Therapy

Counseling, CBT, whatever. I can't tell you whether I was skeptical or anything before I went because I honestly didn't know what to expect. I thought that the stereotype of a couch and box of tissues on a side table was probably just a big cliche, but that's all the thought I'd put into it.

Apart from, that is, the intense worry, tears, stress induced diarrhea, sickness and panic that I brought upon myself the morning of my first session. I was terrified! Not of dealing with this life-long phobia either, but simply of feeling sick when I go there. I didn't care what horrible memories I had ready to be extracted from my defective mind or whether I would fail in being 'cured' but that simple little thing that maybe I'd be sick when I was there. All over the therapist's lovely floor (I had imagined everything to be brand new, pristine and perfect). Still, I went and dealt with it and became the cliche of a person who has therapy that I had imagined. Going into the room wracked with worry, tense and shaking, coming out smiling and almost skipping down the street.

On the way there was interesting, I saw my old friend's Dad walking down the high street and thought 'how ironic'. This is the friend that I mentioned in my post on Deceber 8th - the manipulative one. Little did I know that this would become the pivotal point of why I have emetophobia in the first place. I wouldn't find that out until the fifth session though.
As I left I walked towards the library to meet my Mum and on the path was a little pile of puke. I walked right past it and didn't give a shit. Something good had happened.

Each Monday I'd go back and start of telling her how I was feeling in that moment. She'd then ask me how my week had been and I'd tell her how it was in terms of anxiety. Usually if something had gone wrong she'd ask something like 'so why do you think you felt like that?' and it would all just come pouring out. Honestly, my first worry was '50 minutes a session is too long, I'll run out of things to say'. I couldn't have been more wrong.

Each week I'd go up to the room, sit down and she'd go and get a glass of water for us each. She showed me where the toilets were and put a door stop in the corridoor so I could run there if I felt sick. Everything was on my terms. The rooms weren't what I'd imagined at all...with stand alone heaters, unmatching furniture and very little decoration. We used a plastic bin to put the tiny alarm clock on and take note of how much time we had left. It might sound a little stark but quite honestly the bareness of the walls and the simplicity was perfect. Cosy even. I took a photo of the children's drawing on the wall when I left as a reminder of how comforting that room was.

Session Five
I'd been noticing how much better my life had been getting and how much more positive I was since I'd started therapy but I wasn't sure we were getting to the heart of anything. My therapist had said she wanted me to figure it out for myself by asking me questions and I was skeptical about that, but it worked.

I started asking myself when the first time I had a bout of sickness and starvation was. It was when I was around 8-9 when that friend had come to stay at my house for the weekend. I dreaded her coming round because she could say 'jump' and I'd say 'how high?'. This was an endless source of amusement to her and she'd make fun of me infront of our school friends, saying she liked something so I'd say 'yes I like it too' and then say 'oh actually I don't like it' so I'd then say 'no I don't either' so she wouldn't hate me. I had to like and dislike the same things as her or she'd turn the entire school against me (no joke, she was the most popular and powerful girl). I can remember days standing int he playground alone because I'd said or done something wrong and having to apologise to her so I'd have some friends again.

Anyway, that weekend she came to stay she wanted to play a game that I can only describe as 'let's make Lucy eat loads of gross stuff and laugh maniacally while she does it'. I can't remember everything that she told me to eat, apart from hamster food and whole peppercorns but by the end of it I felt really ill and totally humiliated. If I hadn't done it I'd have to suffer the consequences at school on Monday and at age 8, I'd no idea how to say 'no'.
Mum took me into town after dropping her off to run some errands and I can remember the sheer terrified panic I felt in the Post Office when I was positive I was going to be sick. For 3/4 days after I ate nothing but a walnut.

So there you are, the reason I have emetophobia and the reason why I feel nauseous every time I have a blow to my confidence. The combination of feeling so lowly and so nauseous somehow got them linked together in my brain. Nowadays if I don't go out and do something to boost my confidence I'll get into a cycle of feeling sick and not going out because of it.

The only difference is that now I know exactly what it is, I can take an adult perspective on it and tell myself that 'there's nothing to worry about anymore'. The days of being manipulated by friends are very much over and I know exactly when to recognise the warning signs of someone starting to control me. My therapist wanted me to remember not to let it happen again and her reasoning was 'you're very keen to please and usually don't mind what happens, letting other people make decisions and you'll go along with the consensus. This is fine until you DO have an opinion or a preference on something and it comes as a huge shock to them. They feel they're losing control of you and try to tighten their grip'. Her advice was then to be more decisive in everyday life, to voice my opinions and say when I do or don't want to do something. Possibly one of the most valuable things ever said to me...

Hello Again

Well it's been three months since I've written here and a lot has happened in terms of emetophobia. At the moment it seems like a little niggle, whereas then it was taking over my life so I'm feeling very positive.

Things like the 3 hour train journey are still hard, but having done it about 10 times now I know I can and I do, every time. The stress of it tires me out but that's a good excuse to have a bath run for me and an early night! That's just about the worst thing about it, if I'm honest.
The plane journey seems very insignificant now, even though it marked a huge step towards my recovery. There were tears in the departure lounge, gritted teeth, shaking hands etc. but in the end I found I was ok. I rather disliked the plan journey there as it was dark and I couldn't see whether we were on our side or going straight. That made me feel a little dizzy and quite sick but as soon as we landed that went away and I realised it was actually probably nerves. I LOVED the flight back, which was early in the morning but light enough to see the clouds whizzing by. I even ate the sandwich we were given and was relaxed enough to enjoy my podcast so that goes to show that once you just go and do something, it gets so much better.

Anyway, I'm rambling. I'll say now that I still have days where I wake up feeling anxious and the whole anxiety - nausea cycle begins. I still carry my bottles of ginger beer, andrews salts, heartburn tablets and little plastic bags everywhere I go but I no longer feel guilty about doing so. I need them to make me feel calm and that's just how I'm dealing with this at the moment. They will go when I feel comfortable without them.

I still have emetophobia and I think that maybe I always will, but it's starting to get more and more insignificant as time goes on. Why? 6 weeks of therapy. This calls for another post...