| Subject: Re: Therapy |
Author:
AV
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Date Posted: Wednesday, June 12, 2024, 06:07: am
In reply to:
AV
's message, "Therapy" on Friday, June 07, 2024, 08:28: am
Writing and posting here are good therapy for me to be able to get out so many feelings and emotions. Growing up not having anyone to talk to or not know anyone else who received enemas, I believed I was the only one received them. From mom, I did not like her enemas. I did not like losing control. She made a decision when I was around 12 years old to stop giving me enemas. Yes, there I was, still pooping in my pants, still straining and hiding, still fighting and resisting, and still losing the enema war with mom. One day, she just simply 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 believe I was actually 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 my little mind could do to produce a bm to avoid an enema but I was sealed up tight. I believed 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 either be sitting still in the tub or sitting on the toilet staring at the enema bulb as I imagined it staring back smiling at me saying, “in just a few more minutes.” As young as I was 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. Mom believed one answer for my grumpiness or attitude was cleaning my bowels out. She believed there was a connection. She never really used the word enema, 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 she got it in her head I needed “a soapy”, there was no stopping her. One of the things enemas did to me was wear me out and make me so tired and mom knew that as well, she knew shortly after having a bm from an enema, I would be laying down taking a nap and sleeping. So mom used that for her advantage. For me, those were the fighting and resisting days. I fought and struggled going over her lap, kicking and reaching back, and wiggling. Prior, I would try to avoid her grabbing me, even swatting her hands away. I would get a few swats back on my bare bottom. I always thought 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. So they were in their teens by the time mom was giving me enemas. And even though they tried talking to me about having a bm and why not just go to avoid an enema, when mom needed them to come help her hold me, they surely would come running. I would plead to her not to call them but there they came. One would take my arms and the other my legs and press and hold 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. She would suddenly stop and seconds later I knew why as I felt the tip touch my bottom as she pushed it into me and squeezed. My volume would go up of course as I tried to reach back and even straightened my legs out but could not do either. Of course my cry, “hurry up! I gotta go! I gotta go!” And her saying, “you better hold it, you better not release it. You know better.” I would always turn and watch as she dipped the tip back into the jar. I could hear the soapy water sucking into the bulb as she slowly pulled it out. My little mind imagined that bulb, there it was smiling at me, getting its way, having its relationship with my bottom, and there I was, not able to stop it as it touched my already soapy coated bottom from the first bulb. Mom would squeeze the second in me as I took deep breaths trying to avoid releasing but allowing the tip to enter. I would cry, “i gotta go! Let me up! I gotta go!” Mom would simply say, “one more for having to call your brothers in to help.” My pitch of course would increase as I cried even louder. I would turn to look and mom was serious everytime as she dipped 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 this time the suds from the top of the water sucking into the bulb. Seconds later, that tip easily went right into me as mom squeezed once again as I stared 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 as 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 and my feet lifted off the floor, I gripped the side of the toilet and lifted myself up, as first the soapy water came then the baseball bat, that’s how long my bm’s were, I filled that toilet many a times as I took deep breaths as it came out quickly. Mom of course 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 quite from my grumpiness.
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