IBS

Jon and I relocated to London in 2003 and bought a small two bedroom flat in Colliers Wood two years later. I enjoyed the lifestyle, I already had friends in London and soon formed new friendships through work and going out locally. It was around this time I started to experience abdominal problems which were becoming more frequent and more acute.

I became familiar with excruciating stomach and rectal cramps, constipation and horrible bouts of diarrhoea, especially around the time of my period. Bouts of cystitis became more persistent and painful. I found myself feeling bloated for 80-90% of the time and I became convinced that certain foods were not helping my cause. I was spending more and more time cramped up in the bathroom, usually at the most inconvenient times, i.e. five minutes before I was due to leave for work. Sudden peristalsis brought on waves of nausea and at times I didn't know whether I should be sitting on or hanging over the loo. Trying to focus on anything but the agony, the intense pain induced cold sweats and the need to grab onto anything in the vicinity for support (usually the bath or the towel rail). Anyone listening in would be forgiven for thinking I might be going through some kind of poop labour. As you can imagine, I'm extremely fed-up with the whole shitty situation (excuse the pun).

Another negative to the gut blockade is that I'm rarely hungry. Negative? I hear you say. Sometimes I go out for dinner and I can only manage a couple of mouthfuls before I feel full. Before you say that sounds like a perfect diet solution, it's not. I want to be able to enjoy the plate of food someone has lovingly prepared for me, not pick at it and offer it round the table. The only plus is that I never get hangry!

I haven't been on many holidays which haven't involved me going through an abdominal trauma of sorts. I've put this down to eating out most days, trying different foods and a change in routine. When relaying the experiences to friends on my return, they can't believe I still managed to have a good time, I guess I've become very good at dealing with it.

The first bad travel experience since I was put on the pill was Milan, Italy in 2006. We were there for a weekend to see our friend's band support The Magic Numbers and we wanted to see as much of the city as possible around the gig. As soon as we arrived, we headed to the nearest pizzeria and I attempted to eat a pizza the size of a large platter (albeit a very feeble attempt). Two days of Italian indulgence later I felt terrible, like I was carrying a lead weight in my abdomen which wouldn't shift. Sightseeing cancelled - I just wanted to crawl into bed.

Two other trips stand out for me for the wrong reasons. I was ill for the majority of our honeymoon in Sri Lanka, which certainly wasn't ideal when travelling. On the day long drive from Adam's Peak to Galle to I had to ask our driver to stop several times. It soon became apparent that there were a lack of public facilities on our route south, the only option was to knock on someone's door to ask to use the toilet in their home. I say toilet in the loosest sense of the word, hole in the ground with a curtain for a door was closer to the truth - any dignity I had was long gone. On a positive side note, I've adapted to being able to use the most repulsive toilets, even the cesspits at Glastonbury Festival are a breeze to me. Just to top the trip off, the taxi journey from Bentota to the airport in Colombo was possibly one of the worst experiences of my life, it felt like everything from the diaphragm down was set in concrete. I was in such excruciating pain, I could barely talk as I was trying to concentrate on not passing out. I came incredibly close to asking the driver to take me to the nearest hospital.

The second (and definitely the worst) holiday nightmare also involved a long journey. I'd been feeling constipated and bloated for a while before we left for Morocco in 2010, the full feeling didn't subside and I just felt worse over the first couple of days. Eating became problematic, managing just a few mouthfuls at each mealtime. We'd booked into a beautiful restaurant for our last night in Marrakech weeks previously and even though it was the last thing I felt like doing, we decided to keep the booking. Jon had become used to eating two meals so it was nothing new! The next day I was in agony, I felt like my stomach had been replaced with a 10lb bowling ball - the pain was crippling. It's a good job we didn't have to endure a 12 hour journey to the middle of the desert then. Oh crap.

I would abolish that horrendous day completely from my memory if I could. I was embarrassed and felt bad for the others in our vehicle who we'd just met and I hardly uttered a word to the whole way (thanks Mayra and Martin for being so lovely). Nothing helped with the pain and nausea, I was just concentrating on getting through it, willing both the journey and the hell I was going through to be over. Thankfully, by the time we'd got to the desert camp the following day I was relieved to be feeling a little better and I could start to enjoy the trip - mud hut toilets and all. A few days later, on a three hour bus journey from Marrakech to Essaouira my bowels decided to flip the situation on it's head and I had another problem to worry about, the dreaded D. I had no choice but to take Imodium which took me straight back to square one.

I don't mean to harp on about what happened to me on holidays, these experiences only stand out because I can place where I am when I'm feeling my worst. Of course there have been countless times when I've suffered at home or at work or when I've been out shopping, but I'll spare you of the encounters from various loos across the UK - that would make a very unrewarding read.

I decided to pay for a food intolerance test to determine if certain foods were the reason for my flare ups. This proved very interesting. After speaking to the nutritionist about the results, she advised me to cut out cows milk, eggs, wheat, onion, soy and yeast. The plan was to reintroduce each of these back into my diet gradually after a few months; it was basically the caveman diet. Unfortunately, along with the majority of food with any flavour, this meant no wine and no crisps - anyone who knows me will appreciate how much of a big deal that was! I was strict with myself and kept to the diet for a year as I was determined to see progress. Unfortunately, it didn't make too much of a difference to my symptoms, but I did lose half a stone in weight which is never a bad thing.

In the following few months I was referred to a dietitian at St George's hospital and I was advised to try various diets (fructose malabsorption, FODMAP) with little success.

Fed up, I returned to my doctor in October 2011 who once more referred me to the Gastroenterology department. After a couple of appointments discussing diet options (again) and drug treatments I was eventually booked in for a colonoscopy. This took place four months later in front of three student nurses who peered intriguingly at the tube hanging out of my butt - I was enjoying the sedation far too much to care.

The biopsy results came back and apart from a focal area of mild cryptitis there wasn't much to shout about. I was dumbfounded, how could they find nothing when I felt so terrible all the time? I was discharged with a diagnosis of chronic constipation and IBS and that was that. Sent off on my merry way. I felt dejected but I had to accept it.

Today, five years after being discharged, I'm still suffering almost every day.