I throw up rarely and with great distress. It feels so unnatural. I envy people who can stick their fingers into their throats and heave at will. They’ll instantly feel better.
The last time I threw up was earlier this summer and I was convinced my whiskey had been spiked. It probably hadn’t. A voice called from outside the toilet cubicle where I was slumped:
“Helen, your boyfriend’s waiting.”
I was choking on acidic juices. I struggled for air and began to panic. There was no air left in the universe. I grabbed for the lock on the door. There were tiny stars.
“Can you check again if she’s in there?” I heard him ask.
“I checked, darling, she’s not answering.”
I took long, greedy breaths, coughing and spitting and breathing. He wasn’t my boyfriend. I wasn’t ready to come out anyway – my stomach and oesophagus contracted in unison and I threw up more whiskey and bile.
Continue reading ‘A month of my life and the writing of John Steinbeck’
