Scientists Have Found A Link Between Diarrhea And Bad People

Your gut always knows, and sometimes, it’s more than a feeling.

Disclaimer: Scientists have NOT found a link between diarrhea and bad people. But here’s what I found doing my own research…

Every time I had to go pee, it turned into a party. A poop party. And the party was happening all…day…long. My ass thought she was Amy Winehouse on a bender. From the moment I woke up, ’til the moment I took a Xanax and fell asleep, it was “on.” I would be going before SoulCycle, and again right after, riding through wondering whether or not I was going to shit my Lululemons during the warm-up, the cool down, or listening to LP’s live version of Beyoncé’s “Halo.” After two straight weeks of literally and figuratively sweating it out during terror rides, and endlessly confirming via Google that my symptoms were, of course, cancer, I made an appointment with a G.I. doctor. When the day of the appointment arrived, I was magically cured, (because that’s how life works), but the doctor made me go ahead and give a sample anyway to see what had been going on. Turns out, I had a bout of salmonella poisoning from eating a chicken taco at Austin City Limits. That was in 2015. That was a normal explanation for having diarrhea.

(If you like this post, please do ❤️ it as it allows for further visibility on Substack, which allows me to continue doing my thang. xx)

The last time I had a long stint of the squits like that was when I was going through my divorce a few years before. I believe I won the prize for hitting the one-year mark of constantly having the big “D” during that fantastic time of my life. I’m still waiting for my trophy. I swear, Northern Bathroom Tissues’ stock went down the moment I signed the papers and my “condition” was “rectal-fied.” The cause this time was stress, “obvi,” as the kids say.

There was a nice break from the commodal chaos for about five solid years until…my ex and I went back to court. I was not only dealing with Jason’s revenge, but Montozuma’s revenge returned, and like a hurricane, it was more powerful than it was before. As Jason and I toiled through round 2 of our divorce, I toil-et papered through my IBS alone, spending a college tuitions’s worth on t.p. I lost the case, taking a giant financial hit, (no more SoulCycle for me or any other form of white girl “wellness”), but moved on feeling released from the burden of proof to my former “master” that I could “cohabitate” in freedom with an “adult male.” Don’t get me started on the sexist, patriarchal, fucked-upness of our court system. If I had turned into a lesbian after we got divorced and lived with an adult female, I would be a whole lot richer.

And here I am again folx. Been combatting the latest poopocalypse for over a month. It all started when my ex-husband said “yes” to the invitation to Thanksgiving. You would think that would have been a relief to the system, but apparently, what I originally thought was a bad Shackburger from the Danbury Mall was, in fact, old anxiety resurfacing. But why? We were celebrating our new-found functional relationship, so, how could that feel…bad?

The Gut Knows.

It feels bad because it was, is, and always will be (for me) about my narcissist ex. Because he was, is, and always will be, a narcissist. Side bar, I think it curious that I have chosen to write about two things that I have to constantly spellcheck: diarrhea and narcissist.

While we had two and a half weeks of great communication where, instead of texting each other without being able to “hear” the other person’s intention, we would exchange voice texts and it was…dah, dah-dah…working! It was working to the point of me questioning the validity of continuing to write my memoir that could potentially undo what we were building. But then, he blew it. He couldn’t help himself. He had to control me with the child support money and, in the process, betray not only me, but he betrayed his son’s confidence in him. Not having three glasses of wine to put my feelings on ice, my bowels have been a direct line of communication to me screaming, “YOU FUCKING IDIOT!!!?? IT’S HIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIMMMM! STOP DOING THIS TO US!!!!”

Ultimately, my bowel movements are not my ex-husband’s fault, they are my fault. How much longer will I allow myself to believe that change is possible with someone who is incapable of changing? How many times am I going to see his name come up on my phone, feel my stomach drop, and have to run to the toilet? (They don’t call it “the runs” for nothing.)

In the spirit of Christmas, I will liken this to the Dickens’ classic, A Christmas Carol, only, in this version, Scrooge wakes up and just keeps bah humbugging his way through life. No lessons learned. No tidy ending to a hero’s journey. Just, a shit story causing a literal shit storm in my gut. Think Lisa, think. How are you going to change this for YOURSELF?

Just as I asked myself this question, a text from Jason pooped up on my phone and my stomach flipped again. It reminded me of the time when I was confronting my mother about how her BPD affected me. To stop the dread of when she would call, I changed her name on my phone to read “Love and Light.” It helped me retrain my brain around the association. Maybe the same thing would work for my ex?! But I couldn’t call him “Love and Light.” No…it would have to be something that would remind me of the truth and also, lighten my heart. And there it was, my “aha!” moment.

I would rename him “Ebenezer” in my contacts, and when he calls or texts, his childhood idol will pop-up on my screen: Scrooge McDuck. I think Dickens would be proud.

In Laughter,
LStL

Actual screenshot from my iPhone.

p.s. In an added stroke of irony, I am currently working on the chapter of the memoir titled, “The Honeymoon’s Over.” In my actual marriage, the honeymoon phase of our relationship ended when he said, “If you don’t leave the tour, I will find someone else.” Now, in this phase of our divorced relationship, it ended after two and a half weeks. Not sure which one is worse, but I’m glad my fire has been reignited to finish this book as a tool for healing, not only myself, but as a source of connection for anyone who feels alone in the battle of loving a narc.