Confessions of a Professional Puker

The second I swallow, I feel It come alive; the pain, so instant and intense that I know I’ll be throwing up later. I try to ignore It, I say to myself “it won’t happen today; it’s just gas”. Oh how I wish it was just gas. 

As It grows angrier, I push It down, down into my stomach, into the back of my mind.            I tell It to “settle down, I’m at work; I can’t deal with you and your violent outbursts”. Sometimes It listens and allows me to finish my work day with minimal interruptions. A few times an hour I’ll feel It move and I take a deep breath in, hoping that the intake of oxygen will keep It happy for a few minutes while I send this email or answer this call. 

On the good days (and I use that term lightly), I will ignore It for hours and hours until I can’t anymore and end up with my head in a toilet throwing up almost completely undigested food once or twice and then go to bed. 

However, those are rare and I usually end up dealing with 12 hours of trying to get It out before I can rest.

Other times It will decide that It doesn’t want to be pushed down and ignored and It will make me go home, settling down temporarily so I can focus enough to change gears and arrive home safely. 

On these days - the worst days - I walk in the door, disrobe and make my way to the bathroom, usually hunched over from pain, and immediately throw up. Once that round is done, I will crawl my way to bed, propping pillows up because laying down makes It mad, and wait for the next one. I will try to sleep, all I want is to close my eyes and sleep, but It won’t let me. As soon as my body relaxes and starts to drift into slumber, It wakes me up, ready to fight. 

Sometimes I feels like It is so fuming and stubborn that It refuses to digest properly, that It wants to claw Its way out of me. I can feel It churning in the depths of my stomach, pressing against my insides trying to get out… get out… get the FUCK out! 

So I puke. I puke for hours - sometimes days - until there is nothing left. And then sometimes even when I am empty, I puke some more. The seething, hot pain that was once a carrot or a piece of bread refuses to settle until I have lost all strength, all fluid, all the contents of my stomach and the majority of my will to continue moving. 

I sit on the cold bathroom floor, shivering from the ceramic tiles on my bare legs, and sweating from the heaving – choking - gagging.  If it’s a really bad one I cry. I cry because I am angry. I cry because I am weak. But mostly I cry because I am so fucking sick and tired of throwing up. 

And then, just as fast as it began, it’s over. It leaves me. Alone. Empty. Defeated. I can finally sleep and eat and function like a normal human being. That is until the next time that rabid creature rears its ugly head again and tries to escape.  

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