Author:
AV
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Date Posted: Tuesday, July 15, 2025, 02:45: am
Growing up, we had dogs and I remember vividly how my uncle and brothers would “worm” them. They used a giant pill. It looked like a huge vitamin. My brothers would hold the dogs still while my uncle pushed the pill down their throats with his fingers. It wasn’t gentle, but it got the job done. I saw what those pills did—within hours, the poor dogs were practically emptied out.
One afternoon, all of us kids—me, my two brothers, and my sister—were playing outside. Mom and Dad were out there too. At some point, Mom called me over and told me there was some medicine for me on the top shelf of the refrigerator. I went inside, opened the fridge, and there it was—resting on a paper towel: a large pill. It looked just like those dog worm pills.
Back then, people used to joke that I was so skinny I must’ve had a tapeworm. “A good worming would fatten you up,” they’d say. So when I saw that pill, my young mind made the connection: Mom is trying to worm me.
I didn’t take it. I went back outside like nothing happened.
A little while later, Mom called me again and asked if I had taken the pill. I said no. She explained it wasn’t just for “worming”—it was supposed to help me go to the bathroom so I wouldn’t need enemas anymore. But that wasn’t convincing. I hated enemas, but I hated the idea of swallowing that pill even more. I’d seen what it did to the dogs.
Later that evening, my brothers were talking to me about it. I told them about the big pill and how Mom said it would help me go. They actually tried to reason with me—if I didn’t like enemas, the pill was the better option. But I explained it wasn’t just the enema that scared me—it was the pain that sometimes came with it. The whole experience was miserable.
Then Mom came in with that pill and a glass of water. One last try.
I refused again.
That’s when she told me I was getting an enema instead—a “good one,” as she put it. I said no to that, too. She didn’t argue. She just said, “We’ll see about that, young man,” and walked off.
My brothers knew what was coming. A few minutes later, they returned to our room and told me to come with them—Mom was preparing for the enema, and they were under orders to bring me. I resisted, twisting and turning, but they each grabbed an arm and walked me to the bathroom.
I’ll never forget it.
The sink had the usual setup: the enema bulb, the jar of soapy solution. I was told to undress, and Mom helped. I cried. I thought I was about to get the full “treatment”—a few bulbs, at least. That’s what “a good one” meant in our house.
But that’s not what happened.
As I cried, waiting for the first bulb, Mom grabbed my head, opened my mouth, and shoved her fingers—pill and all—down my throat. I gagged, coughed, and cried harder as she held my jaw open and forced the pill in. There was no getting around it. It was done.
She handed me the water and said coldly, “Drink it. Get dressed. Come sit up front. I’m going to watch you like a hawk. We’ll finish this enema later—when you’re good and ready.”
I was stunned. Broken, honestly. I got dressed and joined the family in the living room. Everyone was quiet. Mom kept her eyes on me. My brothers smirked now and then, watching TV. I just sat and waited. I knew what was coming.
Sure enough, maybe 45 minutes later, my stomach started cramping. That pill was doing its job. I tried to stay still, to breathe through the discomfort. But eventually, I couldn’t hide the shifting and squirming. Mom noticed and said, “Come with me to the bathroom so you can quit squirming.”
I followed her. On the sink, the enema setup was still there.
What followed was a full day of discomfort. The pill emptied my system, and Mom made sure the rest was taken care of. I’d be on the toilet from the effects of the pill, and then she’d follow up with a warm soapy enema.
Those words, “We’ll see about that, young man,” came to mind. Every time I thought I was done, Mom would come in with another bulb, fresh and warm, and leave it on the sink—just to remind me she wasn’t finished. She kept saying she wanted to make sure I was “fully cleaned out.”
I cried. I begged. I swore I was empty. But Mom was relentless that day. It was a purge, and a lesson.
I never took that pill again. Not because I didn’t need it—probably because Mom didn’t want to deal with the aftermath either.
When I turned 12, Mom told me she wouldn’t be giving me enemas anymore. What she didn’t know is that after all those years, I’d quietly started giving them to myself.
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