| Subject: Story retold part 2 |
Author:
AV
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Date Posted: Friday, June 06, 2025, 05:45: am
In reply to:
AV
's message, "My Story retold once more" on Thursday, June 05, 2025, 04:09: am
I decided to come journal my struggles growing up once again. It’s been almost 2 years since I spent time doing this. For me, journaling is healing. It’s releasing. It’s healthy. It not only helps me, but perhaps there is a silent reader that can relate in some way.
This is part 2:
Mom always gave me two bulbs from the enema bulb before allowing me to sit. Through the years, I have read on many forums including this one where an enema bag was used and sometimes a special retention nozzle. Mom never used a bag, only a 10 ounce bulb filled twice. I can’t even imagine the struggle, the fight, the resistance, I would have done if mom used an enema bag. The bulb experience for me was bad enough. Just the thought of an enema nozzle in me with solution continuously flowing. It would have been resistance for sure.
It was probably 8-9 years old, mom decided to start given me enemas after my even bath. It was to her advantage of course because I was already without clothes.
I did not have a specific enema night.
Mom had three rules in place for an enema after the bath that evening.
One, I pooped in my pants. Mom would not say anything. I would go and change clothes, even tried the old hiding game, but mom simply washed the underwear out and later that evening washed me out.
Second, I was a holder and strainer. So If I was caught straining, face even red, I could expect an enema that evening to give me a reason to strain.
Third, was what mom called the “grumpies.”
Yes, she tied in unusual behavior or attitude to not having a bowel movement.
Bathroom time was simple.
Mom came to the door to tell me to get out of the tub and try to have a BM.
Regardless if I sit in the tub or on the toilet, soon after, I would hear water running through the walls from the kitchen sink.
It did not take long for me to make the connection if mom came to the door and told me to get out and try to have a BM, I was going to receive an enema soon.
I would get out, sit on the toilet, and try to have a BM. Breath, relax, even had an imaginary friend. Anything to show mom I went and no need for an enema. Now, of course when she first started this, I had no clue what was going on. She would simply come in, sit the enema down, take my arm, close the lid, sit down, flip me over her lap and proceed on giving me an enema. It happened so fast.
Eventually, it turned into a process. Mom would come in and place a jar of soapy water and the bulb on the sink. She would see me sitting and ask if I had went?
Of course the answer seemed to always be no. Even though I was trying. She would say “I will return shortly” and leave.
My mind would go directly to the enema bulb and stare at it. I always believed from the beginning that bulb had a smirky smile knowing it was going into my bottom and there was nothing I could do to stop it.
Mom would return and take my arm and stand me up. She put the lid down and sit. I knew the routine well. I would immediately beg for more time trying to tell her I didn’t need an enema, just give me time. I would try to resist. Pull back to get my arm loose and kick and swing. Whatever I needed to do. Mom was ole school and she didn’t hesitate popping my bare bottom with her flat hand and bring the fire. As quickly as possible, she had me over her lap and if more pops were needed, so be it. Of course I was kicking and crying and then she would press the tip into my bottom and squeeze the first solution. I became even more active and animated with warm soapy water in me. I could hear the refilling of the bulb and would turn to check. My eyes watched as she squeezed and dipped the bulb. I would cry out, “hurry up i gotta go i gotta go.” I watched as she would skim the suds off the top of the water. I could hear the suction as the suds disappeared into the bulb. This was a process of also giving the first bulb time to work on me.
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