Alternative Therapies - Chapter 4

The following days, my mother and I didn't exchange a single word. I didn't eat with her and avoided her as much as I could. I tried to deal with my nighttime incontinence problems by using maxi pads, several layers of underwear and towels that I placed underneath myself. This combination had always been very successful in preventing period stains, but it was almost useless against my nighttime bedwetting. Fortunately, it was summer, so at least my mattress was dry again by the evening.

If my general practitioner hadn't been on summer vacation, I probably would have visited her again to seek medical advice. But since she was, I decided to wait and hope that the issue would go away on its own. I was too embarrassed to talk about this issue with someone else.

I probably would have ignored my problem forever and never spoken to my mother again, if I hadn't received an email from my future university. The email kindly but firmly reminded me to pay the 10,000-pound semester fees. If the money was not received within three days, I would lose my place to a student on the waiting list.

So it turned out my mother's words were not an empty threat. She should have already transferred the money; I had given her the account information a long time ago and she was not the type of person to forget things like that. So, I was forced to swallow my pride and reach out to her again if I didn't want to lose my dream study place. "Mom," I spoke to her that evening, trying to sound like there had never been any conflict between us, "you still need to transfer the semester fees to the university." I casually placed another printout of the university's bank information on the table, hoping she would come to her senses and transfer the amount without any fuss. I was just about to leave when she stopped me.

"Emily, stop pretending everything is okay. I have already told you what you need to do to get me to pay your tuition. I know you're still wetting the bed every night! Pretending it's not there won't fix it. You have to work through your issues before you can live on your own. I'm your mother and I only want what's best for you. Do you think I'm doing this just to bother you? Bedwetting shows that you still have some healing to do before you're ready for adult life or do you think it's okay for a university student to still wet the bed?" she said, upset.

"Fuck you," I hissed at her. I left without giving her another look and went back to my room. If my mom didn't help me with tuition, I would have to find a way to pay it myself. There had to be a way to come up with the money.

In the following days, I realized that as a person without income, it wasn't easy to come up with such a large amount of money. I had never even had my own account, let alone any income, except for the pocket money of 100 euros that my mother gave me every month. I scraped together all my savings and all the money I could find in my room, but I only came up with meager 173 euros and 34 cents. I cursed myself for never saving anything. But why would I have saved? My mother always had enough money, so financial difficulties were completely unknown to me.

This meant at the current exchange rate, I had to come up with 11,201 euros and 56 cents by the deadline, or I would lose my dream study program, as the email had made clear. I didn't have any relatives or friends who could loan me such a large sum and it was too late to apply for a loan or scholarship.

On the evening of the deadline, I sat on my bed, despairing and crying. I had long since given up hope of getting the money together. In just a few hours, the deadline would pass and I would lose my place in the study program. It felt like my entire future was being buried. All my plans, all my hopes seemed to dissipate. So far, my life had always gone according to plan, everything had been possible. I had the intellectual abilities and financial resources to make my dreams a reality, and now everything was supposed to end just because my mother had gone crazy?!

Suddenly, there was a knock on my door. "Can I come in, Emily?" asked my mother in a sweet voice. I didn't answer. I didn't want to talk to her or hear any more of her attempts to control me. She came in anyway and sat down on my bed. I put my head under my pillow so I wouldn't have to talk to her. "I'm sorry for being tough on you," she said, "but I only want what's best for you. Conventional medicine isn't helping. Health is important and I don't want to see you harm yourself with medicine that might not work. I know you don't like my plan, but I have one more offer for you," she said as she gently rubbed my back.

"For the next three months, until a month before your studies begin, you'll try the method I've suggested and if it doesn't work, I won't interfere in any of your medical matters again. Then you can see another conventional doctor without me saying or doing anything about it. In exchange, I will pay for your studies as promised," my mother said. I emerged from under my pillow and looked at her. "And if I don't agree?" I asked, irritated, although I already knew what she would reply. "Then you have to find a way to finance your expensive studies yourself. I don't see why I should support you if you're not willing to support me," she explained and all the warmth that had previously been in her soft voice was gone.

I looked at the clock on my wall. 11:15 PM. I still had time and the possibility to make my dream of studying in England a reality through a wire transfer, but the clock was merciless. Tick, Tock. Tick, Tock. Of course, I didn't want to go along with my mother's strange plan, but every tick of the clock that revealed the hands had moved closer to midnight fueled my inner panic. It was the fear of losing a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, the fear of losing everything due to a wrong decision. The selection criteria of the university were tough, and I was lucky to have even secured a place. If I lost my spot this year, it was not guaranteed that I would be able to study there the next or following years.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock. "Why can't this damn clock tick more quietly?! Why can't time just stand still?! I didn't want to make this decision. No matter what I chose, I would lose. Tick, Tack. Tick, Tack. My mother's plan was a disgrace to my entire being. Not only would I be humiliated by sleeping in pull-ups like a toddler, but I would also betray everything I believed in. But was my dignity really more important to me than my future?! After all, it was only three months, and what were three months compared to the rest of my life. After those three months, I would be far enough away from my mother so she wouldn't be able to annoy me with her nonsense anymore, even if she didn't keep her promise. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

"Well, I guess I don't have a choice," I decided to go along with the deal before the ticking of the clock drove me completely crazy. I didn't know whether to cry or laugh. My dream of studying in England would come true, but I had made a deal with the devil to do so. My mother's mood, on the other hand, was clear. With a look of complete bliss, she looked at me. "Believe me, you made the right choice," she rejoiced. "I would say we start tomorrow evening, then you can use the next day for yourself before the therapy begins." To refer to the nonsense she was planning as therapy was nothing less than a mockery of any real, evidence-based therapy.

"I expected her to finally leave me in peace now that she had gotten her way, to make the make the bank transfer to the university, but instead of leaving, she pulled something out of the large front pocket of her apron. 'Even though we don't start until tomorrow, it's probably better if you start protecting your bed today,' she said kindly, presenting me one of the the pull-ups she had already purchased days ago and that I had refused to wear. I hated her for having already brought the pull-ups into my room without even knowing if I would agree to her deal. I couldn't deny that taking preventive measures to prevent the likely nighttime accident made sense, but she could have at least given me more time to think about it. And not only that, she could have at least gotten something more appropriate for my age."

"Didn't they have other kinds? This one is for kids," I expressed my frustration and looked disgustedly at the still packaged pull-up she was holding out to me. A young, pre-pubescent girl was pictured on the packaging, happily jumping in the air, wearing only a t-shirt and the childish, girly pull-up pants. Next to the girl was the slogan, "PJAMA PANTS: Look and feel like real underwear." "I'm sorry, but in your size, there were no others. It's designed for girls up to 57 kilograms, so it should fit you easily," my mother explained, soothingly stroking my arm. I cursed the fact that I wasn't as tall as my mother. She wouldn't have been able to give me pull-ups meant for ten-year-olds if I would have been her size. "Nobody will see you wearing it," my mother tried to cheer me up, noticing my disgusted look.

"Do we have a deal now, or can I buy the beautiful necklace I saw at the jeweler's with the money intended for your studies?" she demanded a decision and held out the pull-up pants to me, so I could take them. "We have a deal," I replied grimly and snatched the item from her hands. "I want to make it clear, Emily, that I will immediately reimburse the tuition fees from the university if you do not cooperate accordingly. We have an agreement and I will only fulfill my part if you fulfill yours. Understood!?" "Understood, Mom, but now please transfer the money before it's too late," I begged her, with a nervous look at the clock. "It starts tomorrow at 18:30 and be punctual please! And don't think you can put the pull-up pants aside as soon as I leave the room. I'll come by at night to check that you're really wearing them!" With these words she left the room and I was left alone with the pull-up in my hands.

It took me an eternity before I could bring myself to take the pull-up out of its packaging. Even without the packaging, it was clear to everyone that the item was designed for children. Bright butterflies and flowers adorned the entire pale lavender pull-up and left no doubt as to who the target audience of this product was. Reluctantly, I slipped into the item and then looked at myself in the mirror of my closet. To my misfortune, I had to admit that the pull-up fit me just as well as the girl on the packaging. So I didn't even have the option of rejecting it because it was too small for me.

Maybe I could have gotten along better with that piece of crap if it had lived up to its big advertising promises. Despite the manufacturer's obvious efforts to make the pull-ups look like regular underwear, it didn't change the fact that it was immediately recognizable as what it actually was and what it was used for. It was almost fraudulent to claim that these things couldn't be distinguished from regular underwear. My younger sister wore pull-ups during the day too, and no one would think to confuse these things, which were nothing more than thin diapers with a waistband, with real underwear. In the end, the thing around my hips remained a diaper, regardless of the fact that the manufacturer consistently avoided the word and preferred to talk about pajama pants instead.

Wearing this garment around my hips made me feel like I had been stripped of not only my adulthood but also my femininity. At my age, for a girl, there was little more important than appearing attractive, even if one, like me, was attracted to women instead of men. But how could another woman possibly find me desirable now? The only thing my underwear would evoke in another woman now were her maternal feelings"

I put on my pajama pants to avoid looking at my pull-up any longer. Out of sight, out of mind, I thought but unfortunately it did not even need my eyes to be aware of the pull-up around my hips. The soft rustling sound it made when I moved could have been mistaken for a regular pad and the slightly thicker area around the crotch wasn't much more pronounced than with regular feminine hygiene products. But the feeling of the pull-up material against my skin was so different from that of regular underwear that even without knowing of its existence, one could sense its presence. So much for feeling like real underwear.

Not even sleep was merciful to me. I lay in my bed, unable to sleep, struggling with my decision. I was constantly tempted to rip the damn pull-up off my hips. Only the prospect of studying in England, a life far away from my mother, prevented me from declaring everything null and void just a few hours after agreeing to it.