Feel It
Written by Lily Silva
Image courtesy of @_pizzabacon
Today I woke up at 7:45 a.m. I had gone to bed at 1:30 a.m. the night prior, just about six hours of sleep. Not enough but not terrible. I got out of bed and hopped on Instagram dot com; the app itself was deleted from my phone in an ultimately self-aggrandizing attempt to“ disconnect”. I was on Instagram dot com for about fifteen minutes before I felt it.
It happens once or thrice a day.
A tingle starting in my palms creeps up through my arms and to my chest. Once it reaches my sternum, a sort of sinking feeling starts. Waves of thoracic pressure crash and my knees succumb to the weight.
Now I’m on the floor.
By this time my cheeks are dressed with stripes of salty tears and strings of snot suspended above my lip. On the floor, I start to assess the situation. I can get up and fix my face or I can stay down and continue to wilt.
I wilt.
Sometimes I get up, but usually that ends up prolonging my dolor.
If I can manage, I’ll crawl and push myself up to the couch. I sit on the middle cushion. It has a broken spring, causing it to cave inwards. In this plush nook I curl into a ball and continue to cry.
I like it here.
Weeping willows are admired for their solemn beauty. Can’t I be as well?
In an attempt to ameliorate my state, I inhale and exhale and recite the Hail Mary but the hiccups make this a difficult feat. Once the tears slow down and I can catch my breath, my gut begins to clench.
A soreness climbs up my esophagus and the rush of nausea begins. Gagging on oxygen, I can collect enough to fuel my great journey to the toilet. I don’t have the strength to resist the reach. I hang over the seat and pray to the porcelain God. Sometimes I can make out what it is: watermelon, eggs, my morning Celsius, etc.,
This doesn’t last for long.
When I’m done, I blow my nose and brush my teeth. I make sure to scrape my tongue and gums so there’s no lingering scent of bile.
Post-puke I’m rather phlegmatic. My head is still rushing but I regain feeling in my legs and relax my core. The buzz in my heart remains, that’s usually there anyways. I go to my closet and put together my outfit of the day. I brush and style my hair. I coat my damp eyelashes with mascara and paint my lips a reddish brown.
It has passed.
I will continue about my day – apprehensively because I know it can happen again. In the shower, at the gym, or on my evening stroll. I’m not scared of it. It is a sign that I’m alive. It forces me to be grateful for the moments in between. It is part of my life.
Today at 8:00 a.m., it happened to me. Regardless of how much sleep I get or the sites I doomscroll, it is consistent. I knew it was coming.
Who am I to stand in its way?
