I’ve already mentioned that turning 30 has got me thinking about things that my 20s taught me. So, as promised, here’s my own personal horror story of laxative abuse.

Before you carry on reading my social suicide, I should probably mention that this might be triggering to anyone with a problematic eating disorder… and it’s also really fucking gross and embarrassing so, yeno, your choice if you want to carry on.

So, way back in the day I was living in Brighton and working 14 hours a day at a PR agency that was sucking every last bit of enjoyment out of my life. Every morning I had to get an hour and half-long bus to my boss’s house in West Sussex to debrief, then get the train to London for a full day of shoots and events with a lot of dramatic hair stylists. Might sound like a dream but it was horrendous; which has nothing to do with this story but just a reminder that life isn’t always what it looks like on Instagram.

ANYWAY, one Thursday I went out for a rare drink with my mates and we ended up getting a chippy on the way home. Standard – except for, back then, I was so obsessed with being a walking lollipop head I wouldn’t even allow myself a Freddo let alone a chippy. So, at 3am I took a load of laxatives – something I’d done a fuckload of times before, and something I hope none of you ever do.

My alarm went off at half 5 the next day and I dragged my sorry, hungover arse to the bus and fell back asleep. I woke up about 6 stops before mine and realised that I was NOT OK. My stomach was in bits and I really needed to find a toilet like 20 minutes ago. As I said, I had to start the day by checking in at my boss’s at-home office, and whilst I might not have my shit together I still have enough self-respect not to want to have a violent poo in my boss’ actual home.

*Had enough self-respect, I should say.

Panicking, I got off the bus a stop before mine in a sweet little village that I was about to Fucking ruin forever.

This place was literally like something of Desperate Housewives. A lot of white picket fences, a local post office and one single pub that wasn’t open yet, obviously.

I was fucking frantic by now, crabbing along the road searching for literally ANY toilet. After about 5 minutes I saw a quaint little coffee shop at the end of a cobbled street, and honestly it was like seeing water in the desert.

That should have been the end of it. Bad scare won’t do that again.

But it wasn’t.

I don’t know whether it was the relief, or my body had just given up on me, but as I made my way up this beautiful little street my stomach went, “nah it’s happening.”

And I shit my pants, in the street, at half 7 in the morning. Also, I was wearing skinny jeans.

Let that sink in for a second; what the fuck was I meant to do. Nobody teaches you how to deal with this sort of crisis management, because grown ass women aren’t meant to shit themselves on their way to work – but here we were.

The only thing I could do was Carry on to this little café, which I later discovered was a family-run place that specialised in homemade scones, which somehow makes this entire ordeal so much worse.

I walked in – presumably looking, smelling and feeling like something out of Tim Burton’s wet dream – and was met immediately by the host/owner who proceeded in SEATING ME and taking my mumbled order of a cup of tea.

I’m not going to go into the logistics, but let’s just say this was a less than ideal situation.

Mountains crumbled, humans died out and universes were created… and all the while, there I was. Sat in that seat, in that cafe, wishing I was anywhere else. After a full three minutes of utter hell I went to the toilets and cleaned myself up, paid for my tea and left.

I rang in sick that day, and had to get a bus for an hour and a half home. When I finally got back, my (now ex) fella was still at home playing fifa with his mates, so I had to sit in the toilets of a Costa until the coast was clear.

So, in summary: there’s no quick fix when it comes to getting your dream body, at least none that are worth it. Don’t fuck your body up for the ‘gram. Peace x

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