My grandfather was a chemistry professor at the University of Jammu, but dabbled in astrology as a hobby. When I was 6 months old, he mapped my entire life onto a sheet of loose leaf and gave it to my mother. His predictions, including ones that I would be soft-spoken and reclusive (wishful thinking, perhaps?), featured a guess that I would encounter a minimal, yet recurring medical condition. Concerned by the lack of specificity, my mom and grandfather were shattered by the thought of a deathly looming disease in my future. Thankfully, I was not diagnosed with dwarfism or early-onset arthritis or leuko”you-have-forty-days-to-live”pathy. All I have is a weak bladder.

My bladder, or as a young boy I once knew eloquently called it, a “pee sack”, is my personal hell. Sure, I’ve taken AP Biology and read enough WebMd articles to recognize its vital function in the body: it stores and eliminates urine through a dizzying weave of nerves in the body that let the brain know when it is time to visit les toilettes. This does not diminish the fact that my bladder has placed me in awkward positions for most of my life. It longs for attention in the most deplorable situations with minimal regard for the inconvenience it causes me.

Perhaps it was the seventh grade slumber party I was at that made me realize my tremendous distaste for my bladder. My friend Trisha’s 13th birthday party was one of great distinction. After scarfing down pizza and jiving to teenybopper music, the intolerably uproarious prank-calls followed. One by one, we took turns calling boys from an unknown caller ID. The Master of Prank Calls, or “Casey” to her parents, slyly phoned a boy pretending to be the owner of an underwdear shop. We all erupted into fits of bestial laughter when my bladder chastised me. It ended with an uncomfortable talk with Trisha’s mom about borrowing some underwear.
For years, I added a stupid bladder to my lengthy list of tween insecurities following stupid back chub and stupid frizzy hair. I was embarrassed to go to the bathroom because I didn’t want anyone else to notice how frequently I visited it. This, in turn, started to cause some actually serious medical complications. This lead to a battery of diagnostic tests and hospital visits which tanked my confidence level. I had let a menial disorder seize control of my life.

One lunch period was enough for me to realize just how foolishly I was behaving. I was privileged to land a seat at the cool kids’ lunch table, yet my bladder was acting up again. That’s when Leanne stood up, proclaiming

“Yo, I gotta take a piss”. Two of her friends followed her as they slogged to the bathroom. “Did she actually just say that?” I pondered. Her nonchalant mannerisms were so contrary to to my anxious, scurrying self.

“Yeah me too!” I exclaimed, defiantly rising from my seat to visit the restroom. I was normal and all was well.

Self-acceptance isn’t easy. It is a relentless struggle between impudence and self-loathing. But from that day on, I came to terms with the fact that all of us have an idiosyncrasy that distinguishes who we are and shapes us for the better. Our oddities mold our identities and that is the beautiful part of the human experience- the diversity. Because some of us have weird laughs, others cough really loudly, but all of us have to pee.