It all came back to me one random day. I was driving home one afternoon after a night of drinking with this dude that I thought was the hottest guy on the planet.
Really he was just a douche bag wrapped up in Mark Wahlberg from a planet called Portsmouth. That night had to be one of the weirdest nights ever. Honestly, all I can really remember was walking around half naked in beach city saying hi to every stranger who passed while he walked close by yelling at people who passed by in his strong Portsmouth accent, “Ya aint evah seen a half naked gurl before?”
Cute, right. Really I was just hot. Literally, boiling out of my clothes for some reason and by the end of the night I was sitting in his dining area which was also his living room incredibly hungry and all he had to offer me was a hot dog.
He rambled on and on about something I cannot remember. He was the kind of guy who demanded respect as if he was the poster child for good manners. So I am sitting there trying for the life of me to listen to whatever is coming out of his mouth and I apparently doze off with a hot dog in my mouth.
The next morning he was quite pissed off that I was sooo childish that I fell asleep with a hotdog in my mouth. Meh. He had a way of making me feel so disrespectful and stupid even though he made it out like he was trying to help me be a better person.
On my way home I was overcome by a wave of something that was akin to nostalgia but for something that I don’t recall. Like I had forgotten part of my past, another life, something was there but was also not there. I would get this feeling often and without warning. So on my way home, I grabbed the cup sitting in the console, dumped out it’s contents onto the freeway and barfed in it.
For a moment I felt really proud. Proud that I seriously managed to make almost all of it except for a dribble or two into the cup but in the same instance I also felt like I was close to something. Close to finding the reason for this feeling that finds me without cause at random times in my life, it’s whatever that feeling was that often led me into a deep depression that I had to struggle with for so many years fighting hard to find a way out but only to succumb again and again.
But this day, I remember. I remembered sitting in a hospital bed lined up down a row of other beds filled with children. The wall on my right was glass and it was sunny outside. I had an IV drip in my vein and my dad was sitting near me.
I wondered what I was doing there, of courses. It’s not like you end up in a row of beds in a weird hospital not wondering what you’re doing there plus I was scared. I don’t remember how I got there. It’s just a fragmented memory that I can’t make heads or tails of.
I wanted to go home but my dad insisted that I stay. He said that I needed to stay because he couldn’t understand why I kept pissing the bed. Yes, I was a chronic bed wetter. I used to have really vivid dreams that I got up out of bed and went. I wouldn’t realize I was dreaming, of course, until I felt the warmth of my own piss saturate my bed.
By that time it was too late. I knew I was in a lot of trouble so I used to try and hide. I would throw my pee pee undies behind the washing machine hoping that they would never find out because if they did that meant I was getting another spanking.
I asked my mom about it and she said that I was always making shit up. I could never sit still, shut up or tell the truth, apparently. Still, in my mind. I was always telling the truth EXCEPT for when it came to wetting the bed. The dreams part was the truth. The fact that they couldn’t accept it is the reason I starting lying about it.
Whatever the case, I must have been a serious bed wetter.