I was raised a good girl with my mother dreaming that I would make the transition into a young lady rapidly after turning ten. That never happened; silly microscopic handbags, flouncy brown Austrian blinds, having my beloved cabin bed confiscated, a nasty nylon net curtain style bedcover all helped put me off the concept. But in this ideal world in which we were raised, bodily functions didn’t happen, in fact, they just didn’t exist. So I’m going to be rude and talk about the worse one.
It is the most humiliating experience imaginable. Actually, don’t even try and imagine it. It’s not at all pleasant.
This is your body in revolt, conspiring against you at every muscle twitch, dry heave and projectile spewing.
I know the science behind the reaction but I always wonder why, why do we have to vomit?
It reduces you into a quivering, pathetic mass, probably more a blob, of humanity. It feels bad and tastes nasty. It’s absolutely exhausting, draining you of whatever little energy you didn’t really have left.
The only thing that you remain passionate about is whatever receptacle that you’re desperately clinging to, be it a plastic washing up bowl or the porcelain of the now beloved toilet. Your eyes remain fixed on the target, tremulous at the idea of letting go and trying to find some rest. Whilst you grip to this pitiable salvation, all will be well. Or at least easier and cleaner. Head slumped, eyes bleary, arms locked in a passionate embrace around the toilet bowl – it’s never going to be a good look.
A sip of water is all that can pass your cracked lips, one miserly sip at a time, bringing refreshment to your fouled mouth. The foetid smell rises and clings to your very being. Even when the evidence is disposed of, your martyr’s sign is still around your neck, proclaimed in the funk that follows you. You shiver, weak all over from the effort and slightly dazed by the violence of your involuntary spasms.
I hate being sick. It doesn’t happen too often, fortunately. The very idea of it makes me feel miserable. Nausea makes me hide under my duvet, frozen in a petrified immobility for fear of upsetting the balance further. I am one of those wretched beings who are not blest with an early warning system. If I start to think to myself, ‘I feel …’, then it’s too late. Far too late. The misery has commenced.
Throwing up is so undignified, one of the most degrading experiences of human life. I recommend trying to avoid it as much as possible, you won’t enjoy it but you probably already know that.