I stopped. I cried. I did it. I pooped my pants. There was no stopping it. It happened. No one must know... and my day had not yet begun. I was convinced that there was no telling anyone. I had to live out that day as if nothing happened. I would be in worse condition if my parents found out I couldn't even control my bowels. What good was a kid that stop herself from shitting? I had already showed them I had issues with my bladder. If the bowels came into the conversation, then all bets were off.
School began. I walked to my room and pretended nothing was wrong. I read. I wrote. In my small class when anyone (and everyone) passed by and said, "Peeyew! What is that smell?", dramatically pinching their noses and waving their hands back and forth in front of their faces, I pinched my nose, waved my hand and said, "I know! Whew! That smells terrible! I don't know what that is. It isn't me."
I don't remember if anyone found me out or exactly how that story ends. Perhaps it was all too much and blocked some of it out. I do know that this was the beginning of my traumatizing issue of shitting myself. It has been repeated after long nights of drinking, subsequently reeking havoc on whoever is reluctantly deemed my caretaker for the night. I has been revisited during horrifying bouts of illness most people call "The Flu", but I call "Contagious Demon Possession". It can only be exercised through one orifice or another.
One night when I had the flu, my husband and I were relaxing on our big L-shaped couch. He on one side and me on the other. I had been couch ridden with my Contagious Demon Possession that day. I lay naked, excepted swaddled in a favorite blanket. I had gas. I farted; or so I thought. I crapped all over myself and that blanket. I was utterly disgusted with myself. I silently gathered my blanket and self and walked past him to the bathroom where I began to clean the blanket and myself. He knew nothing. A few minutes passed and he said, "Does it smell like shit in here?" From the bathroom I said, "Yes." Silence passed for a few moments. I continued my endeavors. He said, "What the hell is that? It really smells like shit." I heaved a sigh, turned to him and replied, "I shit myself.". Pause. "I was laying in the blanket. I had to fart, but I accidentally shit myself.".
Perhaps good will come of this. Maybe when I'm old and inevitably loose all control of my bowels it won't be as embarrassing. Maybe I'll declare, "Oh this is nothing. You should have seen me when I was 25."