| Subject: Re: My Story retold part 21 the foot bottom relationship final words |
Author:
AV
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Date Posted: Wednesday, August 06, 2025, 11:55: pm
In reply to:
AV
's message, "My Story retold once more" on Thursday, June 05, 2025, 04:09: am
Something else I vividly remember is how I learned to fight the urges. When a strong BM hit, I would drop to my knees and press my foot hard against my bottom—my heel locked in like a plug. That simple act became a ritual. It wasn’t just a way to hold it in. It was how I fought for control in a world where I had none.
I’d kneel quietly, breathing slow, grinding my heel into myself as if I could hold back everything—my body, my fear, my shame. And somehow, I got good at hiding it. There are old photos—family pictures where I’m kneeling like that while others are smiling, playing, living. But I remember what they don’t see.
I wasn’t part of the moment. I was in the middle of a silent battle.
Because I knew: if I lost that fight… the bulb was waiting.
And the bulb always waited.
Most nights, it didn’t stay on the counter.
It showed up during or after my bath—when I was soft, exposed, freshly scrubbed. I’d be sitting in warm water trying to breathe normally, and then I’d hear her footsteps. Mom would come in, calm and casual, and place the bulb on the sink. And then she’d say it:
“Get out and try to go.”
Five words that dropped like a sentence.
She’d set it down gently, but I could feel its weight. My heart would start racing. The warmth of the bath would suddenly feel like a trap. That bulb wasn’t just a tool. It was a threat. And those words were the countdown.
I’d sit on the toilet like I was supposed to, trying to go. I’d press and push and beg my body to cooperate. Because if I didn’t… I knew what was coming.
The bulb was already filled —warm water, soap swirling—and I would brace myself. I’d squeeze my eyes shut, and try to disappear inside my own body.
The bulb was filled and pressed into me, and suddenly I was no longer a child—I was an object. A vessel to be emptied, managed, flushed out.
The pressure built. My legs kicked instinctively. My arms reached back, trying to stop what had already started. I cried out, loud, broken, as my insides twisted and filled.
It didn’t matter.
The bulb didn’t stop.
And the crying didn’t change the outcome.
The bulb didn’t listen. It claimed that space like it had a right to it.
And the water didn’t just clean. It erased.
It erased my voice.
And when it was over, when the flood had forced its way through me and left me emptied, mom would rinse the bulb clean… and place it into a mason jar.
Tucked away. Like it was just another item that had done its job.
But I didn’t believe the bulb belonged in the jar, it belonged in me.
That’s what it had taught me. Over and over. That my body was a container. A target.
And after all that… I would go take a nap.
Not out of rest, but from exhaustion. From defeat. My body drained.
I’d curl up, quiet, still trying to hold something inside… even though it was already gone.
And so the next day, the war would start again.
If I felt even the smallest urge, I’d kneel. I’d press my foot hard against myself. That foot became my last line of defense—my way of saying, not this time.
The pressing wasn’t just habit. It was trauma written into my muscles. My body learned even when I stayed clean…
Even when I obeyed every command…
Even when I got out and tried to go…
The bulb was still there.
The bulb didn’t scream. But its silence was louder than words.
And the worst part?
It didn’t just control what happened to my body.
It taught me that my body wasn’t really mine.
Because I knew what was coming if I lost.
And the truth was, even when I won… the bulb was still waiting.
The knee that once dropped, the foot that once pressed, the bulb owned me.
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