Redemption 1

After she had fastened the diapers I had to stand up and lift one leg and then the other so that she could pull up the plastic pants. When she was ready she pulled down my nightdress over the diapers, and patting me on my bottom said something degrading such as”Now our little baby can go to bed and pee as much as she wants”.


 Chapter 1

 I was inspired to write this story by watching  a short movie with the same title and by an exchange of mails with a person called Katie for whom that movie had opened a can of – bad – memories.


I have few but very fond memories of my very first years. I adored my father and he adored me. Together with my mother we formed a happy little family. Although with hindsight I realize that even at that time there were some clouds in the blue sky. My father could play for hours with me. He would be my horse, or he would take me by my arms and then spin around, or we would wrestle and tickle each other. We never got tired of it, often making a lot of noise. But my mother often stopped us by asking in an irritated way to be quieter, or ask my father if he hadn’t anything else to do. At those moments he would immediately stop the game, wink at me, and I knew that he would be back as soon as possible and resume our playing.

Those happy years came to an abrupt end, entirely by my fault, when I was 5. We were going somewhere by car and I was playing with a ball. When I dropped the ball to the floor  for the 4th or 5th time, my mother got tired of giving it back – I couldn’t take it back myself as I was fastened to my car seat – and told me to be quiet and look outside. I began weaning and my father took pity with me, and reached behind his seat to get the ball. I don’t know what happened but he must have been distracted and not noticed the light was red.  We were hit by another car at high speed, right into my father’s door. He was killed instantly.

I remember standing at his grave. My mother had her arm in a sling – for the rest of her live she would complain about having a sour shoulder – and when they lowered the casket into the grave I put my arm around her hoping to be comforted, and hoping to give some comfort. But she pushed me away and gave me a resentful look. She didn’t say anything, she never accused me of anything, but she made me understand very clearly that I had killed my father.

A couple of days later I wet my bed for the first time. My mother made a big fuss of it, shouting that I was a little baby. In the next couple of days I had 2 more accidents. After the third accident she said she would put me back in diapers.  Frightened I pleaded not to do that, but she gave me a look full of contempt saying that she was not going to wash my sheets every day and that little babies who wet their bed had to wear diapers.

That evening when I had put on my nightdress and was ready to go to sleep she came into my room carrying disposable diapers and plastic pants. I cried very hard but to no avail. She wanted me to lie down on the bed so that she could put on the diapers, but I refused, until I got some very hard slaps in the face. I stopped resisting, weeping softly while she diapered me. After she had fastened the diapers I had to stand up and lift one leg and then the other so that she could put on the plastic pants. When she was ready she pulled down my nightdress over the diapers, and patting me on my bottom said something degrading such as”Now our little baby can go to bed and pee as much as she wants”. When she left me alone I cried softly, horribly missing my father.

As I had had no chance to go to the toilet before she had diapered me I almost immediately felt the pressure building in my bladder. I stayed awake most of the night afraid of wetting my diapers but towards morning I must have fallen asleep. When my mother entered the room and had me get out of bed I felt the heaviness of my diapers. Nervously I pulled down my nightdress but my mother noticed and lifting my dress began scolding me for being a filthy little baby.

She took me by the hand and guided me to the kitchen were she told me to wait. After a few minutes she came back carrying all kind of baby things: Saying that I was a little baby she put a bib around my neck, and had me drink from a baby-bottle. I first refused to drink but she began yelling and screaming at me, and I emptied the bottle. When I was done she took me upstairs, took of my nightdress, popped a pacifier in my mouth, and put me in front of the mirror, “to have a good look at this filthy little baby”.

From that day on I was diapered every night. And most of the days I woke up having wet them. Every time I woke up with wet diapers I was treated as a little baby. On schooldays it was just during breakfast, but on week-ends she would keep me in my wet diapers, treating me as a baby, for several hours.

My life became hell. I was horribly ashamed and feared my little friends would find out my secret. Thanks to my sweet mother that didn’t take long. One Saturday morning I was still wearing nothing but wet diapers under plastic pants and a short t-shirt, when one of my little friends from the neighborhood knocked on the kitchen door, and called me. I realized that my mother was going to open the door and wanted to bolt, but she had expected that. She grabbed me by the arm and pulling me, screaming and kicking, to the door, which she swung wide open. The little girl gasped at the scene but my mother calmly told her to come in:

“Come on in Tammy. Katie is making a scene but she’ll be fine in a few seconds. She didn’t want you to know she wears diapers to bed, but as you now know anyway there is no more reason for her to carry on screaming!”

I wanted to die. Pulling down my t-shirt with my free hand, I tried to hide the diapers. My mother let go of my arm and told me to go change myself, and then turned to my friend again: “When did you stop wetting your bed Tammy?  I suppose even your little brother doesn’t have to wear diapers anymore? Well, Katie is still wetting her bed every night like a little baby.”

Tammy was completely at a loss about what to say, but I didn’t wait for her to recover her spirits. I ran upstairs took of the diapers, put on some clothes and hided in my room. After a while my mother began yelling that I had to come down as Tammy was still waiting for me. Knowing I had no choice I obeyed, and went out with my little friend. Tammy pretended to be sympathetic with my situation, saying it was not a big deal. I made her promise not to tell anybody,

I never knew if she kept that promise, as some time later, another incident occurred which brought my secret even more in the open. That day my mother was keeping me in diapers again, and I was looking out the window watching Tammy and some other kids playing on the street, sucking on my pacifier and holding a rag doll in my hand. .When my mother had begun treating me as a baby she had forced me to carry that doll around. But after a while I had begun to find comfort in it and now carried it around everywhere, for which my mother often made smearing remarks, saying I was becoming every day more and more a baby.

I don’t know how it happened but that day at a certain moment I dropped a bottle of orange juice on the floor. My mother, as always when such things happened, went ballistic. Yelling and screaming that I was the clumsiest kid in the world, she wanted me out of her way so that she could clean up. She took me by the arm and pulled me to the door again. Realizing she was going to put me outside I resisted, yelling and kicking. She gave me a couple of smacks and the door opened and I was literally thrown out, still screaming and yelling. Had I kept quiet I could have hidden behind the house without anybody noticing, but now the kids came running to our house to see what was going on. I was standing in the driveway wearing nothing but a shirt and diapers. I was still too much in shock to decide what to do, and was just standing there with tears running over my cheeks, when the door opened again and my mother came up to me. She popped a pacifier in my mouth and pushed my doll in my arms: “here you clumsy little cry-baby, now everybody can see what for a pee-pee-baby you really are!”

Tammy and the other kids tried to comfort me, but I told them to leave me alone, and hid behind the house, with my dolly, which had become my only friend. Although Tammy continued to say she didn’t mind me wearing diapers and that we continued to be best fiends I knew she and the other kids of the neighborhood made fun of me behind my back.

A number of months after my father died my mother began going out in the week-ends. First only on Saturdays but then on both Friday’s and Saturdays. On those nights I went to stay with the neighbors. The first time I pleaded to stay home alone, but that was out of the question, and then I asked not to have to wear diapers, promising that I would be very careful not to wet the bed. But that too was of course out of the question: “We don’t want our little baby to wet the bed at Tammy’s, do we? Besides, they know you wear diapers to bed, so what’s the big deal?”

When my mother walked me towards their house and told Tammy‘s mother, in front of the other kids, that she would find a diaper in my bag, I wanted to disappear forever. Of course they knew, but having it said out loud made it so much worse. And later that night having Tammy’s mother taking me apart, and feeling that she felt awkward having to diaper a 6 year old, was so horrible. After a while everybody got used to it, and it became routine, with the mother first diapering Tammy’s little sister Suzy, and then me. But even so I always felt very ashamed. And when at a certain moment Suzy began having dry nights it became even harder. I remember one horrible incident. In the morning the little girl had come into the room I shared with Tammy, announcing her diapers were dry and asked about mine. I lied that I was dry too, but Suzy got all excited, jumping up and down my bed, trying to pull away the cover, I panicked, and gave her a hard slap in the face. Crying very hard the girl ran to her mother while Tammy began berating me, asking what had come into me.

A little bit later I was taken apart by the mother and was told that if I ever again dared to hurt her daughter I wouldn’t be allowed to come back, and that she would have to tell my mother about what had happened. I knew that when my mother was told I was in for some bad treatment but I felt too ashamed about what I had done to say anything. And indeed when my mother had learned about it she first slapped me around and then got out my old baby harness and I was fastened to the radiator in the kitchen for the first time, something which would regularly happen from then on.

And a few days later there would be another first.

Except for night time accidents I often had near-accidents during the day. I always had had a very small bladder, nothing new about that. But that day we got stuck in a traffic jam on our way to my grandmother. When we finally started driving again I asked my mom to stop at a service station but she answered we had lost already enough time, I would just have to hold out. About 40 minutes later we arrived almost at our destination but my mother stopped at a supermarket because she had to buy a couple of things, and when we would be leaving my grandmothers place the supermarket would be closed. I wanted to hurry for the bathrooms, but she stopped me telling me to stand in line at the check out counter while she grabbed the couple of things she needed, to save time. Knowing how my grandmother hated it when we arrived late I nodded and did as I was asked, but I could hardly hold out. Back in the car I felt better, but when a couple of minutes later we finally arrived and I had to walk to the door, I couldn’t keep it anymore. I stopped and felt the wetness spreading in my jeans, and running down my leg.

When the door opened I was standing with my legs slightly apart, and my face all anxious looking down at my wet pants. My mother began yelling as usual: “Where have I deserved this? My 6 year old daughter not only wears diapers to bed but now she pees in her pants during the day too!” My grandmother gave me a surprised and angry look too:” Oh God, your mother is right Katie, you are too big to wet your pants! Are you a baby or what? You should tell your mother when you have to pee, otherwise she can’t know it, can she?”

I was too frightened and too ashamed to say anything. My grandmother told her daughter to go inside and told me to get out of my wet pants. I had to take off my shoes, pants and panties right there on the porch, all the time looking over my shoulder, hoping nobody would pass by in the street. When I followed my grandmother inside, half naked, my mother came towards me holding a diaper in her hand. My grandmother always kept diapers for the few times I stayed overnight with her. For the rest of that day I wore nothing but diapers underneath my shirt and sweater, even for the drive back home.

From then on my mother made me wear diapers whenever we went out, except for school. Pretending that it was more convenient to change I always was dressed in a short dress. In my memories I remember wearing a short denim jumper dress over diapers during my whole childhood.  She knew of course that I was in permanent fear that somebody would notice my diapers, but wearing a short dress that was inevitable.

When I dared to protest against this treatment I would be spanked. Sometimes a couple of smacks in my face or a spanking with a cane on my bare legs. When she had drunk, which happened more and more, this spanking could t turn into a severe beating.

Of course using a toilet became a hassle when I was diapered so my mother soon refused to let me use a bathroom whenever we were not at home. Wetting my diapers became a convenient solution, and my mother – again mostly when she was drunk – would often lift my skirt to expose my wet diapers to whoever happened to be there.

Wearing diapers became so normal that I had more and more difficulty holding up. As I have told before my mother would regularly punish me by attaching me to the radiator in the kitchen for several hours. On those occasions I would have to fight very hard not to pee on the floor until my mother came in the kitchen and I could ask to be released and go to the bathroom. One day in stead of releasing me she brought me a baby potty, telling me to use that. That potty became a fixed feature of the kitchen, for my little friends to see.

Next chapter:



  1. (De) from Patricia.

    Nice book, you did, coming after I saw The movie same-named, still on :

    Vous avez considérablement développé le personnage de la petite fille qui perd son père, se sent coupable et devient le souffre-douleur d’une mère malade, jalouse aussi (mais chacun trimbale ses propres douleurs, parfois elles passent les générations, car elles proviennent presque toutes de la petite enfance qui nous structure).

    C’est une petite fille cassée qui subit, qui est victime de cette mère, et qui en gardera à jamais les stigmates, malgré la belle résilience proposée par vos deux récits.

    La résilience, étant la capacité …à …re-tricoter les …trous… laissés ….dans la construction de ces enfants, comme un tricot … …..qui ne tiendrait pas sans cela, ….et qui, ….par cet effort, cette chance, cette création de nouvelle mailles, fait que l’individu tient enfin debout.

    Fondamentalement le besoin de se sentir protégé, en couches, provient (dès la naissance voire avant, neurologiquement), du besoin d’attachement aux soins du CAREGIVER, la personne qui répond en retour à ces signaux d’attachement en provenance de l’enfant.

    Sans cela la vie du petit devient insécure, l’angoisse d’abandon finit par devenir une vague submergeante.

    Ces mères n’ont pas commencé leur jalousie, ou leur sauvagerie comme ça, c’était déjà en germe à la naissance de l’enfant, même si la bienséance impose la retenue, qui leur fait défaut ensuite….

    L’enfant se rassure par ses faibles moyens à la perte de ce sentiment d’être soigné, porté (hold)…. pacifier, nunuk, pouce, doudou, ours, doll, and for sure, bien-sûr, le moment du change, le contact avec cet objet diapers, couches, qui maintiennent le contact doux de ces instants, la pression rassurante, sur ces zones tellement sensibles, durant le temps, pour le petit, de se retrouver seul dans dans sa chambre. Pour certains enfants, la force ainsi créée, restera active toute la vie, de manière décuplée.

    Ces deux récits me touchent plus que je ne le montre, car j’ai connu une telle ‘mère’, dans ma vie de petite fille, et certains passages des deux récits, témoignent de cette même maltraitance, ce désamour, cette violence, que j’ai connu aussi petite, me faisant exploser d’émotion et de pleurs, comme quoi les plaies ne se referment pas, même 50 ans après.

    Cependant, je pense que même si acter, répéter, comme il est dit dans le film, ou savoir ce qui s’est passé est inévitable, ce besoin de se sentir protégé reste un moyen de petit, dès les deux ans de l’enfant, même si un viol, des violences répétées, un inceste maternel, paternel, incluant des couches, vient raviver ce besoin de manière catastrophique, le fixant sur le désir amoureux, sur la sexualité, parfois, rendant presque obligatoire chez l’adulte, l’utilisation de ce refuge magique et dérisoire.

    Je ferai une petite critique, donc, c’est que cet aspect évoqué dans le film, très justement, de cette incroyable violence faite à l’enfance, et ses conséquences incontournables, dans la structure même de l’individu, soient fondues dans votre écrit en une plainte linéaire de la victime.

    Mais c’est un détail, je pense que j’aurai du mal aussi à rendre de manière littéraire!..

    Notre besoin de vivre cette enfance perdue à jamais, de la réparer, de réparer les trous, les vides béants, y compris de retrouver des sensations vitales, comme le port de couches, ou la poupée, l’ours, le pouce de notre enfance, le biberon ou la sucette magique qui calme la douleur, nous rend à jamais, aussi, différents de la norme…

    Nous restons malgré toute notre réussite intellectuelle et sociale par ailleurs, des enfants injuriés, battus, blessés, et surtout, élevés sans empathie, avec une violence psychologique, qui bien souvent, ne se démentira pas dans le temps.

    J’ai décidé, moi, de ne plus me demander si ‘ma’ génitrice, avec laquelle j’ai rompu tout contact, m’appellera sur son lit de mort, pour enfin reconnaitre ce qu’elle m’a fait… J’ai préféré ne pas attendre et vivre, et oui, oui, en couche, et par une incontinence permanente (venue se greffer, pour d’autres raisons comme pour Katie), reprendre ma construction de petite fille, voire d’humaine libre, même si j’ai été mère, si je suis femme, je ne serai jamais adulte, mais je construis ma manière de bonheur.

    Le film n’était qu’une ébauche d’un scénario plus construit, qui devait voir le jour ensuite, et l’on ne distingue pas les séquelles qui vont présider à la guidance de cette femme victime, par son doux mari, car l’amour ne suffit pas à soigner ces plaies-là….

    Votre œuvre se termine, elle, de façon plus construite, plus ressentie, plus juste, par une ouverture sur la vie un peu particulière que va pouvoir mener Katie, même maman, même aimée, elle continuera à réclamer une sécurisation, un attachement, que lui offrira son mari à travers la répétition infinie de ses actes qui la soignèrent sa vie durant.

    Merci de donner beaucoup d’amour à ces enfants que nous restons, par l’écriture, et dans les actes du quotidien des couples, des soins, du ‘caregiving’, tels ceux qu’on ne refuse pas à son p’tit-bout de bébé.

    If intersested to discuss about, you can join me at : patriciaclaire84(arrobase)gmail(point)com

    • Merci pour ce témoignage et cette “critique” élaborée. Ce film et, en en moindre mesure, mon histoire, semblent toucher un nombre de personnes, ce qui fait plaisir. Je vous contacterai un des ces jours à l’adresse mentionnée. Bisous

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