[Warning: This post contains discussion of bodily functions. There will be minimal detail and lots of euphemism. If that’s still not your jam, check out this cat video instead.]

It’s high time we have the bathroom talk, you guys. And by that, I mean I’m high in the bathroom…so let’s talk! Everybody does it, so I’m going to write about it. Tis’ my sacred duty (tee-hee I said “duty”). I have what I feel is a long and sordid history with the bathroom, the origins of which are unclear. Certainly Freud could provide some insight but he’s dead and he was kind of an asshole anyway. Interestingly, in looking for the root cause of my bathroom issues, I find myself going to the great outdoors. Yes, my bathroom eccentricities didn’t start in a bathroom. They started outside. 

First, we need a little background. I was raised on the streets of St. Louis. By that, I mean I raised myself. And by ‘streets’ I mean ‘tree.’ In my early days, I spent LOTS of time in my backyard (more info on that here), specifically up high in a giant maple tree. Our backyard was my little-boy kingdom and haven. I’m sure there were times I felt lonely in the yard all by myself. However, it’s the place where my whole entire imagination blossomed, bringing forth unseen worlds of dragons and adventure, battles and glory. The worlds I created were bursting with color and texture. They were every bit as real to me as anything else. I was a bonafide hero in the backyard, placed firmly in the center of the stories I created. In reality, the backyard had a horse trough we used as a pool, a sandbox that local cats shat in, and a swing-set with no swings (all of this will land in later posts, I’m sure). 

My fantastical world was possibly too fantastical, though, as I never wanted to go inside the house. If I didn’t have to, I wouldn’t. I’m sure this is common with most kids. Inside is boring. Outside is fun. However, I distinctly remember having a real phobia of going into the house by myself. Our bathroom was located on the second floor sometimes (more on that in another post). I really didn’t want to go upstairs alone. Looking back on it, I have no clue why that freaked me out so much. But it did. 1) I didn’t want to go inside and 2) I really didn’t want to go upstairs. I’m sure some responsible adult, or moderately responsible older sister, was somewhere to be found. But what if they were in the basement? What if they weren’t upstairs? What if they were taking a nap? There were too many possible scenarios for me to be comfortable. 

The problem with spending time outside for hours on end while having a fear of going indoors while having a 6-year-old bladder is that, at some point, you’ll have to take a leak. And take a leak I would…outside. Whenever the urge hit, I would wedge myself between the house and the outdoor A/C unit and piss. That’s right. I would whip out my peen just enough to do what nature intended and then go right back to playing. No indoor time for me! I beat the system. I was brilliant. 

I didn’t reveal this to my family until I was in my 20’s. We find it uproariously funny now (I think). Without exaggeration, between the ages of 4 and 7, I probably pissed more on the concrete behind the A/C unit than I ever did inside a toilet. There’s a chance our house smelled like pee during the summer months, though I can’t really recall. If so, we know who’s to blame. 

One time I distinctly remember sitting on the swings (before they rusted off the set). I was just innocently swinging away when a thought popped into my head. What would happen if I just peed right here? And that’s exactly what I did. I slowed down to a controlled stop. My feet barely touched the ground below me and I just peed. I didn’t whip it out or anything. I just sat there and peed my pants. There was no reason to do it other than the fact that I could. Nothing magical happened afterward either. There was no big revelation. It was as anticlimactic as it gets. Afterward I got inside, changed my shorts, and went right back to playing. 

In addition to the tree in the backyard, much of my childhood was spent at our neighbor’s house (Hi Vons!). They were 3 doors down and their youngest daughter was my sister’s age. There was no one my age, never has been, never will be. Unfortunately, this meant my poor sister and neighbor were often forced to “let Pat tag along” or “make sure Pat doesn’t get electrocuted.” I’m certain this led to zero resentment or bitterness. No one begrudged my very existence, nope, not ‘round here! 

The Vons lived in a pretty large Victorian with high ceilings, hardwood floors, 3 stories, and 3 bathrooms. At that stage in my life, I was wholly and completely unable to do a #2 in public. It was absolutely out of the question. If we were out in public and I had to go, I would just hold it. There was much clenching. Apparently, a bathroom on the second floor of my neighbor’s house where I spent countless hours every day and had no one around was still too public for me. When I got the feeling, I would holler at my sister that I needed to go home, and I would sprint there using “the shortcut.” Once they realized I was running home to drop a loaf, they tried to convince me that it was fine to use the Vons’ bathroom. I wasn’t buying it. In my brain it was much less stressful to run home (often barefoot) and use the bathroom I was comfortable with and then return to the Vons’ a few minutes later. 

As the years went on, I gradually learned to go poo in public. It was a slow process. For instance, I never once went #2 at Druid Hills High School, not once. But under desperate circumstances, I would be able to do it in a public bathroom with minimal panic. The conditions surrounding it (other people in the bathroom, other people outside the bathroom, sounds in the bathroom, single stall vs. not), usually needed to be just right. I was the Goldie Locks of toilets. One such desperate situation happened at Project Life.

Two summers in a row I went to sleep-away Jesus camp. In my younger days I actually went to several Jesus camps (I could go into a whole diatribe about that, but I’ll save it for another post). Of all the Jesus camps, Project Life was my favorite. This one was 90% community service/10% Jesus. We went out into some pretty desolate places in rural Missouri. Then we’d congratulate our white asses for getting out there and helping some poor folk. The work really was meaningful, and the facilitators promoted organic bonding. It was fun and definitely the least scary of all the Jesus camps I attended.

At Project Life, we stayed at a retreat house run by an order of nuns. The sisters had very little to do with us while we were there, but they were definitely a presence. There were offices connected to the dining hall and a main retreat house. We didn’t use the main retreat house which would have consisted of dorm-style rooms. Instead, Project Lifers got a large communal basement to sleep in. There was a guy’s side and a girl’s side. On the guys side, approximately 80 high schoolers snored and farted away the night inside sleeping bags on a concrete floor. I’d guess the girl’s side was the same. The bathrooms were large, common, college-style bathrooms where 12 dudes could shower at a time right beside a long line of urinals and toilets. 

So. Much. Fun. 

Given my lingering childhood poo phobia, this was not the ideal bathroom set up. It certainly wasn’t ideal for a weeklong sleepaway camp. In the first few days, there was not a single moment when someone else wasn’t in the giant warehouse-sized bathroom. Every time I got the “urge” I would check out the situation, only to be disappointed to see one or more of my Jesus comrades ripping up the facilities with abandon. I would go into the bathroom wanting to drop a dooby but would instead stand awkwardly at a urinal I didn’t need until it was time to pretend to wash my hands. With each passing day the situation became increasingly more dire. It was on day 4 that I was pushed into a desperate state. I had to shit or become impacted. After a most fibrous breakfast, I was forced to do the unthinkable. 

We had a little downtime after breakfast before heading out to the worksite. Of course the warehouse bathroom was occupied by teenagers dropping bombs left and right. I still couldn’t allow myself to do the deed. I was verging on tears, so I did what any normal person would do, I prayed. I snuck upstairs to the chapel. As I prayed to God, asking him to take my poop away, I could hear the other kids playing hackie sack (or whatever teens did in the early 2000s) just outside the window. The chapel was right down from the admin offices. I saw out of the corner of my eye one of our camp leaders coming out of a bathroom near one of those offices! God was sending me a sign!

The camp leader, who was probably 20 years old, saw me and smiled. Shyly and nonchalantly as possible, I asked if we were allowed to use that bathroom. For some reason I had it in my head that it was off limits to Project Lifers. I tried to seem casual and not like someone who hadn’t pooped in 4 days. “Yeah man,” the camp leader cheerfully said, not realizing his words were a balm to my ears.

I made my way over to the bathroom with great urgency and great caution. It was a single-staller! Not a soul was around. It was truly a bathroom miracle. God heard my prayer. Perchance I wasn’t going to die. 

I won’t give you an account of what happened in that bathroom but let’s just say it imprinted a memory so potent that I’m writing about it 16 years later. Afterwards I needed some frankincense. I probably needed gold and myrrh too. It was truly spiritual. God was more present with me in that bathroom than in the chapel. I found Him and He found me. When I was done, the room was 10 degrees hotter and there was smog in the air. 

I had been born again. I looked in the mirror and just giggled. Everything was going to be okay. One quick flush and I’d be outside playing hackie sack with the others. 

The flush didn’t work. 

That’s okay. We’ll just try again. Sometimes the first one doesn’t do the job. No need to panic. 

The second flush didn’t work. 

Neither did the third. 

It turns out the toilet at this serene retreat center, this place of spiritual reconnection and peace, had never seen a turd the likes of this one. Oh fuck. God please help me. Send all the angels in heaven to push this fucker down. Fourth flush. Nothing. Oh God please don’t do this to me! Fifth flush. The needle was not moving. My heart and mind were racing as I contemplated what to do next. 

I frantically look around the tiny room. No plunger. No scrubby brush. No gloves. No matches. No kerosene. No bottle of pills for me to swallow right then and there. Nothing. This thing didn’t even have a tank. It was one of those old-school toilets with just a metal knob exposed. Everything else was hidden in the wall, including my dignity. As I saw it, there were 3 options: 1) Go tell an adult that the toilet is clogged 2) Run quickly out of the bathroom and not tell a soul 3) Stay in that bathroom until Jesus came back. 

As any rational 14-year-old would do, I opted for the second. 

I silently crack the door to assess what was happening in the hallway. There was no one. In the distance I hear the others playing outside, no care in the world, oblivious to the heinous act I had just performed or the one I was about to commit. The coast was clear. It was now or never. I run out of the bathroom and jog down the hallway like a ninja, my eyes squarely fixed on the exit. Freedom was at hand. I was maybe 40 feet away from the door when a nun came out of an office. I slow down so as to appear like I had just finished up deep meditative prayer in the chapel. We made eye contact and a full-body shame wave hits me. This poor, unsuspecting woman of God was headed to the very bathroom I just demolished! I would be the cause of her terrible, horrible, awful day and I hadn’t the courage to warn her. I didn’t even lie. Nowadays I would take the offensive, albeit dishonest, approach, “Good morning Sister, I hate to bother you. Is there a custodian around? I tried to use that restroom over there, but someone seems to have had some ‘issues’ before me. It’s really disturbing and smoggy. I wouldn’t go in there if I were you. Be blessed, Sister.”

But none of those words happened. I silently endured my shame wave and quickly looked toward the floor. I hastened my pace until I reached the door. The fresh Missouri air flooded my lungs as I ran over to my friends. They were clueless of the trauma I just experienced and the trauma I just caused. For the rest of my days I would live with the scars of what happened in that bathroom. That nun’s innocent, unsuspecting eyes would forever be engrained in my psyche. Time would hopefully heal all wounds. 

I’m happy to report that my bathroom phobias have since lessened. I seem to have swung the opposite direction on the spectrum actually. Fun fact: I physically can’t be in an airport without dropping a schadoob. I don’t know why. 

I could try to excavate some deeper meaning in this story. But let’s not. It’s just a funny-as-shit story and all funny-as-shit stories need telling.

Check out some of this week’s photo contributors:

Joni Gutierrez – https://www.jonigutierrez.com

Aaron Burden – http://aaronburden.com