Dig It Out With A Spoon
(Tokoni – 05/08/2009)

I’m gonna caution you RIGHT NOW: This is a gross story. It involves excrement, a little boy, and his somewhat sick mother. That, and a phrase we used in our family. Dig it out with a spoon. Adult content? (I’ve rated it 18+. IS this adult content? Again: relying on readers to tell me; I can’t judge this stuff, have NO reference. Darn.)

Okay, don’t say you weren’t warned. Don’t say I didn’t say this was a gross story, and a sick one. I’m writing this down now, giving you some filler and some warning before you look DOWN and start reading something you don’t want to read. I’m warning you that you won’t like it. I’m telling you to be prepared if you decide to continue on. I’m letting you know something.

That this will be upsetting to some. And disgusting to others. And in no way can it be considered a ‘good thing’. Okay? Enough space used? You still here? Still want to continue on? Okay, it’s your call. Not mine.

(Post Story Edit, 3 days later here. What was written below is the original text. I know it doesn’t really sound like me because in many ways it wasn’t “me”. See “A State of Mind” for further clarification.)

(Post Post Edit – 10 days later now. Note to self: document creation date: 5/9/9.

Questions to ask self:

Why post this? Potential to help others?

Will this help me? Unknown, but yes, if it helps others.

Will this help others? Only if it encourages them to tell their own stories; to let them know ‘it’s okay’. Perhaps this is why I am posting it? To let myself know it’s “okay”? And if so: is it?

Question: How would I feel if someone else posted this? Answer: I would feel sympathy? (but not pity). Compassion. And would regard it as something “not their fault.

Question: Why post this nasty, really nasty shit?

Again: Confusion. Some say ‘to bear witness’? What is “to bear witness” mean? Anyone out there know?

Readers: Feel free to input on any of the above and below. It may help me or others. I don’t know. Again: confusion.

Question: Can >I< read this below? (Let’s see.)

Answer: I struggle NOT to ‘switch’. Extremely hard to “not switch”. Perhaps reading online – as though it is someone else’s story will help assimilate story? Assimilate selves? Don’t know; won’t know until I do it.

Fear: Someone will be offended.

Okay. We’ll post it anyway. See what happens. Could be dangerous to selves and others, but oh well. I’ve been here before.


Take that brave step forward, dumbass. Just go ahead and do it.


Here we go.

The boy is sitting on the commode. It’s not me, but it is me. Okay – it’s me. But not who I am. Pardon the madness; it comes and goes sometimes; especially when I’m dealing with this s**t.

This boy is constipated. He’s about three years old. He’s been put on the throne by his mom. She has told him to sit there until he poops some more.

Boy is playing with some fecal matter. Fecal matter won’t come out. Just little hard round balls. Stuck in ‘there’. You know where.

Momma gets mad. Gets even madder when she finds what her little boy is doing.

Little boy complains his butt hurts; that that stuff won’t come out; can he get down now.

Momma says no.

Momma says no.

Momma says wait.

Momma goes away.

Momma comes back in.

Momma has a little spoon. A silver teaspoon, just like what you eat food with.

Momma hands the boy the spoon.

Momma says “Dig it out with this.”

A spoon.

We’ve been there before. We know what to do. So we reach around, way behind, and ramming and scraping with that spoon, we attempt to pull the feces out.

Digging deeper and deeper even though it hurts like hell, because we know if there isn’t enough in the bowl, she’d not going to let us down from there.

Digging it out with a spoon.

Sooner or later something happens. I don’t know what. None of us do.

All we know is that for some reason, momma is feeding us with the spoon.

And you know what’s in it.

That’s enough for now.


…..sighing again.

This is a hard thing to do, you know. It’s …. emotionally draining. Very hard. Very, very difficult. And I hate this, but I’m gonna do it, finish through it, get through this one.

(sighing again. It’s a form of self-control. Breath in…breath out….let things … slide away.)

Sheesh. Though that’s not the word I want to use.

Now, for the rest of the story. Had to get that first part out to get to the second. Don’t ask me why.

This phrase, this saying “Dig it out with a spoon” existed in our family forever. I don’t remember it ever NOT being a part of my brother’s lexicon. I didn’t really know what it meant for a long, long, long time. The only way I found out was through my brother.

When I was about thirty-five or so, my brother came down to visit. Now, I’d always remembered that bit about sitting on the commode, trying to have a bowel movement. And I’d always remembered that I’d placed my hands back there, trying to dig ‘it’ out. Smelling it, touching it. That’s something that’d always stuck with me. Those pictures there.

What I didn’t remember was the spoon.

Then one day, my brother says this phrase to me a couple times. I don’t remember about what, but about something. It was always in regards to ‘tough’ things, kinda like ‘its a tough row to hoe’, or ‘it’s a hard job, but someone has to do it.” That sort of context.

(10 day after post-edit: I am still having lots of trouble keeping myself forward even reading this stuff. Will take walk in a few minutes after. After posting it. Sick feeling; nauseous feeling, but hey, that’s normal, right? Okay, maybe not. I’ve been through this before. I can do it again. After all – >I< or we or someone wrote this. Came off my computer; it must be mine.)

But for some reason, this time it hit me different, though I didn’t realize it at the moment.

I do know my brother suffered from constipation a lot more than I did. He would “hold” his bowel movements for days (don’t ask me why) until it became a literal pain for him to have them. And I guess, him being older, and having more problems – he got the spoon. Enough to remember.

Anyway, the next morning I wake up and I remember.

Now, I’m not one to trust ‘recovered memories’, not one bit. Not me. My mind is funny enough without me trusting it sometimes. But this . . . this is too much on the mark, too much on the money – and I can see what happened there. It’s all too damn clear. I can see the spoon, the brown stains on it; my momma’s hand …

Okay, I’m not going there right now. Too easy to ‘switch’, don’t wanna get shoved ‘back’ right now, not while I’m explaining. (as you see, the other parts of me don’t always write so well.)

Anyway, there it is. The meaning of the phrase, the origin of the phrase. The one I didn’t understand for so many years.

In all it’s ugly glory and truth.

I don’t want to go there again, so I think I’m calling it quits for the night.

Let someone else do the thinking.

(Post note again – its now three days later. I didn’t post this story right away because I know I have to deal with it. Thus far, I haven’t been able to deal with it, even now I find myself ‘zoning out’ when I try to read that part above. I have, today, attempted to explain some of how this madness works, but then deleted it. It would of just confused you, I’m afraid. Madness is confusing, after all. Note that the ‘main’ part of the story isn’t in my usual style. That’s because the ‘part’ that ‘wrote’ it isn’t all “ME”.)

(And PPS: Now five days later. I am not going to read this story; but I am in the frame of mind to post it. Meaning I’ve ‘sealed’ myself off enough to go ahead and dare. I will have to come back to this story – for me, if no one else, because I am still unable to deal with it emotionally, spiritually, and mentally. I hope you understand – and I’m sorry about the insanity of this entire thing. Really. But >I< the self posting this can’t even ‘go there’ and read this thing. Welcome to the world of insanity. And yes, I am bitterly laughing at my own faults for not being able to deal with this thing; making you suffer with it, and the conglomeration of my own ‘selves’ – M3 included – in not being able to deal with it. Sorry about that folks, but – what did I say? Welcome to the mind or world of insanity. It’s not always fun.)

(Post. 10 days later. I’m going to post this. I really am. I’m sorry you folks, if it disturbs you /disturbed you. Let me know if you want me to remove it. I really will if the majority votes “yes – delete the damned thing.)

Again: sorry. But I have to see if this helps. Me or hopefully even better someone else. We’ll see.

Thank you.



(damn. Find myself switching all over the place here.)

NOTE FROM JEFF: As you can see . . . the MPD thing has been a problem for a long . . . long . . . time.  But we are better, thank you.