So, lets get this IBS business out in the open. As I said before, I haven’t been diagnosed yet, but a doctor I spoke to a month ago asked me about 700 questions, I said yes to I think 694 of them, and then he uttered the blasted acronym that has now overtaken my life. I still have to go and have tests that would eliminate me from some other similar, equally hideous diseases, but a few of his questions were so specific to what’s been happening to me, I’m pretty sure he’s on the right track. Then again, he could be like those tricksters that Derren Brown tries to expose and maybe he just read my body language, but I’m pretty sure I wasn’t subconsciously miming sitting on the toilet while I was in his office.
So I know next to nothing about IBS. I’ve read a bit and have tried to start changing the way I eat, but there’s no point going all gung ho till I get around to the doctor stuff. Besides, that gives me a perfect excuse to continue my denial and eat a lot of my favourite things, which apparently are like culinary napalm for my stomach. Well, they’re definitely like napalm on their way out.
I shall document my findings and my road to better health here, so maybe this will interest you, maybe it will just put you off your dinner. Either way, I shall label any posts which are predominantly about IBS under the handy category “Bum Bum”, so you can easily find them or ignore them.
I must say, I’m completely horrified that I have something wrong with me. And the fact that I’m not doing everything I could to fix it, that I’ve let more than a month pass already since the visit to Dr David Copperfield, tells me I’m still in denial. Other than colds, flu and hangovers, I’m never sick. I’ve never been to the hospital, never broken any bones, never had stitches and, somewhat amazingly considering the amount of times in my twenties I woke up with no memory of the night before,I’ve never been pregnant. It’s just so typical too that my disease/condition/deformity is something utterly embarrassing. But on the plus side, at least it gives me a bottomless well from which to mine what’s sure to be amusing anecdotes of my misfortunes right? There’s always that.
Apparently IBS is a sign that I’m not happy and overly stressed. In fact it’s more than that, it’s neon lights the size of a billboard flashing at me that I need to sort myself out. When I think back on my symptoms this has been going on for about 15 years, only getting to the point of ridiculousness this year. I never was too observant and it’s taken a dramatic loss of my quality of life for me to face it.
Apparently the gut is connected to the head and if one’s upset, it expresses itself via the other. Thanks very much head/gut. Couldn’t you just make me sprout a bit of a rash or something instead? Well, if depression can be measured in trips to the loo, I must be damn near suicidal. I know, I know, there’s people starving in Africa. But knowing that is no help. Happiness is relative, and I don’t mean having your Dad come over to mow the lawn. I mean, it’s very difficult to throw off your own problems even knowing there’s so many other people in the world suffering far worse fates than your own. And people who say they do are either lying, in denial or they’re nuns (and I’m even suspicious that lot are prone to a porky pie or two). No, happiness is not learning to accept and be grateful for what you have even if you’re miserable, for me happiness is a solid poo.