The third time I pooped my pants

The third time I ever pooped my pants I was lying in bed with who I thought was the love of my life. I don’t know if he was or wasn’t, although the now years we’ve spent apart and the fact I primarily have sex with women points to he wasn’t. My stomach was fucked up, I can’t remember why, but it wasn’t a particularly infrequent experience, so it really could’ve been just a standard day for me. I tried to fart, shat instead. He lay on the floor while I changed the sheets. He wasn’t upset—maybe grossed out—but he didn’t show it. Mainly he seemed to find it mildly amusing. I changed the sheets and we got back into what was a twin bed in my mothers home. A place too many people stayed through the pandemic—my older sister, her four year old son, my little sister, my mother, me, my partner, gina intermittently. I’ve never been more grateful for so much time with people I love so dearly, but it was, in totality, a pretty devastating time. And then it got worse. A series of events I definitely played a role in led to that relationship ending. And I was left in the twin bed alone, in more pain than I’ve ever been in in my life. I know people died and my heart breaks for them, but it also was just plain old broken and I couldn’t escape the pain nor that twin bed in that dark room that felt increasingly like a coffin, in the cities we lived and loved in.