Why am I so afraid of getting in trouble?

A short story about my bladder, wanting to be a good girl and an eventful trip to Homerton hospital

The other day, I was cycling to Homerton hospital with approximately 3.259 pints of water in me. I’d had some weird vaginal irregularities and so was having them checked out - everything is fine, this essay isn’t about that. I’d jumped through many hoops and waited ages for this appointment and the NHS covid-backlog is scary, but again, this isn’t about that. What this newsletter is about is the water in my bladder. 

I’m not a morning person. I wake up, but I still feel asleep. My letter from the NHS highlighted that I must drink EIGHT MUGS OF WATER 90 minutes before my appointment. I’d set an alarm, but by the time I was drinking water, it was actually 70 minutes before my appointment. Then, because I moved into my boyfriend’s apartment which is a hand-me-down flatshare, our flat is full of pint glasses (likely stolen from local pubs) and so I had to google what 8 mugs means and convert it into pints. 

Then, because I’m not a morning person, and I was still half-asleep, halfway through (by the way, downing water feels like torture), I’d forgotten if I was on my second or third pint. I actually couldn’t take any more, so decided I was on my third pint, drank it and hoped for the best. 30 minutes before my appointment, I panicked and remembered that this was my one shot at an ultrasound because I’d waited so long for this appointment, and then drank another half pint before I set off on my bike. 

Of course, the appointment started a bit late and so by the time I was lying there and they asked if I minded if a trainee did the scan and I said ‘yes, yes, of course, no problem’ (please get on with it), my bladder was full. And by trainee, I don’t mean one who was about to be a doctor, I mean they were still at university and this was their first time and so everything was moving literally painfully slowly because I needed to pee so badly. I tried to keep calm and told myself that I was doing a great service to the future of medicine by being there. The trainee started the scan and pushed down hard on my bladder, the doctor said, ‘now, this is a really good full bladder, so we’re getting a great clear image here.’ 

I almost cried with happiness and my pride swelled to be bigger than my full bladder. I hadn’t just not messed up drinking the water (even though I technically hadn’t followed the instructions correctly,) I’d done a GOOD JOB of drinking water. My bladder was GOOD. I was GOOD. I’m a GOOD GIRL. 

Then I realised how ridiculous this is. The trainee continued to scan and it was a highly comical experience, except I couldn’t laugh because then I’d piss myself, so I had to focus on something else. I reflected on how deep my desire to be a good girl is. These people are learning and teaching far more important things, and yet my need for them to think I’m a good girl felt so visceral. 

Feeling like a good girl is the antidote to one of my greatest daily anxieties - my fear of getting in trouble. This fear shows up all the time. I get an email asking for a call (without saying why) and I don’t presume it’s just bad news, I worry that I’m going to be told off because I’ve done something wrong. I run through all the things it could be. When it happened recently, I concluded I was being told off about my last newsletter (it wasn’t that, that’s mad.) 

My biggest problem about renting in London isn’t how expensive, insecure and volatile it is, it’s the fact that I feel like I’m being told off whenever my landlord messages me. Often, I’m not in trouble but I experience it as such. Someone may just be asking something from me or pointing something out and that includes neighbours, landlords, bosses or clients at work. But I so often feel like I’m being told off and it’s when I most clearly slip back to being a child again. 

Despite my fear of being told off, I was told off a lot at school. I remember being about eight years old and a teacher screaming in my face. In general, teachers didn’t like me. I wasn’t a good girl. So why do I have this need to be one as an adult? Perhaps I was rebelling against that desire as a child or accepting my temporary fate that my ‘good girl’ identity would find me in adulthood. Who knows. What I do know is how strong that desire to be a good girl is because I felt it as I lay on that bed in Homerton hospital with a full bladder. 

I see it in others all the time. When people receive praise at work and swell with pride. Conversely, how it’s taken as an assault on their character if they mess something up. However, what we all seem to forget is that PEOPLE MAKE MISTAKES. At work, if you’re not making mistakes, you’re not trying hard enough. Or sometimes in life, we set the alarm, but don’t get out of bed on time to drink water exactly 90 minutes before our appointment. 

‘You can go to the loo across the hall,’ the doctor said. 

I ran across the hall and had the most wonderful wee of my life. Then I came back to the room for the internal examination and I told the trainee, ‘no, it’s the hole further up’ and then, half and hour later, I was done.  

Ironically, on my way home, I did get told off. A man on a scooter who I did technically stop for and who was able to pass, stopped and just kept shouting at me. ‘Go on, then,’ I said. He just kept shouting. I said, ‘sorry, my apologies, I’ve said sorry.’ Eventually, he fucked off. He was, like so many people we encounter in the world (and on NextDoor) taking his rage out on me. I’d sort of made a mistake, but also not, but either way, people make mistakes.

I actually didn’t care too much about this man and so I wondered if I was cured of the fear, but I highly doubt it. I don’t have a cure for this fear and I wish I did. It’s so ingrained in us and for me, the fear of getting in trouble is a constant, lingering anxiety. Our best chances of a cure are to respond to others who make mistakes with compassion. We can also allow ourselves to be someone who makes mistakes. Maybe I’ll be deliberately naughty and tap into being a ‘bad girl’. Only joking, that idea makes me incredibly anxious. I think I’ll always want to be a good girl: it’s a life sentence.

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