Graham first came to me for therapy in September 1999, when
he was thirteen. Once I had gained his trust, I encouraged him to tell his
story. Here is a transcript of his narrative.
Graham gave me permission to share his story with others, because he hopes society will gain a better understanding of accident boys and their needs.
Graham says: "Sometimes I have seen videos of me when I was a little baby. I love seeing those videos; they make me feel real happy, because I feel like I was really loved in those days. Things started going wrong when I started having accidents in my pants, it's like my first accident was a turning point. I felt, after that, that my Mom was starting to hate me. My Dad gradually became an alcoholic, and he left when I was eight and I never saw him or heard from him again, and I believed he had become an alcoholic because he was worried about me and my problems. I loved my Dad heaps and was really upset when he went, so his leaving just made my problems worse.
Here's how it all began.
It started when I was a little kid, just a toddler really, like about three, and I had an accident in bed. I did a poo in my jammies. I didn't mean to do it. I was sitting up in bed looking at a picture book when I just sort of suddenly felt it slipping out. But the funny thing was that it didn't feel bad or yucky, once I felt it starting to come I found that I liked the feeling, I didn't try to hold it back and stop it coming the whole way, it felt comforting and warm and squishy down there under the sheets in my jammies at the back. Without really knowing what I was doing, I sat up more straight in my bed and started rocking backwards and forwards, and it felt real good, moving all around my messy bottom inside my jammies. After a while I got out of bed and changed out of my dirty jammies into clean undies, and I hid the dirty stuff behind my wardrobe. I didn't wipe my bottom, so I must have left big poo marks in the clean undies, but you don't think about things like that when you're only three. I thought Mommy wouldn't find my dirty jammies. WRONG!! You can never hide anything from mommies! She found my dirty things and she was real mad and she shouted at me and rubbed my nose in the poopie. Yeeeow!!! I felt so ashamed and embarrassed. Yet it had felt so good doing it, I loved it so much, I couldn't stop myself doing it. I promised Mommy I wouldn't do it, again and again, but once I felt that pressure in my tummy and knew that I needed to "go", I just couldn't stop myself, things were out of my control. It became like an addiction. This went on, OFTEN (it feels like it was every night, but it's hard to be sure, like memory can play tricks), for months. Mommy became angrier than ever, and the angrier she got, the more I needed the comfort, so the more I pooped and the angrier she got! But eventually the punishment and the shaming had its effect and I stopped, at least for a while.
But a while later Mom started hitting me because of other things. I wasn't really a bad kid, or at least I don't think so, I think she was frustrated about other stuff (especially about my Dad drinking too much.) I was probably four by then. That's when I started wetting the bed. I wanted to see what it felt like. I had often dreamed of having wet accidents in bed (even just the word "accident" got me all excited), and now I gave in and just started doing it. I liked it, it was real comforting, and it felt like I was in a pool. Warm and wet and nice. I was depressed because no matter what I did I was always in trouble. It was like a hopeless situation, I felt I just couldn't do anything right, however hard I tried I wasn't good enough, and I felt unloved, like NO-ONE understood me or loved me or even wanted to know me. That's why I needed to wet the bed. The first time it happened, Mommy thought it was a real accident, and she was okay about it, she said, Maybe it was the sudden change of weather made it happen, she even gave me a small hug (that was rare in those days!) But I went on and on doing it. I would plan my accidents. Before I went to bed, I would go to the toilet, and I would pretend to do a wee and I'd flush, but really I was saving it up for my accident., I just lived for my accidents. Often at that age, because I needed to go so bad in the night, it came out when I was asleep, and I would dream I was having a wee and wake up later and find I really had. Those dreams seemed so realistic; they were lovely warm wet dreams in which I never got into trouble.
I had a bunk bed. My older brother, Bill, slept underneath me. But after a few weeks of my bedwetting he broke his promise to me (why does NO-ONE keep promises when you're a little kid?) and he told Mom that I was doing it on purpose. Mommy got SO MAD, and the hitting began again, but more angry and violent than ever. But I just went on wetting anyway. I thought, "Stuff her!!" I just couldn't care any more. Instead of stopping wetting, I started doing BOTH in bed, EVERY NIGHT. I planned it and prepared for it. At that age I NEVER did poo in the toilet, I always saved it up for jammie-comfort in bed. Often I still wet while I was asleep, but I would make poo in my jammies quite deliberately each morning after I woke up.
I remember when I was about six or seven. I would lie in bed, half-asleep, half-awake, and it was like there were two voices in my head. There was one voice that seemed to say, "Go on, just do it" - that was a happy voice, a loving voice, that knew what I wanted and needed. But there was another voice, like a strict voice, that said "Don't do it, there will be trouble." Sometimes one voice would win, sometimes the other. But if the happy voice won, then I'd do both. I loved just letting it come when I was half asleep. So long as I was listening to both the voices, and wondering if I would do it, I was frightened. But once I'd surrendered, I would feel soothed and cozy, and there was also sometimes the excitement of knowing that I was going to do something really naughty. I loved it so much when I felt it pushing against the inside of my bottom, the pressure becoming greater though there was still some resistance; and then the muscle would suddenly start to give way I would feel it starting to slip out. I was going to do it AGAIN, I was really going to do it, already it was beginning to come, there was no turning back, I was beyond the point of no return. OH BLISSIKINS!! While it was actually slipping out there was the lovely relief of pressure in my tummy. It felt comforting, it was soothing me, helping me feel I was lovable and loved, like all my depression was just slipping out of me. I'd let it out real slow, sometimes it would take two or three minutes to come out, and I would feel all small and helpless and not knowing what to do. At that age I was ALWAYS anxious, like every waking moment there was anxiety, but when I was having my accident the anxiety just slipped away and I felt safe and protected and precious. Only when I was having my accident I felt that God was with me and understood me. I would lie on my side when I was doing it, in like "fetal position", with my knees up towards my chest, and sometimes I had to push a bit, but I liked it best when It just slipped out of its own accord when I relaxed. Then when I had finished, I would roll over, sit up, and rock backwards and forwards. It felt especially yummy when it spread up the back of my pants towards to waistband, and then I felt it slipping back down again, like a big warm happy avalanche in my pants. When I was done, like just about exhausted from all the comfort and pleasure, I'd call out to Mommy, and always in a sort of yawning sleepy voice so that she might think it was an accident that happened in my sleep. "Mom, I've wet the bed, and I think I've done a poo too." She would rush into my room and haul me out of bed and at once start hitting me and shouting at me.
I never had accidents at school, but there were a couple of kids who did, quite often. They got teased a lot. But I never teased them; because I was an accident boy myself it made my like compassionate towards any kids who had problems or were different. In fact I've always wanted to be kind to any kids who for any reason didn't seem to have friends.
Over the years my accidents continued off and on. When I was depressed (which really means, when Mom was tense and angry) accidents would be frequent, but sometimes things were okay at home and then there would be quite long periods when I scarcely had any accidents at all. After my Dad left, when I was eight, I was very upset, and I was having accidents about every second night. It affected my brother Bill, too. For a while he couldn't go to school, he would just lie in bed and not talk and not do anything, he was almost like a vegetable.
Our family was always full of secrets. No-one ever hugged anyone, no-one ever shared anything that was like personal or loving. When I visited friends, like Josh up the road, where people were gentle with each other and just naturally hugged each other lots, I felt so happy. Just one hug from someone who seemed to care about me could make me cry. I longed for ordinary family life. Just to think of the boy I was then makes me want to cry..."
(Graham, who was dictating this, started sobbing at this stage. I sat quietly and allowed him to do all the sobbing he needed to do. After about five minutes he was ready to continue.)
"A year ago, in September last year, when I was twelve, it started happening much more often, because I was REALLY depressed, like big deal this time. I felt hopeless and unloved, my life was just a wreck, not going anywhere. I started smoking but it only made me puke, I tried marihuana but it didn't bring me relief. Only accidents gave me the comfort I needed. They happened just about every night from September until December last year, both ways, front and back. My accidents gave me so much comfort, for just those few minutes in bed I was alive and carefree and happy, like a little kid. I still felt the two voices, but now the answer was always "YES!", I didn't even hesitate. In fact, after a while, the "Don't do it" voice often just wasn't there any more. Each morning, when I was preparing to wet and poo in my bed, I knew I was doing something twelve year old boys don't normally do, and I knew I would be punished and I would be humiliated and made to feel ashamed of myself. But I felt so empty and lost inside that I just didn't care any more. I didn’t care about anything anymore. When my poo was actually slipping out, I felt all helpless and confused, I didn't care any more what anyone thought of me, or what I thought about myself, I didn't care any more about anything or anyone, I'd just given up on life, given up on everything. I couldn't be bothered trying any more. I felt I was letting go of EVERYTHING, and just surrendering to helplessness and mess.
As soon as I was done, of course, I would feel embarrassed and disgusted with myself. I still called out to Mom, and I still got shouted at and hit, I think Mom was getting real exasperated about the whole thing. By this age she made me change and clean up myself, and I hated that.
And yet sometimes I still hoped that if I just went on bring wet and messy like a baby, that somehow I would win back Mommy's love, that somehow it would touch her maternal instincts, I wanted her to just accept me and love me and change me like when I was a little kid in those videos. I wanted to go back to the magic days before everything went wrong. YEAH, REAL LIKELY! In reality Mom just got angrier and angrier as the weeks went by.
In December the accidents suddenly stopped. The shame and embarrassment and the fear (big, big fear) took over. Really, I feel like I died inside, in my heart, at that time. Or maybe it's more like my heart froze over, I got locked into ice. Two months later, in February this year, I ran away from home. But I didn't like living rough, and about a month ago I went home. At first Mommy seemed relieved to have me home, but then I started being wet and dirty in bed again, like I just couldn't help myself. I know then that I couldn't stay at home. I've been sleeping on a park bench since then. I think if I went home now Mom would kill me, that would be her way of stopping my accidents."
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That was the end of Graham's account. But the story has a happy ending. A foster mother was found for Graham who understands boys with special needs, and who just quietly accepted him, accidents and all. Graham's mother, too, has received counseling to help her understand her son, so that he can maintain contact with her, without danger that he will be damaged by her again. Perhaps one day Graham will grow beyond the needs to have accidents. That is what I hope for. But if that doesn't happen, that's okay too. There's no reason why he can't have accidents all his life if he needs to, so long as he can find ways of "containing" his behavior in private places and with trusted friends or carers, so his dignity is preserved. But, either way, he has to feel good about himself. A person who is locked into shame and guilt and fear isn't going anywhere!
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Graham's foster mother was in a different state, so I didn't see him for a long time. But a month or so later I received a letter from him. Here is part of what he wrote:
"Just recently, with my new Mommy's help, I've started to feel differently about my accidents. I don't want to be ashamed and frightened any more. For years my accidents gave me the comfort I really needed, without them I think I would really have cracked up. Accidents are my friend; they have been a safety valve for me. Our school counselor said to me, having accidents is better than doing drugs, and hurting ourselves, and all the other crazy things kids do when they're depressed or in pain, like accidents don't hurt me or anyone else. She told me, too, that I'm not alone; there are heaps of kids like me who have accidents, for lots of different reasons. It's just a bit of extra laundry, and my new Mommy says to me, dirty pants in the laundry hamper are no different to her from a dirty handkerchief!!! I love being wet and messy in my pants and my bed, I love feeling carefree and small and loved, it's like when I wet and poo my pants, the sunshine is coming back into my life and the ice around my heart is melting. I'm an Accident Boy, and I'm proud of it!"