From November to February, I am pretty much incapable of leaving my house. I spend my days curled up on my bedroom floor punctuated by trips to the bathroom to wash my hands over and over again. Every few hours I burst into tears, shaking uncontrollably and dreading having to go through the same thing tomorrow.
I am deathly afraid of vomiting. Actually, it’s worse than that. I’ve often said I’d rather die than be sick: it seems extreme, but that’s exactly what the problem is.
