I became fearful of that vile, yellow, putrid -- chunky bubbly guts some call vomit. Others refer to it as 'throw-up'; whatever the slang of the day may be, it used to be my worst imaginable fear. I used to tell people that the reason for my insane reactions; was that I was vomited upon in the kindergarten. Hot lunch, pizza -- I remember it all. It just wasn't ON me, I added that part. I simply watched the entire thing. I once added the "on me" for dramatic effect, it stuck. I believed it added a nice flair. The extra seemed to neutralize how over the top my behavior became. At the hint of that stuff, I went into full freak out mode. I rejected anything that came out of any mouth from the depths beyond. After grade school, I did not throw-up. I held that shit in until 2017/2018 era. Say the rosemary? Blink 1000 times in a row, hold my breath, give up ten years of my life sometime in the future? -- I prayed to Jesus at the slight hint of nausea. I was uber superstitious at the notion of puke. When I heard a gag, I buckled to my knees. I would have rather jumped out of a moving vehicle than to be up-chunked on. I ran out of class multiple times when the bobby, a kid that sat behind me, pretended to get sick -- and was threatened to be permanently kicked out if I didn't "cut it out".
My fear was larger than life, as was I.
As was I.
Today I cleaned up my son's chunky bubbly guts;
today I stared at the upchuck and didn't feel revulsion.
Today I cleaned up human feces from a diaper blow-out;
that ran all over the couch.
I can't complain, it was quite annoying -- even to myself. I got tired of the old behavior, the reactions got tiresome. I got tired of the fear. I would go into full panic if I believed someone around me was about to lose their guts. I received so many social consequences; real ones, and 'fake' point-based ones in treatment centers. I remember being in a passenger van in high school; and Lizzie McGuire was in the front seat throwing-up into a bag. I sat with a sweatshirt over my head, plugging my ears; praying for death. If it wasn't seen as suicidal, I would have jumped out of the car and hoped for the best. That is how unbearable panic attacks become; heart pumped, sweat glands racing. I was getting ready for battle over something so benign. Trying to explain to my eighth grade english teacher that, "no, this is not for attention; I can understand how it seems -- I am just DEATHLY scared of puke." Seeming to nod to him out of compassion and empathy, "No matter how many times Bobby fake coughs, I still believe him... yes, it is ridiculous." Why could Mr. Bobby stop fake coughing? Gag me with a spoon, please.
I was an anxious child, mostly just around vomit. And it was my stomach that commonly hurt when I felt the need to just stay-at-home; even from school. In the fifth grade, I was being molested. I must have been absent four dozen times with my fake excuses of tummy problems. It was kind of my code word for I cannot bare the day today, mentally. So, I am going to make up some physical problem so you can take this seriously. I couldn't tell my parents I was anxious? I barely knew what that meant. And I for sure couldn't tell them I was being abused. I had to deal with it myself, and being alone was apart of my small amount of coping strategies. I found little moments of escape on these days, I loved being just with myself -- just playing with my dolls and toys, no one to bother me. No one to make fun of me. I didn't have friends back then, just my sister. And I hated her. I hated christian education, I hated school. I hated my classmates. I hated the fifteen person classroom held in the back of a church. We did not even go to this church. This is where I attended the fifth grade. My mother was obsessed that I make friends with other fundamentalist children that learned Latin. I still remember that fenestra means window. I cheated the rest of my way through. I loved the books that our teacher picked out though, they were far above our grade level. And they were incredible. I fell in love with all the characters, and cried openly in class when we found out one of them had died. When I tried discussing books with the two other girls in my class; they were confused, "Let's like not talk about school?" they'd say. I am not really sure what they wanted to talk about, we didn't have much else in common.
I colored my blonde hair with markers in class. I'd come home with hand drawn tattoos all over my open skin. You know my forearms, ankles, knees -- any place the uniform did not cover. The others in my group studied the bible and had eight other siblings? And these were my play dates. I was forced to fit in. In my mind, I was a gymnast going to the Olympics one day; they were going to heaven, I guess? All I knew was that heaven didn't look too fun. Even if the line for four square got none existent; I still don't think I wanted to go. I think my mother believed that if she forced me around these kids, eventually I'd fit in and become a saint. I wanted nothing to do with that lifestyle. The pastor's child played sexually with the hotdogs he got for lunch. And I secretly read occult books at the back of Barnes and Nobles when she took us there to read. I think we were all a bit confused back then. I was a witch that hadn't come out of any proverbial broom closet. And I did not find out what happened to my sausage lover friend. Now, I must note -- I couldn't buy these demonic book, but -- I could paw through the pages while I was there. And it felt magical.
I guess in some ways; my childhood was magical. I had siblings just as wild as I; they just kept it on the low down. We tried jumping out windows, unrolled every single toilet paper we owned -- just to jump off the bed into the pile of clouds. My sister and I made extensive forts in the basement. We all played homeless; and pee'd in the woods. We tried catching deer with dandelions hung all over the back deck -- as if the yellow flowers were insanely captivating for this wild creature. I did acrobatics on the swing sets; and taught my sister how to fly with a broom off on the monkey bars. I also dreamed how I would never end up like my parents one day; I'd have adventures and be a lot less boring. When I grew up; I vowed to allow my children to have their friends go on vacation with our family. I swore to the heaven moon and stars that sleepovers would be allowed; and I'd talk to my child more about the important things in life. I promised I'd be my child's parent, of course -- but I would also attempt to be their friend, a confidant. I wanted to be my child's safe space. I guess that is all I wanted from my parents. Instead I got frat boy turned doctor father; his daughters would never be like the slut's he once knew in college. And my mother, the woman who never inhaled anything -- we think? She also never had sex until she was married; which also turned out to be a lie. Basically, the virgin mother of God was my earthly patron saint that watched over me. She was never human, or at least never admitted to it. I grew up with the words "happy family" carved in blood to the exterior of our image. On the inside; everything was bat shit crazy. And everyone hated it, including the parents.
I've been mad at my mother for a long time. It has felt like since the moment I could ask the question, "why" -- we've been between fights. We do not see eye to eye. I wanted a deep, emotional relationship with my mother. One where she is vulnerable and shares her life with me; she did not. She has felt that sharing openly and honestly is not appropriate. Or makes up reasons to why she believes that I am an "unsafe" person to talk too; which feels like shit. I now know I am not the one who violated her being; however, for a long time -- I thought I caused her to be the way she was: cold, distant. I can now recognize her trauma responses were just that; triggers. And I didn't cause that knife wound, I just reflected it. As she hit mine at times. I used to think she did this on purpose, I did not see her blindfold. She didn't want to see her part, she did not want to see her pain. How can I blame her?
Seeing this stuff is dark and ugly.
I realised how deep her pain was; when I first saw mine. I saw my pain reflected in the eyes of my son. When he cried, it pierced a hole in my heart. The demons started releasing; my darkness began coming through. I was no different than my mother; than all mothers. This is healing; having children is healing. I witness that today, as I cleaned up my son's vomit. It was avocado and tomatoes I had just fed him. It wasn't gross; it was food. And I hugged him; life is so scary when you are that little. Since 2018, I've thrown up hundreds of times. I am not sure what happened by the spell I performed on myself not to ever puke began to untwist. I was scared of my insides. I was scared of that vulnerable feeling once your guts have spilled on the floor. I get the same feeling when I write, emotional word vomit all over the page. Some call it healing. I know that Dr. Sarnos would; I think the doctor of the future will. Healing is an unwinding of our emotions as well as our neural tone. I believe that; I am dedicating my life to it.
That counts for something, I suppose.
