polar bear blues
quick short for class; the time I threw up so hard I got emetophobia!
On a cold winter night many Januaries ago, I ruined my blue polar bear sweater.
I was chatting with my father in the kitchen after dinner when I let out a rather gnarly burp. I, being a bit of a vulgar child, thought nothing of it, and I carried on prancing between the refrigerator and the kitchen chairs. “Mmm! Tastes like pizza!” I remarked. My dad must have heard something that my six year old mind did not register, and he ushered me into the bathroom with frightening urgency.
I knelt before the toilet. The bowl stared back at me, deep and unforgiving. I begged my body to prove my father wrong. After all, I felt fine! Beads of sweat began to form on my upper lip, which I wiped away with the scratchy fabric of my sweater sleeve. I took a deep breath. My father rubbed my back.
Without any warning, the contents of my small body began to expel themselves. I watched in horror as my pizza appeared below me, bits of color floating above the now murky water. Minutes passed, until I had nothing left to give. My stomach continued to churn, forcing my head forward as the bowl received my tears. They dropped downward, one by one, as the swirling waters whisked them away.
I stood up, once again wiping my face with the itchy fibers of my garment. In the mirror stood a girl defeated. Her eyes were wide with terror, cheeks flushed a blotchy scarlett. The white polar bear on the front of her sweater now resembled a grizzly bear, tinted a muddy brown. She blinked back at me, and I broke her stare. I washed my hands and left the bathroom to put on a different shirt.
When I returned to school a day later, I could not focus on the words of my teacher. I was paralyzed with fear, and I mourned my polar bear sweater. It was a Christmas present, only one month old. I vowed to ensure that this event would never happen again. I avoided that bathroom for a year, and I refused to eat pizza for nearly three. And for twelve years, I did not throw up.