I know what abuse is like, as well as how bed wetting is related to that torment. It is my personal experience and I have formed this opinion from what I have lived. I believe that any type of abuse can cause one to urinate in his bed, but I think it is associated more with sexual and/or physical abuse, at least for me. This consequence of abuse has been related to other outcomes such as panic attacks, fear of the dark, and phobias. My bed wetting was also my reaction to fear itself and I hated it.
To begin with, before the age of three, I recall nothing that I am aware of. When I was about four to ten or so years old, I slept in a double size bed with two older sisters and our brother slept in his own bed on the other side of the small bedroom in our house. My parent’s bedroom was adjacent to ours, and a bathroom was on the other side. So if our parents needed to use that bathroom, they had to walk through the bedroom, past my bed, to get there.
Also, we slept in the dark, not even a small light was on. So if my parent was sneaking into the bathroom, it would distract me and I would hear someone, but never saw anyone so it was scary. Was there more memory that I have forgotten and/or blocked ? This is where my memories began in my life, after three years old, in this dark room, in this bed, lying in my wet urine feeling very scared and icky.
Unfortunately, I was extremely fearful of the dark up until I was in my thirties, and I still fear some dark places really. I feel safe on my own land after dark, but I get spooked easily if my dog acts like someone is in that blackness. I think that I have developed a healthier fear of the dark, rather than the old, anxiety filled, panicky way I used to feel. I think that this fear of the dark came from sleeping in that bedroom, in the dark, when I was young. I have been forced into the nights of darkness and I have also been conditioned to feel fear when I see the black night.
Likewise, I had night terrors as a young child. I would go to bed, the lights would go out, and if I did not immediately fall asleep, I would be left as the only one awake in the two adjoining bedrooms. This enabled me to hear sounds in the dark in which I reacted to with bed wetting. The night darkness was so scary for me. When I did become valiant, I would open my eyes and find that I saw images of what I surmised was Satan himself.
In fact, the devil had been planted in my consciousness during all the visits to church, the family Bible readings, and warnings to be a “good” girl or I would burn in an eternal hell of fire. I believed that I had died once when my eyes were shut tight and my head was spinning. Panic engulfed me as I laid stiff as a board, heart beating so fast, watching the terrible visions in my mind’s eye! As I came out of it, I sometimes realized that I had wet myself and I was too afraid to move so I finally went to sleep there is my wet clothes and bed.
Next, what a distress religion came to be for me. I think that the ways in which the Bible principles were carried out in my home were fanatical and abusive according to my standards today. My opinion of myself matters more to me now than anyone’s opinion of me today and I have choices I can make for myself these days. I do not need to rerun all that fear in my mind.
In addition, I had terrifying dreams I relate to abuse and bed wetting. I would have nightmares about a duck coming to get me. I assume that my mind as a child found this to be symbolic for the worst of my fears. This mean duck would come to the screen door of a house I was in and peck on the screen, over and over. I was standing inside watching with fear, screaming as the huge bird pecked small holes in the screen, then larger and larger rips and tears. Finally, the duck poked his head inside the room and was frantically trying to peck me. Then I would always wake up right before the beak touched me. I think the duck may have been representative of my abuser who hunted me down during the day. My bed would be wet and sometimes I would be so wet I yelled to wake my mom up and ask her if I could go into the bed with her and my dad. I was permitted sometimes, but not always. I felt safer in the middle of my parents in their bed that was my birthplace.
Keep in mind that I was a child born in the late fifties, so everyone and everything was certainly different then. The abuse, such as beating with a belt, switch, leather strap, hand, or whatever else, was not considered any more than good ‘ole discipline called punishment that little bodies and minds deserved! So I have had my share of beatings, slaps, swats, and the like. My hands got slapped with the weapon of whipping, usually a belt. My hands automatically went to my butt every swing that was coming, so that is why my hands were harmed. My child legs had belt marks all over them, as did some of my lower back. H mm…it is very interesting to mention the fact that I have had arthritis in my lower back and hands and my legs have neuropathy. The energy of those beatings I internalized into somatic complaints.
If one was not a baby, bed wetting (called enuresis) was looked down upon, a shaming event. The parents were embarrassed when their child wet the bed, especially if the kid was beyond potty training age. It was somewhat of a stigma the same way in which tattoos were viewed. Let me tell ya that only bikers, thugs, druggies, and trouble makers were the stereotypical tattooed man. The person was usually male as it was unheard of for a woman to have a tattoo. I was shamed every time I wet the bed. I could not help myself. I do not recall how long or how often I let my urine flow, but I do remember how it felt to pee and just not move out of the wetness.
I have wondered for a while now how my wet bed correlated to my other abuses. I connected the dots to form quite the image that was real for me all those years ago. I was whipped with those spanking tools, like a belt, for example, and I felt so shamed and humiliated having bruises up and down my little girl legs and lower back. My soft, sensitive, child skin would end up getting really stung and it hurt so bad. I could never just take it either, I had to wiggle about with my pain and be the great rebel that I was. The energy of the anger I felt was stuffed inside of me for years to come, but little did I even have a clue about anything called abuse.
As a direct result of having been violated sexually on a regular basis by my older brother, my body turned against me, shutting me out from the pain and betrayal I was going through. I grew numb to all the violations that were perpetrated upon me as a little girl. My only outlet for this secret of incest was the night and all of the terrors I feared. I am not sure to this day who else abused me, but I do know it was not only my brother. He wet the bed into his teen years, and he rocked left to right at night to be able to put himself to sleep. I often wonder what happened for him to have those behaviors and know what to do with me sexually. He stole from me what could have been very positive first sexual experiences. Were his stolen from him as well? Was his bed wetting correlated to the beatings that he endured at the hands of my father? Since he is dead, I will never know.