Hey there! Look who wrote her first guest post ever! Thanks to Krystle Lilliestierna at Paper Fort Studio for inviting me to write it.
“You asked me once, what was in Room 101. I told you that you knew the answer already. Everyone knows it. The thing that is in Room 101 is the worst thing in the world.” —Nineteen Eighty-Four
Anyone familiar with George Orwell’s classic dystopian novel remembers Room 101 – the torture chamber in which a prisoner’s worst nightmare becomes his or her method of punishment. I’ve given my own Room 101 a lot of thought, and over time it has developed into a perfect vision of Hell:
I’m on an airplane, in a window seat next to a child who’s suffering from acute motion sickness. As I leap onto the lap of the guy in the next row, an unpleasant flight attendant orders me back to my seat. When I refuse, an air marshal tackles me in the aisle and cuffs me as I lie on the soiled floor. (So sue me for having a flair for the dramatic.)
When asked to write a post about fear, I started a list: scorpions, cobras, scorpion/cobra hybrids, accidentally buying a blood diamond, etc., cleverly avoiding the carsick elephant in the room. It speaks to the depth of my fear that I have difficulty even writing it down.
I’m afraid of barf.
I was surprised to learn emetophobia is fairly common. Not many people enjoy throwing up, but imagine spending a good part of your life avoiding it. Adding insult to injury, people think puking is hilarious, and once alerted to my weakness can’t wait to tell me all their barf-tastic stories.
I would rather French kiss a tarantula while wearing a meat suit in a shark tank than throw up or be near someone else who is. To illustrate how this phobia manifests itself in my daily life, here is a sampling of strategies I employ to create a barf-free environment:
Be proactive. To avoid the unique embarrassment that comes from being tackled by an air marshal, get an aisle seat whenever possible.
Be prepared. Always travel with anti-nausea wristbands, prescription anti-emetics, Dramamine and Xanax.
Be vigilant. When eating out, I’ve been known to feel the temperature of the butter or cream on the table, and if they’re not adequately chilled, request fresh replacements.
Avoid drunks. If you have a problem with the idea of being left in the gutter, don’t count on me to be your designated driver. I will dump your drunk ass on the side of the road, drive home and sleep like a baby. Guilt does not factor into this equation.
Plan well in advance. If my husband says he’s feeling queasy, I pack a bag and put it by the front door with my keys and a blanket just in case. If he ends up getting sick, I sleep outside in the truck. In retrospect, this might explain why he says I’m not a nurturer.
The first step is admitting you have a problem. I choose to believe that drinking alcohol protects me from raw egg cooties, so I do tequila shots whenever I bake. I realize this strategy is flawed, but there’s little point in baking if you can’t lick the beaters. Plus, I get a nice little buzz going.
Always get it in writing. I’ve been known to make overnight guests promise not to throw up in my house. (I don’t actually require a written contract, preferring instead to use the honor system for friends and family.)
An ounce of prevention is worth a gallon of hand sanitizer. If I had to choose one strategy with the biggest potential payoff it would be this: Do not have children.
Don’t be stupid. Avoid roller coasters, raw chicken, small planes, deep sea fishing, unrefrigerated dairy products, spinning in circles, Royal Caribbean Cruise Lines and children’s birthday parties.
Acknowledging my phobia is strangely liberating. When people discover this part of me, my other quirks seem a little less glaring. Sure, I have hermit-like tendencies and an inability to eat tomato soup without a grilled cheese sandwich, but that’s nothing compared with the decontamination process I undergo after a visit with my nephews.
Unlike Orwell’s fictional version, my Room 101 is all too real. One look at my nauseated husband crawling to the kitchen for a glass of ginger ale while his wife sleeps peacefully in the driveway should be enough to convince you of that. Now, will somebody please get that poor man a cool compress and some saltines? I hear his wife is a real jerk.
“You must try harder. It is not easy to become sane.” —Nineteen Eighty-Four