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Subject: Re: My Story retold part 3


Author:
AV
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Date Posted: Friday, June 06, 2025, 11:06: pm
In reply to: AV 's message, "My Story retold once more" on Thursday, June 05, 2025, 04:09: am

Typing and sharing my emotions are therapy. I encourage it because it helps bring healing in so many ways.
I don’t know if anyone else has experienced something similar but this has happened many times. If I am having a hard time having a BM, it feels like an outer body experience, my feelings, my emotions, my mind takes me back as a child sitting on the toilet and mom coming in with the bulb.
There is this split between reality and this visual. In reality I’m taking deep breaths, relaxing, pushing, trying to avoid this visual of the enema. However, in the visual, mom has sit the bulb and jar on the sink and left. There I am as a child sitting in my thoughts.
Moments later in the visual, mom is back, lifts me over her lap and reaches for the bulb. In real time, movement is taking place and I remind myself if I can get started, it will be difficult but the BM will move and flow. In the visual, I have been given the enema and I’m fighting the urges. Real time, I have those same tingling childlike feelings of fighting my BM. Eventually, the enema in the visual takes over and I completely empty my colon. In reality, same thing is happening. I have broke through. The visual seems so real when it is happening and the feelings in reality are so real.

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[> Subject: Re: My Story retold part 4


Author:
AV
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Date Posted: Saturday, June 07, 2025, 04:26: am

Coming and writing and remembering honestly feels so good. It’s like I am a free person. No longer bound to these feelings that have tormented for years not having anyone to talk with.

Part 4
The time lapse between the first enema and mom refilling the bulb for the second enema is a vivid remembrance in my mind as a child flashing back to what was going through my mind as I waited for the second bulb and the feel of the bulb tip once again.
My mind knew I was going to take the bulb, and I knew I had to relax to allow the solution to go inside of me, but not dare release any. I remember many times, looking at mom over my shoulder and saying, “hurry up I gotta I gotta go,”
and remember mom saying,
“you better hold it! You better hold it, you better not release it.”
Next, the feel of the tip. I was open and coated with the soap from the first bulb, so stopping the second was impossible. The tip easily slid right in. Mom squeezed the bulb, I felt the warm agitated soapy solution enter me once more as mom would hold me in place a few more seconds. I was so ready to go, and would say with a breath,
“let me up, i gotta go! I gotta go!”
Mom, let me up, stood up, lifted the lid, and went to stand by the sink and start cleaning up. Remember, I fought my BM urges until the urges stopped, and here I am, with an enema in me. I was no different. I hated the pain associated with a BM. And I instinctively started trying to fight the urge to go. The enema was clearly working on me and here I am with all my effort and child strength still trying to win this war. My answer, to release a little solution at a time and that would help with the urges and they would go away. And so that’s what I would do. Release a little. Slowly, release a little more. However, the BM was moving and I did not want it to hurt. The solution was coating me, clearing that run way, making its slip and slide. The urges were getting stronger because the BM was moving plus the soap was agitating me. As a child, I didn’t understand all of that. I thought release enough solution and the urges would go away. But what happens next happened so fast and quick. It was like I was poltergeist, tazed, ghostbusters arrived. The locomotive was moving out. The baseball bat was coming. In an instant, like I was tazed to do so, my legs lifted in reaction off the floor straight out in front of me, both hands gripped the side of the toilet, and my body lifted up. I could feel the BM traveling through my body, through my colon, what a rush, a feeling, an inner body experience, as I completely emptied and filled the toilet. I relaxed, collapsed, exhausted, out of breath, eyes heavy as if someone gave me a drug. Mom was still standing by the sink, running water and cleaning the bulb and the jar of solution out.
She would look at me and say,
“That wasn’t so bad was it?”
And I would be trying to catch my breath, empty feeling, stomach flat, deflated.

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