Whenever I feel like there’s the slightest possibility I might throw up, I start to shake. My pulse races, I perspire profusely, and try to talk myself out of it with happy thoughts…
“No, Camille, you aren’t sick. You aren’t sick. It’s all in your head. You aren’t going to throw up. You can do it. Just be strong. Come on, self!”
And you know what? It usually works. I would rather have an upset stomach all day—as long as I’m in bed—than throw up even once.
Throwing up takes a real toll on my emotional well-being.
When I was a little girl and I’d have to throw up, I would camp out in the bathroom by the toilet [because the only thing worse than throwing up is not making it on time, and then someone having to clean it up] until it came. I never would gag myself…just wait. Sometimes it took hours, and during that time, I’d gone over every way I could avoid feeling like that in the future:
1. Never eat meat cooked in barbeque sauce—pork, chicken, beef… It’s a very bad idea.
2. Never wash down a bowl of milk and cereal with a glass of orange juice—something about the dairy and acidic o.j. is bad for me [I’m convinced of it even to this day].
3. Never eat spinach souffle. Ever. Even if my mother threatens groundation. [We were raised to eat what we were given. Picky-ness was against the rules, and as a result, my sister and I will basically eat anything, at least once. One day when I was little I wasn’t feeling well and we were having dadgum spinach souffle for dinner, and my mom was excited to be broadening our eating horizons, but I didn’t have a good feeling about it, and begged not to have to eat it…shortly after dinner, it all came up, and I’ve never had to eat it again.]
Image from Wiki.
4. Chew my ramen noodles. Because on the off chance that they’ll make me ill, I really don’t want to see them coming up whole again.
5. Never get pregnant.
Those were my rules, and I’ve followed them to a “T” my entire life. I’m not one for self-discipline, so this is really quite monumental {or just plain mental…who knows?}.
Image from here.
If, however, my positive thinking couldn’t get me out of the fact I was going to throw up, I would get really worked up about it. I can’t vomit quietly—I don’t know how—and so the entire house would be awake while I was paying my alms to the porcelain gods. Even as a teenager, my mom would always come sit with me—just in case I passed out, she reasoned—which was embarrassing but comforting nonetheless [in fact, another reason I’m terrified to get pregnant is because I’m not convinced Poor Kyle will be nearly as supportive as my mother would be. He’d probably let me puke in lone misery, and not hold my hair back at all]. Since I had the company, in between pukes, I would lament:
“I’m never getting pregnant! I hate this! I hate FEELING like this! I don’t know how anybody could knowingly get themselves into something like this! It’s the worst feeling I could imagine! I HATE it. And I could never be bulimic, either. They’re idiots, all of them. I hate the world! [Interruption for puke] I hate this.”
Me back then: Camille. Kid hating, life loathing, nilly-willy teen. Like, totally. Whatever. Photo circa 1999.
I know I make myself sound like a prima donna, but let me say that even as a teen, I tried not to use the word “hate” too frequently. Throwing up, however, is something to which I am passionately opposed.
Fast forward a few years: I was quite ill yesterday. The same shaky, sweaty, positive-thinking ill I’ve been talking about today. I was sitting in the chapel with my fingers on the keyboards of the organ, and I honestly considered trying to find someone to cover for me. It seemed much less embarrassing than spewing up-chuck all over the organ console and then finding a replacement. I decided to stick it out, but not after running my mouth off to several people who came to say good morning. I mentioned I wasn’t feeling well.
A girl my age, in my religion and culture, mentioning she’s not feeling well on any particular morning…well…it sort of looks suspiciously…pregnant.
So I would like to publicly announce that yes, I am ill. Yes, I hate throwing up. And no, I am not expecting anything in nine months except a lovely birthday present from Poor Kyle, and perhaps a schwackload of homework.
How was your weekend? Did you set off any false alarms?
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