Each summer morning begins with me tossing two sugar-free wintermints from Trader Joe’s into my mouth—whether to mask my morning breath or my gnawing self-consciousness. Perhaps the conjunction “and” is more appropriate here.
This summer, a relentless anxiety has gripped me, more consuming than even the trauma of my second year at university. I retch violently throughout the day, nearly vomiting at the mere thought of myself, feeling as though I am decaying from within. My skin oozes shame, my armpits seep resentment, and my hands exude a stench that triggers my gag reflex. I am trapped in my own rancid scent of guilt, which others surely detect as they have the misfortune of crossing my path in public.
When the stranger in the andafterthat hoodie at the Alamo Drafthouse accidentally brushed against me, he must have felt the same revulsion as stepping in a pile of dog shit, left behind by an owner too careless to clean up. With each cough, my heart races, and I clutch my chest in a futile attempt to regain control of my own body.
Bathrooms have become my sanctuary from impending anxiety attacks. At work, at friends’ houses, at home, at the theater—even in the small coffee shop in Highland Park where the barista sports the same red cardigan every day—I retreat to the restroom whenever the urge to gag overpowers my ability to think.
Naturally, my walks from my seat to the restroom are cinematic performances, worthy of a 4.8-star rating on Letterboxd—though there’s a 0.2 deduction because Mexican actors are never allowed to be perfect. I rise, moving slowly enough to keep the bile down, yet quickly enough to conceal the gags that would surely ruin the appetites of customers tearing into the delicate layers of their chocolate croissants.
When the door slams shut behind me and the silver lock clicks securely, my mind fires off blanks—one thought after another, all useless. None of these thoughts are truly dangerous, but in the moment, they are terrifying.
Keep your composure. Stay cool. Breathe and relax. Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up. Breathe and relax. Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up. It’s okay to feel this way. Your body is protecting you. Breathe and relax. Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up. Breathe and relax.
The first few times I was blindsided by the gut-wrenching gagging, I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror once it subsided. My eyes, watery and bloodshot, looked like summer cherry tomatoes sliced for a poor man’s salad. My mustache, disheveled, with every brown hair jutting in a different direction, and the few blonde ones trying to escape my lips. After the coughing fit ends, I tend to tug at my slightly overgrown hair, which leaves it with a few loose strands. I’ve learned to avoid my reflection after these episodes—lingering too long prolongs the moment. If I catch my own gaze in the mirror, the cycle of coughing and gagging begins anew.
No matter how many times I cough or gag—whether tears blur my vision or my glasses tumble into the sink—I always exit the bathroom following the same routine. I blink rapidly, gently pressing my fingertips against my eyelids to absorb any remaining tears. I chuckle softly at the absurdity of the situation—ridiculous and shocking enough to double as comedy, think Longlegs. And then, I toss two sugar-free wintermints from Trader Joe’s into my mouth—to mask my morning breath and my gnawing self-consciousness.