humiliation: urination

My bladder and I are currently involved in a power struggle of sorts, a battle we’ve been fighting for years. We once had a very close and mutually beneficial relationship, one in which she (my bladder) would inform me at the first sign of being full and I would, in turn, facilitate the sooner-rather-than-later release of her steadily expanding contents. In appreciation of my efforts, my bladder would refrain from emptying said contents until I managed to reach an appropriate location (i.e. a bathroom) and pants-droppage point (see: knees or below). According to my mother, I even potty-trained myself at a very young age, with very little coaxing or coaching from her, apparently preferring a pair of cozy, cotton undies to a perpetually dampened diaper. I enjoyed a few years of virtually accident-free urination before the harmonious relationship between bladder and self was disrupted. But once that happened, the ugly war for ultimate urine authority was officially waged. And it continues today.
To offer a little perspective, here is a brief glimpse of my urinary history:

Age Five: In spite of being already adequately potty-trained (self-taught, you’ll recall), I pee my pants during read aloud time in my first grade class. To make matters worse, my classroom is the only one in the entire building with its very own private bathroom attached. I am mortified. My mom is called in to deliver a fresh pair of pants and I am forced to spend the rest of the school day stewing in the utter humiliation of what has happened.

Age Six: I have become a very deep sleeper. As a result, my need-to-pee impulse fails to wake me from my dead-to-the-world slumber. I start wetting the bed on a fairly consistent basis. My parents decide the most logical solution is attaching an alarm to my underwear, which, when brought into contact with moisture, begins to beep incessantly at ear-piercing decibels. The theory here is that by waking me up when I wet the bed (courtesy of the angry alarm), my parents can train me to wake up on my own before the actual wetting occurs. Unfortunately, my ability to sleep soundly is underestimated; I sleep through the beeping and mom and dad are forced to rouse me themselves when the noise reaches their bedroom. Eventually, I stop wetting the bed, but I’m hesitant to give credit to the underpants siren, choosing, instead, to believe I simply outgrew the behavior.

Age Six (rough year, urinarily speaking): While walking the one mile from school to home, I am hit with a sudden (and urgent) need to pee. In response, I increase my speed, hoping to make it home before the situation reaches critical mass. I can’t decide if running is a good option. Will it help me by getting me home more quickly, or will it make things worse by putting pressure on the barely-restrained contents of my poor poor bladder? I decide to keep walking, but as rapidly as possible. I’m hopeful as I round the last corner onto my street, but—with the promised land only four houses away—the flood gates open and the pee starts a-flowing.

Age Eight: I am using the bathroom at a friend’s house one afternoon when the door flies open and I lock eyes with her (super cute) older brother. It seems my need to pee overshadowed my usually obsessive need to lock the bathroom door (which I do even when I’m home alone). Instead of apologizing and leaving quickly, no-longer-so-super-cute brother decides to laugh at me in my pathetic, helpless, pee-releasing position on the toilet. He even calls in his friend to laugh with him. Once again, embarrassment for Cayly. (As a result of this incident, I will spend years checking the lock on all bathroom doors at least three times before feeling safe enough to drop trou and proceed with the peeing.)

Age Twelve ( A story I swore I would never tell): I’m in the backseat of my mom’s Jeep Wrangler on the way home from my sister’s high school soccer game (of which I was a spectator). Faced with a mild case of the Need to Pees, I decide to hold out for home instead of asking mom to pull off the highway and find me a restroom. As soon as we pass the last exit before ours, I know I’ve made the wrong choice. Suddenly, the urge to urinate reaches epic proportions and I fear I may lose control of this now overly-and-painfully-full bladder situation. I alert both mother and sister of my condition. Soon, I find myself sitting atop a blanket (you know, to absorb the wet should I let it out), repeating the words “I’m going, I’m going” in a higher-than-normal-pitch voice. Meanwhile, mom and Melissa are laughing (as discreetly as possible) in the front seat, justifiably amused by the prospect of twelve year-old me peeing on myself in the backseat of the car. (Note: I made it home without accident. My one saving grace in this story.)

My coworkers wonder why I ignore my bladder at work when it tells me its getting full, why I make it wait as long as I possibly can before complying with its request to be emptied. It’s just my way of taking back my share of the urinary power.