My family even became familiar with my process and knew when I was going. Then I would just go about my day with a fresh load in my underwear.
I would stand with my legs crossed as I hunched over a bit and squeezed out my present. I even had a stance that I would take on when I was doing the deed. If I was a Native American, I would have been Mark who Shits in His Pants. In some Native American cultures, they name you for what you invoke spiritually, like He who Runs with Wolves or Moon Soul Child. It was almost as if I wasn’t Mark anymore. Not very inventive, but it stung all the same. I got called every name in the book from Mark Shitty Pants to Shitty Shit Phinney. My own cousins even took part in taking me to task.
Most of the kids in the neighborhood knew about my “issues,” and had no problem giving me shit about it (no pun intended). Shitting in your pants is no way to go through life at any age. To be honest, I have no recollection of said potty training. I don’t know if it wasn’t being potty trained properly. I didn’t want to shit anywhere else but in my clothes. I was so used to it at a certain point that it became comfortable, safe. My parents sent me to doctors and shrinks, and even worked with me at home to try to control the shitting, but I still did it. I shit, consecutively, for days-and years-in my underwear. I had been shitting in my pants on a daily basis from as early as I could remember until around the time I was ten years old. When I was a boy, I had a habit of going to the bathroom in my pants.