I made myself sick.

But not for the purpose of buli. I was at bf’s last night and went to bed with stomach cramps. Then woke in the night feeling sick. I woke him and said I would go sit in the downstairs toilet as long as I needed, and that he should stay in bed and I didn’t want to wake anybody up.

I crept down, slightly shaking, and locked the toilet door. I sat in a heap on the floor for 5 minutes expecting to want to chuck up. But the sick feeling floated in my throat and on my chest and remained self-contained in my stomach, carrying with it terrible bloating.

Fuck it.

I crawled over the toilet, kneeling down to it as though praying to it, as if it were much mightier than me, to rid me and literally purge me of my sins. I was staring into its bowels, into its insides, begging it to make me well again.

Then I stuck my right index finger into my throat. I wretched but that wasn’t enough. I put two fingers down and started to gently tickle it. I tickled it softly like the belly of a small purring kitten, writhing for more. The more I tickled the closer the vomit rose, with each time it made me gag.

I scraped at it, as though trying to peel off the skin.

I pawed desperately at my throat to beg it to free me from this feeling.

I fingered my throat with the same scandalous, vulgar connotative ways that may come to your mind with use of such a term, desperate to eject the vomit inside me.

After several attempts, a small amount of vile acid slid across my tongue and spewed itself from my lips. Then more, and more. I was sweating, I was trembling, my eyes were teary from the strain of it, I felt weak and scared (I hate being sick, especially when not at home). I coughed being as quiet as possible. Somehow it felt so relieving though, to see the illness and pain and unpleasantness evacuate my body.

The acid scolded my tongue for its ability to taste, the acid and bile that belonged inside me. The taste echoed in my mouth until I washed it with water to dull the foul sensation. The longer I went on, the more acidic the vomit became until it was almost too much to bear.

I repeated the process of sitting in a heap then vomiting about three times, and after about 45 minutes went back to bed.

The sun was starting to rise, and bf asked if I was ok. I reassured him, then he drifted back to sleep whilst I listened to the birds that were waking and telling me in so many words that it was ok. They were so reassuring, their beautiful song. I imagined them sitting up in their trees, their little beaks pointed skywards and tainted with the dying moon, slaughtered by the light of the rising sun. I imagined them, so adorable! So sweet. So reassuring. So calm, non-judgemental, so angelic.

Finally with their tune softly strumming my ears, I drifted back to sleep in the chant of their morning lullaby.

I appreciate this is a bit of an in depth description of the widely experienced incident of throwing up, but I guess I learned it wouldn’t be that difficult to purge after all – to bring up the contents of my stomach on a regular basis to prevent the fats from flooding me. The only thing that puts me off is the damage it would inflict upon my poor body.

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