I crawl into bed without changing. I’m too tired and sick and achy and miserable to be bothered to do much else.
“I have food poisoning,” I whimper to the empty half of the mattress next to me.
My body’s never been one with a high tolerance for suffering; my physiological reactions are simply too strong to let things go, and I’ve the acute disadvantage of enduring their results.
When I was little, I’d constantly forget to eat. I’d run around for hours, exhausting my energy supply, until the minute my hunger pains struck. Like a paper house of cards, I’d collapse wherever I was, hands on my stomach and a whimper creeping out the sides of my mouth.
My mother had seen it so many times she was no longer amused.
“Get up,” she’d command. “That means your hungry.” Later in life, I learned how not to let it get this far, though I still wouldn’t consider myself finely in tune with what my body tries to tell me.
I remember last year, I thought I felt calm as I defended myself when my uncle told me my life in its current stages was not worth living. It wasn’t until I reached over to pick up the chopsticks I had put down that I noticed I was visibly shaking. After a bite of food, I realized I had no appetite.
This week, I rode the waves of nausea and stomach pains for hours before finally forcing myself out of denial and into the bathroom to vomit. I was hoping I didn’t really have food poisoning.
I suppose I’ll always think I can endure more than I can endure.