Brain salad. OR restrictions on basic rights

It would seem as though, running late shall be a theme here.

I’m late, I’m late, for a very important date

On a side note I started making nipple pasties. If I decided to customize them and sell them on Etsy, would there be any interest? Yes, I already have an Etsy and sell artwork. I’m also happy to make custom works. I can either sell and ship through Etsy or pay in person. shameless self plugging^^^ 🤷🏻‍♀️

I’ve been pondering what story I would tell this time. I have some spooky ones that I want to share in October. -spooky is also subjective. We don’t know each other well. It’s all soon to open the trauma can.

Today may be more about the jumble that comes tumbling out of my head.

Something got me thinking this week about schools. Beside from the obvious back to school that is currently happening. The times when you had hall passes and you could only go potty at certain times and only so many times a term. How restrictive teachers were to these kids. Kids with small bladders. Kids sitting in their desks after the 30 min meal period. It took so long to get through the lunch line to even get your food. And by the time you did, we’ll good luck finding a table. I went to a middle school named Whiteaker.

This school was so full of kids. Getting to classes in the halls was like swimming against a flood of salmon in spawning season. We had 4 lunch periods to break up the traffic. It was still full to the brim. We had a shop teacher. Don’t ask me the name. I ended up in the elective rotation that all 6th graders got. So I don’t remember the name. But I do remember the speech. They had built into the intro of the class this tardiness addendum.

I‘ve taken the walk from one side of the school to the other and you can make it in plenty of time between the bells. You even have the extra bell to use the restroom before this class.

This teacher neglected to advertise that they performed the test without the floods of lemmings going to classes.

This was my first memory of the bathroom restrictions in the public school systems.

Now that we’ve covered the environment I can tell you this story.

⚠️ *Slight trigger and foreboding Warning ⚠️

I will get into the trauma and issues in later storytelling. Let’s start and end the subject with repeated sexual abuse in childhood; bladder control was very very poor. When I was much younger, I would be scolded (or worse) and then told all day how worthless I was. How filthy I was. No one would want a disgusting child like me. Looking back I realize I would hold my bladder as long as I could. Being in the bathroom made you vulnerable. And trapped in a small room. So when it came time to actually go, sometimes I couldn’t make it. Sometimes. I miss judged how long I could push the time it took to get to the bathroom. Sometimes became more regular.

Ok cool cats and kittens. At this point, if you scrolled to avoid the darkness in the above paragraph to avoid triggers, I am happy to tell you; that part is over. Yay

Moving on.

I had the last lunch period. So right after lunch I would go to social studies. This was also the last class of the day. Her name was Mrs. Johnson. She was so tan, I thought she could have been Native American or Islander. Her ebony black hair was short and wavy. The kind of hair cut reserved for women over 55. Clean and kempt at the neck and slightly longer over the top of the head. She had a full mouth of white teeth. Made whiter still by the tone of her skin. And her glasses. She wore the large lens popular in the 80’s and early 90’s. We had punch cards that allowed for a bathroom break, during class. I had already been talked to for using my punches almost everyday. As if I could control going to the bathroom. Because I was maybe 12 and had full control of my body. Going to the bathroom is a basic human right.

During lecture one day, I was sitting in the back of the class. I had to go. I knew I couldn’t leave. But it hurt to hold it. I sat in my chair, in pain, and no longer listening to the lecture of ancient Egypt. I raised my hand. She looked at me and denied me leaving. I sat and squirmed in my chair. I started sweating. I was biting my lip, tugging at my hair. My stomach hurt, my bladder stung. A sting of a thousand hornets crawling down. I raised my hand again. This time I was bouncing in my chair and grinding my thighs together. Again, I was denied to leave. I’m fact, she made me pack up my things and move to the back wall of the class. I was told my “incessant wiggling“ was disrupting the class. Defeated.

All because my body doesn’t know I’m in class. It doesn’t stop to think how rude it is being interrupting. You know, too busy with basic functions to consider your lecture, Mrs. Johnson. I was praying for more strength. Afraid that even now, if I stood up, I would involuntarily pee.

Finally. Finally.

My control gave out. I lost the fight. I covered my face in my hands as I sat there and peed. It hurt so bad and I was so embarrassed. All I could do is cry. The chair filled and over flowed into the cheap carpet. My jeans soaked down my legs. Mortified. Absolutely mortified.

After (in the mind of a child) forever, she came and sat by my chair. Still unaware of my accident. She asked me why I was crying. I had to come clean. I had to tell her what happened. She seemed appalled. Taken aback by my confession. Then came the trail of “why didn’t you”s. Because it was my fault. She took me from class and walked me to the office. I had to stand and reach over the counter to call home. I‘m crying as I tell mom what happened. “I wet my pants…. Yes, I raised my hand…… Yea, I was sitting on my sweater……I’m so embarrassed………..I don’t know who saw……..I’m sorry.”

There we’re a few hours left. I hung up the phone and dashed across the hall to the little girls room. I found the furthest stall from the door. Hot tears ran down my cheeks as I took off my wet clothes. Mom came to the bathroom. She found me and gave me a bag for my wet clothes. She brought ok replacements. I was happy to be warm again. I sobbed in her arms. I could tell she was mad. My mind racing to how this could possibly be my fault. She wiped my tears and took me to the car. She checked me out for the day and I was to stay in the car while she got my things. I don’t know what she did inside the school. She had collected my things from the class and had a meeting with Mrs. Johnson and the principal. I don’t know what was said. I was thinking how much I was glad to not be the teacher right now. Mom was fierce. You didn’t fuck with her kids.

After that day, I didn’t have a problem going to the bathroom during social studies.

So there we have it. I have a few others that I’m sure I’ll tell in due time. This is the adventure where I tell my stories. Any one still reading to this point? If you’re out there let me know.

Well if you are there, thank you for reading. Be kind

And it harm none, do as thou wilt