Look, there’s no easy way to soften the blow to my ego that this declaration will inflict, so I’m just going to come out with it: I’m a grown ass woman and I wet the bed.
THERE. I SAID IT.
Lest everyone think this is some nightly, Niagara Falls level bullshit, let me be clear: I’ve only done it 3 times in the span of the last year or so, but still. Bed wetting when you’re a 30-something, relatively functional adult without a medical condition to blame it on is problematic. And embarrassing. Don’t forget embarrassing.
Except I’m not really as embarrassed as I probably should be. Which is also concerning in and of itself, but that’s a whole ‘nother issue for my therapist to decode. If I had a therapist. Which I don’t but should seriously consider getting.
I DIGRESS.
The first time it happened, I awoke from a hard, dream-heavy sleep in a panic, my hands flying down to my crotchular region in a half-sweeping, half-patting motion to see if the warm, moist (ew) sensation I thought I was experiencing was reality or some cruel, deep-REM-inspired figment of my imagination. Sadly for me (And my bedding. And my husband who was sleeping in said bedding.), that shit was FUH REAL.
I stumbled my way to the bathroom, still drunk from sleep, and emptied the remaining contents of my bladder into the appropriate receptacle, at which point I realized what had prompted the bed wetting in the first place: I was dreaming I was peeing in the toilet.
I’ve had these dreams my whole life. You know, the ones where you really have to pee, so you make your way to the bathroom, drop trou, and enjoy the euphoria of sweet release, except you’re not really in the bathroom because you’re sleeping so WATCH OUT. They’re similar to the ones where you dream you’ve gotten up and hopped in the shower and gotten dressed and put on your makeup, only to finally awake and discover you have done none of those things and now you’re late for work and everything’s ruined.
You know the dreams I’m talking about, right? Everyone has them. DON’T LIE YOU TOTALLY HAVE THEM AND YOU KNOW IT.
Anyway. I’ve had these dreams my whole life, and I’ve always awoken in time to flounder, foggy-headed, to the actual toilet where actual pee goes, never once having actually pissed myself.
Until that first time.
I was so shocked that instead of trying to quietly clean it up or even pretend it never happened, I shook my husband awake and whisper-shouted, “YOU HAVE TO GET UP BECAUSE I JUST PISSED THE BED.” To which he replied, “Oh, OK.” Like it was no big deal. Like pissing the bed was just a routine Tuesday night.
But it was a big deal to me. A super big deal. Because what grown ass woman wets the bed?
Apparently lots, according to Google. Grown ass men, too. Did you know there are entire forums dedicated to this problem? Like, dozens, if not more.
Naturally, I was certain I was dying. What other explanation could there be? “Do you think I have a brain tumor?” I asked my husband. “It’s got to be a brain tumor, right? Or maybe I have some sort of nerve degeneration thing going on. Or what if … what if when they sewed me back up after my last c-section, they accidentally sewed my bladder to my uterus and now it’s one giant, improperly functioning organ that’s mutated and grown into itself? Huh? It could happen, right?” I continued, finally ending with, “OMG, are we going to have to get rubber sheets? WE’RE GOING TO HAVE TO GET RUBBER SHEETS, AREN’T WE? Goddammit!”
Instead of making an appointment with my practitioner like a normal person, I fell down the Google rabbit hole further, combing through every available forum thread devoted to sleepy time pants pissing, and obsessively attempted to control my dreams, banning myself from having any thoughts of peeing while settling in to sleep each night, which only made me think of peeing that much more.
Thankfully, despite my newfound urine phobia and certainty that my days were numbered, I sailed through the next few months completely incident-free and positive that my foray into the world of nighttime pants pissing was just an isolated occurrence. My faith in my bladder’s integrity had been restored to new levels of confidence. I had become cocky, even.
And then it happened again. And one more time after that, each time after months of drought-like conditions, even on the occasions when I was a wee bit tipsy.
My concern about the issue lessened as time went on. I mean, the incidents were always a direct result of having that damn pee dream, I always managed to wake up in the middle of doing it, I always managed to stop, and I always made it to the toilet to finish. And there were plenty of times I’d have that pee dream without actually doing it. Eventually, one day I just didn’t care at all. Well, at least not enough to make a thing out of it, anyway. If my physician, to whom I’d finally mentioned my little episode in passing at my last physical, wasn’t worried, why should I be?
So whatever. That’s just a part of who I am now. I’m a grown ass woman who wets the bed sometimes. Big deal. Some people get wrinkles as they age, and other people get wrinkles and occasionally piss their pants at night. It happens. And I’m OK with that.
Unless I actually am dying. Then I take it all back. PROMISE YOU’LL TELL ME IF I AM.