Bathroom Phobias

I've been afraid of the bathroom for as long as I can remember. I'm sure Freudian scholars could trace it back to potty-training trauma--something gone terribly awry during the anal stage. But as far as I'm concerned, it all began when I first heard the legend of Bloody Mary. It was in the early years of elementary school and different versions came from different sources. A friend at school claimed that if you chanted "Bloody Mary" three times as you splashed water on the bathroom mirror the murderous bloody witch would appear to torture and kill you. As my cousin told it, you were to flush the toilet one-hundred times in the dark. My sister's version seemed to be a combination of the chanting and toilet flushing in the dark. I didn't know which one to believe so I believed them all (not believing any of them was not an option because then I would have to find something else to incomprehensibly agonize over). I actually sort of combined them all, but invented my own torturous twists. The one thing all the stories had in common was the eventual-victim's intent--one had to actually summon the spirit in order for her to appear; but I neglected this detail. As far as I was concerned, a blood-soaked woman was likely to materialize in the bathroom at any given moment if she got a hankering for some child-killing fun. This left me on edge anytime I needed to use a restroom. This was only made worse when a girl in my second grade class performed the chanting/water-sprinkling ritual during recess one day and was sent home early, traumatized and claiming she had seen the witch. I tried to avoid the bathroom where the sighting had taken place, but it was a small school with few restrooms. And anyway, my fear was not isolated to that one particular facility. No matter where I urinated--school, home, a friend or family member's home--I honestly believed that Bloody Mary would come for me if I wasn't careful. I would conduct my business, pull up and button/zip my pants, unlock the door, and then flush the toilet and run out of the bathroom as quickly as I could. After waiting a few seconds to ensure that it was safe, I would cautiously walk back in, wash my hands, and then run out again. Then return a third time to quickly turn the lights off. What if someone had flushed the toilet 99 times and my flush was the 100th? Or I accidentally splashed water on the mirror while washing my hands and my mere fearing her was enough to summon the ghastly apparition? I knew it was ridiculous and would laugh at myself as I ran from the room after each flush, but I couldn't help it, I was seriously scared. This was something that plagued me for years, far longer than it should have. But somehow I finally convinced myself to get over it, I was really getting too old for such a silly fear--I mean, I couldn't be running in and out of the bathroom in high school now could I?

This fear of Bloody Mary was quickly replace by another, possibly more absurd bathroom phobia. At least with my childhood fear there was actually something to be afraid of, but now it seems I am afraid of the actual act of of urination...well, when in the vicinity of others. Public bathrooms are hell for me! If I hear footsteps or voices as I'm sitting on the toilet I immediately freeze up. It doesn't matter how badly I have to urinate, or even if I'm incredibly drunk, my bladder simply stops working. Even if I'm using a private restroom I can't go if I know that someone is waiting on the other side. For reasons that I do not understand, girls like to go to the bathroom in packs. When I'm out with friends or even at work and I ask that they excuse me to use the bathroom, by biggest fear is that one or more will respond with, "Oh I have to go to, I'll go with you!" as though they are doing me a favor. So I allow them to accompany me knowing all the while that I will not actually be excreting anything on this trip. It really is an irrational fear and completely inconvenient; as a result I've had countless awkward bathroom experiences, but none so terrible as the drug testing procedure that I was subjected to before starting work at a health center. 

When I moved to New York I couldn't start my job right away--as I very soon came to know, when you work in health care, especially for a non-profit, you face many hurdles. Of all the bullshit bureaucratic red tape I had to go through, the drug screening took the longest and was the most difficult. First, I had to schedule an appointment the day prior to when I wanted to go in. As the center got booked quickly, I was required to call at 8am when they opened each morning. It took nearly a week before I successfully made an appointment. And that ended up being the easy part. Being well aware of my urination issues I wasn't expecting things to go smoothly, but I also knew the measures I would have to take so that it would go as smooth as possible. I had submitted urine for drug screening in the past and provided I drank water for several hours beforehand without visiting the facilities so that my bladder was near the point of explosion, I had no problem filling their cup. So the morning of my appointment I purchased a large water bottle and hopped on the train. I arrived, checked-in (with the receptionist, foursquare did not yet exist), and then waited several minutes until my name was called. All the while enduring the painfully uncomfortable pressure the excess water had placed on my bladder. As I walked into the restroom I was appalled to find that the nurse followed me not only into the restroom, but into the stall. When I asked that she step outside and allow me to close and lock the door she refused, informing me that this was to be a supervised submission. Horrified, I laughed and informed her that I wouldn't be able to complete the task. Confused and embarrassed I quickly exited the health center and, as I tend to do anytime I'm confused or in trouble, I immediately dialed my mom. On the verge of tears I informed her of my dilemma and she calmly told me that I needed to walk back in and pee in the stupid cup. I was not a fan of this answer, so I hung up the phone, pulled out my Ipod (setting it to Bright Eyes) and decided to take a stroll around the neighborhood to collect myself. This was my first time wandering around the South Bronx and I feared for my life, yet a the same time, the melodramatic part of me hope that some crazy gangster would come out of nowhere and blast me to death so that I could avoid this damned drug test. Unfortunately, no such crazy gangsters were patrolling the streets that day and I was forced to walk to the subway station and return to my apartment. When I arrived my head was still reeling and I again called my mom asking that she make arrangements for my return to California--clearly this wasn't gonna work out (as mentioned above, I have the potential to be pretty damned dramatic sometimes). Again my mom told me to suck it up and I resolved to return the next day to give it another go.

After this failed second attempt, I got in touch with our group leader/support woman and informed her of the situation. I assured her that I would have no problem passing the test (though there was a slight concern I'd fail--I was fresh out of college after all), and offered to submit a blood or even hair sample (though I knew I definitely fail if this were the case). She promptly contacted the health center and asked about my options--I had none. Because news travels fast in my family I had been receiving several emails, text messages, and phone calls from my sisters, aunts, and cousins asking if I'd peed yet and offering words of encouragement such as "just freakin pee already you fool!" At this point I decided it would be far more humiliating to return home to their jeers than allow some strange woman to witness me urinate and I set a plan in motion. While the $2,000 Princeton Review MCAT course may not have gotten me a perfect MCAT score, it had efficiently drilled kidney physiology into my brain. Remembering that caffeine was an inhibitor of aldosterone, the enzyme whose action leads to water-retention among other things, I headed to the drug store to pick up some caffeine pills. I also decided it wouldn't hurt to purchase some diuretic pills while I was at it. My new purchases in hand, I headed home to spend the weekend agonizing over how this just had to work.

I awoke bright and early Monday morning and washed down a breakfast of 2 caffeine and 2 diuretic pills with a large glass of water. I then grabbed a 1.5 liter bottle of water and hopped on the train. Before entering the health center I stopped at the nearest food joint and purchased a large coke, because though my bladder was painfully full, I knew I needed all the help I could get. I would even have considered adding alcohol to the equation, had I not been afraid they'd be testing for that as well. When I checked-in at the desk the receptionist greeted me with "aren't you that girl who can't pee?" Jesus, was everyone talking about this?! When I told her that I was indeed that girl who can't pee, she asked what I was doing there. "I thought you couldn't do it?" "Well, It seems I have no choice," I responded, "I have to try one last time." So I sipped on my coke and waited until my name was called. I followed the nurse down the familiar path to the lady's room and squatted over the toilet. Several seconds passed. Then a minute. "Are you gonna go?" She asked. "Yeah...I hope. I just need a minute." That minute passed and still there was nothing. I shifted, closed my eyes and concentrated on the excruciating pain and how soon it would be over if I could just relax. And then, suddenly, the flood gates opened. I filled the cup far higher than they had asked me to, handed it to the nurse and asked that she allow me to finish. That was the longest, most relieving urination of my life! I proudly strutted out of the building and promptly sent out a mass text message to every member of my family, "Success."

Never Forget

When I was sixteen I watched the morning news each day for one reason and one reason only: to hear the weather report so that I could choose an appropriate outfit for the day. Not that I was particularly fashionable. I simply needed to know if it would be a jeans and t-shirt or jeans and sweatshirt sort of day. I didn't actually watch the news, so much as leave it on in the background as I wandered around the house and readied myself. The 5 day forecast was broadcast about every 15 minutes so I'd be sure to return to the room at the appropriate intervals to catch the day's temperature highs and lows. On particularly busy news days some of these abundant, repetitive weather reports were cut, in extreme cases they were all ignored completely. This angered me. So imagine my rage when one fall morning absolutely no mention of the days weather conditions was made whatsoever. Each time I entered the room to check the television all that appeared on screen were images of a smoke-filled sky accompanied by the utterly confused, appalled, devastated commentary of the newscasters, which I couldn't be bothered to listen to. "What the hell!!!" I bitched at the screen. "So a building is on fire somewhere, I don't care. Just tell me if its gonna be hot or cold!" I sat on the floor and stared at the screen in anger. "Just because some sort of "disaster" is going on doesn't mean we all have to stop our lives. We still need to know the weather forecast!" But the smoky footage continued, ignoring my demands. Angry and tardy, I finally just picked out some clothes and scuffed out of the house. When I arrived at school that day the classes and halls were ablaze with chatter. Were they all pissed about the lack of weather reports also? But I soon learned what was really going on. It turns out the newscasters had refused to tell me the day's temperature because they were covering the World Trade Center attacks. All of our scheduled lessons were canceled and instead we watched the news coverage in all my classes, which was on every channel. Apparently this disaster was cause for the halting of our regular daily activities. As he explained the magnitude of what we were bearing witness to, my U.S. History teacher said something that will forever stay with me; "Your parents and grandparents all remember exactly what they were doing when they found out that JFK had been shot. Future generations are going to ask you 'what were you doing when you found out about the September 11 attacks?'" All I could think of was how I would have to tell them that I was a self-centered teenager who was pissed because this massive attack and murder of thousands of people had forced me to miss the weather report. I may not remember what I wore that day or if it was appropriate for the weather conditions, but I will never forget what a total asshole I felt like when I learned the cause of my petty anger.