IBS Horror Stories: That Time I Destroyed a Model Restroom

Let’s face it—everyone loves a good horror story… until it involves a public restroom and a surprise plot twist from your digestive system. Welcome to the glamorous world of IBS horror stories , where the true villain isn’t a ghost or a serial killer—it’s your own gut staging a coup at the worst possible moment. Buckle up for this fabulously awkward tale involving haute cuisine, high fashion, and one very unfortunate restroom.

 appeal?

At any point I could get the sudden urge to run to the restroom, not knowing for sure which end it’s coming out from. I have Irritable Bowel Syndrome (IBS) and gastroesophageal reflux disease.

I’m also a foodie who gets invited to media events and restaurant openings. As you can imagine, I’ve had my share of diarrhea horror stories, which also often make for funny IBS horror stories.

A small business was hosting a product launch for protein pancakes at a swanky event venue downtown. I wasn’t feeling particularly well that morning, but it had been a few months since seeing my foodie friends, and I was excited to catch up. The whole car ride there, my tummy was gurgling. I was worried, knowing something was about to strike, and it wasn’t going to be pretty. I always felt IBS embarrassing, which is why I kept it a secret from my foodie friends. No one of them knew how embarrassing and uncomfortable an irritable bowel attack was, especially with uncontrollable diarrhea.

As soon as the car arrived at the destination, I knew that tonight was not going to be fun. The IBS stomach cramps had kicked in. Diarrhea would be next. The fiery kind of uncontrollable diarrhea that people with IBS know all too well. I needed a restroom and fast.

Checking in with the doorman, working at a sloth’s pace to find my name on the list of influencers, I couldn’t think straight. I was doing everything thing in my power to stop thinking about my IBS flare-up and the very real possibility of uncontrollable diarrhea happening before I could find a restroom. Of course, the party room was on the top floor of the waterfront condo. The very top floor.

I hit PH3 and focused all my energy on reciting the alphabet backward—anything to distract myself from the abdominal mutiny happening below deck. Just as I thought I might make it, the elevator stopped on the 15th floor. In walked two stunning, Instagram-famous fitness influencers, glowing with post-smoothie-bowl disappointment. And there I was: clenching like my life (and dignity) depended on it, silently praying my intestines wouldn't betray me mid-small talk.

To make things worse (because of course it gets worse—this is one of those IBS horror stories), they were headed to the same event. Convenient, right? Except the tall blonde had to pee, and guess who found the restroom first? I stood there, sweating bullets, locked in a gut-wrenching standoff with time, gravity, and one very occupied toilet.

Finally, I stumble into the futuristic restroom—a sleek black void with all the warmth of a sci-fi villain’s lair. Everything is matte black: the toilet, the walls, the shower, the soul of the designer. No windows. No obvious fan. Just ten cryptic buttons that may or may not activate Skynet. I press one. The lights flick on in the shower. Another one? The floor heats up like I’m about to give birth on lava tiles. Cool. Time’s up. Let the IBS games begin.

What follows is not fit for polite company—or polite plumbing. Let’s just say the storm passes, but I emerge looking like I’ve fought in it. I’m sweating, ghost-pale, and fully reconsidering my life choices. If you’re compiling accessible restroom stories, let me assure you: this ain't it.

Now comes the cover-up. I go to flush and—plot twist—the toilet doesn’t have a handle. No visible button. No automatic whoosh. Just mocking silence. I start smacking the black-on-black control panel like I’m trying to hack into NASA. Someone knocks on the door.

“Just a minute!” I yell, the universal cry of shame.

Eventually, the toilet flushes—barely. A whisper of water swirls around like it’s auditioning for a water conservation PSA. It leaves behind... plenty of receipts. But wait! I spot a toilet brush! Except—it’s decorative. Sleek. Fashionably useless. It's part of the “Do Not Do” list when designing restrooms for actual human use.

I sit again. Stand. Sit. Plead. The toilet refuses a second act. I rifle through every sleek little drawer in the room, but they’re all for show—just like this model restroom clearly built for Pinterest, not poop.

Eventually, I accept defeat. I slip out like a shadow, praying no one’s waiting to make eye contact. I re-enter the event space with the slow, haunted shuffle of someone who has stared into the abyss... and left skid marks.

This was it—the Mount Everest of IBS horror stories. I told myself it would be rude to leave without at least saying hi to the event organizers and snapping a few pics of the overly pretentious, artfully stacked fusion platters I couldn’t eat. You know, for Instagram. Because nothing says “I’m totally fine” like filtered photos of food you didn’t dare put in your traitorous gut.

I didn’t eat a single bite. But later, like a liar in denial, I’d post, “OMG, the food was divine!” Meanwhile, I glided through the crowd with the haunted look of someone who’d just detonated a restroom. I avoided eye contact with every person headed toward the scene of the crime, silently praying they’d blame the plumbing—or the smoothie bowls.

My stomach was doing low-key jazz hands, threatening an encore performance. I lasted ten more minutes, just long enough to hear one of the influencers whisper, “She probably had the same rancid smoothie bowls we did.” Honestly? I wish I had. At least then I’d have something other than shame to blame.

Pro tip: First impressions are like model futuristic restrooms—flashy, full of promise, and wildly unreliable under pressure.