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you click the coffee machine on, already pre-loaded for your usual two cups since yesterday evening. you take the bowl of overnight oats out of the fridge. you eat a few spoonfuls while waiting for the coffee but something about it tastes wrong. maybe the yogurt you used was off. you didn't think so, but either way, the thought of finishing the bowl turns your stomach so you throw it away and just drink your coffee with some crackers.

it's 7:24 and just a bit over 1,5 hours before your work day officially starts, you're grumpy, disappointed with your breakfast and the general state of the world this morning so you decide to go back to bed until it's work time.

you close your eyes and suddenly it's 9:48 and you wake up to three missed calls from your manager and a long enough rant on whatsapp that it makes your eyes glaze over trying to read it. "sorry," you type in a reply, "missed my alarm. fever. going back to sleep." you're not actually sure you have a fever but you're starting to accept that something's not right, and the way you're starting to feel shivery makes it a fair bet that fever is not far off. the thought of going to the bathroom to find the thermometer feels like a herculean task, so you just mute notifications on your phone and curl up tighter under the duvet.

you try to fall asleep again but the room keeps spinning in lazzy, sickening circles around you and it gets worse every time you're about to drift off. the cats have positioned themselves around you, one in the crook of your knees, one next to your belly, one on the pillow behind your head. usually you don't mind them in your bed--and good luck keeping cats out of bed anyway--but now the purring warmth pressing against your stomach is making you aware of a vague, formless sense of dread that isn't quite nausea yet but you can imagine by now that it's headed that way.

it's 10:37 when you give up on trying to sleep and relocate to the couch. the cats happily occupy the space you left behind.

you arm yourself with supplies. blanket and pillows, bottled water, ginger mints, a box of tissues. trash can, though you hate puking in anything but the toilet, because you have to clean it up yourself anyway. by now you're definitely feeling queasy, and when you tug the waistband of your yoga pants down a little to ease the pressure on your stomach, you're surprised to see how bloated you've become.

you settle in to read a little but you can't focus on the words on the screen of your e-reader. your stomach is giving the occasional ominous gurgle, and as you press your hand lightly against it, you can feel the movement under your palm. you give up on reading and just close your eyes, your heart beating fast and your breath coming in quick and shallow.

it's shortly before noon that the burps start. you cover your mouth as a tiny bubble of air forces its way up, silent and acidic and bringing little relief. you take a sip of water to rid yourself of the taste, and immediately regret it as the next burp brings the water bubbling up the back of your throat, not all the way into your mouth but too close for comfort. you swallow it back down, torn between resignation and denial that this is how it's going to be.

you spend the next thirty minutes or so fighting the inevitable, shifting every so often to find a position that might feel better but there isn't one. the pitifully small sip of water feels cool in the back of your throat with every increasingly wet burp, and the coffee and the few spoonfuls of oatmeal you had for breakfast seem to have turned into a rancid mess of sick in your bloated belly.

the shift from anxiety to inevitability is so subtle you could almost miss it if the inevitability itself wasn't so overwhelming. you body shifts gears from 'oh god am i going to be sick?' to 'okay, i'm going to be sick' and suddenly you're not anxious anymore. you get up and make your way to the bathroom because you do hate having to rinse the trash can after vomiting. you walk a little hunched over, with the exaggerated steadiness of someone who feels anything but, one hand cradling your middle and the other hovering over your mouth as if it's going to stop the inevitable.

you kneel in front of the toilet, thankful for the soft bath mat cushioning your knees from the cold tile floor. you shiver as you lean over the toilet bowl. your breath hitches as your stomach lurches in a weak false start. an especially foul burp works its way out, and for a ludicrous second you feel the relief and think maybe that was it, maybe you're not going to, after all...

the dry heave that clenches your core immediately proves such thoughts wrong. you're gripping the toilet seat with both hands, trembling and breathing too fast. thick saliva drips from your open mouth into the clear water below. just as you're thinking about how gross it looks, the next heave seizes your body. this time a small trickle of your stomach contents surges up your throat, burning every inch of the way and tasting absolutely vile. you spit, but almost before you can prepare yourself, your stomach heaves again.

and again.

and again, and finally a more substantial amount of the vile sludge that used to be coffee and oats comes up and splashes into the toilet with a force. you draw a shuddering breath, catch a glimpse of something that looks uncomfortably like undigested oats in the no-longer-clear water, and then you're heaving again.

you're not sure how long it lasted--probably not as long as it felt like, your rational brain feels the need to point out--but finally you sit back on your haunches, trembling, wiping tears of excertion from your eyes and wishing you had the foresight to bring the water bottle with you. your throat is burning, your sinuses are burning, and your stomach doesn't feel much emptier than it was before.

you may be done for now, but you're not done.

you spit some more, blow your nose for what good it does. you get up on shaking legs, flush the toilet. wash your hands and face before making your way back to the couch. you walk slightly hunched over, with the exaggerated steadiness of someone who feels anything but, yet the motion of your careful steps makes your remaining stomach contents slosh and swirl uncomfortably.

I was feeling off ever since lunch, I think I might’ve eaten something bad. I holed up in my room all day nursing this tummy ache. My stomach was so bloated it was hard and painful to the touch, so I decided to take a warm bath to get more comfortable. My stomach felt so sick, every time I burped and released air, a felt my lunch crawl up my throat.

I wasn’t able to enjoy the warm water for long, because as soon as I got situated, my stomach hitched and I let out a sickly belch, quickly leaning over the side of the tub as a measly strand of sick escaped my throat. I started salivating, and my stomach flipped. I quickly got out of the bathtub and dried off, with only seconds to spare, I hit record on my phone and braced myself in front of the toilet, panting and drooling into the disgusting water below.

12:23pm You're exhausted, and you blame it on the stupid burrito. Your boring office job is exactly that, boring, but spending the day at a computer answering emails and redirecting phone calls was better than physical labor on days like today. Your stomach has been grumbling all day, but you're not really hungry, nothing sounds particularly good. You had a sleeve of graham crackers in your drawer at work, you've had a few this morning. They're good dipped in coffee, but both are rather dehydrating. Your favorite coworker came in with a big gulp full of nugget ice and gave you half. The cold water has been nice, but it's done little to solve how dry your mouth has been. You've made a cup of ramen for lunch, you're hoping that the warm and the salt will help you get through. Cup noodles aren't exactly your ideal lunch, but it's the least amount of effort and the least amount of chewing you can do, so you settle for it. You manage about half before your lunch break is over and you bin the remains.

2:00pm You hate this meeting. You hate this meeting so much. This is the most this could have been an email meeting you've ever attended in your entire life. It's virtual, which is good you suppose because that restlessness from this morning is back. You can look composed on camera, but your feet are tapping and you're not sure what exactly is wrong. You're thankful that you don't have to do much talking in this meeting, but the ramen did little to fix the dry mouth situation. If anything all the sodium bloated you. You've been to the bathroom three times trying to get rid of some of it, but all the liquid remains sloshing around in your stomach. You stifle a burp behind your fist and try to concentrate.

4:45pm Your boss left fifteen minutes ago, so you're going to leave fifteen minutes early. The sloshing in your stomach hasn't gone away, and you're too embarrassed to ask a coworker for antacid. You want to get out of here early, try to get home before the traffic gets too horrible. You just want to go lie down.

5:20pm You toe your shoes off as you lean against your door because you know that if you bent over right now you might be sick. The last ten minutes of your drive have been stressful, your stomach hasn't been enjoying the stop and go of traffic. You've been trying to keep it settled with breathing and small sips of your cold water, but your burps have been getting wetter and wetter. The three flights of stairs up to your apartment have done little to settle your stomach, and you are so thankful that you've made it home before getting any worse. You make your way to your bedroom and get out of your uncomfortable work clothes in exchange for your largest and most comfortable pajamas. You feel another burp ripple up through your chest, but your hand springs to your mouth when your stomach heaves. The back of your throat is cold, water unsettled from the drive home. You know things aren't going to get better, you make your way to the bathroom.

You settle onto the bathroom floor, a shiver running up your spine as you lift the toilet seat lid up. You run your hand over your bloated stomach and the groan that leaves your mouth is involuntary. You burp once, twice, three times. They're wet, but have no power. Your stomach gurgles under your hand, that shiver returns. You burp again, deeper this time. You're nearly sick, but nothing more than some spit comes out. You wonder how long it will be before your stomach finally gives way. The restlessness has not left you all afternoon, you know you need to stay planted but you're itching to move. Your hands run along your stomach as you hover in front of the toilet bowl, trying your best to relieve your aching stomach of the gas that's been building. It hurts, you moan. You burp once more, wetter, and the liquid in your throat doesn't choke off or leave. You can't cough, so you heave, and a torrent of cold water splashes down into the toilet below you. You try to catch your breath, but a bubble of air has rolled from your belly button and up through your esophagus. You burp, and more liquid erupts and splashes below you as your stomach heaves twice.

You try to catch your breath, but the contents of your stomach have shifted. The pressure in your chest is trying to keep your throat closed. There is a pressure growing in your stomach, your hand along its side can feel the way the liquids don't seen to slosh anymore, but stand ready for expulsion. You gulp down a breath of air, you burp. There is silence where you're waiting for a breath, but the pressure in your stomach has grown and it has won. You heave once, then twice. There's noodles in this one.

You have a moment to catch your breath. You're able to fill your lungs for the price of a belch, but a harmless one. Dry, forceful, and short, you hope they help regain balance in your stomach, but after only two or three belches liquid found their way up. You burp up a mouthful, your tongue dangling with drool. You think you've cured your dry mouth from all this morning before your stomach retches and forces out more than you knew had been inside of it. You struggle to catch your breath and force up a few smaller waves as you try and clear your throat. Your stomach aches, and you try to settle. You haven't eaten much today, there is no way you can have any more in your stomach to vomit up. Still, you're not confident enough to leave your position in the bathroom yet.

You feel weak, hot and cold at the same time, and you know that even though it made no sense, more was to come. You burp, and your stomach retches some more liquid up. You wonder when this was from, how it got here. It's warm and a little bitter, but it doesn't hurt your throat in the way coffee or bile would. You breathe heavy and your stomach gurgles again. You put your hand on your stomach and feel how unsettled it is. You begin to burp, and you can not stop. One after the other, you're choking on them and then another torrent of vomit, followed by a second so powerful your face is halfway down the toilet bowl. You breathe, you heave, you spit into the bowl. You're a little bit dizzy, but as you breathe and steady yourself, you feel as though the worst of it might be over. You spend several more minutes on the floor of your bathroom making sure your stomach was truly finished, and you begin to feel much better. You wonder what had kept it so upset in the first place.

2:36am The ripple that tears its way through your gut is both an auditory warning of what's to come and a pain that sends you curled into yourself. Your body feels heavy, as does your stomach. You took it easy last night, you ate soft foods-mashed potatoes and some pasta. You drank water, you took it slow. You were feeling fine tonight. Throwing up earlier had really helped, but now you're not so certain that assessment was accurate. Your stomach feels hard, and it flinches when you run your fingers along it. Your feet spring to action, you know you don't have much time and you'd rather not get sick in your bed or on your floor. You feel your throat trying to open up, prepare itself for the sick that will be making its way up momentarily. You try not to think about it too much, you settle onto the bathroom floor again.

Things are quiet. For several seconds things are quiet as you hover in the darkness over the bowl of your toilet. Your stomach hangs heavy, though it continues to twitch, trying to heave itself higher. Your mouth hangs open and you let out a little whine. Your stomach contracts, and several waves of sick force themselves out of you. You settle, but only momentarily. Your stomach heaves again, and more sick spews out of you without you having much say in the matter. You hope it will be over soon, you hope it will make you feel better.

Some of it splashed back on my face and boobs.

Really craving a hot bath right now because my mind can still feel the chunks between my boobs despite me wiping them away but I'm so dizzy, it's too dangerous to take one alone.