We’ve all felt it: The call of the wild. The need to evacuate our bowels. The urge to poop.
We all have different names for it: Dropping the Kids off at School, Taking the Browns to the Superbowl, Filing Paperwork, Seeing a Man about a Wallaby (thanks Pixar).
It’s a healthy side affect of living. Food goes in, waste comes out. Nothing to be embarrassed or ashamed of.
But, sadly, at some point, many of us experience a bit of trouble with it. Whether from child birth, pain meds, or poor diet, somewhere along the way, dropping a deuce goes from an activity of refreshing relief (who hasn’t had a hearty enough BM that they sigh afterwards?) to a painful act of torture.
Life takes on a new element of tension when you can’t poop for fear of feeling like you’re being ripped in two.
You start actively avoiding the bathroom, like it’s the toilet’s fault you didn’t digest enough fiber. Like it deserves your animosity. It’s always there for you! Why do you shun it so?!
You feel like you should brush up on your Lamaze classes before you lock yourself in the bathroom to drop heat in solitude.
Eating isn’t appealing any more either, because you start to get a tingling creep of fear that you may just literally explode if you can’t release your demons soon.
Pants that need to be buttoned get left in the bottom of the basket. No way you’re going to add pressure to the bloat resulting from your inability to Caca. Dirty yoga pants for the 3rd day in a row are nothing compared to the agony of buttoning up jeans in your current state.
And when you finally do manage to relieve yourself, it’s like childbirth all over again, leaving you breathless, sweaty, and more often than not, bleeding and bruised. Damn, do I need stitches?
Finally. A small iota of relief. Until the rest of your body realizes functions are gaining normalcy. Things are moving again! Let’s get caught up!
Then PTPD kicks in- Post Traumatic Poop Disorder. Is it going to hurt again? Am I going to bleed to death this time? Maybe if I wait a little while my sphincter will have recovered enough to perform without unnecessary force.
Eventually, you’ll return to status-quo. The house will regain its rosy-glow, now that the threat of fecal induced explosion is no longer hanging over your head.
You may mention your issues in passing to a loved one; mother, spouse, or really, really close friend. And they may suggest that you try an enema next time.
And you will have every right to tell them to go die in a fire. Because life sucks when it hurts to poop.