My youngest daughter has been seeing a psychiatrist for the last three years. And no, it has nothing to do with her having witnessed
her mother's harrowing attack by the poop monster [1]. (Although if you haven't yet read that story, you may want to. You'll see why as you keep reading this one.) No, my daughter was diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder when she was five years old, the result of physical and emotional abuse while in the care (or, actually, lack thereof) of others while I was at work. The doctor she had been seeing for this entire time was very successful with her emotional recovery; but unfortunately he had to close his practice and move to another state because his son went off to college. In spite of being the competent mental health professional that he was, I guess that he just couldn't cope with the separation anxiety resulting from his now adult son leaving home.
So I had to find someone to take over her case. After several weeks of searching, an acceptable replacement was located. An appointment was made for the initial consultation with the new doctor. This would normally have been just a routine experience for a mother with years of experience coping with a child who suffers from emotional distress. But I was in for a surprise.
We were taken into the doctor's office and told to have a seat. As you may or may not know, the furniture in a shrink's office is always very comfortable, so we felt very much at ease in this pleasant environment. My daughter seemed to be looking forward to meeting her new therapist. After a short wait, the door opened and a tall, bony woman in roughly her mid-fifties walked into the room. She had mostly black hair, with just a streak of gray in the front -- sort of a reverse Jay Leno look -- pulled into a tight bun on the back of her little pea-sized head. She had wire-rimmed half-glasses perched on the tip of her long, narrow, ski-sloped nose. After sitting down in her chair behind the large desk, she tilted her head back and peered at us through her spectacles with her two very beady little black eyes.
I was beginning to feel slightly nervous. But my daughter seemed undaunted by the appearance of this witchy-looking creature that had now joined us in the room. The therapist looked down at the file lying in front of her on the desk. She flipped through the pages of my daughter's history with her former psychiatrist for a few minutes, and then she began to speak.
"I have all of the information concerning the patient's medical history that I need from you, Ms. Load. At this time, I am going to begin the session by asking questions directly to your daughter. You may remain in the room, but you are not to answer for your daughter. I must first become acquainted with her own ideas concerning her health and overall state of mind. If you have anything to add later, you will be addressed in turn."
Okay. So I am supposed to sit quietly. No problem. What could I have to say about my daughter that she doesn't know about herself anyway?
The interrogation began. My daughter was asked lots of questions -- how she liked school, if she had friends, what types of things does she enjoy doing in her free time, etc. Once the doctor had broken the ice with her and had her talking freely, the questions became more directed toward my daughter's views about her health in general. How well do you sleep at night? Is your appetite good? Do you have headaches or stomach aches? My daughter answered each question very appropriately and factually.
The next line of questions, though, would change the entire course of this session.
Therapist: "How are your bowel habits?"
Daughter: "Huh?"
Therapist: "Um, well, do you go to the bathroom to do number two regularly?"
Daughter: "Yeah."
Therapist: "When was the last time that you did number two?"
Daughter: "Yesterday."
As each question was answered by my daughter, the doctor made notations in her chart. Dr. Scarecrow then asked my child if there was anything that she would like to add about any of the questions that she had been asked so far. This is when it happened.
My little girl said, "I just have to watch out for my mommy if I go to the bathroom because I don't want her to come in there and poop on the wall again."
I had been somewhat slouched down and molded into the soft, supple, leather sofa upon which I sat. On hearing the words that left my daughter's mouth, I sat up straight in utter disbelief, mouth agape and eyes now wide open. I wanted to quickly explain to the doctor that the situation my daughter was referring to was caused by my IBS attack and NOT some crazy or demented act.
"Uh, I --" I was immediately cut short by the throwing up of one long, crooked, bony finger in a gesture that demanded silence.
Not wanting to be banished from the room at this critical point, I complied. I just sat back in my seat with my shoulders drooping and my head hung in shame, much like a child that had just been caught doing something really, really bad. The doctor asked her how often this type of activity had occurred in our home.
"She only pooped on the wall one time. But the people on the internet thought it was funny, so she told them about all the other places she pooped."
Therapist: "What people on the internet?"
Daughter: "The ones that like to read about the poop stories."
Daughter: "And when she is on the computer, my mommy is Motherload. She helps the other people with their poop, too."
While I do not let my children sit and read PoopReport on a regular basis, I have shared with them some of the more benign, yet really funny aspects of the site. They are all aware of my newfound hobby of doing research and answering questions [2] concerning this natural -- but not easily talked about -- bodily function. The older kids are actually quite proud of their mom for being someone in which so many readers have put their faith to aid them in their quest for answers that can't be sought as openly as most other topics. The youngest one just thinks it's really funny and cool.
But it was clear by the look on the therapist's face that she was not impressed with this revelation that my daughter had so willingly laid out. I watched as she scrawled almost uncontrollably in the file. I tried to make out pen strokes in an attempt to see if she was ordering Child Protective Services to come in and remove my daughter from what she considered to be a den of evil revolving around my apparent obsession with human excrement and my participation in a bizarre website based on scatological pornography. Little beads of perspiration began to erupt on my upper lip, and a steady stream of sweat had started running down my sides from my armpits. I was in utter distress. My heart rate had accelerated to about 160 beats per minute, and I started feeling lightheaded. And suddenly I became acutely aware of my gut.
The realization that I made was this: there was NO REACTION associated with my intestines. None at all. The grumbling and quaking of the bowel that usually accompanied my moments of most severe stress was, this time, not there.
It was at that moment, at that very instant, that I experienced an epiphany of all things poop-related. I took control of the situation to turn things back around in my favor. I disregarded the no-talking rule previously imposed upon me and began to present my side of the story.
"Look. I only pooped on the wall because she was in my way during a really bad attack of Irritable Bowel Syndrome. I did not poop on her. I did not even plan to poop in her presence at all, but it was unavoidable. As far as the website that I read is concerned, it is not what you must think it is. PoopReport.com provides anecdotal comic relief as well as intriguing conversations, interesting information, and helpful insight to people who suffer from conditions similar to my own. The way that I assist other poopers is by receiving questions from them, researching the topic until I have gathered sufficient evidence on which to base my answers, and then providing them with information that will hopefully aid them in resolving their issues, as it is sometimes too embarrassing for people to reach out about these types of concerns to regular doctors or health care providers.
"Furthermore, since I have shared my most embarrassing moments with others like myself, I have felt an enormous sense of relief and liberation from simply being released from the burden of shameful silence that I endured for so long. And very possibly, due to the extensive knowledge that I have gained from all of my recent findings and newly-found understanding and awareness of the workings of my own body, I no longer suffer from the unpredictable intestinal disasters that I experienced throughout most of my adult life.
"PoopReport is funny. It is healing, both physically and emotionally. Whether its just from having a good laugh at funny, well-written stories, or from finding a way to prevent or cure some type of dysfunction related to this bodily function that we all do. The members of this site do not condone, nor do they tolerate, any type of moral, sexual, religious, political or ethical misbehavior.
"We are a diverse group of people who have come together in a truly uniting and nondiscriminatory manner. Being able to talk openly about the natural processes of our bodies is not only a sign of good mental health, but a necessity, in my opinion, for my children to be able to grow up free from the disorders that have plagued me because of stress, shame and lack of information."
After I had finished with my sermon on the mount of shit, I took my daughter by the hand and walked out the door. Hand-in-hand we walked, heads held high and chests puffed out in pride, all the way to the car.
