Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Wicked Wednesday...now with more Wednesday!
Oy. Let's make today's Wicked Wednesday short and sweet.
Having just come off of a two days complete body purging, I can tell you it is definitely one of nature's most hideous afflictions.
Everyone is familiar with the symptoms of food poisoning...throwing up, being crampy, cold/hot flashes, pissing out of your ass...it's not cute, but that's how it goes. We all know. And this will bring us into a very oooooold wicked action, perpetrated by dear old Dad.
When I was 4 years old, I got sick. Really sick. Barfing, diarrhea, the whole nine yards. I was living in New York at the time with my mom and my dad, and I had no idea, but my parents were on the cusp of seperation. That doesn't really tie in, by the way, I just want pity. Just kidding. Anyway, my dad was a bartender, so having a long night shift, he slept during the day and left at night. I didn't get to hang out with him very much. I took every opportunity to be with him that I could, and I had no idea, but I really should have just let him sleep. Most of the 'quality time' I spent with my dad as a little girl has had long-term negative effects on my psyche. My father is why I'm afraid of the dark (deathly afraid. It's fairly pathetic that at 25, I am STILL scared of the dark and have to sleep with some sort of light on in my house, but that's how it is. Thanks, Dad!), why I'm afraid of spiders, and why I'm writing this wicked wednesday post about him.
So, back to having the flu at age four. To this day, when I am sick, I am a total baby. I cry for my mommy, I whine until I get my way...generally, there are tears all around. I was that way when I was little...but at least back then, it was excusable. So, let's paint a picture, shall we? I'm an adorable little four year old with a moppy head of curls, all plastered on my face from sweat and raw exertion (best portrait of me EVER!) and I am absolutely bawling my ass of for my mommy. My mom wasn't available, so my dad comes strolling in, cool as you please, eating an apple. You may think this is a lot of detail for me to remember, but this singular scenario has fucked me up completely. I will never, ever forget it. I'm crunched over the toilet barfing out whatever jar of play-doh and mud clumps I consumed (one of my favorite games when I Was little was "Kitchen"...and I would take all kinds of horrible for me ingredients, turn them into something even more horrible for me, and eat them with great gusto. At four, I didn't have that picky a palate) and my dad sits down on the bathtub rim, and starts cleaning off my face with toilet paper. I am still crying, of course, and my dad looks at me and says exactly this : "Drea, there isn't time for tears right now. Every time you throw up, you're so much closer to dying."
I'll give you some space so that can really sink in.
Are we all on the same page of how the fuck could he? Cool.
So, yeah. With one sentence, my dad completely fucked up my make-myself-feel-better sense of preservation. I have been so completely scarred by that experience that I now REFUSE to vomit.
So, in summation :
Today's Wicked Action : Any number of things my father told me as a child, but most importantly, that throwing up will fucking make you die.
Today's way of coping with it : Refusing to vomit.
Now, today's way of coping might not sound so bad to you. In fact, let me just throw in here that I have not thrown up in 14 years. I don't know many people who can say that and not be lying. But I really haven't. Her's why it's a really fucking stupid way to deal with my phobia - I dry heave instead. This sicks out my fiance like nobody's business. It sicks me out, too. Because with my dry heaving, the only thing that's actually making it not vomit is the vomit coming OUT of my mouth. I just sort of keep everything in my throat and make sure it knows that there is no way on God's Green Earth I am letting it leave the premises of my throat. So, I taste it, I feel it, I heave...I just send it right back from whence it came. In retrospect, vomiting is actually a lot less disgusting. But I just can't bring myself to vomit. I've actually...in a fit of dry-heaving, tried to let myself just puke. And after 14 years of repression, the vomit just knows where to go. I am powerless to control this. I just hold my nose and essentially hold my breath, then I get REALLY intense hot flashes, and then I shiver for a good hour until the next wave comes along. I am convinced that if I could just let go and puke, I would instantly feel better. But not for this 25 year old that's also afraid of the dark....THANKS, DAD!!!!!
I need therapy.