[Trigger Warning: This post includes discussions of bowel movements and eating disorders.]
It’s April and I’m so sorry. I’d planned to write about getting my driver’s license (back in January) and trying to get back some semblance of fitness (back in February and ongoing), while simultaneously resolving – once and for all – my persistent intestinal issues. The last, however, has been winning.
Since I returned to Japan, I’ve had pooping problems. Likely due to a combination of stress and a diverse range of eating disorders, I simply stopped pooping. At first, it didn’t seem like such a big deal. Then, the bloating started, triggered by eating or drinking. I remember cycling home near tears after a mouthful of an electrolyte drink made my guts expand to late term pregnancy levels, my skin and kit stretched to their respective limits. My intestines began to cramp as I navigated hills home and soon after that, I began to avoid cycling outside.
Not pregnant, just bloated.
Approximately ten years later, the battle continues. Tired of the Chinese medicine that usually worked but turned my farts into weapons of mass destruction, I pressed for something more pharmaceutical. Goofice, a new drug for people who cannot poop, seemed promising given the reviews that people temporarily touched death due to its laxative effects. I happily took the small pills home and popped two and waited. And waited. And waited. Though my doctor would later increase the dose to three pills, absolutely nothing happened.
Next was the notorious Linzess, known for triggering bouts of diarrhea lasting hours. Impressively, it worked somewhat consistently but required that I not leave my house for 6 to 7 hour blocks. I once took it at 6am in the hope that my bowels will be clear by my 2pm Muay Thai class. I was not so lucky and ended up running laps to the bathroom until the late afternoon. Though not a listed side effect, it also caused intense fatigue. I stopped taking it after realizing that a drug could, in fact, lower my already-quite-low quality of life.
Between the drugs, I’ve tried a number of restrictive diets that taught me to avoid cruciferous vegetables and beans and probably bread, but not much else. Other vegetables appear to have no adverse effects until they do. I can’t tell if fruits help or hurt me. Fiber cereals and supplements tend to sit like a brick in my gut. Every other week, I debate the merits of trying the all meat, carnivore diet until some article or Reddit post makes me consider going vegan. In the meantime, I am living off Danone’s Bio Yogurt (Activia for those in the U.S.), while occasionally questioning whether dairy is an issue.
The worst part is that I look healthy, even like I could afford to lose a few kilos (potato chips do not appear to contribute to malicious bloat). One doctor bluntly told me to lose weight. Others tend to look at me, learn that I’m on an antidepressant, and conclude my issues are caused by the Japanese justification for everything: stress.
Because Japan, apparently, considers itself a very stressed country. There is the image of the overworked, Japanese salaryman and death from overwork has its own word. As an island country with an extremely homogenous culture where bullying is commonplace, even in the workplace, there seems to be an unstated understanding that conforming to social expectations combined with job responsibilities can lead to some pent-up stress. And that stress could reasonably be the reason behind sexually assaulting strangers, secretly recording customers in toilets, embezzlement, arson, and pedophilia. Why not, then, constant constipation?
Unfortunately, I tend to play right into the medical gaslighting by looking more stressed when the doctor mentions stress so now he can tell me that see, I am, in fact, stressed. In response, I quickly turn into Walter from The Big Lebowski when he overreacts to a bowling game, frantically telling doctors that I’m not stressed; actually, I’m less stressed than most people, in the most stressed way possible. I have not yet asked these doctors whether groping someone or stealing money would make me regular.
Considering the consequent depression and desperation, it’s probably a good thing I haven’t asked. When the bloating starts, any kind of exercise becomes impossible. Most of the time, I can jog slowly and lift weights in the morning if I don’t eat solid food, but anything in the afternoon is often not an option. With the Muay Thai gym opening from 2pm, I’ve battled with the guilt and frustration at not being able to go to class. Thus far, I haven’t molested anyone on public transportation due to stress, but it hasn’t been a happy time.
While my intestinal issues have bummed me out a lot this year, unlike my bodily waste, I finally managed to crawl most of the way out of the black hole of intestinal issues this past weekend. I have scrounged up some hope that maybe, if I don’t let it get me down, it’ll finally give up and go away. Or, that my new doctor will find something while excavating both ends of me later this month and I’ll have a tangible, treatable diagnosis. And if, by some chance, this is with me forever, I can still write and craft, laxatives exist, and this isn’t the worst thing in the world.
Although, I will reconsider that last statement if I have to permanently give up croissants.
