| Subject: Re: My Story retold part 20 journaling bringing healing |
Author:
AV
| [ Next Thread |
Previous Thread |
Next Message |
Previous Message
]
Date Posted: Thursday, July 31, 2025, 07:14: am
In reply to:
AV
's message, "My Story retold once more" on Thursday, June 05, 2025, 04:09: am
For me, writing about this is not just journaling—it’s survival. It’s the only way I can try to take back some control over something that still hits me like a freight train decades later. What happened wasn’t just “unpleasant” or “embarrassing”—it was traumatic, and it left scars I still wrestle with. Trauma doesn’t just show up in war stories or car crashes—it lives in childhood moments like these, too.
My mom thought she was doing what had to be done, but to me, it felt like punishment. It wasn’t just the 10-ounce bulb—it was how it was handled. I’m grateful it wasn’t a bag or one of those retention type nozzles like others have written about, but the bulb alone was enough to break me. There was no explaining, no gentleness, no space for trust. Her mindset was simple: “If you refuse to sit on the toilet and go, I will make you sit on the toilet and go.” And at an early age, I learned exactly what that meant.
I was already potty trained. I wasn’t lazy. I just hated the pain, so I became what they call “a holder.” I would hold until my body couldn’t anymore—and then I’d mess myself. Food, diet, all of that didn’t help, but nothing mattered once that bulb was in Mom’s hand. Once it was filled and ready, there was no stopping it. No words I said—no crying, no pleading, no begging—could change what was about to happen. I fought like my life depended on it—arms swinging, legs kicking, tears streaming—but I never won.
And then there was the worst part—the betrayal. My older brothers, 7 years ahead of me, helping Mom. I remember their hands holding me down. That memory alone feels like it’s branded into me.
Even now, I still feel the fear, the panic, the helplessness, every time I think about it. It’s not “just a memory”; it’s a trigger. And writing this out, as painful as it is, feels like one step toward breathing again.
I can still feel it, like it just happened yesterday—laying over Mom’s lap, every muscle tense, reaching back desperately to cover my bottom. Sometimes I tried to push her hand away, other times I tried to pull the bulb out after it was already in. That sense of panic wasn’t just fear, it was terror—the kind that makes your whole body fight for survival.
I remember my feet kicking wildly, thrashing like I was drowning. Mom was “old school”—if I fought too hard, if I didn’t just submit, I got popped on my bottom. And if that didn’t work, my brothers were called in. That’s when it got worse—two or three against one, all just to force me to accept something I didn’t want, didn’t understand, and couldn’t escape.
I cried. Crying wasn’t an option; it was inevitable. It was part of the bulb experience. My words still echo in my head—“Get it out! Get it out! I gotta go! That’s enough!”—but they fell on deaf ears. My pleas were just noise to be silenced, resistance to be overcome.
And afterward, the humiliation didn’t stop. My brothers mocked me, reenacting my cries and my flailing. That’s what trauma does—it freezes moments like that in time.
This wasn’t just “a thing that happened.” It was the day Mom decided to make it routine—a weekly ritual of, “If you don’t sit, I will make you sit.” That sentence alone is enough.
It’s amazing how a memory can stick like it happened yesterday. I used to imagine that bulb was smiling at me, almost mocking me, as if it knew it was in control and I wasn’t. Its home wasn’t really in that mason jar—it was in my bottom. It sat there on the sink, waiting and watching while I tried to put up a fight, only to lose every time.
Over my mother’s lap, under her control, that bulb would make its way inside, releasing warm soapy water deep into me, and I felt completely powerless. That was my reality for 7 to 8 years, weekly, sometimes more. I’ve read stories of kids who went through even worse—daily routines meant to “control” them, leaving no part of their day untouched by humiliation. I can only imagine what those children are feeling inside because I know what it felt like for me: trapped, voiceless, and stripped of control over my own body.
Looking back, I wasn’t even a sick child, at least not in the way people think of sickness. Some experts say colon cleansing prevents illness, and maybe that’s true because I rarely got sick physically. But what about the sickness on the inside? The kind you can’t see, the kind you carry with you for years—the anxiety, the shame.
That’s what it feels like: a war inside, triggered by the smallest memories.
Today, I’m thankful I can even write about it because for years I couldn’t. And I’ve learned I’m not alone. Others have similar stories, similar battles, similar scars. Speaking it out loud doesn’t erase what happened, but it takes back some of the power it stole. It reminds me that I’m still here. I survived. And I’m healing.
[
Next Thread |
Previous Thread |
Next Message |
Previous Message
] |
|
Feedback: 