1-in-5

Statistics will have you believe that 1-in-5 people are emetophobic. Sorry but I don't believe this for a minute! For a start, I don't know a single other person who feels the way I do about puking, and I know more than 5 people. No really, I do! I mean, you have these people and you'll kind of mention "I've got a vomit phobia" and they'll go "Oooh, me too!". AS IF, you think indignantly, as they proceed to eat a sandwich with the very same unwashed hands they were holding on to a public handrail with, 5 minutes earlier!

And this is what it's all about. Hands. If 1-in-5 people really were emetophobic, the norovirus would be a much rarer illness (wouldn't that be nice?!) because us emetophobics are such hygiene freaks. We're obsessed with it to the point of bleeding hands and our recycle bins over-flowing with endless bottles of sanitizing spray/kitchen bleach/bathroom bleach.

Norovirus is spread by poor hygiene in most cases. Take simple measures to stop this, people, simple measures! Do as an emetophobe does and flush/turn the tap on with the opposite hand to your... err... toilet paper holding hand. Do as an emetophobe does and give those hands more than just a quick little once over - get right in between those fingers! If everyone did this, norovirus would be a thing of the past.

And for those that don't wash their hands properly or even at all, causing us poor emetophobes to panic frenziedly? Well why not employ such tactics as they do in the Middle East to deter theft. Cut their hands off. Think that's harsh? Then you're not an emet!

But nobody likes being sick!

OK, so how many times have you heard that before? I've lost count.

Noone likes being sick. Oh really? You mean it's not just me? I'm not the only person in this whole wide world who hates throwing up? Here was me thinking everyone else found it an enjoyable passtime!

People just don't get it, do they? I don't know about you, but it infuriates me when people say this. It's like they think you're all of a sudden going to have an epiphany and realise "That's right, nobody likes being sick, I think I'm... no wait... I AM cured!".

If ONLY!

Deflated

After finding the information on the internet that God accepts direct referrals, I called my surgery and the receptionist told me to drop a note in and the doctor would take a look and write a referral letter. I took a note up there requesting they do that, along with the printed page from Gods website as proof that I didn't need to go through the community team as first thought. (For those of you who don't know the history here - I'm not asking my doctor to refer me to God God, merely to the top emetophobia doctor in the country who, to me, is God!).

I get a call yesterday from my doctor, explaining she'd got my note. Unfortunately all is not quite as it might seem. For those of you unfamiliar with the NHS, it's all about budgets and funding... or lack of. Doctors in my area can refer directly to God, but only if the surgery they're attached to, allocates it's own budget. Mine does not. My heart sinks. She goes on to say she's on my side and agrees that 'failing' at normal therapy first (for which there's already a year-long waiting list!) is a bit extreme. She will call the Commissioner for Mental Health in my area and see if there's a possibility of them funding a referral or being seen for 'normal' therapy sooner than a year. I feel optimistic and excited again.

Well she called me back today and said it's not going to happen. The Commissioner won't fund my referral. She said she'll appeal on my behalf and asked me to contact my Health Visitor and ask for a letter of support (on the grounds that I get nervous taking my daughter to groups due to bugs etc so my phobia is therefore potentially affecting her) to go with the doctors appeal. She also said not to get my hopes up. It makes me feel like shit that my phobia potentially affects my daughter.

Looks like I'll have to wait a year for 'normal' therapy then. Which is likely to fail, as I've had CBT before and it didn't work. I'm already dreading the prospect of the next season of winter vomiting virus and we're only just out of this one.

Bored of this phobia ruling my life now.

Manchester

People sometimes ask me what my craziest reaction as an emet has been. There are quite a few to be honest, but the one that springs to mind the most is this one.

I was minding my own business one morning, with the daily news on in the background when all of a sudden Mr Newsreader announced that a resort in the Dominican Republic had been hit by a horrendous vomiting virus. It went on to interview people staying at the resort who described scenes of terror (well, to me at least), with people vomiting everywhere and collapsing left, right and centre, the illness spreading like wildfire. Literally everyone at the resort came down with it. I stared at the TV in horror. Instead of shots of beautiful sunny beaches with coconuts softly falling onto the warm, white sand, ready to be broken open and enjoyed by bronzed holiday makers, were rivers of vomit, scores of afflicted bodies in heaps lining the streets and virus particles the size of wagon wheels, brandishing knives (there weren't really, but this is what my brain started conjuring up).

Many people would just turn off the TV the second a report like this comes on but I'm one of those typical 'car crash viewer' kind of chicks who - despite being horrified by the content - has to sneak a peak, none-the-less, much to my chagrin, and quite often extreme regret. So I continued to watch. The report went on to say that all the holiday makers, some of whom were still ill, had flown back in to Manchester airport. WHAAAAAT??? I raged. How DARE they not quarantine them in the Dominican Republic! Why would they ship them back here and introduce the illness to the UK, where it could come steaming its way down the country to my front door! Why would they do that? Why? WHY??

The result - for a good couple of months, I checked all food items I purchased for any 'made in Manchester' evidence and refused to buy anything that had been.

Just call me Mrs Brown

Now I know it's very passé to have a whinge about the NHS, but I'm going to anyway.

There is a Dr who pioneers emetophobia treatment and I recently found out he practices right here in my area! Not meaning to burst anyones 'God lives in Heaven' bubble or anything but God is alive and well and running a vomit phobia clinic right here in London! I literally felt like all my Christmases had come at once and kicked my doctors door down for a referral. My doctor advised me it'd have to go through the local mental health team who'd assess me first. Fair enough, I thought.

I had my assessment yesterday, which I have been looking forward to since it was booked a couple of weeks back. Literally, I've been so excited about the prospect of this miserable phobia perhaps being dealt with, I'm like a teenager who's just discovered emo!

So I get there and sit in the waiting room where I'm asked by the toothless woman next to me if I'm married to Gordon Brown. MEH! I then get called in for my 'assessment'. What a waste of time. I won't bore you with the details, but the upshot was that I'd have to go for 'normal' therapy first, for which there is a year-long waiting list and only if that fails, will I be even so much as considered for referral to God's specialist clinic! I leave feeling very disheartened... hmmm, maybe my husband, Gordon Brown can bump me up the waiting list?

I get home and ferret around on the internet (I love you, internet!) and lo-and-behold, find an article written by God himself stating that if you live in the area I live in, you can be referred directly to him. None of this year-long failed-therapy-first rubbish! So it's back up the doctors for me today, begging for a direct referral. I'll let you know how I get on.

The Apple Core

For those of you who aren't emet, here's a little insight into how the mind of one might work. For those of you who are emet... sound familiar?

On the way to a friends the other day, one of my daughters buggy wheels rolled over an apple core.

Non-Emet: Now the non-emet probably wouldn't even notice and if they did, they wouldn't think anything of it other than "oh, an apple core".

Emet: God, what if the person who ate that apple had a stomach bug and had virus particles in their mouth when they ate that apple. The virus is now on the wheel of my buggy. That'll roll them all onto the hallway carpet. My feet will then tread where the virus has been rolled onto the hallway carpet and the virus will be all over the house. I'll drop something on the floor at some point, pick it up and the virus will be on my fingers and so on and so on, ad nauseum.... Now there's an appropriate phrase!

A Little History

So I guess I should tell you a little bit about me, give you a brief history of The Fear according to Elski. (Please note, I don't * any words out. Words to do with v* are not censored. This is a teeny tiny pigeon step towards normality - I have to embrace this recovery fully and give it my best shot. Oh, and there may be the odd swear word here and there!)

I don't know 'why', as I can't recall anything particularly traumatic about throwing up when I was a child - I didn't choke; it didn't happen in public in front of a big crowd; I wasn't chastised by angry parents; I wasn't hospitalised with a horrific illness - but I can recall every single detail about each episode of vomiting... what I was wearing; the pattern on the bowl I threw up in; what I'd had to eat previously; what was said to me before/during/after. All very bizarre considering that at the time, I merely got on with being ill, I didn't cry, throw hysterics or freak out.

All the same, back in those very early days, an obsession was born. Following an episode of illness at around age 9 (a stomach bug involving 3 episodes of vomiting) I'd ask my folks over and over again, every night "Will I be sick?" "But will I?" "Are you sure?" "Positive?". This went on for years, my poor folks! I suppose the older I got, the more I just internalised it as I knew how ridiculous I sounded and I eventually stopped asking. But I didn't stop worrying. Which is when the OCD manifested itself... Ohhhhh OCD, you tedious bastard! If I didn't laugh at my little odd behaviours, I'd cry. To the naked eye of the average person, I'm normal. Young(ish), popular (even if I do say so myself), (moderately) intelligent. But scratch below the surface and there's a whole world of misery and ridiculousness!

So this, my friends, is how I became an obsessive four-times-touching-lest-I-jinx-myself, finger-crossing, hand-washing emetofreak! But enough already, you'll doubtless become more than familiar with my quirks throughout this blog so no need to bore you with the specifics now.

Anyway - why tackle my phobia now? Especially after years of it becoming deeply ingrained. Well, I had a baby 16 weeks ago and my phobia has gone into complete overdrive! So the time has come to do something about this craziness. I have an assessment with the Mental Health Team on wednesday... wish me luck!!