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ysobelTMI alert: discussion of bathroom-related bodily functions and related shame/esteem issues.
So I had an incident today where ... well, it was complicated. Okay, it kind of isn't, because it was just "I wet my pants" more or less, but the *why* is complicated.
Part of it was having a second cup of coffee (I usually only have one) with breakfast. Part of it was the fact that I hadn't had a bowel movement yet, and the more stuff that's taking up space in my abdomen (which also has ovarian cysts and fun things like that) the more likely I am to have bladder issues. Part of it was the fact that my afternoon aide tends to be variable about when she comes, and most of the time that's okay, most of the time later is even preferable, but I can't influence it on short notice (I can say "be here by X time tomorrow" if I have an appointment, but can't really do "hi I need you five minutes ago" because teleportation is impossible), and today happened to be a later-arrival day, and of course I can't go to the bathroom without assistance.
I do wear disposable briefs, and that helps with minor issues (and with periods), but they are only "moderate" absorbency, and ... well. When my bladder says "fuck it I am relieving some of this pressure", it is rather a large volume of fluid. Not my entire capacity -- seriously, I am starting to think I have a freakishly large bladder or something? I'm not sure, and I've never measured it or anything, but let's just say that the overnight briefs I used to use, which claim to have a capacity of 2-3 litres, would occasionally spill out. Not that I saturated the entire thing, but even that one gets overwhelmed, and it's the only one I've found that does anything whatsoever to be useful.
(and then the website that I ordered it from stopped carrying anything other than the two-brief sample pack, of which you could only order up to two at once, and so I'm doing a different brand that is less bulky but also less absorbant and also *not big enough argh* ... between the fact that I have a, shall we say, stocky frame, and the fact that my hips are fixed at an angle, and the fact that there is a ton of bone buildup in my right hip especially, let's just say that fitting stuff is a problem. The waistline of these new briefs is fine but doesn't leave much room for positioning error; the leg part is not big enough and so can't get all the way taped. But that's a rant for a different time.)
Anyway.
Bladder said "fuck it", and did what it needed to to relieve the pressure. Which left me with a still-rather-full (but at least not painfully so) bladder, soaked-through briefs, wet pants, wet *shirt* (because I'm sitting and so instead of being able to go down it goes back, and up), no aide in sight, and a whole fuckton of self-hatred and shame.
Because, you know, it's all my fault? At least my head says it is.
I have a post brewing about how "should have known better" is one of my strongest, meanest personal demons. Because that's what I got told all the time as a kid. Should have known better than to let that happen.
I could have made different choices. I could have said, no, better not have the second cup of coffee. (Even though a second cup of coffee is not by itself problematic, and just happened to be a problem due to a congruence of circumstances.) I could have called my aide the second I started getting aware of my bladder just to make sure she knew there was urgency. (Even though that doesn't reduce travel time, and doesn't reduce prior commitments she has with other clients, and so she probably wouldn't have gotten here any sooner.) Could, should...
Some of this ties into the whole narrative of growing up and bathroom control. Babies wear diapers; kids train to use the toilet; normal underwear is "big girl/boy panties"; having control over ones bodily functions (in normal circumstances) is part of being an adult, and only impairments (such as being drunk) interfere with that. But I think it's more than that.
Because ... okay.
I remember this time when I was a kid. We were in England, which means I was 8 or 9; my class was rehearsing for a play (doing Oliver). I needed to pee, but thought I could hold it until the next break. And maybe I could have if I were sitting down at the time, because sometimes the pressure of sitting helped to keep stuff in, but I was standing, and my bladder went fuck-it-all, and I stood there with a puddle of urine forming around my feet, crying helplessly and unable to stop either the pee or the cry, and everyone but one or two people was laughing at me, and I was utterly mortified. And then when my mom came to pick me up at the end of the day, the teacher "subtly" "reminded" me to tell her about what happened, so I had to admit it, which then meant feeling horrible all over again *and* enduring lectures about how I should have been more aware of my bladder, how I should have gone to the bathroom as soon as I knew, and I was too ashamed to admit that I had made a wrong decision, that my reasoning had been "I think I can make it and I don't want to miss anything," so I mumbled something about how I hadn't been aware of needing to go to the bathroom until it happened. Which wasn't far off from the truth, because even then there was a very quick transition between "aware of bladder being full" to "needing to go to the bathroom really really urgently". But this whole situation then led to months of my mom basically harassing me to prevent another incident; since I apparently wasn't capable of judging my own need to go to the bathroom, she had to enforce regular breaks for me, or double- and triple-check to make sure that when I said I didn't need to go, I wasn't just ignoring the signals.
Let me put this in perspective: I still remember, with surprising vividness, an event that happened when I was no older than 9. I remember very few events with that amount of clarity. Most of our stay in England is a void for me; I can remember some things, like a hill full of yellow daffodils near York, but most of it's lost. Hell, I can't remember most of junior high and high school. This took place when I was in 5th grade, so well before that. And I remember.
And I think that event, among others, colors who I am today.
Because in some sense, that's so fucking parallel to what happened today. In both cases I judged fluid consumption and bathroom scheduling based on what I thought I could reasonably handle (building on a foundation of "most of the time this method works"), and I ended up not being able to. Back then, I was embarrassed and ashamed and didn't want my parents to find out, especially my mom, and when she did she imposed Consequences on me beyond just having wet my pants. This time ... well, I still didn't want to tell my mom (but had the option of not doing so, because not a child), and I still was embarrassed, and I still had the voice of censure in my head, except it was coming from me, not from her.
And I don't know how to get rid of it.
I know damn well that if this were happening to someone else, I would have perfect sympathy for them: the drinking pattern was not excessive (it was different for a Thursday, because usually my heavier coffee days are Saturdays and Sundays, but two cups isn't anywhere near the most that I have drunk without issue); the bathroom scheduling pattern was not excessive (most days I don't feel the need to go to the bathroom when my aides are here, even though I would within a few hours after they leave and so I go while they're here); the lateness of the afternoon aide was not something that I had foreknowledge of; my decisions were reasonable; bodies are not perfect, especially already-disabled bodies, and shit happens but it's nobody's fault.
And yet I still have shittons of guilt, and shame, and I-am-a-horrible-person, and self-loathing, because somehow *I* should have known better.
...yeah, I don't know.
So I had an incident today where ... well, it was complicated. Okay, it kind of isn't, because it was just "I wet my pants" more or less, but the *why* is complicated.
Part of it was having a second cup of coffee (I usually only have one) with breakfast. Part of it was the fact that I hadn't had a bowel movement yet, and the more stuff that's taking up space in my abdomen (which also has ovarian cysts and fun things like that) the more likely I am to have bladder issues. Part of it was the fact that my afternoon aide tends to be variable about when she comes, and most of the time that's okay, most of the time later is even preferable, but I can't influence it on short notice (I can say "be here by X time tomorrow" if I have an appointment, but can't really do "hi I need you five minutes ago" because teleportation is impossible), and today happened to be a later-arrival day, and of course I can't go to the bathroom without assistance.
I do wear disposable briefs, and that helps with minor issues (and with periods), but they are only "moderate" absorbency, and ... well. When my bladder says "fuck it I am relieving some of this pressure", it is rather a large volume of fluid. Not my entire capacity -- seriously, I am starting to think I have a freakishly large bladder or something? I'm not sure, and I've never measured it or anything, but let's just say that the overnight briefs I used to use, which claim to have a capacity of 2-3 litres, would occasionally spill out. Not that I saturated the entire thing, but even that one gets overwhelmed, and it's the only one I've found that does anything whatsoever to be useful.
(and then the website that I ordered it from stopped carrying anything other than the two-brief sample pack, of which you could only order up to two at once, and so I'm doing a different brand that is less bulky but also less absorbant and also *not big enough argh* ... between the fact that I have a, shall we say, stocky frame, and the fact that my hips are fixed at an angle, and the fact that there is a ton of bone buildup in my right hip especially, let's just say that fitting stuff is a problem. The waistline of these new briefs is fine but doesn't leave much room for positioning error; the leg part is not big enough and so can't get all the way taped. But that's a rant for a different time.)
Anyway.
Bladder said "fuck it", and did what it needed to to relieve the pressure. Which left me with a still-rather-full (but at least not painfully so) bladder, soaked-through briefs, wet pants, wet *shirt* (because I'm sitting and so instead of being able to go down it goes back, and up), no aide in sight, and a whole fuckton of self-hatred and shame.
Because, you know, it's all my fault? At least my head says it is.
I have a post brewing about how "should have known better" is one of my strongest, meanest personal demons. Because that's what I got told all the time as a kid. Should have known better than to let that happen.
I could have made different choices. I could have said, no, better not have the second cup of coffee. (Even though a second cup of coffee is not by itself problematic, and just happened to be a problem due to a congruence of circumstances.) I could have called my aide the second I started getting aware of my bladder just to make sure she knew there was urgency. (Even though that doesn't reduce travel time, and doesn't reduce prior commitments she has with other clients, and so she probably wouldn't have gotten here any sooner.) Could, should...
Some of this ties into the whole narrative of growing up and bathroom control. Babies wear diapers; kids train to use the toilet; normal underwear is "big girl/boy panties"; having control over ones bodily functions (in normal circumstances) is part of being an adult, and only impairments (such as being drunk) interfere with that. But I think it's more than that.
Because ... okay.
I remember this time when I was a kid. We were in England, which means I was 8 or 9; my class was rehearsing for a play (doing Oliver). I needed to pee, but thought I could hold it until the next break. And maybe I could have if I were sitting down at the time, because sometimes the pressure of sitting helped to keep stuff in, but I was standing, and my bladder went fuck-it-all, and I stood there with a puddle of urine forming around my feet, crying helplessly and unable to stop either the pee or the cry, and everyone but one or two people was laughing at me, and I was utterly mortified. And then when my mom came to pick me up at the end of the day, the teacher "subtly" "reminded" me to tell her about what happened, so I had to admit it, which then meant feeling horrible all over again *and* enduring lectures about how I should have been more aware of my bladder, how I should have gone to the bathroom as soon as I knew, and I was too ashamed to admit that I had made a wrong decision, that my reasoning had been "I think I can make it and I don't want to miss anything," so I mumbled something about how I hadn't been aware of needing to go to the bathroom until it happened. Which wasn't far off from the truth, because even then there was a very quick transition between "aware of bladder being full" to "needing to go to the bathroom really really urgently". But this whole situation then led to months of my mom basically harassing me to prevent another incident; since I apparently wasn't capable of judging my own need to go to the bathroom, she had to enforce regular breaks for me, or double- and triple-check to make sure that when I said I didn't need to go, I wasn't just ignoring the signals.
Let me put this in perspective: I still remember, with surprising vividness, an event that happened when I was no older than 9. I remember very few events with that amount of clarity. Most of our stay in England is a void for me; I can remember some things, like a hill full of yellow daffodils near York, but most of it's lost. Hell, I can't remember most of junior high and high school. This took place when I was in 5th grade, so well before that. And I remember.
And I think that event, among others, colors who I am today.
Because in some sense, that's so fucking parallel to what happened today. In both cases I judged fluid consumption and bathroom scheduling based on what I thought I could reasonably handle (building on a foundation of "most of the time this method works"), and I ended up not being able to. Back then, I was embarrassed and ashamed and didn't want my parents to find out, especially my mom, and when she did she imposed Consequences on me beyond just having wet my pants. This time ... well, I still didn't want to tell my mom (but had the option of not doing so, because not a child), and I still was embarrassed, and I still had the voice of censure in my head, except it was coming from me, not from her.
And I don't know how to get rid of it.
I know damn well that if this were happening to someone else, I would have perfect sympathy for them: the drinking pattern was not excessive (it was different for a Thursday, because usually my heavier coffee days are Saturdays and Sundays, but two cups isn't anywhere near the most that I have drunk without issue); the bathroom scheduling pattern was not excessive (most days I don't feel the need to go to the bathroom when my aides are here, even though I would within a few hours after they leave and so I go while they're here); the lateness of the afternoon aide was not something that I had foreknowledge of; my decisions were reasonable; bodies are not perfect, especially already-disabled bodies, and shit happens but it's nobody's fault.
And yet I still have shittons of guilt, and shame, and I-am-a-horrible-person, and self-loathing, because somehow *I* should have known better.
...yeah, I don't know.
no subject
Date: 2013-09-19 11:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-09-20 12:07 am (UTC)Bodies. Why so awful.
no subject
Date: 2013-09-20 03:44 am (UTC)I am so sorry that the shame lingers on. If I find a shame gun to pop those stupid word balloons hovering over our heads, I will loan it to you.