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Hi littlebedwetterboy! Thank you for your feedback. Yes, I also had two or three of those experiences where I ended up with wet pants. I’m not using them in the story, but I’ve written them down for myself over the last few months. Here is an excerpt. It’s unedited, just exactly how I remember it, straight from my "memory journal": "Even my very first year of school brought a huge change for me. My little brother and I were sent to a Catholic private school because they offered an after-school program alongside the regular boarding school. In the afternoons, they took care of the elementary school kids, who were referred to as the 'day students.' There was also an attached preschool that my brother could attend on the days my mother wasn't home, which was usually one or two days a week. My first elementary school teacher was young, incredibly sweet, and she really liked me. The mother superior, who ran both the convent and the school, was my religion teacher. She was the absolute definition of an authority figure. When our teacher left us in the middle of the school year because she was pregnant, the mother superior took over teaching our class from that moment on. During one of her lessons, I really had to use the bathroom, but at first, I didn't dare disrupt the class. The nuns had long drilled it into us that big kids were only allowed to use the restroom during recess. No one was supposed to be wandering the school hallways alone. I was so terrified that, initially, I didn't even dare to raise my hand to ask for permission. When the pressure became unbearable and I finally did raise my hand, the nun ignored me for a long time—partly because I wasn't answering a question, and partly because she wanted to finish the material before the bell rang. I would have never dared to just call out. Eventually, I couldn't hold it anymore, and I wet myself. Now, I had no choice but to speak up without being called on. I felt like a toddler and was dying of shame in front of the other kids. The mother superior—this strict nun—changed me and put me into my gym clothes. I looked so ridiculous… It was mortifying to walk back into the classroom like that. As long as I was wearing those short, tight gym shorts, everyone was reminded of exactly why I was dressed differently and what had happened just minutes before. The mother superior was embarrassed too that this had happened, considering she had knowingly ignored me when I raised my hand. It also felt like she wasn't comfortable in the role of a regular teacher who was supposed to teach us every subject. Soon after, a new secular teacher arrived. In the afternoon, my parents brought clean clothes and picked me up. I was so incredibly ashamed. The mother superior recommended to my parents that they pack a second set of pants and underwear for me to keep at school 'in case this happens more often.' That was another psychological blow to my sense of being potty-trained—something I felt other kids my age didn't even have to think about anymore. Whether this recommendation was made after the very first and only accident, or perhaps after a second one, I can no longer remember. I do recall that my parents thought it was an overreaction, but they ultimately gave in to the school's request. From that day on, hanging above the cubby bench outside our classroom door were two cloth bags on the hook with the little bunny that marked my spot. One bag was for gym clothes, just like every other child had. And the other bag held the 'spare clothes.' Completely visible to everyone. I think by the second half of the school year, I finally put my foot down so that the bag—and with it, the daily reminder—disappeared. When I look back today, though, maybe it also had something to do with my first teacher's wedding. I was in love with her. I wanted to marry her. As early as October, I was making chestnut necklaces for her. She was supposed to 'wait for me.' Then in May, she suddenly invited us to a farewell party with strawberry cake and hot cocoa. She was pregnant and getting married. For me, a world collapsed. It is a deeply rooted memory. To this day, I can still see her face, her long hair, and the other room where the kids were running wild, getting 'childishly' excited over a piece of cake. I hadn't been enough for her. Ultimately, it was my irrational fear of the mother superior that made me so timid—but perhaps it was also the 'rejection' by my first love that set me back, made me vulnerable, and caused me to lose control." Moments like those are deeply humiliating, but they don't compare to the recurring wet beds. First, there’s your parents' anger (which can still happen even with a one-time accident like wet pants). Then comes the parental worry, the constant reminders to use the bathroom, to drink less. That already takes a toll on your social life. And it doesn't always happen behind closed doors. Even when it does, it forces you to confront this "babyish" helplessness. Then the precautions you have to take with the bed. Then the "interventions." Then the doctors, psychologists, therapies—having to "talk about it" over and over again. Several chapters from my own life will make it into Tom’s story because of this. But the worst part remains that it isn't "public." It’s a "secret," and it could become public. I constantly lived in fear that something would leak out, and with the total helplessness of how to handle that situation. The fear of friends, teachers, and relatives knowing: "He wets the bed." Not "he wet the bed once," but "did you hear... and when he goes to sleep tonight, it’ll be wet again tomorrow." -
By SissyBabyMarc88 · Posted
I got off the changing table with Johns help and stood there with only t-shirt and a diaper. I looked at him for a moment waiting. -
By little_madd · Posted
Maddison didn't think that type of question was common, but he was falling for the attention game. Maddison wanted to see how far these questions would go: "My mom works a lot, so I call my dad every now and then, same thing." -
By astrodiaper · Posted
Ham, cheese and pepperoni sandwiches. Killed off the bag of Naked Doritos Nacho cheese. Not bad, but nowhere near like the originals. But they were on sale, so......... -
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