So the theory behind most phobias is that there was an instance in your childhood where you encountered something that, as a child, you failed to deal with because, well, you were a child an didn't understand what was happening or didn't understand the dangers (or lack of them) involved and reverted to fear as the default emotion. Leaving a situation or an object that you associate with fear.
With a previous Councillor, I delved into my childhood. The theory being that if you can reassess the situation as an adult which you failed to deal with as a child you can look to overcome the phobia.
I suffer from emetophobia, a fear of being sick/vomiting. The problem is I can pinpoint the exact moment I began to feel afraid of being sick, I remember being unwell but not afraid, then being unwell and feeling scared. My phobia was born out of being left alone to deal with being unwell too many times and adults not believing me when I told them I was unwell or not doing anything to help.
At the age of 9 with no real memories of vomiting or dealing with vomiting I needed an adult to look after me and tell me it was o.k and I had nothing to be afraid of, that they would put me to bed with a bucket just in case and maybe some medicine or something to settle my stomach and be there for me to make it o.k but no one was...not once, not twice, three times. The first two times I took it in my stride to a point, convinced my mum and dad would appear and take me home to make me better but they did not. And the third time it happened, when once again I was ill and no one listened to me and no one did anything to help I was terrified. And grotesque as it is I remember vividly starting to be sick at age 9 that third time and screaming and crying in utter fear and terror that I did not want to be sick.
That no one helped me still baffles me to this day. Age 9 is my first conscious memory of being sick - obviously I had been unwell as a child previous to this, but non that I remember. At age 9 I had missed almost none (if any) school, I enjoyed school and never played 'hooky' or tried to get a sick day. I was not a sickly child, I never took ill, and dont remember ever crying wolf.
The one day I told my mum and dad I felt unwell and I needed them to look after me they told me I was being silly, they forced me to eat breakfast (- which was not a sensible slice of dry toast or something to gently line the stomach of an ill child, but was a bowl full of milky coco pops) and sent me off to school. I told the teachers I felt unwell and they told me that I'd have to stay at school. At around 10:25am having only been at school an hour and a half I threw up a disgusting curdled, chocolate, milky concoction in front of the entire school in assembly. Running down the corridor with my hand over my mouth trying not to be sick on the floor and the hot, acidic bile ran through my fingers and all over me. By the time I made it to the loos I had stopped being sick. At this point I would describe myself as a very calm 9 year old. I got undressed and cleaned myself up, popped on my PE kit and went to the office while my parents were called.
At this point I was not afraid. I felt unwell, but not afraid.
The office rang my mum at work, couldn't get a hold of her...my dad at work, couldn't get a hold of him...my Nana who lived down the street, did not work and was always in...no answer there either. I was sent back to lessons as no one could be reached. I had lunch, but lesson after lunch and I knew I was going to be sick again. For the second time. But I recognized the signs and ran for the loo - only AFTER asking my teacher permission to go! (as crazy as that is!) I was alone again, alone in the loos during lessons being sick. The 9 year old me, again, dealt with this immaculately...flushed the loo, cleaned myself up and I went back and told the teacher, went back to the office, they called again...my mum...my dad...my nana...no one answered, no one came and got me. I was alone again. School finished. I left and found no one to pick me up, no one waiting at the gates for me. My Nana normally walked up for me. My mum and dad worked until 5:30 so I'd stay at my Nana's until they got home. My uncle finally pulled up in his car, at this point I suspected something was wrong. I only lived half a mile down the road and always walked, my nana would walk, my parents would walk, I never got picked up in a car, and very very rarely by my uncle. Where was everyone? My uncle drove me home, not to my nana's house. Why was I going home? My parents should've been at work? As we pulled up at my house so did my dads car with my mum and dad inside. Why were they home so early? Me, the ill 9 year old who was wearing a PE kit in october (brr) who was unwell, cold, tired and had no food on her stomach needed to be put to bed with a little gentle food and some love was instead bundled into my parents car and drove straight to Newcastle (a half hour drive drive) and made to sit in the cold car for an hour (my mum stayed with me)
It turned out my grandad had a stroke earlier that day, everyone had been at the hospital all day. I was 9 in 1995 - this was pre-mobile phones. That was why the school couldn't get hold of anyone and why my parents came and got me then drove straight back to the hospital to see my grandad. But because I'd been unwell they wouldn't let me on the ward to see him in case I carried a virus in, so I had to sit in the back of my dads car with my mum while he went in to see my grandad. My grandad was fine and made a full recovery from his stroke.
The third time was a month or so later I was ill again. I felt o.k on the morning but started to feel unwell at school. I told the teachers, they wouldn't do anything and told me to get back to lessons. I skipped lunch and felt terrible all day. I got to my Nana's house and told my nana. I refused to eat any tea. When my parents came home from work they were informed I was 'saying' I felt unwell and wouldn't eat anything. My parents seemed frustrated, like they didnt believe I was unwell, they seemed to think I was attention seeking or just being awkward for the sake of it, and they decided to make me eat - not the worst this in the world, but you should give an ill child (and an ill adult for that matter!) something sensible to line there stomach - right? No, once again they fed me a very unsuitable meal of a HUGE glass of milk and a potato waffle cover in a mountain of cheese. And although I understand why they did it, as I was refusing to eat they gave me food they knew I really liked and wasn't often allowed in order to 'get something in me' but it really didnt help.
As I got up to go to bed I only made it to the bottom of the stairs, the nausea ran over me like a wave of hot and cold sweats. My mouth was dry and watery at the same time. And this time I felt afraid. That fear I felt is still so vivid it turns my stomach to knots just thinking about it. I turned to my mum and dad and told them, 'I feel sick' with a look of panic in my eye, at which point they just got angry and started to shout...'Oh no, you're just doing this now because you don't want to go to bed. Come on now, you're just being silly, GET TO BED, UP THOSE STAIRS NOW' I started to cry, but more of a fearful and panicked cry than a sad cry, 'No, No I feel sick I really really feel sick....' In the midst of the shouting and crying and panic I started being repeatedly and violently sick, but I didn't want to be sick. My mum and dad were angry at me for being unwell, they were shouting and calling me a liar, they didn't believe I felt unwell. I was trying to fight it but I couldn't. And in between each wave of vomit I was screaming and crying 'NO NO I DONT WANT TO BE SICK, I DONT WANT TO BE SICK' and fighting it made the sensation worse, I pulled all the muscles in my stomach trying to fight the feeling.
Now I was afraid of it.
No one had believed me, I had told my parents multiple times I was unwell on each occasion, I had told teachers and my grandparents. I was 9 years old and I needed looking after and NO ONE looked after me, NO ONE believed I was unwell - which perplexes me as at the age of 9 to my knowledge I was a good kid that wouldn't cry wolf. NO ONE explained what was happening to me and NO ONE told me it would be o.k I was left alone each time to deal with it and that third time when I was genuinely afraid my mum and dad seemed angry at me for being unwell. Not caring. They did not look after me. They didnt believe me and shouted at me for feeling unwell like I was a naughty child doing it on purpose.
After that I remember feeling afraid that I would get sick again. I sort of started 'crying wolf' as I seemed to become hypersensitive to it and was afraid of feeling sick. I would tell teachers I felt unwell when I wasn't really unwell and when I went out with my parents would have little appetite and when they asked what was wrong I'd say I felt sick - in these following instances I don't think I did feel sick, I was just afraid of it and the anxiety was starting to take hold. This actually made it much worse. Every time I faked or exaggerated sickness my parents seemed to get more angry and upset with me. Shouting and telling me I couldn't feel sick again. I felt like I was a liar and a bad child.
My mum was obviously very concerned about me, understandably. She took me to the GP, explaining I was off food and seemed to be saying I felt off colour a lot. I distinctly remember the GP asking my mum to leave the room for a second to speak to me alone (I imagine for safeguarding and such) My mum left the room and when the GP asked what was wrong I burst in to tears and spluttered out that I was afraid of being sick. At age 9 I had identified the problem and alerted a health professional. And the GP completely ignored what I said. She called my mum back into the room and told her I had probably just had a virus that was taking a while to go away and I'd be fine in a week or so with plenty fluids and sent me on my way. She did not even acknowledge what I had said, and I was so afraid to tell anyone, it was so hard and scary to tell here and I thought I could trust my doctor, that they would make it better. But she ignored my cry for help as well.
At this final straw I developed a whole new complex line of thought. I became afraid of telling people if I felt sick. Even if I genuinely felt sick I wouldn't tell anyone. I twisted it in my mind that if I told anyone I felt sick then people would be angry and that I was admitting it to myself and that this would make me sick. I stopped drinking milk, eating cereal and avoided foods that I thought might give me a bad stomach. And from there my fear grew exponentially.
I believe had someone looked after me, or listened to me when I asked for help, or done something then to get me over the fear that I may have avoided a world of terror.
I asked my parents for help.
I asked my grandparents for help.
I asked my teachers for help.
I asked my doctor for help.
They all thought I was lying, they ignored me, got angry with me and they did nothing to look after me or reassure me that I was o.k. during these traumatic events. I was 9. I didnt understand how I felt, or how to make myself feel better, or what to do. No one helped me.
Now aged 28, 19 years later my phobia and anxiety has developed into a complex array of other 'linked' phobias, panic attacks, anxiety disorder and severe depression. Which I am now trying to untangle myself out of with some difficulty. And I STILL cannot talk to my parents about it.
An 'un'perfect example. I advised my dad today that I did not want to go to a gig and see a comedian with him, that mum could have my ticket and they could go together. My dad knows that this is linked to my anxiety and panic attacks, which have been perticularly bad these last couple of months. I fear I will not be able to remain calm in a very full hot sweaty auditorium with lots of drunk and potentially 'bug-carrying' people for 2-3 hours. However my dad went straight on the offensive, saying I was 'selfish' for not going with him and that he 'didn't want to talk about the reasons why I didnt wanna go' My phobia and anxietys have become the proverbial elephant in the room as far as my parents are concerned.
So now, age 28, my parents STILL get angry at me for feeling like this and STILL continue to reduce me to tears over something that I really don't want to be afraid of. They STILL manage to make my fear worse. After almost 20 years they are still the ones fueling my anxiety.
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