Sometimes it seems the salad of life is smothered in…
PISS & VINEGAR
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?".