Compassion for incontinent awakenings

My childhood struggles have an unexpected place in helping brainwashing escapees

I went through a very rough patch towards the end of 2019, the worst of which was out of the public gaze. Whoever monitors me and compiles the dossier on my crazies has some amusing reading for their intelligence community colleagues! I am reassured to know that an occasionally turbulent past is sometimes an asset in a cognitive war, as we are made stronger and wiser by what we have survived. Some police constables did the right thing by me when I was unwell, and protected me from harm. In the context of my ongoing anti-corruption work it saddens me that good men and women called to be officers of the peace are co-opted into lawfare on the public.

During this health scare incident, two friends stood by me, and gave me refuge that was the beginning of me turning my personal life around — a task which took several years while being under the constant pressure of a cognitive war. I recently enjoyed a brief stay with these same friends, whose prior kindness is never forgotten. As a well-mannered guest I bounded down into the kitchen the morning of departure, stating that I had dutifully stripped the bed. My quick-witted host ribbed me that I had “wet the bed”, and my over-literal autist didn’t quite get that it was a joke, so I corrected his mishearing of my noble housekeeping efforts. This moment triggered a conversation about an episode in my past that I had buried in a memory hole.

As a sensitive child I had a long struggle with wetting the bed — maybe even up to around when I went to what American readers would call middle school. As an adult in my early fifties there is nothing shameful or embarrassing about it, since such life challenges are ordinary. For that matter, any parent will have spent years scooping unmentionables from inaccessible regions of their infant offspring. This reframes nighttime incontinence as only an unwanted continuance of the nurture job, not a moral failing of the child or adult. Nonetheless, it was a source of considerable distress to me, as I had no conscious voluntary control over the matter. It felt like I was letting my parents down, and that I was “born faulty” in some way.

My Mum and Dad did the best they could, and were careful not to berate or humiliate me. There was the occasional comment said in frustration — “how will you go to university and share a dorm room if this continues?” — but never said in malice. I was taken to the doctor, a walking distance from the hospital in which I was born, and was prescribed an NHS alarm with a plastic pad and metal strips. Upon letting go of my liquid load it would buzz loudly, waking me and them up. There were also exercises in daytime retention for longer, so as to allegedly stretch my bladder. This characterised the issue as a largely physical one, ignoring any social, psychological, or spiritual aspects. Maybe it was physical — I suspect my childhood asthma and hay-fever are vax injury —but lived experience hints that there is more to it.

My suspicion is that deep down I was not feeling safe, as my parents were not politically or religiously aligned, and it upset the father/mother dynamic. It is in the middle of the night when the sprit world is closest to us, and we drift in and out of our bodies as we dream. If as a small child you are uncertain of the parental protection you have, or the solidity of their relationship, this can manifest in other ways. Urine is sterile, albeit smelly, a little like tears; relief of pressure in one’s sleep has an almost lachrymal quality. Perhaps it is sadness or fear that is being released, not just liquid. Maybe my dreams were too intense, and my connection to my own body too tenuous to feel the urge to wake up and get up. I don’t have a full understanding of the condition, only a testimony.

Why retell this story now, other than as a kind of essay therapy for buried childhood trauma? Well, we are in the phase of the Great Awakening where the masses receive the jolt that forces them out of their slumber. Many are metaphorically “triple incontinent” — the vomit of the bioweapon jab, the poo of media brainwashing, the piss of rejecting their awake friends and family. They are in that liminal period you sometimes get between deep sleep and full daytime consciousness: the signals from your body and environment are incorporated into the fantasy in your head, but you cannot separate out where they come from, or act upon them, being in paralysis. What they are waking up to is a nasty, smelly, unpleasant mess.

The timely reminder of my own vulnerability and upset as a child is a helpful reminder of how the distress was handled by my parents. The less anxiety they heaped upon me, and the more they operated in gratitude for dryness, rather than rebuke for soiling myself, the easier it became. That doesn’t absolve adults of responsibility for “waking up in the toilet” when they have been repeatedly warned to take precautions. It just resets the matter to how I would want to be treated if the roles were reversed. If I can return to these feelings from the mid-1970s, then those with a “dirty awakening” to mass psychosis and coercive control will still be reliving this time in decades to come.

I wasn’t “well” as a young child, and it was handled with compassion, not moral condemnation. I wasn’t “well” as an adult in 2019, and that too was handled with compassion, not moral condemnation. Those who are forced awake in 2025 from their programming are not “well”, and the starting point is compassion, not moral condemnation. There are wickednesses that deserve a reckoning, so not every disgusting fouled abode deserves our presence or clean-up effort; some are to be righteously condemned, not rehabilitated. We are dealing with complex family dysfunctions, multi-generational trauma, and socially engineered failings — so a single pathology or diagnostic label is inappropriate.

It was easier to awaken where the societal discomfort was only “beyond the warm and dry duvet”; the reality is now we have to confront “incontinent awakenings” at scale. While I did not welcome or relish this particular episode from my own past, it does sit with me as an instructive experience. A lot of gentle encouragement can be undone with one insensitive remark. We are dealing with a society subjected to narcissistic abuse, frozen into arrested development, and quite childish — albeit able to cause enormous damage with an adult body and resources. The awake are more like philosophical parents, dealing with the fallout of their immature near and dear coming out of a sweaty nightmare. Damning infants for being infantile is pointless.

The clean-up job ahead is a lot of responsibility, as there is a real risk of “cultural cholera” if we don’t address it. I don’t know what the spiritual laundromat looks like yet — let me know if you do! The military aren’t traditionally into the job of tending to “babies” of any kind, so we’re entering new territory. All I can be certain of is that this period in my life did pass, I did grow up and stop bedwetting, and I have healed from it. The memory of it tempers my own zealous tendency to leap towards a moral lens, rather than a “wellness” one. We are having to deprogram a society deliberately maintained in an infantilised state, so incontinence comes with the terrain. Aided with relational diapers and emotional wet wipes we can make it through this reparenting task.

Winter at Robin Hood’s Bay