If you're coming to this post in the middle, go here for Part 1.
(Failed) Attempt at a Solution
I saw no point in seeking out a medical doctor. I might have mentioned my problems in the past to one doctor or another and just gotten shrugs. Certainly the trip to the ER in my senior year had stuck with me when they found "nothing wrong with me". Since I now believed that this was a food issue, I went to a nutritionist. The person I chose though practiced some form a quackery that relied heavily on herbal supplements that could only be procured through his office (of course); but I was desperate by that point and did whatever he prescribed. His treatment plan (which included numerous capsules taken multiple times of day to bolster my immune, digestive and nervous systems) included giving up all sugar and wheat-based products. Meats, fruits and veggies were fine and (despite the fact that I knew even by then that I was lactose intolerant and told him as much) he insisted that dairy products could stay.
So I cut pasta from my life and switched to spelt flour and sprouted breads. I made other dietary changes and took the prescribed pills that even then I felt were next to useless, but if there was even a chance that they'd make me better, I'd take them. And you know what? It actually helped! Over the course of a year my symptoms improved greatly and I could again eat without getting sick so frequently. Travel still caused problems, but it wasn't as bad, especially if I was mindful of what I ate, and at what time of day.
After a year of faithfully following the plan he had laid out, I slowly distanced myself from the nutritionist's practice, which wasn't easy since I was still very passive and had issues with offending others. The practitioner and his staff were not at all supportive of my leaving, and laid on the guilt pretty heavy when I started buying fewer pills and coming less frequently. "It must be nice being healthy," one secretary said in a snit when I confessed I was feeling better and so didn't need all these pills (lol wut?!). I finally had to cut ties completely in a fit of anger at their snide comments and manipulation (I was young and naïve, be kind). I should note that I have no issue with herbal supplements or vitamins, they have their place and serve their purpose, I just felt in this particular instance they weren't all they were cracked up to be.
Considering myself to be as better as I was going to get, I slowly started reintroducing previously forbidden foods. I'd reached a point where I could eat pretty much anything, to a point. Had to go easy on the dairy products, no matter what, but the richer and creamier it was, the more likely it was to cause problems. I was also bound by the sun when it came to my digestive system: I couldn't eat pretty much anything past 7:30, 8:00 at night (except maybe toast with a little butter) lest I be up late feeling miserable. Dinners and meals while traveling and at friend's houses needed to be handled with care. Strenuous exercise was also problematic (see previous posts about Karate rank tests). But this was my life now and I just accepted it.
It was my late 20's, early 30's that I dropped the "Travel Anxiety" label, somehow forgetting that anxiety had anything to do with my issues, and redubbed my affliction "IBS", as by now I had it firmly in my head that my problem was strictly food-related. Again, no doctor was involved in this decision as there continued to be "nothing wrong with me" medically. And I will admit, by this point I could link each and every instance of illness to something I had eaten earlier in the day as the trigger; but then we can make anything make sense under the right conditions.
Gradually, as the years wore on, my condition slowly worsened again. Then two things happened that gave me a new outlook on my tummy troubles and clued me in as to how I might be able to fix it. The first thing was about seven-ish years ago when I starting to get dry heaves as part of my attacks. It wasn't with every attack, but it was new, most unpleasant and slowly increasing in frequency with no apparent rhyme or reason. A bulb started to go off: if food was the cause of my problems, then shouldn't I be bringing something up with these dry heaves? Hmmmm.
Event number two was Thanksgiving of 2017 or 2018. I'd gone to my brother and sister-in-law's with my mother for dinner. They had chosen a late dinner time, which I knew was an almost guarantee for disaster, but I ate lightly and hoped for the best. Alas, the inevitable sour stomach started to rear it's ugly head and I parked myself on the floor off to the side in the living room after dinner (there were other people in the chairs and on the couch); and I tried to distract myself by playing with their young son on the floor (my spot was also closer to the bathroom; work smarter, not harder). Despite my best efforts, I was feeling steadily worse and I asked my mother if we could head out.
Mom was having none of it, she was socializing with her daughter-in-law in the kitchen and helping with dishes. I'd have to wait. Which I did, but I wasn't terribly happy about it. I returned to my spot on the floor and attempted to chat with the other guests, but I really wanted to go home! After another half hour or so, I had to give an ultimatum: I'd either go outside and pace in the driveway (fresh air and walking tend to be helpful) or we head out now. My frustrated mother decided it'd be far less embarrassing if we just went home (she could also see by this point that I was not holding it together very well).
Of course on the drive home she wanted to wax poetic about the meal while I begged her not to. Just the thought of food made me want to hurl. This only raised her ire further; what else was there to talk about after a lovely Thanksgiving dinner? Once we got home, I propped myself up against a stack of pillows on the couch (I lacked the ambition to open the hide-a-bed, plus there'd be no point as I'd be unable to lay down comfortably) and attempted to settle in to endure the next couple hours of suffering I knew I had ahead of me.
Mom just stood over me annoyed, and said the words that turned my life around. "This isn't IBS, this is a panic attack."
Not terribly helpful at the time, but it did strike a cord. Since I'd already started suspecting food wasn't truly the source of my troubles, it got me wondering just what could this be then?
Find out what the final resolution was here.
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