Simone

Sometimes, I feel like everything I write about is trite and stupid and complain-y and redundant because it’s been said a million times before and probably better. And half the time, I’m right. But right now I want to discuss something often ignored. It involves my butt and stuff coming out of it.

Yes, poop. Everybody poops. It just so happens my bowels are particularly responsive to my personal circumstance.

To offer perspective, my first Halloween memory involves my mother delivering me an enema. I hadn’t pooped in three days, and was told I could not trick-or-treat until I passed a substantial bowel movement. And for some reason, despite the fiber shoved down my mouth, and cushiony toilet seat made available for my usage, I couldn’t complete the task. (Until the enema, of course.) I’m not sure if I was suffering from some kind of health problem.

On the other hand, when I was 11, during my first summer of sleep away camp, I stopped pooping entirely—for about six days. Maybe it was the toxicity bred by a hormonal environment in which mirror time and outlet access were a battle, or maybe I was just feeling unfamiliar in a new place. I know that.

Today, regularity is no longer a problem, but access is. I cannot poop anywhere but my house. I cannot poop anywhere that doesn’t have baby wipes available for post-fecal cleansing. Pooping, for me, requires routine and consistency. There must be familiarity involved. Yes, vacations are lovely, but they slowly descend into prolonged periods of holding in poop. I do enjoy seeing my family, but I just can’t function correctly in their presence, upon their potties. Toilet security requires conditioning and experience. I worry this will hinder my experiences in life.

In the same way that Soylent could hypothetically reverse my fears that my careless diet will lead to my demise, I hope one day pooping becomes as routine, unemotional, objective as liquid food. ♦