Childhood trauma #584

When I was about 5, my mother took me to some optometrist to have my eyes checked.
I was brought up with the belief that to grow older was to accept the notion of ongoing decay, and that if we couldn't delay the inevitable we could at least record and document it by visiting various health professionals. I had teeth, eyes, hair, skin, limbs, but none of those were very good; living meant having to keep them patched up as much as possible until bifocals/dentures/wigs became indispensable. In my child's mind it meant : why bother brushing? They might as well all fall out now.
So, the optometrist.
He was old and grumpy; he lived in some kind of dusty-smelling dark lair. Or so it seemed at the time.
I was a quiet child, but not a very compliant one. I was even less compliant when scared. On that day, I was terrified. He shouted at me, grabbed me by the arm and forced me to sit on the examination stool.
To cut short ten minutes of ordeal, in terror I peed on the stool - not out of spite, although the idea is appealing - simply out of fear. I would like to say at this point that I graced his stool with a copious stream of urine - but that would be lying. It was more the pitiful letting go of the true fearful.

I was dragged out by my unapologetic mother.
I don't think I got glasses that day.

This afternoon, I have a 3.45 appointment at the dentist.
I'll try and exert self-restraint.