I Got Diarrhoea For Valentine’s Day

“Dais, what did you get for Valentine’s Day?”
“Diarrhoea.”

The worst happened: I monumentally blocked my boyfriend’s toilet.

First things first: I’ve got IBS. IBS is, to put it mildly (and realistically), shit. Irritable Bowel Syndrome involves: an abundance of shit – usually delivered in the most treacherous of forms; a lack of shit – read: a build-up of shit that refuses to leave your being, like a lecherous child; or, if you’re real lucky, a devilishly unpredictable mixture of the two. I suffer from both forms of IBS and believe me when I say: it is a wholly unholy and debilitating affliction.

My life revolves around my bowel movements, or lack of. My stomach can’t handle a great deal of anything so meal times are carefully planned, to the point where nowadays all I consume is chocolate (it’s easier, that way). Alcohol sends my bowels into disarray so school-night drinks are out the question entirely; three meals a day is a total no-no because it’s just too damn much food for my gut to handle; dinner dates are my Everest, because the likelihood is that I’ll have to dart off like a panicked pup and ruin the restaurants bathroom. That last scenario actually happened during a welcome dinner at an internship: two slices of pizza down (really fantastic four-cheese pizza) and I felt the familiar knots in my stomach taking full effect. Seconds later my gut started spasming out of control and I leapt from the table, before unceremoniously annihilating the ablutions. I didn’t even say goodbye or explain my franticness. THERE WASN’T ENOUGH TIME, PEOPLE.
Alternatively, I once didn’t poop for an entire two and a half weeks. I shit you not.

Anyways, last night – as our early Valentines meal – the boyf and I decided to gorge on chicken shish kebabs (I know, I’m easily pleased). The shish and halloumi were, unsurprisingly, sublime. My stomach seemed sublime, too. So sublime, in fact, that I considered putting out; although I was hella bloated, so the certainty of the shag was TBC.
I don’t think I’m alone in this: the more bloated *I* am, the less likely *you* are of getting laid. Unfortunately for me (maybe more so for the fella) anything I eat bloats the fuck out of me, so I either eat and don’t have sex or don’t eat and do have sex. It’s a real Catch 22, especially when your man’s looking particularly foiiine but you know Meat Mission’s on the cards.
Anyhow, I went H.A.M. on my chicken and fell into a poultry-induced coma before bolting-upright at 4AM with stomach cramps. ‘Holy fuck, holy fuck, holy fuck. Not now, gut. Wait until we are home! We’re at the fellas family abode and the flush is as inconsistent as you are! Pipe down.’ One trip to the bathroom later, tap forcefully gushing to disguise the savage sounds, and I breathed a sigh of relief: ‘That wasn’t so bad. We’ve had worse times, tum.’

* hops back into bed * * notices a river of dribble exiting His mouth * * shudders * * sleeps *

A measly few minutes pass before the mother-load arrives. I know that my bowels means business now. I grab my Poo-Pourri (a scented life-saver you spray over the toilet water that masks all smells. GENIUS. Thanks, Ma) and do a Phoebe-run to the bathroom. Poo-Pourri SPRAYED, windows OPEN, taps ON. The whole shitty ordeal lasted for about fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes of agonising stomach spasming, so intense that I almost projectile vomit all over the floor (it’s happened before, it’ll happen again). I think it’s all done. I’ve given all I have to give. Surely that’s the end of it.

‘Now to flush and go back to bed!’ * flushes * * toilet water rises *

* flushes again * * murky contents rise once more * ‘Oh shit.’

I spent an hour and a half, at 4AM, flushing and waiting, flushing and waiting, flushing and waiting.
I went in search of a plunger: nowhere to be seen. I desperately scrambled through the cupboards in search of something to shove into the shit-bath: ‘What’s this pointy piece of apparatus? A ped-egg? What the fuck is a ped-egg and how mad will someone be if I use it to shoot my shit through the pipes? What about a broom? I could bleach the end I use afterwards? There’s no lock on this bathroom door though: what if someone bursts in needing to pee and I’m stood over the toilet with a broom twice the size of me, ferociously plunging a basin-full of my own poop? Will the story spread like wildfire? No, I’ll leave the broom. Am I ballsy enough to don a glove and get it moving by myself? Nope. Where’s Bear Grylls when you need him? I’m just gonna have to wait. I’m just gonna have to spend my night looking at this literal pile of shit, freezing my tits off in order to circulate the overwhelming odour and hoping to god they’ve all got bladders the size of Australasia.’ I dashed to the kitchen to retrieve a bucket – all too aware that leaving my post meant anyone could unknowingly stumble into the eye of the shit-storm at any time – and proceeded to fill it up with water. I chugged buckets of water down that toilet in quantities unknown. I chugged for hours. Well, I chugged for at least AN hour. Finally, with the force of one almighty chug that nearly sent the diluted excrement flying around the room, it began to flush away. ‘AT LAST. AT LONG FUCKING LAST!!!’ I cleaned that toilet to within an inch of its life and flung a towel, and my lifeless body, haphazardly round the bathroom to dissipate the smell entirely (Poo-Pourri is effective but I’d have needed an oceans worth to compensate for what had continually regurgitated in that basin).

‘At sweet last. The sun is rising and the birds are singing! Thank fuck that tiresome ordeal is over. Time to get back in bed with the fella. Hold up – I’ve been out of bed for hours now and that little shit hasn’t ONCE come to retrieve me. He hasn’t even stirred! What a douche. Ahhhh a douche! I could’ve done with one of those.’

* goes back to bed, looks over at fella * * river of dribble has now turned into an ocean * * shudders * * sleeps *

9 Comments

  1. Sonny
    1st December 2015 / 12:37 pm

    Hi Daisy!

    I just want to say I love you in the way a woman can love another woman through daily exposure to them via the internet.

    PLEASE dont stop ever posting about your poo. Its completely changed my outlook on ‘over-sharing’. I have gastroparesis and really struggled with talking about my vomming, which I do sporadically throughout the day. Throughout my teens I’ve found it to be only ever various degrees of embarassing and lonely, and, though its difficult to put into words just how your ‘sharing’ makes me feel better, it definitely does.

    • pieandfash
      1st December 2015 / 8:24 pm

      Hello Sonny!
      Firstly I would like to say that YOUR COMMENT MADE ME CRY!! Like legit. Water seeped from my eyes. It could be due to the arrival of my period but I also think it has a lot to do with the fact that you are SO BLOODY NICE!
      I wasn’t aware of gastroparesis before but, having had a nosey online, I can totally imagine how debilitating and frustrating a condition it can be. I think it’s safe to say that if you and I went for a meal it would be a hilarious and messy affair. But I also completely understand how not hilarious and utterly shit it can be. YOU ARE NOT ALONE. Although we have troubles at opposite ends of the human bod, if ever you find yourself embarrassed, panicked, in pain or lonely – having darted from a meal or any occasion, in desperate search of a toilet – just picture me doing the same. Usually breaking out in a sweat as I try and navigate the intricate zipper on the back of my ridiculously impractical jumpsuit, before letting hell break loose on the loo. I am beyond happy to have made you feel better. xxx

  2. 17th February 2016 / 2:43 pm

    Oh my days Daisy, this truly made me laugh, wince and relate all at the same damn time! I mean poo-pouri just set me off tbh ha. Do you find it hard to share personal ‘experiences’ like this? I wish I could be a bit more fearless and really put myself out there with more personal issues like this, you’re an inspiration! I also totally relate as I suffer from a mildly irritable stomach and thought I’d never want to share about the time I shit my pants out for drinks with my boss – but now look! Please keep them coming, I truly love your writing x

    • pieandfash
      3rd April 2016 / 9:10 pm

      I can’t quite believe it has taken me this long to see this comment in all its glorious entirety! Thank you for those wonderful words, Karina! Poo Pourri is my saviour; I carry it everywhere I go! In answer to your question: I don’t find it hard at all. Small talk I struggle with, but I am totally an oversharer by nature so I could talk about my bowel habits and/or anything intimate/embarrassing about myself for DAYS. Or at least until someone tells me to shut up. Hahaha I can completely relate to you shitting your pants – what did you do next?! Did you duck and dive out of the joint or did you confide in your boss?! You’re giving a whole new meaning to ‘drinkypoos’ and I love it. Poo stories are always the most mortifying to live through but the funniest to relay. Take some solace in the fact that you are the owner of a very funny work-drinks related shit incident. xxxx

  3. 3rd March 2016 / 2:57 pm

    As weird/crazy/strange as this is going to sound – your post made my day! Reading the words of somebody else who suffers the same discomfort, embarrassing situations and dibilitating condition that I have too.
    You think it’s only you until others start opening up and talking shit (literally). This condition started with me a year ago as a result of trauma on my body from another embarrassing condition I had to deal with. Once I got rid of that, the shitty condition of IBS arrived, along with the chronic spasms, hot/cold sweats and basically took over my life so I felt out of control.
    But a year on and numerous examinations, cameras etc (you name it I’ve had it – what does dignity even mean), it seems I’m taking control with the help of the following:
    Diet – I lead a gluten and lactose free diet, at first I thought the world was going to end with waving goodbye to pizza, pasta and anything else carbalicious…but I now love food more than ever. I bake all the time and cook yummy food from scratch (my hubby things his wife has been abducted and replaced with Nigella Lawson).
    And my other life savour…anti-spasmodics! Speak to your Dr about them – take 3 times a day before meals and since taking them it’s been 3 months without the cramps (or should I say knife stabbing pains).

    My new blog just went up earlier this week and I’m going to be sharing lots of easy yummy gluten free food (*puddings*) – if you’re anything like me I can’t live without my calorific treats! But you can enjoy them without the typical IBS consequences!

    Love your blog and Instagram lovely!

    Elizabeth xo | http://www.elizabeth-daisy.com

    • pieandfash
      3rd April 2016 / 9:18 pm

      Can I just say that 1. your blog is boss. 2. your hair is UH MAY ZING. 3. those creme egg rocky roads are making me d r i b b l e on my laptop, and 4. this comment made MY day. I so, so, so, so, SO feel for you – IBS is a literal and metaphorical pain in the ass and it brings with it a host of debilitating and embarrassing episodes and incidents. Although I’m absolutely made up for you that you’ve managed to find a diet and medication that works for you – and THANK FUCK pizza and pasta didn’t have to be exiled! I will most certainly be turning to you for gluten free deliciousness, particularly if it involves some kind of cocoa. Can’t deny myself the cocoa. xxxxx

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