Forgotten Memories

If there is one thing that frustrates me in reliving those wonderful childhood enemas, it's the fragmented images that float across my mind from those very first experience at mom's loving hand. Am I the only one plagued by "snips and brief images of me as a preschool little boy experiencing those first squeezes from the little enema bulb that lived in the top of our medicine cabinet? Every now and then I recall that little boy's panic as he runs from the bedroom, brown water trailing down the back of his thighs as he tries to hold it in as he runs to the bathroom while mom laughs and says" "don't worry honey. It's okay. It's just water. Mommy will clean it up. How I wish I could recall the events leading up to my unintended expelling. But, it's lost somewhere I can't retrieve. I also remember as a little boy, my grandmother catching me watching her give my teen age uncle an enema and chasing me out. But, again there are only bits & pieces that come to mind. I can see the big red combination bag in my mind, the way it hung from the top of grandmas four poster bed while the way the hose twitched and wiggled.......but nothing else.

These, and many other early memories are lost. But, the life long attraction that they contributed to my love of enemas remains. Sigh!

OXYMORON ALERT!!

There are no forgotten memories!

Not to b e a grammar NAZI but just in terms of clear organized thought.

If you remember it, it's not forgotten.

Once it's forgotten it is no longer a memory.

Very old, nearly forgotten memories, faint, or distant memories if you don't remember details.

I think below-the-surface memories about enemas are part of what compels me to frequent this website.

Those childhood enema memories are what ultimately led me (along with many others I suspect) to this site. Those early enemas from mom were frequent affairs, only because she believed being "cleaned out" was not only the best remedy for constipation, they were her first line of defense against any childhood illness, used as a preventative measure if anything was "going around" and occasionally given because it had been awhile since my last one. Mom never gave enemas as punishment. They were matter-of-fact gentile but thorough cleansings administered privately behind the closed bathroom door with no interruptions. It became my "alone time" with mom and by cooperating without complaint, she would praise me for taking a "good" enema. Like many I resisted at first, but soon realized that she was right all along, that it feels good to be cleaned out. I loved hearing her use the word "enema" frequently as I was being filled with the warm soapy water. The insertions and surges of the bulb syringe as I lay over the closed toilet seat lid looking at the patterns in the floor tile. Kneeling over the side of the tub or laying on a towel on the floor being slowly filled from the big family bag. Watching her refill the bag from the tub spout for a second filling. Listening to her telling me why the enema is necessary and how good it is for me. So many distant memories.

I also have a number of faint and fragmentary memories about early childhood enemas, some of which have resurfaced in bits and pieces over the years (so, Lisa, they *were* forgotten, temporarily). I know that I received frequent enemas both because of my fetish but also because I do have very clear recollections of my mom asking me at every bedtime if I'd had a BM that day, and if I hadn't, her telling me that if I didn't have a BM the next day, I'd have to have an enema. I also believe I was switched to the bag fairly early as I complained about repeated insertions of the bulb. The clearest beginning-to-end memory I have is from when I feigned constipation in Junior High School to get an enema. I also know that I received at least one M&M enema from piecing together several fragmentary memories of the event and aftermath - though it took me many years to figure out that that was indeed what it was.

While I have a almost photographic memory of getting enemas at age 9 on-- memories of of probable/possible events like suppositories or bulb enemas before age 7 or parental spankings prior to age 6 are zero. I was told by a relative I got my first ever otk/bare bottom hand spanking from my Dad at age 4+. Zero memory of that. I remember seeing jars of (child) suppositories in the bathroom medicine cabinet at age 6 or 7 (1956-57) but zero recall of ever getting one inserted. I recall seeing a 6 or 8 oz red bulb enema syringe in the medicine cabinet but have zero memory of ever getting any bulb enema. At age 8--9 is when enemas or spankings took on a almost a videotape recall/memory..

Speaking of forgotten memories… once we leave this brief bit of consciousness; all that we once lived and experienced will be a “forgotten memory” that as such will only remain in the minds of those who are still here and knew us…

Perhaps lucky is the one who kept a diary early on...😎

Most of the enemas Mom gave me were scripted, burned into my memory that way. At some point, when which one was administered disappeared in the mists of time. Drastic events also stuck, such as the influence of mom's friend “Aunt Erika”.

I agree with those who like to look at zity here and remember things from their childhood when browsing through other members' posts. That's all well and good...

...ultimately all we have left are memories...

My very first memory I have in life was my parents giving me an enema. As terrified as I was and I had no idea why they stuck something up my little butt I somehow have this memory hardwired in my brain. I think they used a small bulb enema the first time. I still remember I must have been only 3 or 4 and when they had the enema in my butt I bounced on the floor as I cried and fussed. I was hoping to get what was in my bottom out. It did not hurt but felt very strange. I remember vividly bouncing on the floor. I still believe I stimulated myself even at this young age because this memory is still deeply imprinted in my mind today a few decades later.

My very first vivid memory happened when I was 6 years old. My aunt brought me for treatment. I didn't know the meaning of this. Then I saw an orange pear light bulb on the table. It stood with its thick white tip up. I didn't know exactly what his goal was, vaguely suspecting what was about to happen. Either I had some memories from early, early childhood, or children’s stories. But I didn’t believe that this would happen to me until they pulled off my panties and inserted a pear into my ass.