Hydrophobe
“I’d shake my head and laugh at her irrational fear of death-by-dehydration, but in truth, her hypochondriac tendencies with water is what saved me from my energy crisis.”
Photo credit: Greg Rosenke
The look of panic appeared on her face. I know this look. “You’re not really going to die without your water bottle for a few hours, Hana,” I would assure her. My best friend, Hana, carries around her Hydroflask bottle the way a toddler carries a milk bottle—in utter separation anxiety. She’s also a water-tyrant, incessantly monitoring my intake and sending me reminders to drink more water—out of love, of course.
You would think that as a healthcare practitioner, I’d understand the importance of sufficient daily water intake. Water makes up approximately 60-70% of our body and even mild dehydration can cause headaches, dizziness, lack of focus and fatigue. Technically, I know this, and I’ve suffered chronically from the aforementioned symptoms, yet I avoided drinking water like a plague, particularly during work hours. Sometimes, people don't act based on what they know. The motivation and emotions driving the action must also be aligned, and mine was stuck in the traumatic past. Let me explain.
Over the past decade, I’ve worked in more pharmacies than I can count. A major flaw in pharmacy design is the lack of built-in restrooms. Instead, the facilities are often across the store, or at the back of the store, or upstairs behind locked doors, or some sort of maze-through-a-cooler situation—in other words, inconvenient access. When I was the only pharmacist working, taking a restroom break required closing down the pharmacy for 10-15 minutes at a time to trek across the store. Other times, I would get a patient who begged me to fill a prescription quickly, and during the dispensing period, a line would form and two hours would pass before my next opportunity for a restroom break. I lived many days where the first bathroom opportunity wasn’t available until 6 hours into a workday. It became necessary for me to manage my water intake judiciously to minimize how often I went to the restroom.
Even worse, I led myself to believe that vacating the pharmacy to take care of my physical needs was unacceptable. In doing so, I was failing or causing disappointment, because I was taking time away from my patients and neglecting my responsibilities. Water, therefore, became my enemy, and I adapted into a cactus that needed infrequent watering.
The thing about trauma is that it doesn't have to be a major, life-threatening circumstance. Even small incidences that cause stress and repeatedly triggers your survival mode can forge memory and body conditioning into a traumatic event. Constantly suppressing my urgencies led to my subconscious association of water as “danger.” Silly, isn’t it? What first started as active avoidance of drinking water during work hours, turned into hydration amnesia—my body forgot what thirsty felt like and too frequently, a couple of days would pass before I remembered to drink a cup of water.
As a result, I was chronically exhausted—no matter how much sleep I got, how clean I ate, and how great the quality of my supplements were. I assumed my fatigue was due to stress and workload, and I would anesthetize the day away with a bottle of wine—more wine, more dehydration, more chronic fatigue. In hindsight, perpetuating this vicious cycle for as long as I did was not my smartest choice, though it did feel good momentarily.
It was approximately 5 years ago that Hana reentered my life. I’d shake my head and laugh at her irrational fear of death-by-dehydration, but in truth, her hypochondriac tendencies with water is what saved me from my energy crisis. She would point out the fact that she’d drink 2 glasses of water in the time I drank one. She’d send me memes or blatantly text, “Don’t forget to drink your water today. I love you.” After some time, I wondered what would change if I mimicked her crazy water obsession for a week and so I started carrying a water bottle by my side.
During work hours, I set my alarm to drink 2 cups of water at 11:30AM, 1:30PM, 3:30PM, and 5:30PM. I attempted this new practice for a week. I noticed that my body didn’t feel like it was going to break down by the end of the day and I actually had enough energy to do more than melt into the couch. Woah. I continued my water reintegration practice, ritualistically filling my water bottle each morning before I headed out the door. A week turned into a month, and the month quickly turned into a year.
I learned what it felt like to thirst again, to distinguish the feeling of dehydration from a day’s exhaustion. I am less aggravated and my midday energy strikes for sugar-laden treats are infrequent. My skin has become more plump, my eyeballs don’t feel like someone’s trying to squeeze them open, my nose doesn’t bleed as often, and my mild headaches have virtually disappeared. All of these benefits, and more, are the results of my increased my water consumption.
The most important thing I gained, however, is the progressive deconstruction of my self-induced trauma. I had to teach myself that it was safe to drink water again, that it is OK to use the restroom as I need to. Some days, I still remind myself that I am not a failing pharmacist if my patients wait 10 minutes longer for their prescriptions (they will survive) and that my mental and physical well-being must come first—when I’m focused and feeling my best, I am in my best state to service my patients. Martyrdom serves no one.
These days, I work at a pharmacy that has a restroom inside and my entire team picks up their beverage cups every 2 hours with each sounding alarm. I still need reminders, but with each passing day, I’m becoming less like a cactus and a bit more of a water-thirsty mermaid—it’s rare for me to leave the house without my 40-ounce sidekick. Progress. I’ll cheers to that. Grab you water and cheers with me, won’t you? Bottom’s up!