Irritable Bowel Syndrome

I think I’m going to cry. I bloody hope not cause I’m in R.E. class with twenty other kids and I’m a guy, not a girl, and it's not like I’m one of those popular guys who could still be considered cool even after they cried in the middle of class, but I really think I am going to cry cause I’ve been excused to go to the loo twice this lesson already and now I need to go again.
The first time I asked if I could go, my teacher said ‘I’m sure you can go to the loo, Harry, but whether you may or not is a different matter’ which would normally make me want to punch him in the face but he said it in a kind of funny ironic way. As I felt like a ferret had been let loose in my bowels, though, I wanted to punch him anyway.
The second time, he raised his eyebrows at me for a second and then said ‘go on then’ in a sort of sigh like it was a massive great favour and it would really mess up his afternoon but he was going to let me anyway cause he was a really nice guy.
Now I sit here and try to wait as long as I can before asking to go again but I’ve got irritable bowel syndrome – that’s why I keep needing to go – and it’s kind of hard to wait when you’ve got irritable bowel syndrome. Idly, I play out a few fantasies. The fire alarm goes off. Mr Graff receives a text and runs out of the classroom to some kind of family emergency. Jesus appears and tells me he’s going to fast-forward time to the end of the lesson just cause he loves me that much.
After a long long minute I reluctantly raise my hand. I’d like to say I have a red face or something cause in books everyone gets a red face when they’re embarrassed; a black person could go red if they wanted to but I’m not ginger or even pale so I'm not going red but I definitely do look embarrassed. It probably shows in my eyes or something; I don’t know. A few of my classmates snigger as an incredulous looking Mr Graff turns to face me.
‘Yes, Harry.’
‘I need to go to the loo, Sir.’ Maybe they’ll all think I’m going to do drugs or something cool like that. More sniggers. I guess not. I’m not really the doing drugs or something cool like that type, to be honest.
‘Off you go then,’ he says in a kind voice like he sympathizes with me or something. He catches me at the door and says in a hushed voice ‘If there’s anything you need to talk to me about, I’m here all break, alright son,’ only of course everyone hears, cause they’re all listening, aren't they? I really want to punch him in the face.
‘I’m fine,’ I mumble, not looking at him or anyone else. I bolt it out of the door cause it’s all so embarrassing but then regret it, the bolting, cause they’re all going to think I’m in a massive rush to get to the loo which I am but they don’t need to know that.
Now on the loo, I try to decide whether it would be less mind-shatteringly awful to return to the classroom or to just hang about till next lesson. If I return, I face the awkwardness and their sniggers and the undeniable possibility of needing to go to the loo a fourth time, but if I skive, they might think when the lesson ends that I’ve been on the toilet the whole time. Mr Graff is a pretty boring teacher so every minute I was gone there'd be nothing to engage their minds other than the image of me on the loo. That’s got to be worse than facing them.
When I take my seat, back in the classroom, I kind of wish I hadn't used so much soap. Obviously I used a lot cause I didn’t want to smell of poo but I think I went overboard cause I smell really really soapy, like a hospital or something and now the whole room’s going to smell of soap which means no-one could possibly forget that Harry’s been to the loo three times this lesson – this single period lesson – and there must be something wrong with him. They’ve pretty much got two options – either I need to pee non-stop cause I’m so anxious and weird and depressed, or it’s something to do with poo which is just as humiliating. Also, I stupidly chose to wear a luminous yellow shirt for mufti day, the exact colour people use to purposefully draw attention to themselves.
You probably think I’m just a kid and it’s no big deal. Of course it’s no big deal if you’re a kid. One day at school when I was a kid, this boy did a poo, right in the middle of circle time and at playtime he just left it on his chair for everyone to see, and no-one even cared really, but I’m not a kid; I’m fifteen. When you’re fifteen, poo is a big deal.
I decide to actually tune into what Mr Graff is saying to take my mind off of everything. We’re studying Christianity. Well, we’re currently studying pilgrimage which I don’t think really says a lot about Christianity. I’m a Christian; not a popular, liberal one who still thinks it’s alright to get drunk and stuff; I’m the type who wants to tell all my friends how much Jesus loves them and who posts links to human rights petitions and stuff on facebook. I like to think it's cause I'm a Christian that I’m not all that popular and people make fun of me cause then I can just think hey, it’s persecution and blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
The ferret is starting to prod at my insides again. I try to ignore him cause there’s only fifteen minutes to the end of the lesson and I figure I can hold on but I can feel his evil red eyes boring into me. It’s no use. Reminding myself that I am a blessed son of God and won’t care about this day when I’m off living in eternal bliss, I raise my hand.
‘Off you go, Harry.’ Mr Graff says before I can even speak but I hardly hear him cause every person in my class is laughing like they've only just discovered the ability to do it. They’re not trying to conceal it one bit. I know I should laugh with them. I know I should pretend I don’t care but I already have tears welling up in my eyes and I swear I actually am a little bit pink now and my bowels are spasming so hard I feel like I’m going to faint.
I consider it a small kind of achievement that only one tear has escaped down my face by the time I've reached the corridor. I’ve still never been more embarrassed in my life, though. It’s even more embarrassing than the time with the hurdles.
It was sports day last year and no-one in my class wanted to do the hurdles so I had to do it and it was all going great – I was miles behind everyone else but that was alright – when I belly-flopped over the last hurdle. Then something went wrong in my head and I actually picked the hurdle back up. I picked it back up and ran to the end like a whole minute behind everyone else and the entire school was laughing at me. I didn’t manage to laugh with them or anything but I didn’t cry either so it was drastically less embarrassing than this.
I’ve just reached the loos when I see Aimee Newton strolling out of a classroom with some giggly friends and I think I’m going to throw up cause I’m full on crying by now and cause Aimee, well she’s amazing. She wears 20s style skirts and red lipstick. Her favourite band is the Smiths. She’s writing a young adult novel about a fairy warrior named Miribelle who challenges the fascist regime in her dystopian society. She’s great – and possibly the last person in the world I'd want to witness my waterworks, except maybe for Mark Tooley cause he’d pummel me for sure and then I might end up pooing my pants. Aimee displays considerable skill at avoiding eye contact with me and I rush into the loos.
As I do my business, I face the challenge of trying to stop said waterworks. Leaving the loos in tears is even worse than entering them in tears. At first, I attempt this by analysing why what happened actually wasn't that bad but obviously this does not work so I go down the pushing it out of my mind route and visit my happy place. My happy place is McDonalds. I know it’s gross and everything but my Dad used to take me there after Church all the time and it was like this big deal. It isn't just your average McDonalds though; the floor’s made of edible grass like in Willy Wonka and there are meerkats here cause I've always admired that dignified coolness meerkats carry.
There are lots of nice people here, too; my Dad playing away on his accordion and my Mum but young and smiling, and my sister and my goldfish and my cousin Nathan whose alright, and Aimee Newton writing away and Dom who I sit with in IT and Holden Caulfield and Beyonce and Jesus.
I imagine myself tucking into a Smarties McFlurry but it makes me feel like I’m going to be sick again so I stop. I zoom in on Aimee but she's one of those people who make you think of yourself rather than of them cause you're so inadequate in comparison. She must think I'm the whiniest loser she ever did see. She’s not in with the really cool people but she is pretty popular. I’m about as popular as an overcooked sprout and it’s not just cause I’m a Christian; I know it’s not.
I've spent many an hour attempting to ascertain the cause of my unpopularity but none of the attributes they make fun of seem to be it. It's like there's this indefinable thing – this quality inside of me that makes me eligible to be made fun of. Someone who does not possess this quality could wear what I wear and like what I like, and what I like just wouldn't seem worthy of being mocked anymore.
My clothing is a key focus of their mockery. I don’t have bad taste in clothes or anything; I just don’t bother with them too much. I have a problem with stuff being expensive. Large quantities of cheap stuff doesn't phase me too much but when faced with the prospect of buying something expensive, I just get stressed cause it’s got to be worth it and you have to get the right thing and there’s bound to be a starving kid in Africa or somewhere who could use the money a lot more than you. No, I'm perfectly content with a wardrobe of dated, ill-fitting charity shop purchases and a self-inflicted bowl cut.
I guess I don't quite have your conventional popular person face. It's square, with slightly more than its quota of podge considering my skinny build; big, round eyes and the kind of mouth that wins you fluffy bunnies every time. I'm good-looking enough for a twelve year old. The problem is that I'm not twelve; I'm fifteen.
Though the majority of my classmates's ever-so-witty jibes are directed at my outward appearance, they do also like to make fun of me when I try too hard in class (as if that's a thing) or when I'm pleasant towards a teacher or when I get overexcited. I know it's considered cool to maintain an indifferent demeanour at all times but cause stuff sucks most of the time, when something good does happen, someone at school asks me how I am or something, I'm going to be happy about it, aren't I?
I guess they'll drop all this for the next few weeks and focus their attention on bullying me about the whole toilet thing. I don't think it makes a difference really. I'll always be made fun of, just cause of who I am; topical variation is irrelevant.