More from the TMI department.
I can still feel the after-effects of Sunday night. I don’t feel sick, but I can feel the strain my stomach went through.
You know how you hear about people who can’t throw-up. Physically can’t. I’m not in that position, but I’m probably not far away from it. Even when I’ve got some kind of nasty present, and it’s necessary for me to do it to feel better, it takes an awful lot of effort for it to happen.
Hence the tossing and turning. The hot and cold sweats. The crouching in the preferred vomitting position (in front of the couch, on the rug in the livingroom, bucket nearby). I even have to think vomit-inducing thoughts to bring it on. Then there’s unbelievable noise, accompanied by the full-body cat-furball-like motion. Physical exhaustion.
It’s like putting my stomach through the wringer, inside-out. Like the stomach equivalent of a sore muscle. A sore stomach muscle.
And my stomach is keen to remind me afterwards what it’s been through. “Oh sure, you got that nasty stuff out. But the effort! The strain! Whatever it was, don’t consume it again!”