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vacation constipationYou know what is as unlikely as finding alligators in the sewer? Me, pooping on vacation.

I have written about my f#%ked up childhood. I have had no problems discussing my issues with anxiety and depression. I made a decision while writing this blog that I am who I am. I would not contribute to treating mental illness as something that is shameful.

Writing about my struggles has made me a stronger person. I have gone from forming an uneasy truce with myself to actually digging who I am. Mostly. Fine, not always, but still, I am always moving forward and the journey is amazing.

If you’ve noticed, what I don’t talk about is sex or, god forbid, pooping.

I am uptight when it comes to bodily functions. I mean, I would rather have all my fingernails fall off than discuss pooping. I would rather Randy lose his left nut rather than talk about pooping. That’s not much of a sacrifice though, because I don’t think he still needs both of them. I don’t know. He might disagree.

I was so f#%king anxious over pooping, that when Randy and I first moved in together, I would get up in the middle of the night to poop. I at least gave that practice up. You just can’t sustain that one for long. I think I made it about 6 months.

So, what I am doing? I am slaying my poop monster. Which sounds really unsanitary. 

Randy and I have been together for decades now. I am still uptight about most bodily functions around him. Except nose blowing. I’m cool with nose blowing. I had my deviated septum fixed about 10 years ago and now, when I blow my nose, it sounds like a party streamer. The sound makes Randy laugh.

But I digress.

So, I have dealt with anxiety for years which contributes to near constant IBS. I never have a problem with not pooping. Unless, we’re on vacation. I’m pretty sure my bowels know when we’ve crossed a few state lines and they say Yay! We’re on vacation, too! We don’t have to work at all for at least a week! Then, they seize up and close shop.

When the trip is over and we are within shouting distance of home, they start back up with a vengeance and work over time for a few days.

It occurred to me while on vacation, that I have never spoken the actual words “I have to poop” to Randy even once.

I just tell him in code. For instance:

“My lower back hurts.” = “I have to poop.”

“My stomach hurts.” = “I have to poop.”

“No, I don’t want to go anywhere else. I want to go home.” = “I have to poop.”

“I have to pee.” = “I have to poop.” I mean, not always. A lot of the time I really just have to pee. 

“I’ll be back in a minute.” = “I have to poop.”

“FOR ALL THAT IS HOLY I DON’T CARE IF YOU HAVE TO RUN THE LIGHTS. GET ME HOME!” = “I have to poop now.”

Randy, who is in no way delicate, has always been kind about my weird poop hang up. He doesn’t tease me about it and we tease each other about everything. He has even adopted my habit of referring to diarrhea as “severe intestinal distress”.

I will be 53 years old in a few months. 53 goddamn years old. And I am still weirdly uptight about defecating? That’s dumb.

Did any of you get the book Everybody Poops for your kids? I need a version of that book for adults. Or, maybe a Talking About Poop For Dummies book.

I’ve decided that I’ve grown up enough to stop worrying about the fact that my digestive system works the same as every other human’s digestive system.

To Randy, my darling husband and light of my life. I hate to break this to you, but I poop. 

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