Approximately 1.4 million Americans are affected by IBD (Irritable Bowel Disease) which include Crohn’s disease and Colitis and roughly 45 million people in the United States are affected by IBS (Irritable Bowel Syndrome) which is nearly 15 percent of the population. Unfortunately, there isn’t a cure, but most people treat the symptoms with various medications and some dietary changes to reduce flare-ups. There seems to be very little awareness about these issues despite the abundance of them in our country. This could possibly lead to a series of uncomfortable questions since, growing up, we have learned that discussing excretion patterns with other people is socially inappropriate.

After the brief explanations and the awkward stares are over, the responses are usually something along the lines of: “Oh, but I sometimes poop from stress too!” or “I also get diarrhea from fried foods” or “Maybe you’re just lactose intolerant?”

It’s exhausting. The endless trips to the bathroom and sprinting down the hallway pushing down everyone in your path just to make it to the toilet in time. Always having to pay attention to the food on your plate and how much you consume. Remembering to take your medication at the appropriate times. The achiness that consumes the rest of your body and just sitting on the toilet letting it flow is just plain old tiring. It feels like you’re being worn, stretched, and wringed out all at the same time.

As a current college student, it can be a real challenge when trying to have a social life. My heart tells me to go out and have fun with my friends, but my brain has me quadruple-checking where the nearest bathroom would be. Night’s out can be a rocky road because when turning down a drink, telling people about your irritable bowels at 1:00 a.m. on a Friday, just isn’t really an option, so the label of being a scared goody-two-shoes is just something that’s inevitably accepted. My FOMO is just not as strong as my FOPPIP (fear of pooping pants in public).

The anxiety that comes with this problem can be so overwhelming at times. The underlying thought that whenever you leave the house or set up plans in advance that maybe you might possibly have an attack just doesn’t go away. The hours just hanging out on the toilet make you want to cry because you feel as if you’re wasting your life away in the bathroom. The loneliness of lying on your side, holding yourself and shaking because you want someone else to hold you, but simultaneously want your own blankets to hold you instead.

I’m sorry to my roommates, who get kicked out of the bathroom. I’m sorry to the friends I have bailed on last minute or had to run out on because I got sick. I’m sorry to the boyfriend I vent to, but then don’t let him come over and help me. And I’m sorry to my parents for the worry I cause them, the late night texts, and the seemingly endless visits to the doctor.

Thank you to my support system. For responding to my texts from the bathroom. For keeping me calm and assuring me that the pain will fade. For making sure that I eat a proper three meals. For listening through the tears and the infinite phone calls to the doctor. For listening to me even though I talk about my poop too much and constantly reach out looking for care. And thank you, for loving me through it all.