Teen Bedwetter | bedwetterbrad's Blog
Being a teen bedwetter isn't fun. Most kids become dry at night at age two or three, although 2-3% of eighteen year olds are still chronically wetting.
I have basically been in diapers all my life, except for short periods when my mom tried me without them to see if it would serve as an incentive to stay dry. Didn't work.
I don't wet every single night, but most. It's a nice feeling to wake up dry.
Twice my mother has had me on the D.R.I. Program, which is supposed to cure enuresis in about six months, but twice it failed, while causing me a lot of embarrassment. Now she's considering a third try.
The down side to my situation should be pretty obvious. For one thing, I don't have a lot of friends. Nobody wants to hang out with a guy who everyone knows is a bedwetter who still wears diapers at night. Not cool.
How do they know? Well lots of ways. I share a room with my brother, who has friends over. There's a noisy plastic sheet on one of the beds. There's that diaper pail. There may be freshly laundered diapers that my mom left on the dresser. Or my mom told some other kid's mom, and news travels. And no matter what you wear over cloth diapers, it's pretty obvious what you've got on. Then there's the noise of the plastic or rubber pants. And the smell of baby powder.
And as if not for all that, when you're in the D.R.I program everyone is allowed to know that you're in diapers and why.
So while some guys are working on getting their driving or even flying licence, I'm still working on trying to stay dry at night.
First DRI Experience
Ok, so I did a stupid thing. My mom got a bit slack about checking to make sure I was wearing diapers to bed, so I took advantage and skipped a night. I had woken up that morning in dry diapers, and I thought I deserved a reward. Big mistake!
I woke up so soaked that even my hair was wet. My pillow was wrecked. It must have happened early, because by the time I woke up the smell had had time to become really intense. (Bedwetters know this stuff.) It woke my step-brother up, and he was sqwaking. He’s the main reason I got returned to diapers in the first place. Francis is thirteen and a year younger than me, but it’s as if it’s the other way around. He treats me as being immature and calls me names like ‘diaperboy’. And ‘skunk’. He doesn’t respect me. Because of my chronic bedwetting. He bullies and teases me. All his friends know I wear diapers, and why. The few friends I used to have disappeared when I was put back in diapers and they found out. Who wants to hang out with a guy who’s still in cloth diapers and plastic ‘baby pants’? Most guys won’t, and I can’t blame them. Wearing diapers is not cool. Especially when you’re a teen.
So I knew that Francis would make the most of my little ‘accident’ by ratting me out and that I’d be in trouble, but I didn’t anticipate how much. Still, I had always been warned that removing diapers (or not wearing them in the first place) was a serious offence. My mom took a fairly hard line regarding my bedwetting, especially after medical tests and other interventions (including an alarm that drove Francis nuts) had come up with nothing. She thought my average five wet nights a week were due in part to laziness, thus justifying somewhat harsh measures. For example, my cloth diapers and plastic pants were not optional. Now things were about to get worse.
“There are going to be some changes around here,” my mom said. “For one thing, from now on we’ll be doing the diapering for Brad.”
“What do you mean we?” Francis asked.
“It’s part of a new approach, Francis. It’s called D. R. I. That’s ‘Diaper Remediation Initiative’, and it’s supposed to help bedwetters become dry. Since Brad has been so irresponsible, we’ll take over for him. But we’ll do it to suit us.”
“I have to change Brad’s diapers?” Francis asked.
“Yes. You and me, other extended family members, babysitters, whoever we might ask. That way a single person doesn’t get stuck with the job.”
“Well if I have to change the dude’s diapers, I’m going to whup his butt.”
“That’s another thing, Brad. If you make a fuss during the diapering process, or should you remove your diapers like you just did, you can expect severe punishment. So tonight before being put in diapers, you’ll be getting a spanking.”
“Cool,” Francis said.
“And one more thing. I’ve entered you into a group run by the DRI people. We’ll be going to a meeting this evening to have the program explained and to find out how the support group works.”
“Hey, Dude, you’re joining ‘Bedwetters Anonymous’! Hello, my name is Brad, and I’m a peeaholic.”
Wow, this was a lot to take in. I had never been spanked, although certain threats had been made from time to time. How would she do it? Just the thought of it gave me shivers of dread and humiliation. Spanked, then diapered like a little baby! And to be diapered by my younger step-bro! And what was this about babysitters? And a meeting? Bedwetters Anonymous? DRI? It was scary.
It turned out the meeting was in a church basement. There were about fifteen bedwetters, all guys (there was apparently to be another meeting for girls) aged from about eight or nine to maybe sixteen or so. They all looked as incredibly uncomfortable as I was, and there was no small talk among us. The lady running the meeting separated us bedwetters from our families etc. We sat on one side. I guess I was the only one already wearing diapers. I wore sweatpants over them, but was very self-conscious. Kids didn’t seem to notice, but I think some of their parents did. I got some odd looks. Sweat pants help, but the bulk of cloth diapers underneath is still noticeable. This was my first time out in public in diapers. And my butt was still stinging from that spanking. My mom hadn’t been bluffing.
My mom said that my normal diapering time would never be later than 7 pm, but that it could be moved up earlier to suit whoever was to do the diapering. So on the night of the meeting I was in my room at 6:30. I had been told to ‘get ready’, which meant the removal of pants and underwear. I was allowed to keep a tee-shirt on, which I would stretch downward as far as possible. I noticed that my change table (that’s what everyone calls it) had been brought up from the basement. It’s just a plain work-table that’s long enough for me to lie on and high enough that it enables the changing of diapers with ease. DRI emphasizes convenience for the ‘caregivers’. The table had an old familiar blanket on it, and one of my old change pads on top of that. Before I was finally allowed to change myself, I used to cry in shame when my mom diapered me. Now we were back to that. But worse.
She came into the room. With Francis. “Man, I’m going to enjoy this,’ he said. I noticed she was carrying a wicked-looking leather strap. She told me to bend over the change table, which I did, reluctantly, and in great shame. Francis snickered, and she started to spank me. It stung badly.
“Brad, we’ll call this a ‘mistake’ that you’re now paying for. If you do it again, you’ll get double what you’re getting now.” She continued to spank me hard. It felt terrible, both physically and emotionally. She stopped at about twenty. I was on fire, and totally humiliated.
“Francis, I’ll show you how to make up a diaper for Brad.” She laid out one of my prefold youth diapers on the table, then triple folded lengthwise two flannelette baby diapers and laid them along the center of the prefold. “Got it,” Francis said. At her signal I climbed up on the table and laid on the diaper. Francis watched as she powdered me, then pulled the diaper up between my legs and pinned it on on either side. The usual blue baby diaper pins. “Got it,” he repeated. “Ok Francis, now get some baby pants out of his drawer, and you can put them on him.” He smiled a smug superior grin as he put me in a pair of translucent vinyl pants. Then it was over. Or rather, it was just starting. “You’re welcome,” he laughed, as I got off the change table.
“Brad, you can wear a pair of sweatpants over your diapers because we’re going out, but normally you won’t be wearing anything over your plastic or rubber pants.”
“But mom, all my friends will see him,” Francis teased. “What will they say?”
At the church I noticed my mom talked for quite awhile with the lady (Mrs. Evans, I would learn, mother of Chris, a sixteen year old chronic bedwetter) who seemed to be in charge. Later I would understand why. As I said, she had us separated into two groups—us bedwetters on one side, and families etc. on the other. Now she addressed us. “So you guys all wet the bed,” she said. “How many of you are in diapers?” No one said anything or raised a hand. “Ok, that was a bit ambiguous. Only one of you is actually in diapers right now, because Brad’s mom got a head start on the program (she pointed at me) and we’ll get to him in a minute.” I could feel everyone’s eyes on me. I was suddenly quite scared. “How many of you wear diapers to bed? That includes Goodnites, or any other form of protection?” About twelve hands slowly and reluctantly went up, while eyes were cast down. “Well from now on you’ll all be wearing diapers. Cloth diapers and plastic or rubber pants. How many of you diaper yourselves?” Again, a low show of about 10 hands. “From now on, a family member or other caregiver will be diapering you. How many of you wait until just before bedtime?” Twelve hands. “Well now it will happen much earlier. We recommend seven o’clock, with no exceptions. And you won’t be hiding what you’re wearing. And you’re all going to have babysitters” Guys were looking pretty shaken.
Mrs. Evans looked directly at me. “Brad, I’d like you to step forward, please.” I was kind of stunned. Everyone was looking at me, I was ultra conscious of being in diapers, of my spanking, of being a part of a group of bedwetters. Being identified as a diapered wetter in public, to strangers. I stepped forward in a dream. “This is Brad. He’s fourteen, and has primary enuresis. He just joined the program, and his mother has kindly agreed that he can help us demonstrate aspects of the D.R.I. system. Brad, I’ll just ask you to step out of those sweatpants.” No! Panicked, I looked toward my mom. Francis had his hand over his mouth in glee. My mom wordlessly conveyed to me that if I didn’t comply, she’d make me. She doesn’t bluff.
My throat was dry and my knees weak as I removed my shoes and sweatpants and left them on the floor. I reflexively pulled my tee-shirt down as I do, but Mrs. Evens pulled it up to fully reveal my diapers and plastic pants. There were some giggles and comments from the family side, and nothing from the bedwetter side. A couple of bedwetter guys looked like they might cry. That’s how I felt.
“Brad is wearing a pin-on prefold flannelette youth diaper with two triple folded cloth baby diapers inside as boosters to provide extra absorbency and bulk. As many boosters as necessary can be added to prevent leaks. Ordinary baby diaper pins are used, as well as an aromatic baby powder. His waterproof pants are of a translucent vinyl, which are ideal for easy, instant diaper checking.” I thought I might faint. There was pointing and some comments and snickers from the non-bedwetter kids.
“For purposes of D.R.I., we want the diaper-wearing experience to be as sensuously vivid as possible, so that the enuretic is constantly reminded that he is in diapers. The bulkiness of cloth against the body and between the legs is a powerful tactile experience with the added advantage that unlike with disposables, the wearer continuously feels the moisture after wetting. The slickness of plastic or rubber pants to the touch also serves as a reminder. Visually, cloth diapers and plastic pants are superior to disposables for our purposes—again the bulk is useful, and makes the diapers apparent even under clothing. However, we discourage the use of clothing over the diapers and plastic pants as much as possible, in order to maximize the visual effects to the diapered youth. He’ll see himself when he looks down, in mirrors, or in others’ reaction to him. Now, advances in the manufacture of disposable diapers means that they tend to have a cloth-like feel and provide little sound, whereas plastic or rubber pants offer an auditory signature to the wearer. Every time he moves he’ll be reminded that he’s wearing plastic or rubber pants. To engage the sense of smell, we recommend the use of aromatic baby powder. We also suggest that the wetter hand-wash his diapers and that they be air-dried. This will result in a faint but distinctive body-heat induced smell of urine combined with baby powder and plastic or rubber. Being left in wet diapers for an hour or so in the morning will enhance the sensation in various ways. So we take maximum advantage of four of the five senses to bring home to the wetter that he needs to make changes.”
You have to remember that during all this I was standing there in front of maybe 30 people in nothing but diapers and plastic pants (ok a shirt, but so what?). I didn’t even have shoes on because I had to remove them to get my sweat pants off. Without even being asked, I was the poster boy for D.R.I. I guess the presentation was pretty effective. One of the younger, smaller guys who seemed like he might cry must have been in shock and despair and seeing what was about to happen to him. He suddenly just completely wet his pants. And then he did cry. His mother looked like she was going to take him home, but a parent of one of the other bedwetters who also had an older toddler with her shyly asked the boy’s mother if she’d like a possible solution—a diaper. “It’s a Huggies Supreme, Step 6, so it’ll fit. And at least he’ll be clean and dry, and can stay for the rest of the meeting. There are also wipes in the diaper bag.” The kid cried even more. His mom said “Roy, I’m sorry, but you can’t stay in those wet pants, so we have no other choice.” She accepted the toddler’s diaper bag, and went away with the wet boy. When they returned, he was wearing the diaper and smelled of baby powder. He cried quietly and hung his head in shame. No one on our side made fun of him.
“Are there any questions so far?” Mrs. Evans asked.
“What brand of plastic baby pants is that boy Brad wearing?” someone asked. “I’d like to order some for my son. I like the look of them.”
My mom answered, but Mrs. Evans didn’t hear. She checked the label in my plastic pants. It made noise. “Um, Lang. They’re fine, and others like them, because they’re plain, and you can check the status of the diapers with just a glance. We advocate the use of plain white diapers and plain waterproof pants. No colors or nursery prints, if possible. The message to the boys is that they may be in diapers, but they are not babies. That’s very important. They are not teased, they are not called degrading names, they are not made to wear baby clothing other than what is necessary to keep them dry. No onesies, no sippy cups, no pacifiers. They may have an unfortunate association with babies, but they are bedwetters, not babies. But on the other hand we don’t sugarcoat the fact that they’re in diapers. And it’s ok to refer to ‘baby pants.’”
“He looks like a baby to me.” Some kid said it, meaning me.
“Yes, but he also looks like a fourteen year old boy, and that’s what we emphasize,” said Mrs. Evans. “Now Brad, did something happen just before you were diapered this evening?” Oh no. Now this!
“Um, I got a spanking.”
“You got spanked. And how did that make you feel?”
“And why were you spanked?”
“Because I took my diapers off last night. And I wet my bed.”
“Ok. For parents, whether you agree or not with spanking, you have to set strict limits regarding behavior, and select well defined sanctions for when expectations are unmet. Two of the most important considerations are cooperation around the diapering process, and an injunction against removing the diapers once they’re on. Those are the big ones.
“Brad, who diapers you?”
“Um, my mother, my brother, or she said pretty much anyone else that they get.”
“Relatives, babysitters, it’s important that the task be shared over as large a group as possible, to lighten the load. If it’s done professionally, it doesn’t matter who diapers. Same with babysitting. Thank you, Brad. You can put your pants back on.” I quickly put them on, and my shoes, and tried to melt into the crowd of bedwetters. No one looked at me. Someone on the other side had their hand up. “Yes?”
“The program seems a little harsh. Is that fair, given that kids don’t wet their beds on purpose? Or does punishment speed achievement of dryness? ”
“We see it as practical, and preventive, not punitive. There are consequences to not being dry. Bedwetting in itself carries a stigma and a certain amount of shame. We recognize that DRI necessarily entails the loss of some privacy and dignity for the enuretic, but there is already a likely loss of self-esteem and a sense of shame, and we try to use those to our advantage. We offer a practical temporary solution to a difficult problem while giving the bedwetter a powerful incentive to become dry. We know that no adolescent or teen is going to enjoy the loss of autonomy involved in submitting to being diapered, or being forced to wear diapers so openly. While their peers are out on dates, or whatever, these boys will be at home in diapers and being babysat. It’s not easy. But it works. And once again we stress the minimization of disruption to family life that unremidiated bedwetting can cause. DRI is very much the lesser of two evils.”
Mrs. Evans handed out some literature, including a reporting form with a ‘wetness chart’ and attitude and discipline record to be filled in each morning by someone other than the bedwetter to ensure accuracy. She told our parents to expect a spike in wetting incidents in the beginning, then a gradual decline after perhaps some months, and then possible cessation within a year. But no guarantees. She asked that we all return in one month to report progress with the program and to compare notes. Everyone agreed. Parents, and ‘caregivers’ that is. Not us.
As soon as we got home I had to give up my sweatpants. Wearing just diapers and plastic pants really concentrates the mind. You can’t really think of anything else. And of course I had Francis to remind me, not that I needed him. “Hey diaperboy—do you need changing?” You feel helpless and ashamed, big time. You would do anything to stop wetting. But Mrs. Evans was right. During the next weeks I did wet more often, and had only three dry nights by the time of the next meeting.
My first time being diapered by Francis was as traumatic as I knew it would be. But I was determined not to give him an excuse to spank me. Even when he invited a friend over just before it was time, with the result that I got diapered in front of him. Then Francis tried to make an excuse to get the guy, Kyle, to snap my plastic pants on me. He wouldn’t, though. “I don’t do babies,” he said. He thought it was amazing that a guy my age would still be wearing diapers, and he called me a ‘retard’. It’s pretty hard to come up with a cool comeback when you’re in thick diapers and plastic pants. They sort of talk for you.
The DRI people say that it’s acceptable for parents or caregivers, where appropriate, to leave the enuretic in wet diapers for a period of time in the morning, mainly to reinforce the unpleasantness of being wet. Francis left me in wet diapers for an entire Saturday. My mother was away, and he just decided not to take me out of them. To make it worse, Kyle came over around four o’clock. By then I smelled really bad. He held his nose. “Dude, are you going to change him? He reeks!”
“I know. His dumb cousin is babysitting tonight, so he’s going to have a little surprise.” I didn’t even know that Frank was coming, and when he showed up at five o’clock he had his girlfriend with him. “Cool,” he said when he saw I was already in diapers, “I won’t have to change him. Bonus!”
“Um, do you smell something funny, Dude?” Francis thought it was really funny. He didn’t like Frank.
After Francis and Kyle left, Frank put on medical gloves and began to change me. After putting my wet diapers in the pail, he started to put me into clean ones. “You need to powder him, but first you have to clean him off,” Ally said. “Use a Huggies wipe.”
“I’m not cleaning him,” Frank said.
“Then let him do it himself. You can’t diaper him all stinky. Look, he already has a rash.” It was true, and it hurt. Frank eventually awkwardly pinned me into my diapers, and managed to snap me into a clean pair of plastic pants after his girlfriend told him not to use my smelly ones. Then it was the usual embarrassment and humiliation until they sent me to bed early. It’s hard to say what my worst experience was during that month—there were so many. And then it was time for ‘Bedwetters Anonymous’ as my brother always insisted on calling it.
So there we were—fifteen bedwetters, all of us in diapers. Some of the guys had on sweatpants like me, others wore oversized cotton pants, and a couple had on bib overalls, but it was pretty obvious that we were all in diapers. We stood to one side as before, and family members numbered about twenty. This time there was a large table to one side (like my ‘change table’ at home), and it had a sign taped to the side that said ‘Free Stuff’. On the table were obviously second-hand cloth diapers, plastic and rubber pants, change pads, even a couple of diaper pails. And books on ending bedwetting. One was called ‘Getting to Dry’.
There was a kid there that I didn’t recognize from last time. He looked to be about ten. He was with who I supposed was his mom. I heard her talking to him. “Calvin, do you notice anything different about those boys?”
“Look closely. See anything?”
“They look kinda nervous.”
“Yes, and they’re all wearing diapers. See? You can easily tell.”
“Why are they wearing diapers?”
“Because they’re all bedwetters. They’re part of a program to help them become dry. If you keep on wetting, you’ll be joining them very soon.” The kid looked scared. Also, before he came over to join the bedwetter group, Roy, the kid who wet his pants last time had his diapers checked by his mom. She pulled his sweat pants down. He was wearing white rubber pants over obviously thick diapers. She looked inside as Roy squirmed. “We’ll change you as soon as we get home.”
Mrs. Evans addressed the parent/caregiver group. “As you know, we advocate strict discipline for non-compliance with the DRI guidelines. It can be carried out in individual homes, or we can do it here as an example and deterrent for the wetters. Chris Walker, please come forward.” he looked about 13, and scared. “Chris, you had five incidents of non-compliance last week. Please come with me behind the screen.” there was a divider, like you’d see in an office. They went behind it. A moment later we could see that Chris had stepped out of his shoes. Then his sweatpants were draped over the top of the divider. Then snap-on plastic pants. then diapers. Moments later we heard strokes being delivered by what sounded like leather, about twenty. Chris would say ‘Ahhh’ at each one. Then the diapers disappeared, then the plastic pants, and finally the sweatpants.
Finally they reappeared, Chris red-faced and near tears. I think we all were. It’s like we all got spanked.
My brother was diapering me on the change table when his cell phone went off. Just as it did, his girlfriend Jo came into the room. My diapers were covering me, but they weren’t yet pinned on. Francis motioned to Jo to finish me. She said ‘Did you powder him?” Francis ignored her, so she just lifted my diapers off me, saw that he had not, and then proceeded to powder me, pin me into my diapers, and then put me in plastic pants. That’s what happens. You become infantilized.
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