I saw this kid once, about seven years old, at one of my parents’ parties. He was moving around some mingling adults, legs somewhat unsteady, when he threw up on himself. His instinct was to cup the vomit with his hands, but when he realized what had just occurred, when he realized what was in his hands, he froze, looking horrified. He looked around furtively to see if anyone had seen him, his hands pressed against his mouth. Luckily, the hallway was somewhat dark so that most people, other than bizarre folks such as myself who make a sport of people watching, hadn’t noticed. He teetered around, desperately looking for a place to drop the vomit while obviously about to be sick again, trying to be as discreet as possible about it. I could tell he was hoping for a garbage can but the low, rising whine of anxiety was making sinks, plates or even a potted plant a suitable alternative. He managed to throw it in the sink of a little wet bar with about a quarter of it actually making it in. The kid looked miserable.
Watching someone who is holding a handful of vomit in a desperate scramble to dispose of it, yet who is so ridiculously ashamed and afraid of exposure in this incredibly vulnerable moment that asking for help was not a rational option, was very difficult; the memory of seeing this kid reminds me of what it feels like to see inside one of these kinds of people, who walk around with a murky heaviness emanating from within them. Sometimes, just a mere glimpse can haunt you for a very, very long time.