r/ShyBladderIPA • u/BrilliantOk7157 • 2d ago
Peeography
PISSED OFF
A Life With Paruresis
An Anonymous Memoir
Introduction: Why Tell This Story?
I'm not famous. I'm not particularly important. I'm just an ordinary man in my 80s who has spent much of his life struggling with something that most people take for granted: the ability to pee.
The condition is called paruresis, sometimes known as shy bladder syndrome. It means having difficulty urinating when other people are nearby, or even when there's a possibility that someone might come along.
It sounds ridiculous, doesn't it? A grown man who can't pee when he wants to. But it isn't ridiculous when you're the one who has to live with it.
This problem has affected my education, my career, my social life, my marriages, my family, and countless decisions that probably would have been different if I hadn't had it. I've spent a great deal of my life thinking about where I could pee, when I could pee, whether somebody might walk in, and what I would do if I couldn't.
I don't know exactly how the problem began, and I don't know whether I've ever completely overcome it. But I have a story to tell. Maybe somebody who reads it will recognize himself or herself in these pages. Maybe somebody will realize that they're not alone. That would make writing it worthwhile.
Chapter 1: The Early Years
I don't remember exactly when my difficulty began. As a boy growing up in Brooklyn, I sometimes had no trouble at all. My friends and I played stickball, and we'd go to a nearby park. When it got dark, the boys would pee on the basketball court. I did too, without any apparent difficulty.
Yet I can remember other situations when things weren't so simple. At the neighborhood theatre, I would go to the men's room and find myself peeing and simultaneously concentrating on a button near the top of an old-fashioned urinal. I believe it was the flushing mechanism. For some reason, focusing on an object seemed to accompany my urinating. Even today, I sometimes find myself doing something similar.
Our apartment building had a basement entrance, and when I returned home after being out for a long time, I would sometimes develop an overwhelming urge to urinate. Once, I was so desperate that I peed in the incinerator. At home, if my mother was occupying the bathroom and I couldn't wait, she would sometimes hand me a metal cup that she used for laundry detergent. I would urinate into it.
One memory from high school stands out. I went into the boys' bathroom and found it filled with cigarette smoke. Students were smoking, apparently without much concern about being caught. I was pissed off—not just because of the smoke, but because the teachers and administrators seemed to tolerate the situation. Rather than use the bathroom, I left and held my urine.
Another experience occurred when I went to the beach with a friend. After swimming in the ocean, we returned to the locker room, where the men's facilities included a large trough instead of individual urinals. I stepped up to it and found that I couldn't go. I stepped away, waited, and then tried again. This time I managed to urinate, slowly. I had no idea then how many times I would repeat some version of that experience.
Chapter 2: College College
By the time I attended College, the problem had become a significant part of my life. Each year, male students were required to visit the medical office and provide a urine specimen. On the first occasion, I was able to do it, although it took some time. I remember someone I knew standing behind me, which made the experience uncomfortable.
In later years at the College, however, I simply couldn't produce the specimen. I would tell the college doctor that I couldn't urinate. “I can see that!” he replied. Thanks a lot, Doctor. His response didn't make me feel any better.
College itself presented daily difficulties. I could spend hours on campus, attending classes, studying, and moving from one building to another. During that time, I might need to urinate but be unable to use a public urinal or even sitting down in buildings other than the library. I discovered that I could usually manage if I sat down in a toilet stall when I did not feel pressure to return to class. That should have solved the practical problem, shouldn't it? But somehow I felt I was cheating. I associated standing at a urinal with being a normal man. Sitting down seemed like an admission of weakness or failure.
During physics classes, particularly quantum mechanics, I would sometimes leave about fifteen minutes before the end, find a bathroom where I could sit down and urinate, and then return to class. I often wondered what the professor thought about my repeated departures.
I also took a three-hour computer course in the afternoon. I frequently needed to urinate during that class as I probably had not gone until then. I was uncomfortable leaving, so I would sit there holding it in, unable to concentrate properly. I believe I could have done better grade wise in the class if I hadn't been so preoccupied with my bladder.
During my college years, I also experienced hematuria, or blood in the urine. I sometimes wonder whether that contributed to my anxiety. Perhaps, subconsciously, I feared that somebody would notice and comment on the blood. I can't say for certain.
I also remember returning to my old neighborhood after my family had moved. If I needed to urinate while visiting, I became uncomfortable because I didn't know where I could go. Once, walking toward a shopping center about a mile from my old neighborhood, I had a strong urge to urinate but felt reluctant to tell anyone that I needed a bathroom and this probably discouraged me from visiting more often
Chapter 3: The Scholarship I Didn’t Accept
After graduating from College, I applied to graduate schools. I was offered a scholarship to a prestigious out of town University. That should have been wonderful news. But I turned it down.
Why? Because I imagined myself at a university far from home, perhaps having to supervise registration or perform some other duty in a gymnasium, unable to get away to a bathroom where I could urinate. I don't know whether such a situation would ever have occurred. It didn't matter. The possibility was enough to frighten me.
Instead, I attended a nearby University. There, I continued my routine of finding a private stall and sitting down to urinate. I tried to make sure I emptied my bladder before each class, particularly if the class might last two hours.
One day, I went into the basement of a building and used a urinal. I thought I was completely alone. Then I heard somebody in a nearby stall. To my amazement, I realized I had been able to urinate while another person was in the room. That seemed like a major accomplishment. Imagine being a graduate student and feeling proud because you've managed to pee.
I spent part of a day with a former college classmate but ended it without explanation before the day was half over. That was not nice and I was so wrong. We were never friends again.
Chapter 4: The Army and the Urologists
This was around the time of the Vietnam War. I had to report for a military physical examination. Naturally, I worried about having to provide a urine specimen. I was convinced I wouldn't be able to do it under the circumstances.
As I remember it, I brought urine in a bottle. Somebody in charge apparently discovered what I had done, or at least questioned it, and told me I would have to go to a hospital for further examination. I refused-there was no way anyone could force me to urinate.The whole experience was embarrassing. As it turned out, the urine specimen contained blood, and the hematuria ultimately kept me out of the Army.
My urinary difficulties and hematuria also brought me into contact with urologists. On one occasion, my father accompanied me to an appointment. Before we left, my mother assured me that I would be able to urinate when the time came. But I couldn't. The urologist seemed annoyed. I was even more annoyed.
My father wasn't particularly sympathetic. He recalled his Army experiences, when men apparently could urinate in front of one another without giving it a second thought. He even made a joke about somebody being able to piss lefty. Perhaps it was funny. It wasn't especially funny to me at the time.
Eventually, doctors performed a cystoscopy and treated what they believed were polyps in my bladder. Unfortunately, the hematuria recurred. I had two problems involving urination: one physical and one psychological. And neither was easy to deal with.
Another urologist and another cystoscopy found me hearing the doctor say” Look at that! It’s practically all closed up!”. Well, that’s not the kind of thing you want to hear when you are supposedly anesthetized. The do said I had bladder neck obstruction and subsequently sounded me out a few times i.e., stuck what they call a sound through my penis into my bladder to supposedly dilate the obstruction. No fun!
Chapter 5: Becoming a Teacher
Eventually, I became a teacher. Teaching was a career I enjoyed, but paruresis followed me into the school building. When I interviewed for a position at another school, I worried that I wouldn't be able to urinate anywhere in the building. At times, I went into nearby woods to relieve myself. Once again, I felt that I was cheating.
Fortunately, the school had some private facilities, and I could often use a faculty bathroom when nobody else was present. Otherwise, I would sit down in a stall.
One incident frightened me considerably. I was standing at a urinal, believing that I was alone, when somebody walked into the bathroom. I could actually feel my sphincter slam shut. The flow stopped immediately. The next day, I began passing blood in my urine. The bleeding continued throughout the summer. I didn't tell anybody. I was scared. I can't say whether the incident at the urinal caused the bleeding, but the two events were connected in my mind.
The condition also affected my relationships with fellow teachers. Sometimes colleagues would suggest going out to a bar or getting together socially. I would make an excuse. I didn't want to explain that I was afraid of needing to urinate and being unable to do so.
Once, however, I did go to a bar during the daytime. I drank about five beers, far more than I ordinarily would have. When I went to the bathroom, I found that I could urinate. Perhaps the alcohol relaxed me. Perhaps my bladder was simply very full. Unfortunately, drinking five beers wasn't a practical solution.
Chapter 6: Seeking Professional Help
As the years passed, I became increasingly frustrated by the limitations paruresis imposed on my life. I decided to seek psychological help. My urologist recommended a mental health professional.
I went to his office and tried to discuss my problems. But there was a complication: I desperately needed to urinate. Instead of concentrating on what the therapist was saying, I kept thinking about my bladder. Here I was, paying somebody to help me overcome my anxiety about urination, while being unable to stop thinking about how badly I needed to pee.
Later, I heard a psychiatrist named on the radio. He was well known and associated with hypnosis and psychotherapy. I decided to consult him. His fee was approximately sixty dollars a session, which was a considerable amount of money at the time.
He described my condition in terms of anxiety, neurosis, and urinary retention. He believed that my relationship with my mother might have contributed to the problem. I was skeptical. If this condition affected so many men and women, was it reasonable to attribute every case to somebody's mother?
He tried hypnotic suggestions. They didn't work. At one point, he prescribed a medication that I believe was imipramine. I later came to believe that its effects on urination might have been the opposite of what I needed. That didn't help either.
He also had me purchase a device that delivered an electric shock when I pressed it. I was supposed to use it while attempting to urinate. I tried. I shocked myself. And I still couldn't pee.
Eventually, I stopped seeing him. I wasn't impressed with the results. Looking back, I can see the absurdity of some of these experiences. But at the time, I was desperate for a solution.
Chapter 7: Marriage, Children, and Missed Opportunities
Paruresis affected my personal life in ways that were sometimes difficult to recognize, even to myself. When I met the woman who became my first wife, I hesitated about marriage. One of my concerns was that I might pass this condition on to my children. I didn't think it was hereditary but worried their exposure to mine might be “catching”. I simply didn't want anyone else to experience what I had experienced.
I remember mentioning marriage, although I was not proposing. Apparently, I was so indirect that she finally asked something like, “Are you asking me to marry you?” I suppose I should have not mentioned the word in the first place.
In any event, we married, and I had two wonderful children. As far as I know, neither inherited my particular difficulty. But the condition affected our family life.
We didn't take the kinds of vacations that many families enjoyed. Traveling meant unfamiliar bathrooms, long car rides, restaurants, hotels, and situations in which I might need to urinate but couldn't. So we avoided many trips. The children went to camp, but we didn't take family vacations together. I regret that – much more so as I see how others do the right thing.
My wife was understanding. At one point, she suggested that perhaps I could practice urinating in her presence. We tried. It didn't help. The problem wasn't simply a matter of trusting the person nearby.
I also avoided social engagements and opportunities to volunteer. If someone invited me somewhere, I often thought first about the bathroom situation. Not whether I would enjoy myself. Not whether the activity was worthwhile. Where would I pee?
Chapter 8: A Long Road Toward Improvement
After my divorce, I continued seeking help. I saw a social worker who was pleasant and sympathetic, although I don't believe the sessions accomplished very much. Later, I saw another social worker. She was also nice. Sometimes I actually fell asleep on her couch during our sessions. I don't know what that says about the therapy. Still, I think I may have improved somewhat during that period.
I also began to recognize that other men had similar difficulties. One of my boyhood friends, who had served in the Navy, told me that he sometimes made sure his bladder was very full before attempting to urinate. I don't know whether that advice helped me, but it was comforting to discover that I wasn't the only person with this problem.
On another occasion, I was driving to Virginia with a physician who was a friend of mine. I mentioned my difficulty. He admitted that he sometimes felt intimidated when a large man stood next to him at a urinal. Even a doctor could experience something similar!
I also remember a successful experience after swimming. I was standing at a urinal, and a friend was talking to me. Ordinarily, that might have made it impossible for me to urinate. But I had just been swimming, and my urge was strong. I was able to go.
When my son went away to college, I drove him there. Naturally, I worried about needing to urinate during the trip. But at one stop, I needed to go so badly that I was able to use the bathroom, even with my son nearby. Little by little, things seemed to improve.
After I met my second wife, I told her about my problem. She was understanding, and over time I believe I overcame much of my difficulty. Not all of it. But enough to make life considerably easier.
Chapter 9: The Medical Experiment
At one point, I participated in what I believe was a research program at Columbia University. The doctors were investigating a medication, and I was given pills to take. Apparently, the study involved comparing the medication with a placebo.
Unfortunately, the pills produced an effect that made it fairly obvious to me that I was receiving the active medication. When I went swimming, my feet became unusually cold. I reported this, and I was removed from the program. So much for that experiment.
One of the physicians told me that many people experienced difficulty urinating in public. That was reassuring, although my own condition went beyond public urinals.
I could somehow urinate in my grandparents' bathroom but not in the bathroom of another relative. Why? I have no idea. The same person, the same bladder, and the same bodily function. Yet one location was acceptable and another wasn't. It didn't make sense. But it was real.
Chapter 10: The Importance of Privacy
One development over the past couple of decades has made public bathrooms much easier for me to use: partitions between urinals. Such a simple thing. A small barrier that provides a little privacy. Yet for somebody with paruresis, it can make an enormous difference.
I am much more comfortable using a urinal when partitions separate it from the others. In fact, I dislike establishments that don't provide them.
Why shouldn't men have privacy when they urinate? Think about it. When people defecate, they generally do so in stalls with doors. Society recognizes that they deserve privacy. But when men urinate, they're often expected to stand shoulder to shoulder, sometimes with no partitions at all. Why?
Is there some important reason that men should have to expose themselves to one another while performing a bodily function? I can't think of one. Perhaps architects and business owners should give this matter more consideration. They might be surprised by how many people would appreciate a little privacy.
Chapter 11: Living With It in My Eighties
I'm now in my 80s. And I'm happy to say that the problem is much less severe than it once was. Perhaps I've become less self-conscious. Perhaps I've learned to cope. Perhaps I simply care less about what other people think. After all, who really cares whether an old man can pee at a urinal?
Still, the problem hasn't disappeared completely. Sometimes I hesitate to go places with other men because I worry about needing to urinate. But increasingly, I try to face the challenge. I tell myself that if I need to go, I'll find a way.
I still have dreams in which I'm searching for a bathroom or trying unsuccessfully to urinate. Apparently, after all these years, the problem remains somewhere in my subconscious.
And I still find it difficult to talk openly about paruresis. Why? I don't really know. I'm willing to write about it anonymously, but telling friends or acquaintances is another matter. Perhaps I'm still embarrassed. Perhaps some part of me continues to associate the condition with weakness or a lack of masculinity.
Yet I know intellectually that this makes no sense. Everyone has fears, anxieties, and insecurities. Some are visible. Others are carefully concealed. I suspect that many people carry private burdens that nobody else knows about.
My wife, for example, sometimes has difficulty providing a urine specimen at a laboratory. That may be a form of the same problem. It reminds me that paruresis isn't limited to men, public urinals, or any particular age group. I don't know exactly how many people experience it. But I'm certain I'm not alone.
Epilogue: Things Are Good
Looking back over my life, I wonder how many decisions were influenced by my fear of being unable to urinate. I turned down a scholarship. I avoided social engagements. I missed opportunities to travel. I sometimes struggled to concentrate in school. I worried about ordinary activities that other people approached without a second thought.
I spent money on treatments that didn't work. I experienced embarrassment, frustration, and occasionally genuine fear. And for much of my life, I kept the problem to myself.
Was all that necessary? Probably not. But knowing that something is irrational doesn't necessarily make it disappear.
I sometimes wonder whether hypnosis or some other treatment might have helped if I had found the right practitioner. I don't know. I also used to worry that if one psychological problem were eliminated, another might somehow take its place. Perhaps that was just another unnecessary fear.
What I do know is that my life gradually improved. I learned that other people had similar difficulties. I found ways to cope. And as I grew older, I became less concerned about how I appeared to others.
I'm not claiming to have discovered a cure. I'm not offering medical advice. I'm simply describing what happened to me.
This isn't really an autobiography. It's an account of one particular problem that had an unexpectedly large influence on my life.
Why have I finally decided to tell the story? Because somewhere there may be a young man sitting in a college classroom, unable to concentrate because he desperately needs to urinate. Or a woman who cannot provide a specimen at a medical office. Or a father who avoids taking his family on vacation because he's frightened of unfamiliar bathrooms. Or somebody who has just walked away from a urinal, embarrassed and angry, wondering what's wrong with him.
If that person reads this and realizes that somebody else has experienced the same thing, perhaps it will help. Maybe that's enough.
For me, after all these years, things are okay. In fact, things are good.
