"Instead of crucifying a guy on a cross, what about a windmill? That way you get the pain and the dizziness." That's a deep thought by Jack Handey.
I'm currently in great pain. As a restaurant reviewer for a reasonably esteemed annual guide, I get about three weeks a year where I'm obliged to stuff myself well beyond my usual limit, and after my first outing tonight I'm feeling it. I haven't been eating much lately, and now I feel like I've just stuffed a beanbag into a children's party balloon. That bloated balloon is my stomach. And some sadistic clown is trying to twist it into the shape of a sausage dog. While mixing metaphors. And asking me to write about the experience.
How am I going to get through the next few weeks? Chutzpah, chutzpah and moxie, and maybe a bit of old fashioned grit.
Also, if things get really bad, vomiting. Which is the vernacular translation of chutzpah.
There's also the emotional pain, but that's nothing to do with the food. And can't be solved by any of the above methods.