Pepto Bismol Panic

When Old Coping Mechanisms Come Calling

There’s a familiar tightness in my body—my shoulders, my jaw—and I’m once again in the throes of stomach issues. My mind and body feel like they’re inhabited by a past version of myself, the one who’s always bracing for impact. And quite frankly, they are. She is back, young and scared. Indigestion hits, and suddenly, I’m reaching for the Pepto-Bismol, hoping for some relief. This is where the battle begins. The physical symptoms are real. The mental distress—just as real. All I want is for it to stop.

This pattern, this stress—it’s not new to me. I used to worry endlessly that food would make me sick—like, lose control, sick—in front of people. The thought of being vulnerable and out of control at the same time was terrifying. When I was younger, I came up with all kinds of ways to manage it. Pepto-Bismol became my best friend, my first drug of choice. I wouldn’t go anywhere without it—a water park, a new restaurant, even therapy. Sometimes, I’d even pregame with it, just in case. And when my anxiety was especially loud, I’d only eat certain “safe” foods. For a while, this meant chicken tenders and french fries. The illogical logic? Less chance of contamination, fewer risks of getting sick. Binge eating made its way into the routine too. I can recite the roots of these behaviors without much attachment—ADHD, skipping meals until I was ravenous, hearing comments about cheese being “just slices of fat,” my mom’s body image issues, her endless retelling of being bullied as a kid, rocks thrown at her, called fat. While I can see the common thread of humanity in it, there’s still some shame for me. Not so much around the old patterns—but what they’ve evolved into.

Photo by Hanson Lu on Unsplash

It’s been a rough few months, mentally and spiritually. For the first time, I have something “wrong” in my body—ovarian cysts, to be specific. And while it’s nothing life-threatening, having this has lit a firestorm under all my old maladaptive coping strategies. Everything’s been supercharged by the deaths of both my parents before 60, one from sporadic ALS—something no one has answers for—and my own instability in work and finances.

I find myself thinking: if I just ate cleaner, worked out more, didn’t have this IUD in my body, maybe none of this would be happening. Then there’s the food itself—preservatives, microplastics, all the hidden chemicals, listeria outbreaks appearing every week, the Boar’s Head factory clusterfuck. Even if I grew my own food, they’re spraying pesticides from the air. When this pattern is loud, it feels like no matter what I do, I’m poisoning myself. So, I end up wandering the grocery store, overwhelmed, unable to pick anything up. And when I do, it’s always something that feels “safe,” but offers little nutritional value.

It’s maddening. I know deep down that I’m likely causing more harm than good with this cycle. I’m getting help. I’m not hiding, and as I write this, there’s a flicker of hope—because I’ve had stretches of time where this obsession with what goes into my body didn’t run my life. I’ve had moments where I could gently redirect my thoughts, face the underlying fears, and let go.

We don’t lose those parts of ourselves, the ones that know how to heal. I know that. But right now, in this moment of depletion—in mind, body, and spirit—I’m leaning toward quick fixes.

I’m sharing this because I know there are others out there bumping into the same struggles. I see you. These silent battles don’t get talked about enough, but they should be. And sharing them is healing—not just for others, but for me too. When I write, I’m giving space to the parts of me that need to be seen—and that’s healing in itself..

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