(All Brand Names have been changed to protect me as I write)

Hey, kids, what time is it? It’s return to fucking yesteryear one more time. Sorta like a hands-on (please excuse the visual analogy) lesson in P.T.S.D. For those of you who missed it, that’s Post Traumatic Sugar Pops Disorder. The phenomenon that occurs when you make a link between a visual or odor or taste or touch or sound cue and a trauma. I can’t eat Sugarpops because that’s the cereal that was left on the table after my big sis and I (and maybe little sis) got boffed by my dad, et al! Funny, I always thought that meant and some guy named Al.

Well???? Today’s lesson, well be exploring the nausea and fear and night sweats and all sorts of fun reactions that come from … Smell. After God only knows how many years, I finally figured out why Irish Spring makes me want to heave. Seems I finally remembered a few things that occurred in a bathroom. (Very small and crowded with at least two kids and one adult — someone had to know!) The brand of choice for bathing in our household was Irish Spring. The smell of it getting cleaned up afterward — somebody was meant not to know, you know. Raise your hand if you figured out what went before ‘afterward.’

Anyway, I got a real fear of water. But not like water being splashed. I can take a shower just fine as long as I hold my head a certain way. NO baths, though. Alice (maybe you remember from my other epic, Alice?) is always saying when I’m tense, “Why don’t you take a nice bath. It will be relaxing.” She means well, but after I’ve declined the offer say maybe twenty or so times, it does get old. I can’t relax in the bathroom because I can’t take a bath without getting sick. And yes, you guessed it. It’s because a lot of the sexual stuff happened in the bathroom.

I had a recent memory/flashback of having my head held under water. And sorry, in this case cleanliness is the furthest distance to Godliness. I thought it was because he threatened me if I told. My bestest pal in the whole world had that happen to her; she was held off a balcony by her fucking uncle! So naturally I figured that’s what was going on with me. If only. I remember a lot more than some; a bit less than others, but the clues don’t always become clear right away.

Okay, show of hands for those of us out there who have gone through this shit. Be honest, okay. If it happened, it didn’t happen; your mind and maybe some well meaning folks and your offender for sure want you to think it was an event. It didn’t ‘happen;’ he did it (I will allow for the ones of us who were offended by women, but mostly it was a guy; someone close)! Either way, it wasn’t some odd occurrence dropped in the middle of our lives. It was because someone else had been hurt and couldn’t stand the pain but never got help and decided to take out their pain on us. Plain and simple.

Anyway, as I was saying, those of us who have had this hurt, raise your hands. Not so fast, buster. If it didn’t happen to you, don’t even go there. Don’t pretend. Don’t act like you know and really please don’t say you fucking understand. Where was I?

Some of us had something worse than anything you can imagine. Something we share that makes the guilt even more horrific than we can bear (unless we get help). My friend had this happen with her and I had this happen with me.

WARNING: EVEN IF YOU READ THE DISCLAIMER ABOVE, THIS MAY BE EVEN TOO DISGUSTING TO READ; THE FOLLOWING DEALS WITH FORCED INTERACTION BY SIBLINGS — YOU READ THIS RIGHT. READ AT YOUR OWN PERIL

Like I said, my best pal was hurt this was and I was too. I was forced to physically interact with my older sister. I don’t even recall if it went as far as little sis, but if you read my other story you know she isn’t talking. We were forced to make contact…I can’t even say it without crying, and ask Alice; she’ll tell you that it is not a common thing even with all this shit to see me cry. He made us touch and lick and all those things that were supposed to be good untll the sick fuck twisted it into one big nightmare. And lest we forget, even though I was a ‘special girl’ inside, I was little Billy Ferromonte outside. Billy didn’t like the taste of semen and Belle still doesn’t, but little Billy cries inside Belle even to this day for what he had to do with Elena Ferromonte. Amelia Ferromonte probably doesn’t like what happened, either, but like I said, she’s not talking.

So when I get into a bathroom and I seen a nice shower stall, I can relax. A bathtub gives me a chill. And like someone told me, it hurts even more when good things make you sick. So we put that all together, and I get upset and even sick when I smell Irish Spring. You can imagine how much scrubbing went on so that when Mom came home from work we smelled okay.

He didn’t touch us when we were together. He might take us separately off to the bedroom, but no touching when we were together. He just watched. Like that was okay. Like hey, I didn’t touch so it’s okay? He’s been roasting over a slow flame for some time now, but I’m still cold as ice at times. And like I said once before, I’m doing better than a hell of a lot other girls and boys who put up with this shit.

All this to say that I get majorly pissed off when someone writes about this shit and it's just a way to make the story move along. Yep. I've started to ignore stuff, but every once and a while I play stupid and read something I know is going to tap my fucking turntable (Ask Mom and Dad what that means, kids!) And if you've read this far you either care about someone you love enough to read through this shit or you actually went through it. Or you care enough to want to know. To all of you, I say thank you.

The moral of the story is simple; if you meet someone who seems to be a bit prudish or sensitive about shit like this or even just ‘sex and stuff,’ they just might need to not take a bath.