It is fair to say that the posts I write are often of a grim nature. I try to minimise the word count to around 500, which means readers only get the opportunity to know a side that probably portrays a rather depressing character, but nothing could be further from the truth… on my good days, anyway.
From the age of eighteen until my first breakdown in 2000, I regularly worked as a part-time Barman in small local pubs, which felt more like an ego trip, as the largely male customer groups are looking for outgoing and witty interaction, I was always happy to oblige. I liken bar work to stepping on stage, a perfect opportunity to exert the persona I worked hard to portray and heaven forbid anyone would catch a glimpse of what lay beneath the joviality.
I do love to be friendly, but if the face is on the floor, it’s hard to crack a smile. Sometimes, living with depression seldom gives us much to laugh about, but I’ve always tried to find humour in myself, an episode happened this morning at the ungodly hour of 3am.
As I slowly wake from a deep sleep, I am lying on the left side and wonder why my hip feels so cold. A quick investigation uncovers that shorts and sheets are not cold, they are actually mysteriously wet, ‘Wet? I think, ‘Wet?… Shit… Wet, I’ve pissed the bloody bed’.
I am out of bed like a ninja, but Jack sleeps beside me, and he’s not too pleased. The light goes on and sure enough, there it is, that tell-tale patch we were all familiar with in childhood. My brain cannot quite commute, ‘Is this really pee… really?’ only the dreaded sniff test would tell… ‘yup, it sure is pee!’
“Shit shit shit,” I’m shouting, as though Jack understands, “Quick, quick, off the bed… It’s about to seep through onto the new mattress.” I grab hold of the bottom sheet with both hands, “OFF” I shout again, but he’s not a morning-doggy and looks at me as though I’ve just grown horns.
The little fellow barely has time to think. I barely have time to think as I whip those sheets off, like a magician doing one of those table cover tricks, the one where he whips the cover off and the crockery stays put, unfortunately, staying put is not Jack’s demise as he launches through the air, summersaulting like an acrobat.
It was not until this morning, at a godlier hour, I realise the very sad significance of my adult bed-wetting. The last time I periodically wet the bed was from the ages of 5 to 9 years old, when the trauma was at its worst. Here I am, visiting it all over again in therapy and now I pee the bed. They say therapy unlocks things in our unconscious.
Let us hope Cat holds tight tonight. The bedding is washed and there’s a triple mattress protector just in case. I might even wrap a towel round me like a giant nappy! Anything, but one of those geriatric rubber sheets that makes you feel like you’re sleeping on a giant condom.