Fleeting
Over the course of the previous year, I have now inserted ~200 "Fleet" glycerin suppositories, each containing 2 grams of glycerin, into my rectum, despite being diagnosed with "Irritable Bowel Syndrome with Diarrhea," concerns about rectal bleeding (mild to moderate, and never brought to the attention of my primary care physician or gastroenterologist), painful hemorrhoids, and fear of societal rejection, all the while lamenting the amount of time I spend in the bathroom or "on the toilet" (an amount of time not dissimilarly wasted by certain individuals, children or adults, who could be categorized as "iPad kids" or "iPad adults" who seem to be perpetually attached to their smart devices, often losing hours or at least portions of hours of the day in the bathroom or "on the toilet," waiting for something, a "sign" or a "sign from above," beckoning them to "finish up" and rejoin society) and the risks to my health, risks that cause a form of anxiety, a blood-rushing anxiety, that brandishes thoughts like, "Did I fuck up my sphincter," "Did I fuck up my prostate," and "Is my prostate still functional," which cause me to insert one or two fingers into my rectum, probing my prostate, simultaneously or alternately thinking, "This hurts," or, "This feels good," while at the same time craving a sort of "emptiness" that follows a deep emptying of the bowel, an emptiness that allows for high levels of sexual arousal and desire for intimacy, a shameful desire tied to a somewhat taboo "addiction" or "problem" or "preoccupation" with one's bowel movements, a problem that might reach levels you only hear about on TLC's original documentary television series "My Strange Addiction," such that I have likened my behaviors to some others' addictions, primarily the couple with an addiction to "coffee enemas" or (though, not entirely related or similar in any way) the individual who is portrayed as being in a relationship with his red 1998 Chevy Monte Carlo named Chase, and while I would never be intimate with a red 1998 Chevy Monte Carlo or any other motor vehicle for that matter, the shame I feel can be likened to that which I imagine is felt by an individual with such a preoccupation whose "secret is out," prompting intense fear of being unfairly judged by members of my community and my husband, who (as of yet), to my knowledge, knows little to nothing about this, and would only find out about this through reading this deeply intimate and (until now) secret confession, which I would equate in intensity to a story I read about in Confessions of a Mask, in which a child secretly dresses himself in his mother's kimonos, and when I think about that story, or any number of other shameful secrets I have read about, I start to think that we are not very dissimilar from each other, as in we each have secrets, even secret secrets, that would bring us to shame or freedom if the truth could be revealed, if we wanted it to be revealed, to strangers on the internet.