I used to be terrified of vomiting. I hated it so much as a kid, and you do it far more often as a kid, that I recall actually actively worrying about it when I wasn’t sick, or likely to be. Just the idea that I might some day puke again in the future made me feel sick. It was an almost spiritual awakening. The pure liquid anxiety at the moment of puking felt essentially like hell, it was how I imagined hell to be. That moment extended out forever.

It’s only recently, this last time I was sick, yesterday, that the real beauty of vomiting has struck me. There’s the moment of anguish, with the cold sweat and the delirium, but then there’s the sheer release afterwards, it’s euphoric. It’s almost worth it. It’s nice enough that I don’t think I’m afraid of it anymore, at least. 

I’m not sure how, but I think there’s a lot to be understood within the knife’s edge of the nausea-release moment. It really makes me wish that more things were that way. How often is something as horrible as needing to throw up, and how often is something as instantly relieving as throwing up? Not often, I’d say. Not often at all. Things are usually far more drawn out.

I want my next confession to feel like a puke. 

Or my next communion