Gagging is Good

I have a super power. It’s nowhere near as cool as being able to freeze time, turn invisible or predict the future. Well… actually, yeah, I am kind of psychic, but my premonitions are very niche. Marvel’s not going to want to base a superhero on this particular power of mine any time soon. It would make for a weird blockbuster. But enough with all the cliffhangers already. I know you’re dying to know about my secret ability. Hold on to your seats now, cause this a good one! Drum roll, please…

I can predict when people are about to puke. Ain’t that some shit?!

Now before you stop the presses, send the paparazzi and erect impromptu research labs in my honor, let me just be clear: I wasn’t born with this gift. It is the result of a certain chapter in my life, a bit like Peter Parker’s radioactive spider bite – a string of Groundhog Day-esque events that changed the structure of my mental sitemap forever. Since then, I can walk into any given social situation – boozy or PG friendly – and tell you who’s about to hurl and who will be befouling a pristine cistern at some point later during the day or night. I know exactly when to walk out on a movie or a show for a refill – i.e. seconds before I’m about to see someone else’s half-digested lunch splattered on to the screen. And all that because vomiting was once my own least-favourite pastime. Like math tutoring on a Sunday. Call that version of me, Stan Marsh.

As if thirteen isn’t already an age with enough surprise changes that sneak up on you with all the gentle tact of a jack-in-the-box – you know it’s coming at some point but it still makes you jump when its about to hit you in the face – the onset of my teens came served with an extra not typically on the menu: a panic disorder that eventually spawned its little helper, emetophobia, too. Along with the incoming pubes, painful periods and all the other discomforts welcoming a teenaged girl into womanhood – exactly what you’d want as an extracurricular. The physical symptoms and feelings were so intense, I worried I was seriously ill. And crazy. One of the main ways my PD manifested was by feeling nauseous and/or throwing up, and I loathed myself for it. I would have preferred a more charming symptom/trigger. Sweetly crying like a Disney princess or something.

*

When I was around eight years old, I spent a lot of time hanging out with two girls who were roughly four years older than me. Let’s call them Tina and Betty. Tina was an only child with antiauthoritarian parents and a very pink home. Her father was a therapist of some sort. I don’t remember the mother much but, somehow, that scene of Cassie on Skins walking in on her mother posing naked for her (step?) father always comes to mind. Not that Tina’s parents were neglective; quite the opposite. They just seemed to be extremely into each other – uncomfortably so. Betty was the youngest of three, and shared her room with her tyrant of an older sister. When the sister wasn’t making fun of her sensitive, gentle nature, her brother would come in to further shit on the day by bullying her for whatever else the sister hadn’t yet. I don’t remember their father in the picture, but I recall a bitter mother who spent most of her days on the living room couch, yelling from room to room rather than, you know, actually facing her children. That’s if and when she bothered to get involved at all.

One day, Tina’s dad took us all for a treat at Mickey D’s – back when McDonald’s was still cool. We spent our time jumping around in the soft play area, fantasizing about one day driving around in a big yellow bus of our own and probably singing Kelly Family songs. To round off our little afternoon adventure, we all got dessert: ice cream for them, scorch-the-roof-of-your-mouth-hot apple pie for me. Tina also got a red balloon on a stick – a true classic in those days. Betty and I weren’t bothered. We had our sticky hands full; we didn’t need the extra cargo. Picture us in this momentary idyll: three kids, happily sauntering along the sidewalk, munching and giggling away, a content adult tagging along in the background, secretly tapping himself on the shoulder for a mission well accomplished. Until… the stick balloon, for some reason or another, goes flying out into the road, into the traffic, an agonized screech escapes Betty as she makes after it before coming to a forced halt at the edge of the sidewalk, and within seconds, her tears flood the rain gutter beneath her sandalled toes.

I’m not gonna lie – instead of rushing to comfort her or make any theatrical attempt at saving the balloon, Betty and I exchanged wide-eyed looks, unsure of how to react to this perceived overreaction. I believe the modern terminology of what we were feeling and silently expressing is, “WTF”. Yes, I know. Kids are cruel. Once the shock of this dramatic turn of events finally subsided, we sprung into action. We offered to go back to get her a new one; we offered to share the rest of our soggy desserts to cheer her up; we awkwardly patted her back and told her everything was going to be OK, it was “just a balloon”. Nothing helped. It was at this point that her dad finally chimed in. Not with cheap tricks to serve as methods of distraction; not to downplay her emotions the way we had been doing. Instead, he gave her the space to feel what she was feeling, and to express them in whichever way she needed to. And that’s pretty much how he explained it to us: “She’s just feeling her feelings.” Simple as that.

Now I can’t speak for Betty but, being an asshole kid, I probably thought something along the lines of, “This guy is treating the situation as though her pet hamster just hurled himself into oncoming traffic. It was a disposable balloon man, relax.” I’m kidding, I wasn’t that articulate yet, but I did feel a mixture of awe and confusion. Somewhere along the way I had picked up on the notion that to be sensitive wasn’t a strength but a weakness. That crying over anything that didn’t involve pain or death or real human tragedy was equivalent to acting like a baby. And here was this peculiar little man telling me that it was perfectly human – and therefore acceptable – to cry, even over something as seemingly insignificant as a Mickey D balloon at 2 cents a literal pop. As alien as he and his school of thought seemed to me in the moment, in my eyes, he suddenly grew that much taller. And for the rest of the way home, I quietly watched Tina march ahead of us, stomping out the anger, the sadness with every step, until her loud wails died down into sobs of great relief. I looked from my friend’s red, puffy eyes and over to her father and, in whichever way I mentally verbalized it at the time, my obvious conclusion was, respect, brah.

*

I was recently reminded of the balloon saga when I was reading up on BLW and stumbled upon an article titled, Why Gagging is Good… As Long as it Improves. Suffice it to say, I thought the title was genius, and the case the article makes works on various levels. As scary as it can be to see your baby gag on their first solid foods, it’s actually a positive physical reaction – in doing so, your baby is protecting their airways and automatically pushing everything that could possibly clog them back up. In other words, it’s one of those strange milestones we’ll probably find ourselves applauding, like their first loud, milky-breathed belch or their first solid poop (yes, having babies does weird things to you). Other than easing whatever doubt I had, this article – its title specifically – inspired me to look at my own panic-induced gag reflex from a whole other angle. As a tool that allowed me to expel a whole bunch of accumulated fears and emotions, that were clogging up my metaphoric airways and my figurative heart space. If only I had reached this epiphany in my teens, I wouldn’t have wasted years on punishing myself for how my body chooses to manifest its energetic blockages, the constrictions I have been limiting myself with for the best part of my (young) adult life. And that’s what I learned from an eye-opening documentary I watched just a little while after making this association.

In The Wisdom of Trauma, Gabor Mate explains that, "Trauma is not what happens to you. It's what happens inside you as a result of what happens to you. And things can happen inside you for which you don't need very dramatic events. Trauma is, essentially, a restriction of your capacity. It's a limitation. It's a constriction in the body. It's a constriction in your mental capacity to respond in the present moment from your authentic self.” This, along with many other aha-moments, explained so many things about how I learned to deal with my personal struggles – or better said, how I learned not to deal with them. So now, I am slowly working on the monumental and liberating task of unlearning these things – and my daughter is my greatest teacher.  Mate may have put the expression in my head, but it’s her who reminds me to listen when the body says no. She reminds me every day that, it’s not just OK but vital to honor whatever sensation is coursing through my veins, my heart and my mind, and to not constrict the natural flow of my being so as to be accepted as socially ept.

For my daughter, everything is currently happening all at once. She just started walking and vertically navigating the world, which also translates into bumping into tabletops, crash landing headfirst onto corner stones, bruising her adorable little butt on marbled floors and scraping those kissable little knees on playground gravel. She’s also starting to display her frustrations and emotions in a more physical manner – typical tiny-tantrum stuff ranging from kicking to turning into rubber at the most inconvenient moments – and while it can be exasperating at times, I also get it. I mean, shit, all these firsts, all that learning, all that growing, all the “this” of and in this crazy world – that’s a whole lot to be dealing with. So, unless she’s swinging from her highchair like a hauler monkey or about to make the house go up in flames by using the stove like a DJ mixer, I’m happy to let her explore, fall on her ass from time to time, and get back up again. Or not.

On days when eating with a fork feels altogether too overwhelming, I’ll be there to shish kebab her baby carrots for her. And should she one day find herself distraught over a lost love – be it a cheap balloon, her favourite toy or, dog forbid, her own confidence - I don’t ever want to find myself saying, no es para tanto – “it’s just a toy”, ”it was just a stupid comment”. I will always aim to be her home, the space that serves to remind her of, and always welcomes the presence of, her authentic self – in whichever shape or form it may manifest from day to day, year to year. And should the need ever arise, I’ll be the first to tell her that emotional purging is not only good. It’s a super power.