how vomit controls my life
an in-depth discussion on emetophobia.
If you have emetophobia, please check in with yourself and do not read if you’re feeling anxious. This piece contains uncensored references to vomiting, as well as accounts of OCD, irrational thought patterns, and maladaptive coping mechanisms.
Today at work, I spent most of my time glancing at every surface, seeing evil, green, and hairy germs, as if my eyes themselves were microscopes. Every door knob, computer mouse, and pen were covered in stomach viruses, all clumped together like fish eggs. My coworker was sick last night, with an alleged stomach illness. So naturally, them coming into work the very next day meant shedding the remainder of their active viral load onto every surface. This was day one of war, a battle I have fought countless times. I’m proud to say I usually win—the fight is me versus the stomach bug, trying to outlive one another.
If you’re not phobic of vomit, your first thought is probably something along the lines of, “But what if it wasn’t contagious? It was probably just food poisoning.” Unfortunately, emetophobia isn’t very forgiving when it comes to uncertainties. If you’re anything like me, you’ve likely done a disturbing amount of scientific research on food poisoning and stomach viruses, so the average person just sounds like an idiot. If the chance of infection is anything above 0%, it’s time to raise your fucking weapons.
Following my swirly life line back to kindergarten, I revisit a memory where my sweet teacher is giving us a welcome speech on our first day. “The bathroom is right over there. If you need to go, go right away. You don’t need to ask. And if you need to throw up, make sure you do it in the bathroom.” So, the bathroom is for throwing up, I thought.
I could recount every time I have thrown up since I gained consciousness around age 3 or 4, including where I was, what I was wearing, and specific conversations that happened before and after. When I was a kid, I decided my best line of defense was to force myself to stay awake at night so I could prepare for the onset of vomiting that might be coming. It was coming eventually, so why not be ready every night? This way, at least I wouldn’t wake up and immediately vomit all over my bed, but I could have time to feel the first signs of illness and stop it from coming. Reading entire chapter books, playing Kung Fu Panda on my Nintendo DS, and writing a list of my crushes were some of the activities that helped me during these nights of offense. I was so exhausted, my body begging me to fall asleep—I even considered using toothpicks to pry my eyes open like I saw in a Mr. Bean movie. I was posted up like a security guard, frisking any modicum of suspicion that arose in my body or mind.
I ran scans through my body constantly, like an antivirus program on a computer, checking for abnormalities that could indicate an unwanted intruder. Another great idea I had was to glaze my eyes around my digital clock before bed every night. My eyes would sweep around the big red digits—nine, four, five—in a satisfying circle. It felt so good to stretch my eye muscles like that, so I did it again, around each segment that made up the time. Then, I decided to make sure I only ended on even numbers before putting my head down to rest. If it was 9:44 PM, I would do another round until it reached 9:45 PM. It felt incredibly good, knowing that if I performed this ritual, I would not throw up all night.
I continued to embellish my ritual with new actions, such as praying for every person and animal in my life, whispering "I love you" to mommy, daddy, etc., starting over if I missed anybody. Surely, God would spare me from vomiting if I expressed my deep gratitude! When I did inevitably get sick on the rare occasion, I thought, ugh, I must have not counted enough tonight. Next time, I’ll do better.
Losing sleep over this eventually became more complex because my parents would tell me, “You know, Lauren, if you don’t sleep, your immune system won’t be strong enough to fight off a stomach bug!” Touché. With that in mind, I would try to ensure that the balance between staying awake and getting rest was optimal, so I could both do my vomit-prevention ritual and keep my immune system up to standard.
The way my parents became absolute god figures in regard to reassurance was almost as frightening as my phobia itself. I won’t throw up tonight, right? If I was sick, I would have thrown up already, right? Do I look pale?— My dad would assure me I was fine and that if I threw up that night, he would give me $1000. That made me incredibly calm.
I would lie in bed, counting on my fingers six hours from my last meal, and diligently noting the time—it was the witching hour. Six hours was what I read was the general incubation period for food poisoning, the time between ingesting the illness and the onset of vomiting. If my calculated time was 3:00 AM., my goal was to stay up until that time, and then I could peacefully fall asleep. When I reached my incubation-time goal, my body fled with comfort, a feeling of bliss washing over me. I made it this time. I can relax for now.
When I was old enough to surf the web freely as a curious tween, I began to Google my fear of vomiting. When I saw there was a whole-ass term for it, my entire world exploded; “Emetophobia: an anxiety disorder that causes an intense fear of vomiting, seeing others vomit, or even feeling sick.” Wait, what the fuck—other people have this too? At first, seeing it called a “phobia” felt like a slap in the face because it seemed more like a death sentence, a curse, a profound problem that could only be fixed by a brain transplant.
Eventually, I stumbled across web forums like r/emetophobia on Reddit and emetophobia groups on Facebook. What struck me was that the majority of members on Facebook were from the UK—to this day, it seems that the UK houses most emetophobes—perhaps due to their high rates of norovirus. Anyhow, I began to turn to the internet for reassurance, as one does. As I got older and learned my parents were, in fact, not God, I needed a more robust form of comfort. And what better method than consulting sweet middle-aged British women online? Hi, it’s currently 12 a.m. and I have a weird pain on my side, and my throat feels weird. Could this be a sign I will v?* (We used censors such as v* for vomit and s* for sick). Comments would flood in: “Sounds like acid, hon. Don’t worry, chew some mint gum and take deep breaths xx.” What a relief. Thank you, Mary Elizabeth Campbell from Bristol.
Unlike most phobias that invoke a fight-or-flight response, emetophobia tends to trigger a flight response for me first. If you’re scared of clowns, you may not like Halloween, you may avoid children’s birthday parties, or you might punch a harrowing clown in the face. If you have a phobia of heights, you won’t climb a ladder, and you can protest if somebody tries to force you to. If you’re scared of throwing up, you’re shit out of luck. Getting your stomach removed is theoretically an option, but not viable for most people (trust me, I’ve considered it).
For me, the best course of action is to flee a scene containing vomit as fast as possible, so that I cannot not hear, see, or breathe in the particles. This is only when the pathetic fight had failed (my rituals, for example), when somebody in my household or social circles would fall ill. When I was younger, this consisted of running outside to my backyard when my sister would get sick. I would run faster than ever, almost gliding down the stairs to the living room, booking it through the kitchen, to the back door, and out to the porch. Not a second after I heard the first gag, or the first whiff of Pine-Sol cleaner in cases where my mom had already begun cleaning up, I was out of the house faster than a Tesla hitting a suburban child and driving up a telephone pole.
Further, this would occur rain or shine. I would plant myself on the porch in the freezing rain until the sun came up the next day, horrified of breathing the air inside my infected home. I recall pacing around my backyard in a robe in the snow, barefoot. This became a sport. My internal antivirus scan would begin to run on maximum overdrive, assessing every facet of my physical being for signs of illness, while simultaneously hammering out a post begging my British ladies for reassurance.
When my sister would throw up, I felt a pitiful anger toward her—how could she do this to me? Does she not wash her hands? She is so gross. I would never let that happen to me. I would begin to shiver and shake uncontrollably, not because of the cold, but from anxiety. These quivers would last for hours until my body became so exhausted from shock that I would finally go back to sleep. I would wake up in the morning feeling incomprehensible amounts of shame for spending so much energy worrying about catching my sister’s illness, and for feeling mad at her for it. But I never regretted it, because I had made it through without getting sick, and that is all that mattered.
As I grew older and began to feel the need to share my phobia with others, I would always say to people that I would rather have a cold for three months than have a stomach virus for 24 hours. I was so serious, and to this day, I would still say the same, unfortunately. I learned that a few of my close friends were also emetophobes in high school, and so were their siblings and some mutual friends. As I became aware of others who felt the same way I do, I was able to reap some peace of mind. Unfortunately, my habit of forcing myself awake so as not to be woken by my own vomit did not ease up. This led to depression, which led to more sleeplessness, which led to more depression. I was so angry. Why couldn’t I have been born scared of spiders instead? As a teenager, the reality that an involuntary bodily function would haunt me for the rest of my life settled in. So, of course, I decided I could not possibly continue to live.
As you can tell, I didn’t kill myself, but I sure came close—all because of the suffering that came with constantly anticipating vomit. Of course, other things contributed to my suicidality, like my 9th grade crush telling me he wouldn’t fuck me in the dark, but emetophobia was at the root of all my turmoil.
Many would assume that someone with emetophobia would avoid drinking alcohol due to its unsavoury effects, but not me, baby! I’m such a degenerate that I was both a binge drinker and an emetophobe—a two-for-one, impressive in my opinion. Equally splendid is that when someone vomits due to alcohol and not a pathogen, I am not scared. I still don’t want to hear or see it, but I won’t flee the building as if its on fire (because it is not contagious). It’s baffling that I used to happily down six White Claws in the bath crying and listening to Eartheater most nights, getting so sick I’d dry heave into the early morning hours. There began a fascinating dichotomy of both wanting to die while hungover and feeling proud of myself for puking—it was a form of exposure therapy. Amazing things were happening, folks.
Though my anxiety has improved as I've gotten older and undergone years of therapy, I am not “cured,” and I never will be. I can say with confidence that medication has saved my life in regard to this phobia—the volume of my anxiety is turned down so low that I can enjoy most of my life. I’ve heard accounts of people recovering fully from emetophobia in various ways—becoming pregnant and having relentless morning sickness, for example. The only proven way to improve this condition is through incremental exposure therapy, under the supervision of a therapist well-versed in phobias.
My first therapist suggested I chug a can of soda and spin around in a chair until I was nauseous—she meant well, but you need to start smaller and work your way up. My first serious attempt at exposure involved my therapist helping me create a fear hierarchy—a list of scenarios that ranged from triggering the least distress to the most. At the bottom were things like reading words aloud—“puke” and “barf”—then moving on to sentences about vomit, then paragraphs. We looked at cartoon people with green faces, then stock photos of toilets. We were supposed to move on to watching videos, listening to audio of vomiting, etc., but I never made it that far.
I did a lot, though, for which I am very proud. A stand-out moment for me was when I had to sit in the middle of my university lecture hall rather than take an end seat. The end seat provided ample room in case I needed to vomit—away from other people and within easy reach of the nearest exit. I also went on a trip and ate a lot of food I considered unsafe (burgers, for example), then went to sleep that night without forcing myself to stay awake, waiting to get sick. I remember that night vividly—Lana Del Rey had just dropped Did You Know There’s a Tunnel Under Ocean Boulevard, and I had doused myself in Replica Beach Walk (a favourite). I listened to Paris, Texas in my earphones and was able to drift off to sleep.
It’s really fucking hard to sit with the distress of your worst fear—it’s like wading through molasses with weights tied to your ankles—every waking second feels never-ending. Rewiring your brain to teach it that what it fears is actually safe, despite every cell in your body working to convince you otherwise, is probably the most difficult experience I’ve had to go through.
Perhaps the most exciting result of this phobia improving for me was when I began to participate in seasonal joy the way normal people do. Spring, summer, fall, and winter all had entirely different associations for me. Fall was not about cozy vibes; it was the beginning of flu season. Winter was not filled with holiday cheer; it was peak vomit season, and I was a hardcore Grinch. Spring was not fruitful; it was for holding on tight until the last months of flu season passed. Summer was no cakewalk either, as I learned that people were falling ill then too. Every month came with a new reason for my brain to label as "vomit month." However, after starting on Prozac (not sponsored), the fall season that followed was incredible—I was over the moon excited for beautiful falling leaves, pumpkin spice, and celebrating Halloween.
All of this enlightenment only began in 2023. I am still mourning all the seasonal jubilation I missed out on during the past 23 years of my life—though I am so thankful that, at 25 years old, I can finally appreciate the Christmas spirit rather than cope with crippling post-traumatic stress from Christmas Eve 2012, when I got the most wicked stomach flu of my life. Easter is now for sweet white rabbits, pastels, and tulips—not my sister projectile vomiting on the rug.
I still struggle daily in many ways, such as when people close to me get sick. I still wake up to the sound of phantom gagging in my sleep, my heart racing. I will never go on a cruise ship. I plug my ears when there’s a vomit scene in a movie. I usually overcook meat on purpose (though I’m getting better at this!), I never order salad at a restaurant, and if someone throws up in my near vicinity, you bet your bottom dollar I’ll be out of there in a split second. You can also find me sorting Google restaurant reviews by lowest rating and studying them before eating out anywhere.
Despite all this, I take great comfort in knowing that on my deathbed, I will not be thinking about every time I’ve puked in my life, but rather about all my happy memories. Vomiting is not a symptom of illness; it is a symptom of being an animal—we pee, poop, bleed, and vomit—that’s the price we pay for having the privilege of being alive. This phobia is hell and I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. It doesn’t help that it is largely misunderstood— I hope to inspire people to speak out about it because feeling alone with this, especially as a sensitive child, is pure torment.
I made a personal Google Doc of mantras and thoughts that ease my phobia anxiety. I made it public, feel free to view it here, I hope you can take something from it.
what a wonderful, vulnerable read <3