I’ve been hungry. The ravenous, growling kind that makes you snap at even the nicest of husbands. The kind that sends you to the fridge in a frenzy, looking for something quick and filling and ready and FOOD.
I’ve also been sicker than I’ve ever been (sober). I’ve felt nauseous for at least five out of every seven days for the last six, seven weeks.
The combination of the two have been a rough. One minute I’m finally feeling like I’m no longer monstrously hungry, and the next I’m throwing up a berry smoothie and chicken portabella ravioli, all mixed together. And some comes up through my nose, and I cry.
I cry because I know I’ll be hungry again in an hour, and because it’s disgusting, and because it’s all in the sink. Until now, I’ve only thrown up water and string cheese, and once, a banana that tasted surprisingly good coming back up. This is the last straw, and I’m crying.
It doesn’t last, luckily. The crying, or the throwing up. Eventually, someone else, someone new, will be doing (most of) the crying and throwing up.
This is the first time in my life in which I’m equally scared and excited. In most of my other adventures, I was naïve enough to imagine that things would work out. Now, I know of all the things that could go wrong, and all the things that could go right, and none of the ways in which to ensure that we’ll all make it out alive, and relatively unscathed.
But I’m excited. I’m so very exited to see how this turns out.
] Nevertheless, there are a couple things I want to accomplish: contribute to my own intellectual stimulation (your job can’t be your everything), continue working on being healthy, write more, save money, and experience more of Texas.
