"My Fear of Throwing Up Is Ruining My Life"

When I was 17, just starting college, I refused any sip of alcohol offered to me. It wasn't that my Catholic high school had rubbed off on me and I thought the devil would somehow pop up from a Barton's-based punch. It was that, if the scene where Cady Heron pukes up jungle juice in Mean Girls taught me anything, alcohol leads to vomiting. And I am terrified of vomiting.

I'm 23 now, and I haven't thrown up in 12 years. I made it through all of high school and all of college without puking. I once ate an edible (more so because I like chocolate than because I enjoy weed), and for hours — which felt like days in weed-governed time — I sat by a toilet, dry heaving, but never actually completed the act. To this day, I have no idea if I've just lucked out and avoided the annual stomach flu for 12 years in a row, or if I'm just somehow psychologically preventing my body from throwing up.

Any sign of an impending stomachache freaks me out, which is made worse by the fact that I have acid reflux and get stomachaches whenever I'm stressed. As a kid, when my phobia first began to spin out of control, I would frequently get stomachaches halfway through dinner, because I was worried something I was eating would make me sick. The more I worried, the more acid filled my stomach, and the worse my stomachache got. 

This would go on in a vicious cycle until I was left panicked and unable to finish the half-eaten meatball in front of me. I didn't have an eating disorder, but I had a difficult relationship with food. I wasn't scared of eating, or putting on weight, I was scared of not being able to keep something down. I would eat smaller portions because I hoped it would give me less to get sick off of. I wanted to binge eat, to finish my rich dessert, but I was too scared that something would disagree with my stomach. It was a gripping fear: the cause of many dinner table tears and nights spent waking up my parents. ​

As I get older, I like to think my fear is subsiding, but really I'm just learning to control it. I eat a lot, but still feel more at ease if I'm eating several small portions throughout the day rather than three large meals, because I'm convinced that my stomach will be happier that way. If I get caught in a fit of nerves, I still get a stomachache, which will set off my vomit-radar and put me in a terror — but I have ways to cope. 

People who know me well have seen me abruptly push myself from the table, but once I get my bearings, I can calm myself down, have some mint tea, and realize that puking probably wouldn't end my life. It's more than likely that Google and WebMD would still diagnose me as an emetophobe, as would a therapist, which is why I don't bring it up, even on my own private web browser. The more I ignore my fear, the less I dwell on it, and the better my stomach feels.

If someone throws up, I still have to leave the room. I cannot hold back someone's hair if they're getting sick, so I wasn't the greatest college gal pal. What happens if, or when, I get pregnant? And worse, how would I care for a sick child? Of course, I'm rational enough to hear the irrationality behind what I'm saying. And if I have no patience for people who won't go near a daddy long legs, I can understand why people would judge a twentysomething for abstaining from dessert, or a third drink, because they have a fear of vomiting. 

So, I simply choose not to mention it. But I'll still turn down another round of drinks.

​Follow Maya on Twitter.