A Little Pee Shy

Dating in high school brought up the usual neuroticisms for me: my armpits sweat profusely the moment I saw a crush in the hallway, my vagina had a small seizure when his name lit up my phone screen, even just hearing his name caused an overwhelming mix of panic and awareness of my own sexuality. When we finally, finally began to date (everything my diary and I diligently wished for), I became terrified of peeing when he was around.

It only happened when we were together. I would drink a Diet Coke or two (or three—I used to be addicted and didn’t care about chemicals) and my bladder would freeze with fear. I couldn’t even acknowledge aloud that I had to go, let alone actually do anything about it. I would sit there, beyond uncomfortable, until I went home so he would never ever find out my terrible secret: that I was a human being.

It’s not like I cared when he went to the bathroom. That would be, as a former-therapist-who-later-ghosted-me would say, “irrational.” Yet I was immobile, unable to act on a basic need. Something so inconsequential to most felt insurmountably big. Going to the bathroom meant accepting my body has needs, which means accepting my body as is, which means untangling every piece of denial and self-loathing I had ever had. It was easier to hold it.

Looking back, I think it was a bizarre manifestation of deeply internalized misogyny. My boyfriend actively knowing I was peeing felt intrusive and personal. According to ideals represented in pop culture, along with most mainstream “women’s” magazines, I’m already not supposed to have body hair or digest food, so why should I feel comfortable doing anything else? What if he heard my stream? He’ll know too much! I would rather priority ship myself to the bottom of the ocean, thanks.

It would take me literal hours to summon the courage to stand up and begin the process of walking to the bathroom. I gave myself two UTIs. Two! I didn’t even have the courage to directly ask where the bathroom was, lest he think I might need to use it. One time, I asked what room was behind every door in his basement “for fun.” When he pointed out the bathroom, all I could say was, “Oh, that’s nice,” and continue to hold it in misery. Another time, I was finally in his bathroom and had to call a friend for encouragement and emotional support to let myself pee because I was so nervous.

A lot of my anxiety was based around Murphy’s Law of Urination: anything that can go wrong, will. The toilet will break the second I sit on it. It won’t flush, so I have to fish out the toilet paper, throw it away and pretend that I had never peed at all. Is that what the protocol is? I don’t know! No one has told me what to do. It’s safer to hold it. One time I was at a boyfriend’s house and I had to pee so badly that I lied and said I needed to get something, rode my bike to the nearest pharmacy, used their restroom, bought a pair of socks (because when is buying socks not immediately necessary) and rode back to his house.

My pee-phobia was not confronted until two years later. I was on a double date when I texted the other girl asking if she could ask me to go to the bathroom with her to keep her company while she peed. Shockingly, this was a confusing favor for her. She looked up from her phone and said that she didn’t have to use the bathroom but I should go ahead. I was finally found out. Feeling the heat from my boyfriend’s fifth-degree interrogation of, “Wait, what’s happening right now?” I explained my pee-trepidation for the first time. I tried my best to sound lowkey and chill because that’s all I ever wanted to be. It was during this confession that I knew my fear-based behavior had officially existed for too long. I had to change.

I’m not being dramatic when I say I viewed going to the bathroom as an act of full-force bravery. It required more joie de vivre than I felt I had to offer. It came from a place of self-care and comfort that I couldn’t connect to at all. I felt deep shame about myself. To me, acknowledging I had to pee was the same as acknowledging to my boyfriend that I was a flawed human being, and that felt horrible.

And so my road to recovery began.

In the beginning, it would take an hour to say out loud that I had to go to the bathroom. My inner-courage was summoned by strenuous mental pep talks. Then, it took 45 minutes. Then 30. Eventually, I became comfortable enough to go as long as we were on different floors of the building. Then it became the same floor. Soon the fear was completely gone. I could go when I needed to and not break out into a nervous panic. A minuscule step for mankind but a giant step for me. In whole, this entire process took a year. It’s embarrassing to admit that, but so is everything about this.

I hate that the concept of a guy knowing I occasionally use the bathroom became twisted with unnecessary embarrassment and shame. I’m sure there’s a trauma catalyst somewhere in my adolescence. Maybe it was the time when I didn’t lock the airplane bathroom and a middle-aged man opened the door while I was mid-squat. Maybe it was during dinner at a new family friend’s house when the toilet overflowed so I had to open the door and call for my mom to “please come here right now.” It’s hard to know for sure. I do, however, know this: not all acts of courage look heroically big. There are millions of brave things that seem small on the outside but feel enormous on the inside, like peeing when your crush is next in the bathroom line at a party.

I think that’s worth a small trophy, at least.