Poop. Talking about poop. Imagining other people pooping. The idea of pooping at a stranger’s house. Nothing makes me more uncomfortable than poop. I’ve had this discussion with Susan much to her amusement as I cringe every time she brings up the topic of poop. But I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone the creepy,
almost traumatizing situations in regards to poop and how the act of pooping became synonymous with me crying at the sound of a bathroom lock being undone.
I know I shouldn’t worry about poop because pooping is a natural process of the living process. But recently or maybe since the beginning of time I have been told the following:
This is fucking crazy!!! And I know I’m not the only who received this message. Ever watch Sex in the City? I mean the show is about smart, career-driven women who frown at the mere thought of pooping near a boyfriend. One of the females, Meranda, even went on vacation with her boyfriend and would run downstairs to the hotel lobby bathroom so that her boyfriend wouldn’t notice her pooping. FUCKING CRAZY!!! Yeah okay that was fiction. BUT Hell… on Los Angeles radio, there is a talk radio host who talks about how in the last eight years of being in a relationship she has never pooped when her partner is in the house. She would rather suffer through agonizing stomach pain that to release her bowels.I know that there are men out there who freak the fuck out at the thought that their significant others might poop. Guess what boys!! THEY DO!
Is this really what our society has come to? Something so natural is so taboo. What the hell is wrong with us? I’m included in this whole situation. I don’t know why but I became uncomfortable with the act. It started innocent enough, I just refused to go. This was my way of making a stand against authority. You can’t tell me when I have to go to the bathroom! My dad overcame this small hurdle by forcing me to read while on the toilet and he would turn on the faucet so that I wouldn’t have a choice but go. Talk about not being environmentally conscious. This eventually became the norm. I would run to the bathroom, lock the door and then yell to my dad, “Dad, I need a book.” He would slide it under the door and walk away. I would sit there until I would finish the book OR my legs went numb.
This behavior was then escalated further by only pooping in respectable restrooms aka grandma’s back restroom in Mexico (never the one in the living room that had the HUGE window looking out into the patio, seriously grandma, wtf, who designs a bathroom with a window that can overlook the entire patio) or at home. Just imagine the 21 hour car ride and not pooping. My inners slowly getting bloated and hard while I fought the urge to fart and cry. I’m sure everyone has done this once or twice but I did this every single day, sometimes twice a day.
I never pooped at a friend’s house, at an aunt/uncle’s house, somewhere cool like Disneyland. I just couldn’t. I always thought I had to concentrate. I conditioned myself that I had to be away from civilization in order to poop that if anyone was around me, I’d just hold it. Peace and quit are what I needed. I have no idea how I survived for so long. I was once accused of going through my aunt and uncle’s personal belongings because I was caught coming out of their master bathroom. I’d rather face the consequence of being a registrona than admit that I used their toilet for pooping. I’m sure that in my older age I’ll develop some sort of cancer that will be attributed to this behavior.
I went off to college with this terrible behavior and somehow managed relationships. There were multiple times when I would lay in bed waiting for Kevin to go to class just so I could rush to the bathroom. And I would cry because by the time I’d make it to the bathroom. My stomach would be in so much pain that I just wanted to curl up into a ball near the toilet. I suffered in silence. I did this to myself and I have no idea why.
But the worst pooping incident featured Chris the Sailor. One of the times that I was pooping, because I just couldn’t hold it any longer, he unlocked the door and started taking pictures. I’m talking flash photography people. I have no idea why he thought it would be funny. But in the midst of going, I got off the toilet and just fell on the floor and shuffled in between the toilet and bathtub. I just cried while he took photos. I let out a scream. It might have sounded like he was killing me but I didn’t care. Survival mode kicked in and I started throwing up and I was covered in filth. I didn’t press charges but I didn’t understand him.
And of course there were the dreaded pooping accidents. Again, I’m sure people have suffered these once or twice in adulthood but I think I take the cake. So many times, as a kid, I would be laying in the truck-bed in pain, realizing I was just not going to make it home. The crying and shame only aggravated the whole I shouldn’t poop. This escalated as an adult by pooping during a sex session and then getting explosive diarrhea at Burning Man. I honestly thought I could hold it in for the 10 days that we were out in the desert. How fucking stupid. And it was at Burning Man that I fucking learned to poop and to love it. No longer would I care who heard me or where the fuck I was at.
And so I thought I was over it until this weekend, Valentine’s Day Weekend, when I was about to poop and Andrew had the nerve of unlocking the bathroom door. Survival mode kicked and I started crying unable to poop and on the verge of vomiting. I thought I was over it. Andrew didn’t come in nor was a camera involved. In fact, he just unlocked it and walked away, laughing then realizing that I was crying he stopped. It didn’t take me long to compose myself, at least somewhat. But my heart raced for another hour while I fought the urge to hide under the covers.