Losing Control

“We have to talk,” Evan says in that scary way, the way a person uses right before they say they have an addiction or they’ve emptied your savings account.
“What is it?” I ask, heart racing.
“Have you noticed that it’s been taking longer for me to clean you up on the toilet?”
“Yes,” I say cautiously.
“That’s because there’s already stuff there. You’re becoming incontinent sweetheart,” he says gently.

Incontinence is the word of the day. For those of you who don’t know what this means, count yourselves lucky. I will break it down for you. Incontinence means I can no longer control my bowels, so I leave poop wherever I sit or lay. God knows what would happen if I could walk.

It’s mostly at night, and it’s a small amount, but I still wake up laying in it. It has also been happening in the afternoon now. I dread having accidents. I feel ashamed and guilty that Evan has to clean me, though he says I shouldn’t feel either of these things. He says he doesn’t mind because he loves me, so it’s not gross to him. He says I am still beautiful and sexy to him, though I don’t see how this is possible. However, my best friend Melissa always tells me to reverse the situation. If (God forbid) the situation was reversed, wouldn’t I still think he was still the sexiest, most handsome man on earth? I answer with a resounding yes.
Still, it will only get worse. I know this, but I can’t think about it without feeling nauseous.

I’m afraid friends will leave me because I smell. I am scared of getting a UTI or a painful rash. Evan says I should know that he takes good enough care of me to prevent these things, but some of them are inevitable. I never thought I’d be in diapers in my mid-thirties.

I know my motto is hope over fear, but this a hopeless situation, and I am terrified.

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