Author:
AV
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Date Posted: Sunday, June 15, 2025, 04:30: am
Even though I understand and believe writing and journaling is good therapy, included with it are feelings and emotions.
I grew up not having anyone to talk to or not even knowing anyone else who received enemas, I believed I was the only one.
From mom, I did not like her enemas.
I did not like losing control.
At around 12 years of age, mom decided to stop giving me enemas. Yes, at 12, still pooping my pants, still straining, hiding, fighting, resisting, losing the enema war with mom. Mom told me, “if you want to go into junior high pooping in your pants, go ahead, im finished giving you enemas.”
I always wondered why I pooped in my pants? Why I didn’t just sit and go?
I hated the pain associated with a bm.
I was constipated probably due to all the wrong foods as a child I was eating plus holding back the bm just made it more difficult. Even when I was told to go, there I was sitting, trying, doing everything to produce a bm to avoid an enema but I was sealed up tight. My bottom and that enema bulb had a relationship and were working together to make sure their relationship worked and lasted. So many evenings I would stare at the enema bulb imagining it staring back smiling at me saying, “in just a few more minutes.” I knew the soapy water solution inside that bulb would be inside of me shortly and there was no stopping it. Nothing i could do or say to break up this relationship. If I was not getting an enema for staining my underwear or getting caught straining, it was for having a grumpy attitude.
Part 6
Enemas for Grumpiness
Mom believed one answer for my grumpiness or attitude was cleaning my bowels out. There was a connection. She she would call it “a soapy.” She would say to me, “do you need a soapy? I think a good soapy would help.” And it did not take long for me to understand what she was talking about. Once it was in her head I needed “a soapy”, there was no stopping her.
Enemas wore me out and made me tired and mom knew that. She knew shortly after having an enema, I would be laying down taking a nap and sleeping. She used that for her advantage. There I was fighting, resisting, struggled, kicking, reaching back, wiggling, avoid her grabbing me, swatting her hands away, getting a few swats back on my bare bottom, thinking if I resisted long enough mom would give up if she could not get the tip in my bottom.
Another advantage she had was my brothers. They were 7 to 9 years older.
They were teens by the time mom was giving me enemas. And even though they talked to me about having a bm and why not just go to avoid an enema, when mom needed them to come help, they would come running. I would plead to her not to call them but there they came. One took my arms and the other my legs and held me down over mom’s lap. Mom would even continue and finish up the swatting of my bare bottom once I was in place. As she was telling me to stop, settle down, quit fighting, she would be tearing my bottom up with her hand. I would be crying and trying to kick and reach back but my brothers held me tight. Mom took her time making sure I was getting the message. Suddenly she stopped. Seconds later I knew why.
I felt the tip of the enema touch my bottom as she pushed it into me and squeezed.
My volume would go up as I tried to reach back and even straightened my legs out as before but could not do either.
My cry, “hurry up! I gotta go! I gotta go!” And mom saying, “you better hold it, you better not release it. You know better.”
I turn my head and watch as she dipped the tip back into the jar. I hear the soapy water sucking into the bulb as she slowly pulls it out. My mind imagining that bulb, smiling at me, getting its way, having its relationship with my bottom, and there I am, not able to stop it as it touched my already soapy coated bottom from the first bulb. Mom squeezing the second in me as I take deep breaths trying to avoid releasing but allowing the tip to enter.
I cry, “i gotta go! Let me up! I gotta go!” Mom saying, “one more for calling your brothers in to help.”
My pitch would increase as I cried even louder. I would turn and mom was serious every time. She dips the tip once more but this time she would pull it out, let it get its form back, slowly squeeze it again, and dip it, and I could hear the suds from the top of the water sucking into the bulb.
Seconds later, that tip easily went right into me as mom squeezes as I stare at the tile floor breathing crying to be let up I could not hold it much longer.
Moments later, my brothers would let me go, mom would let me up, stand up, and I would quickly sit down. My brothers would leave and mom would start cleaning up.
I trying to release the water gently without any pain but it was a battle I was going to lose as the soapy enema worked on my insides the more I held it in.
It didnt take long before the urges took control. It was like being placed on an automatic machine and I lost total control of my body movements. Like I was tased and
this was my reaction. The track is already made. The locomotive is coming. The three foot baseball bat is moving. The soapy urges take over. Within seconds,
My feet lift off the floor, I grip the side of the toilet. I lift myself up.
I completely empty, fill the toilet. Take a deep breath from exhaustion. My body lowers down. My head falls to the left and down as my eyes roll. All my energy. Gone. I am sitting, catching my breath, breathing, relaxed. The fight is over. The urges, the enema, mom, declared the winner.
Mom would look and say,
“now that wasn’t so bad was it.”
A few minutes later, I would be laying down napping so empty and exhausted as mom had her peace and quiet from my grumpiness for the day.
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