Posttraumatic Shit Disorder

Some people shrug at the concept of PTSD, thinking it’s all in your head – well, YES, as a matter of fact, it IS all in your head – just like all the other types of psychological disorders and suppressed issues that many people have. We carry that shit around like baggage, but not physically – in our heads. I had a minor case of PTSD, and although I didn’t fight in Iraq or anything major like that, it was still a pretty intense feeling that I didn’t expect, nor could I control it when it happened.

Woodstock '99: A Shit Pond

OK, so it was because of my experience at Woodstock ’99 that I had developed Posttraumatic Stress Disorder – go ahead and laugh. I know it sounds ridiculous – it does to me as well. I had written about my experience in this story, but I might have treaded lightly over the sanitation issue – or rather lack there of.

It was beyond disgusting.

Thanks to the intense heat and over-priced water, I managed to become dehydrated enough that I didn’t seem to have to pee the entire weekend – and as for the deuce? I simply told my body that I would NOT be doing that – and so I didn’t...

Fraser Island, Australia

About a year went by and I had moved back to Australia for University. My friend and I took a tour up the Gold Coast which included a trip to Fraser Island. It was beautiful – with the sand dunes and wild, yet tame dingoes roaming around. There was one thing missing – modern plumbing. At first, I didn’t think anything of it – I wasn’t overly a fan of port-o-loos to begin with, but I hadn’t been confronted with having to use one since Woodstock.

There was also an added complication – I was on my period. Fantastic! So, there was no way I would be able to convince THAT bodily function to go on strike as I was able to do before. We had set up camp and it was time to take the trek to the cluster of blue shit boxes. We joked about our Woodstock experience while approaching them and although I laughed, I could feel my heart rate and anxiety level rising.

When I opened the door to the port-o-loo and that pungent scent of chemical toilet mingled with feces that mounded high enough that I could see it, I slammed the door, backed away far enough and collapsed onto the ground. I broke out into a cold sweat and began to hyper ventilate, however I managed to calm myself down enough so at least I didn’t pass out. After a few minutes, I was able to ask my friend to see if she could find one that was less full – as I knew, however unbearable it would be, I still had to go through with it.

It was still quite a few minutes before I was composed enough to get up off the ground and face that fucking disgusting port-o-loo. I tried not to touch the seat, although I wasn’t quite tall enough to avoid contact entirely. I also tried not to breathe in and I concentrated on getting my task over with as quickly as possible. I was still sweating and I could feel my heart pounding in my burning ears. It was one of the worst moments in my life – and it was all because of a damn toilet.

So, no – I don’t drop to the ground when I hear a car back-fire or have blackouts, but even public toilets have the ability to make me uncomfortable now; as long as they can flush, I try to deal with it.

Like John Cage from Ally McBeal –
“I like a fresh bowl and remnants upset me.”