Creating Peace From the Pieces

Once, years ago, I was dealing with a particularly excruciating bout of ibs. My friend and I were on our way back from a day out, and I could feel I wasn’t going to make it home. I had the whole gurgly stomach with cramping, and hot smelly air had begun to escape from my bowels and fill the car. It was bad. I had sweat running down my face and I was curled up in my seat, groaning. We pulled into the first gas station we saw, and didn’t even put the car in park before I fell out of my door and stumbled/ran into the store, clenching my midsection. I ran into the bathroom, locked the door behind me, and breathed like a pregnant woman in labour as I fumbled with my pants. GURGLE. Oh no. I KNEW I wasn’t going to get them down in time for me to balance over the gross toilet that looked like it had been cleaned once in 1986. Panting, I gave my pants one desperate southward shove, and started to bend over the commode. The volcanic eruption that ensued nearly knocked me down and I gripped my calves as tight as I could. When it was over, I breathed in sweet relief and turned, expecting to wipe the seat down a little and wash my hands. What met my eyes made the color drain from my face. Not only had my digestive lava splattered on the seat, there was a layer of lumpy diarrhea covering the front and top of the tank, and concealing the wall behind it for a span of 4-5 feet each direction. I didn’t know what to do, so I panicked. Barely checking to make sure no one was outside, I just opened the bathroom door and RAN. I skidded through the store door, slid into my friend’s waiting car, and screamed “DRIVE! OMG JUST DRIVE!”
I didn’t enter that gas station for three years after.