- We must have an aisle seat. Everywhere.
Poops don’t come very often but when they do, there better be a clear f@cking path to the nearest restroom. Not to come off as rude, but I don’t really care if you’ve just settled down into your aisle seat and popped open a bag of salted peanuts. I have to sh#t. Do you see the pupils of my eyes turning brown. That’s not the reflection of your salted nuts. It’s my small intestine backing up into my head.
2. Public Restrooms Were Designed By People Who Don’t Have IBS.
IBS symptoms are triggered by stress. Believe me when I tell you there is nothing more stressful than sitting on a public toilet trying to squeeze out a rabbit turd only to make eye contact in the mirror with several people who are washing their hands at the sink. Whatever progress I had made up to that point is surely to retreat back into the dark, mysterious depths of my colon. Don’t you understand that in order to go poop I need a hermetically sealed stall, soft lighting, and Burt Bacharach’s greatest hits playing on a loop?
- I Get It. You’re Normal.
I know you’re trying to be helpful but continuously reminding me how normal your bowel movements are doesn’t help. At all. If I hear once more someone proudly say, “I pooped three times today already,” I could either choke them to within an inch of their life or spiral into a nervous breakdown. Has it ever occurred to you that I spend a significant portion of my waking hours stewing in jealousy that you have a consistent poop schedule? Well, I do.
- Fiber Doesn’t Always Help.
I’ve tried all of the remedies and possible cures. Olive oil shots. Coconut water. Bikram yoga. Coffee colonics. Oh yes, and then there’s fiber, once thought to be the panacea for all “incomplete evacuations.” Don’t believe everything you read. I ate so much fiber over the years it’s a miracle I haven’t crapped out a tree house.
- IBS Isn’t a Disease. It’s a Lonely Journey.
I don’t need more doctor visits or colonoscopies or sympathetic glances. I’m done with wild honey teas, peppermint leaves, and meditation. What I need is for people to understand that every single gray hair on my head represents a complicated story of a failed effort to poop. So the next time you look at me with those patronizing eyes, yes I’m referring to you – the one in the aisle seat, do me a favor by dropping the peanuts and getting the f@ck out of my way.