48 Urine Trouble
Author’s Note to Readers
I hesitated before writing this. Even now, I notice a little twinge of that old fear in my chest, the one that whispers “Be careful. You might get in trouble.” That is not really me talking. That is the residue of years of conditioning, the way I learned to expect punishment simply for noticing what was right in front of me.
It is strange how someone can feel guilty just for speaking honestly about their own experience. I believe writing about those moments is necessary. It is evidence of how deeply I was trained to doubt myself.
If parts of this essay make you uncomfortable, that is okay. Discomfort is expected when silence gives way to honesty. Writing about these moments does not break rules or ethics. The real danger was never the truth itself. It was the silence that made me believe I could not tell it.
I hesitated because fear runs deep. But I am writing because reality, as I experienced it, deserves a voice. My hope is that this honesty, even if unsettling, helps illuminate the strange ways denial works and perhaps reassures others who have also felt punished just for seeing clearly.
Urine Trouble
I stumbled on something that still makes my stomach turn. A bottle. I found what appeared to be a bottle of urine. Sitting out in the open with a kind of quiet confidence, like it was just another household item between the board games and the broom. I felt a stunning disconnect between what was said and what was actually done.
To me, it didn’t appear hidden or accidental. Left behind, like a dare to notice. It felt less like a cry for help and more like a test of how much cognitive dissonance a person could be expected to sustain. A choice that made me question not only hygiene but basic human logic.
Nothing was private. Nothing was sacred. The line between what should be cared for and what should be discarded did not exist here. When even the most basic boundary of what belongs in a trash can versus what belongs in a living space dissolves, the message becomes clear. There is no safe line to stand on.
If dignity can be discarded without thought, then so can truth. If privacy can be invaded without shame, then so can trust. It was not just about a bottle. It was about a world where every line blurred until you could no longer tell what mattered and what did not.
And when I did notice, the outrage was not about the bottle itself. No. The backlash seemed to land on me, for having the audacity to see it. Apparently, my crime was catching reality red-handed.
That is the kind of logic I lived under. Leave something revolting in plain sight, and then punish the person who refuses to pretend it is not there. The offense was not the act itself, but my unwillingness to play blind. An absurdity that could make a Kafka story feel like lighthearted beach reading.
A bottle of piss becomes a weapon. Not because of what is inside, but because of the denial wrapped around it. Forced to swallow the lie or pay the price for telling the truth. It is a fascinating, if exhausting, philosophical exercise. If a bottle of urine is left in a room and no one is allowed to acknowledge it, does it make a smell. It felt like a moment when reality seemed entirely optional.
Even now, the backlash is aimed at me rather than the act itself. The focus never lands on the fact that it happened. Instead, noticing it, acknowledging it, or reacting honestly becomes the offense. Truth had to wear a disguise just to survive.
The object itself was grotesque and inexplicable, yet it was the witness who bore the consequences. The wrongdoing was invisible, the discomfort denied, and the person willing to face it honestly became the target. An instance where the outrageous became ordinary and the ordinary became a crime against the observer.
When there is no difference between trash and treasure, private and public, sacred and profane, then there can be no difference between truth and lies, or love and abuse.
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Disclaimer
This essay is a personal narrative written in a memoir style. It reflects my own experiences, perceptions, and interpretations. The events and descriptions are presented for the purpose of self expression and reflection. They are not intended to assert factual allegations about any specific individual, nor should they be read as statements of objective fact. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Readers are encouraged to approach this as a subjective account of lived experience rather than as evidence of criminal or civil wrongdoing.