I’m going to throw up, I thought as I laid in the big, cushy, king-size bed, the bright Hawaiian sun peeking through the slats in the blinds. WTF I cannot be sick, I am on vacation. Deep breath, this will pass in a minute. But it did not pass. Instead, waves of nausea continued to ebb and flow throughout the morning, while I alternated between sleeping and wishing I could puke and get it over with.
“Mom, we are going down to the pool, are you coming?” Dylan asked impatiently from the bedroom doorway.
“Have Dad go with you. I’m not feeling that great,”, I croaked, “I’ll meet you down there in a bit.”
A look of concern passed fleetingly across his thirteen-year-old face. I knew what he was thinking, I was thinking about it too. Sick again on a family vacation. It had happened more often than not in the past several years.
Hawaii was (and still is), one of my favorite places. And although I did not care much for the Disney themed resort we had chosen for this trip, what it lacked in peace and quiet, it made up for in gorgeous paths for beachside running, kick ass beach fitness classes, and a surprisingly luxurious spa. Some of my favorite things.
But as I laid in that bed, listening to the rhythmic pounding of the surf outside my window, the Hawaiian music floating from the pool area, and the joyful shrieks of children as they careened down the twisting slides, my own thoughts battled inside my head.
Just get up and move, you will feel better. No, you are sick you need to rest. Come on, you aren’t going to miss a beachside run. No, seriously you need sleep. You cannot just lay here. Get up! I can’t ! Go out and take a run and then you can come back and rest.
Laying there was just not an option I was going to accept. I knew it wasn’t rational but I couldn't stop myself. I crawled out of bed and willed myself out the door. And ran. Five miles along the beautiful Hawaiian shoreline, begging my legs to keep moving and my stomach to stop rolling, enjoying none of it. Checking my watch every couple of minutes and asking myself, why the hell are you doing this? Forty-five minutes later, I allowed myself, sweaty and lightheaded, to head back to the resort, into our condo, and directly to the bathroom to throw up. And lying depleted on the bathroom floor, I felt it. I was at the place I knew I would arrive, eventually.
I have absolutely no reserve for this, I wrote later that night in my journal, I cannot weight less than I do and stupid me I went running feeling like shit. I hate how I look, I hate how much people stare at me. I hate how I look in photos, I look freakish. I need to make changes, but how?