My eyes popped open, pulling me from the dark unconsciousness of sleep. It felt as though ocean waves were rolling from one side of my belly to the other. I tried not to move, the consequences to disrupting this sort of process were less than desirable. I turned my head to see what time it was. 3:17 in the morning. That motion sufficed to send tidal waves up my esophagus. I hopped up, out of my bed, ran down the short hallway into the bathroom, threw the lid and seat up just in time.
I was a mess. The sickness lasted about thirty-six hours. I couldn’t eat or drink anything without it making a nasty return. It made me hate life. In between these hourly purgings, I tried to sleep. I would lay still on my bed, tortured by heat or coolness. I was sweaty one minute and had chills the next.
After I’d slept enough, I sat there, awake, too conscious of everything happening in my body. A couple of times, I tried to read to get my mind off the strained stomach muscles and my excessively sensitive, completely indecisive core temperature. I couldn’t do it. Eyes blurred over words they recognized but my brain chose to ignore. I was too focused on all the wrong things, making a diversion nearly impossible. Once, I tried to watch a show on Hulu. That also ended in failure. I was trapped in my own, limited senses- they were abusing me.
Another night of vomiting passed. The next day was better, I wasn’t making any requests of Jesus that involved taking me home to be with Him. Ultimately, this was a good sign. I realized I hadn’t eaten anything in more than a day. Most of my gut-wrenching had produced nothing after the first two or three excursions- they rest were just agonizing spasms and muscle-contractions that made me want to die.
After a while, I felt the first pang of hunger. I should have been happy, as it was a sign of returning health. But I didn’t trust my appetite. Something about it had betrayed me, locked me in my body and given me hell for almost two days. I didn’t want to eat after being so sick because I felt like it’d just start all over again. I needed food but was afraid of the consequences.
Ideally, man should trust his appetites more than anything else. Our hungers have been woven into our minds, bodies and spirits for a reason. A sickness has changed everything about them though. The desire for food was never a problem until it came in such quantities that overeating and gluttony became a problem. McDonald’s has not helped this dilemma. Sex is the natural desire to procreate and be in communion with another human, not some addicting act satisfied by any piece of flesh we encounter. Our desire for God has even gone through some process of perversion. Adam and Eve hid from God after eating that which they weren’t supposed to. Now, instead of approaching Him as we should, so many people take different routes, join cults and do the stupidest crap then call it spirituality.
God, only You can make this better. Please restore my hungers and desires to their original purposes, help me to live in the purity of being exactly who I was made to be, with everything in its right place. Please help me enjoy bacon, cheese and coffee again.