By: Rex

Sometimes it seems the salad of life is smothered in…
I don't remember when it first started, but then again I guess it started at the same time I myself started. We all come into the world the same way, screaming, sucking, shitting, and pissing all over the place. It's just natural. Even before we're born, we're taking an unauthorized dump in our mothers' wombs. The umbilical cord is there to nourish, supply oxygen and carry away waste, but somehow there's still a little left over. It's called "Zuglia", ) fetus poop (not found in all dictionaries). Before we're born, we're soaking in our own fluids, like a can of human pork. We kick and punch the insides of our creators while sloshing about in a stew of human debris, then we eventually squirt out into the world furious and terrified. From that moment on we're trained and even punished when we perform the natural function of excretion at the inappropriate time or in the inappropriate place. Thanks to mom and dad, every duty of the bowels or kidneys is quickly mopped up and carried away then followed by disappointed sounds from the faces of those we love. Fortunately, as humans we quickly learn when and where it is acceptable to release our bodies only real manufactured product. We learn that mankind has developed a society that wants nothing to do with pooh and pee, so we slowly adapt… Well, most of us do at least.
For the first few years of my childhood, I was lucky enough to enjoy the same pleasures of every other child my age. I got to play in sand boxes, I got to load my diapers up on a regular basis, and at night, I got to piss all over myself without loosing a wink of sleep. Sure, there were other activities I enjoyed, like slobbering, making stupid noises, flailing, and regurgitating, but they were fairly accepted and eventually stopped on their own. Even the bulging absorbent cotton/plastic combo that clung to me was eventually tossed aside in favor of the tiny contour-chair-with-a-hole that hungered for my post-digested produce. For the next few years everything was fine and dandy in my family's suburban home, except for one small problem that troubled my head-scratching parents. Even though during the day I succeeded in harnessing and containing my bodily functions, at night it was a different story. With each passing year, I woke up every morning increasingly confused and annoyed because something I didn't understand had happened to me over night. It never made sense, but some how, every night as I slept I had wet the bed.
Sure, lots of kids do it. Some even do it until they're 9 or 10 years old, but me, I had to out do them all. I was an honorary member of the "Soggy Sheets Society" until I was all of 14 years old. In the past, my parents had tried everything. They deprived me of water before bed time, they got me placebo pills in the guise of real medication, they woke up in the middle of the night to take me to the bathroom, but to no avail. Every morning, I'd wake up to the same scene. I'd lay still in a cold puddle with my head on a plastic covered pillow starring at the ceiling trying to remember at what point in my dreams did I imagine I was using the bathroom. I'd curse myself for having such lack of control of my own body and sometimes I'd cry myself back to sleep assuming that I was condemned to be a bed-wetter for the rest of my life. Eventually, I would roll over on my not so soft, plastic lined mattress and go shiver on the warm heater vent unable to escape my nightmare reality. I did this every day as a child, and every day I did it, I hated myself for it.
During my 12th glorious trip around the sun, I had developed a crush on a girl named Laurie Clark that lived down the road from me. My parents found out about this crush one day from one of my friends who was teasing me a bit too loudly, so the murky puddle of creative thought bubbled inside their heads. Unbeknownst to my parents, Laurie never thought more of me than the fact that I was friends with her friends and we all lived in the mountains so our families got together once in a while. She had her own life and it didn't involve me, but at the same time, she was all I could think about. One day my parents, my two older sisters, and I were all waking up and getting ready for breakfast when my parent's reached the end of their rope (one of many ropes I might add). They decided it was time to get tough on my problem and dig up some emotional trauma for me. They started asking me what it was going to be like when I was an adult one day and I still wouldn't be able to spend the night at friends' houses. What was going to happen when I wanted to get married one day then wet the bed on my honeymoon. Then they naturally followed up with "What would Laurie think about you if she knew you did this?!", having no clue that Laurie already didn't care if I lived or died.
At that time, no one could have beaten me up emotionally more than myself. I was heartless in my self hatred. I thought up the worst possible life-scenarios and accepted them as future reality. I knew I was doomed from the start and that my pathetic existence would only get worse. So they failed at scarring me, but at the same time, they were right. Laurie would ostracize me and never want anything to do with me. So would everyone else in the world. It wasn't until much, much later that anyone bothered to tell me I wasn't alone in my secret shame. Eventually I started talking to people about it, of course never admitting that I was one of those people or anything. I learned that there were lots of people that were habitual mattress soakers, some who even went on to do it well into their adult lives and they were normal, respectable people, not rejected street urchins roaming dark alleys soaked in piss. There was now a light at the end of the tunnel for me.
Even though it was a bad idea, I started attempting to go to more social events. The kind that any kid my age might attend. I went to a camp for the kids of my church and stayed there for two weeks. All 14 nights, I only half slept then when I (still asleep) started dreamily walking up to a urinal and was getting ready to let loose, I'd snap awake with only a enough wizz on myself to dampen my pajamas, but not my sleeping bag. I spent every day at that camp yawning and groggy, but it was a small price to pay for a normal existence. I would practice yawning with my mouth closed so no one thought I was some strange kid with a breathing disorder. To top it off, I was quite uneasy with the thought of others seeing my privates, so I didn't go to the public restroom until no one was around or on their way. That meant I often went to bed with a full bladder then later had to venture out into the dark by myself, scared and cold, but eventually relieved. Now that I think about it, somehow I managed to go the entire two weeks without anyone noticing that I never showered with the other kids. I would always do it late at night as the rest of the camp slept.
Once I was finally in Junior High, I started getting more aggressive in my own self-help practices. Or at least that's what I told myself. It may have been because of the stigma placed on my unacceptable urination practices that caused me to avoid, at all costs, entering a restroom while anyone else was there. I'd go to my classes like everyone else, then in between classes I'd go to my locker and directly to the next class without ever stopping for a piss-break. Eventually, around the end of the day, it would become unbearable and I'd have to be excused for a trip down the hall with a bathroom pass. Once in front of the porcelain goddess I would always hope for that feeling of gratification, but only got the relief of pain and felt a bit sick as I made my way back to class. This was a daily occurrence for me.
Maybe I just drank enough cranberry juice or something, but somehow I avoided a nasty bladder infection or kidney stones, and actually accomplished what I had set out to do. I had stretched my bladder so much that you could have parked a Volkswagen in it! That light at the end of the tunnel was coming closer and closer. Now I only woke up wet-n-smelly a couple times a week, and even started noticing myself waking up in the middle of the night to pay the ol' tinkle-tank a visit and eventually, it happened. I started thinking one day about the last time I had wet the bed and had to really think hard to remember it. It had been weeks! My nightmare was over, I was cured! Sure, I was a bit maladjusted and had developed an inferiority complex the size of Rhode Island, but at least now I could do all those things I had missed out on! I could go camping and have slumber parties, I could even be an astronaut! It's too bad really…
By the time I was all ready to join the rest of the world in harmony and unity, I was a teenager. That meant that there was now a huge list of things to do and not do in order to gain acceptance from the other kids. I was over whelmed and even though I tried, I failed. So I got a computer and locked myself in my room, but at least it was warm and dry. At least my bed was soft and cotton, not cold polyurethane with zippers and wrinkles.

Postlog: Even today, when I pee and it just feels so right, I briefly ask myself out of habit, "Is this really happening, or am I still a sleeping, 14 year old bed-wetter who can't wake up?".