxiety issues started getting linked to food in my head. If at a restaurant, I'd have to pay attention to where the bathrooms were in case I had an attack and have to rush off with a bout of diarrhea (which was becoming more frequent). I'd have to warn friends that my stomach may take a turn for the worse and I may need to go home early or just live in the bathroom for a half hour.
This affliction became more than just irritating or annoying, I was starting to lose weight (which was a bit of a problem as I've always been on the skinnier side). I was also starting to become afraid to eat because by this point in my life (early to mid-20's) it seemed that I was getting sick about every-other time I ate. This was becoming a real issue.
Click here for Part 2, or if you want to skip to the end, here's Part 3.
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