Upon reflection, I should’ve known — I should’ve known that the flickering lights in the hallway were a bad omen, the sounds of a ping pong game akin to a funeral dirge and the smiles of passersby too sinister. But I ignored all the signs; the call of my bladder was too strong, it clouded my intuition and led me, unknowingly, to a brush with the dark side. 

My life is now split into before and after: my life before, still perfumed with the scent of my innocence, and my life after, plagued by fragmented memories of hairy legs and distinctly male coughs.

I suppose I was lucky I did not run into any of the male species as I rushed into the bathroom. It allowed me to make my discovery in horrified, silent anonymity, my flip flops and painted toenails my only identifying feature from under the stall door. My gasp was soundless — a wide gape as I realized why the voices talking to each other were so deep, why the legs (which I initially thought were just unshaved) were so hairy, why there were no sounds of pee trickling into the toilet from the stalls next to me. 

I sat there, frozen on the toilet, noticing for the first time the signs on the stall door advertising STD testing and safe sex. As I stared at the condom caricature, I wondered if I could use it to throttle myself, so as to avoid having to live with the shame that had slithered from the urinals to stare deep into my soul, blinking in time with the sounds of water plopping in the stall next to me. 

As my situation got too much for me, there was a piercing scream that sounded like a Halloween-themed movie soundbite. To this day, I’m not sure if I screamed, a guy screamed or if it was the sound of my childhood purity being burned away by the rancid smell of male number two and B.O.

I decided, in my sweating, cowering, state that there was nothing for me to do but wait. If I emerged from the stall while guys were still in the bathroom, I would immediately implode, and I was too frozen to army crawl my way under the stall. When I finally emerged from the bathroom after creeping out like a cartoon criminal — tiptoeing and everything — I peeked my head out of the door and looked around to make sure no one saw me in such a haunted state. 

The sky seemed darker; I’m not sure if it was the curse of the men’s bathroom which darkened my outlook on life or if I had spent so much time hiding in my stall that night had fallen. Either way, things have felt a whole lot gloomier since that sinister day, and I can no longer trust my bladder. We will soon be going to joint therapy sessions to work out our issues. 

As I still sort through my bad feelings and scattered memories, I leave you with this: stay safe out there, and remember, if you ever have to pee so bad you run into a bathroom without looking at the signs, remember kidney disease and major discomfort do not involve you sacrificing your dignity. 

Serrano Ham hopes that one day, she and her bladder will be able to reestablish a relationship built on trust.