Ever since I was a little girl I have always had trouble with poop. Today, at the age of twenty-one, I still can't poop in a public bathroom or in any washroom that isn't familiar to me. I also can't stand to have anyone hear me poop or even know what I'm doing in there. I blame this on a series of events that occurred involving poop during my lifetime.
The first event took place when I was four. I had been constipated all day and my parents thought it would help if I took my dump in my baby brother's potty in the kitchen, where they could watch me. As the day went by and I still couldn't go, my mom called up a few relatives for advice. First my uncle, then my grandma, and then a few cousins. Soon enough they were all showing up with their advice: gripe water, prune juice, bananas, and tummy rubs. I sat there, humiliated, nauseated and crampy, with my pants around my ankles, in my kitchen, with all my family watching. They spoke of me as if I weren't there. All I wanted to do was run to my room and hide under the bed. I had to shit so bad I couldn't stand it, but with all these people watching it wasn't gonna happen.
Finally, around suppertime, my dad had had enough. With me crying and all my family watching, he stood me up backwards on the toilet and did the unthinkable: he stuck his finger up my tiny baby asshole and dug the turd out. My family broke into applause. I was mortified and cried my self to sleep. Thanks, Dad.
The next time I had to worry about poop was in grade school. Once during class in second grade I had to take a dump real bad. I asked the teacher and she said no. Well, I held it as long as I could, but I knew I would soon be making a mess of my new run-free tights. So I made a mad dash for the toilet, without my teacher's permission. After I finally relieved myself I made my way back to class, walking slowly in an effort to delay the inevitable bitchfest awaiting me in class. Sure enough, the moment I walked in the door, Miss Hayword pounced. She yelled until I cried and then made me stand in the corner for the rest of the afternoon with the whole class watching and taunting.
Then, in third grade, I took so long to poop that when I returned to class I was ten minutes late. Everyone knew what I had been doing. The teacher led them in a chant of "You're late! You're late!" And after that, all the kids started calling me Big Pooper.
In sixth grade, I was taking a dump when three girls -- the school bullies -- walked in and heard me fart. They started laughing hysterically and looking over the stall. They kept saying stuff like, "Come on, push harder! Take that shit! Get it all out now." And they would imitate the sounds of my ass. I couldn't finish. I wiped, flushed, and was left sitting in agony for the rest of the day.
The last time I dealt with shit was four years ago at the hospital. I needed an enema. They put it in and told me to wait ten minutes before I let it out. Well, it's a good thing I was five steps away from the washroom, because within forty-five seconds brown, foul-smelling liquid was spewing from my asshole like I was a faucet. It was spraying uncontrollably out at least three feet from where I stood. I ran for the washroom, trailing it behind me, and spent twenty-five minutes emptying myself.
After I was done, I had a hell of a mess to clean. It wouldn't have been so bad if my mom, my stepdad and my grandma hadn't showed up while I was on the toilet. I hadn't had time to close the bathroom door, so they were a bit shocked. At least at that point I was almost ready to wipe.
So now I am traumatized by poop. I was so relieved to find this website and read of other people's tales of poop horror. It makes me feel just a bit better.
Thank you.
-- Jessica
