I should be doing some laundry. I have run out of socks… And anyways, I want to tame this beast of not doing my laundry.
I gather a load’s worth of stuff, carry it to the washing machine… and the distaste, the disgust is so strong… I take a beeline… and sit down by my computer.
Distaste, eh? Yeah, says muscle test. Disgust? yes. Was it always there? No. Was it from when i was 3? later… from age seven.
What was happening at age seven? I went to school. We had a live-in help: my mother was working on her Masters Degree, coming home around nine every night. My brother was about a year old… and was probably driving the live-in help bonkers.
And I recoil from dirty laundry…
I sit really quietly. The fear joins the distaste. I feel terror. I feel being beaten. Screamed at. Wrapped in wet sheets… Can’t breathe…
I must have wet my bed. I don’t remember. My body remembers. The fear, the disgust, the gagging.