No Relief
I have stood with you, terrorized, paralyzed, when you were two and five and seven, outside of restrooms in airports, park buildings, shopping centers, churches, theaters, zoos—heck, in our own house with its persnickety plumbing. Nothing scares you as much as an automatic flush toilet, although those high-powered dryers you slip your hands into come close. Even the industrial black toilet seats and metal handles wet with condensation hold for you the possibility of obliteration.
I remember taking you and your friend Sefirah to a farm at a state park. Outside the bathrooms were large circular hand-washing fountains extending into the hallway; to get to and from the barn with its cows, chickens, sheep and the goats you were desperate to see we had to walk past the bathrooms. You couldn’t. You stood, stuck, weeping with frustration. A brief dash and you would’ve made it. My voice sharpened. Sefirah waited patiently; she has younger brothers.
When you were much too old for it I hid you behind potted plants in airports, hoisted down your pants, wrapped on a diaper, and watched tension drain from your face. On a kindergarten field trip, I peeled off your clothes in a bank of lilac bushes near Minnehaha Falls. At the Pride Parade you refused even to enter a building and so we traipsed back to the car where your trainer potty for some reason was in the hatchback. You relieved yourself on the tiny plastic seat in the middle of crowded downtown Minneapolis.
Once at the co-op you had to pee so badly you finally braved the bathroom. You perched on the toilet, feet dangling, hands clutching the seat, and pleaded with me, “Don’t flush don’t flush don’t flush.”
“Please trust me,” I said. “I won’t flush until you’re outside.” Then I stepped backward into the sensor of the automatic hand dryer. This is motherhood: Constant missteps triggering your worst nightmare. No wonder you don’t trust me. The world is boobytrapped and I’m a clumsy navigator.
Was your arrival accompanied by an unwelcome rush of sound? Did the birth channel flush you from comfort to terror, from your birth mother’s warmth into the bitter air of my arms? Do you remember what I’ve forgotten, that an explosive instant can devastate everything we’ve known? I don’t believe in original sin, I’ve always claimed instead to believe in original blessing, but this is neither, this is primal fear. Yes, you can be extinguished. It’s true. You knew this first thing and bathrooms will forever remind you. I want to weep at your awareness, and for these bodies we helplessly stumble around in.
I can’t help you. Last month you asked, with a sad, baffled laugh, “Why do I plug my ears in the school bathroom? It’s not even automatic.” You won’t outgrow this terror; you’ll hide it, as we all do, until you’re faced with real threat. For now you can run, you can freeze, or you can look that beady red sensor light in the eye. Take off your shirt. Drape it over the invisible beam. On the other side of acceptance and agency there’s relief.
Cover photo by Jas Min on Unsplash
About the Author
Elizabeth Jarrett Andrew is the author of Swinging on the Garden Gate: A Memoir of Bisexuality and Spirit, and two books on writing: Living Revision and Writing the Sacred Journey. You can find her at www.elizabethjarrettandrew.com and The Eye of the Heart Center, where she hosts an online writing community.
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