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i meant liion*

October 29, 2014

Setting the tone for the drive down to see P, on the radio I heard Eric Clapton’s I Shot the Sheriff. I was 7 or 8 when that version came out. It always reminded me of my older cousin, D. Not because he’d shot anybody (as far as I know), but because teenage D always seemed to be under suspicion for something from all the adults in the family. If someone was going to get framed for a crime, even at 8 years old, I could totally see it being D. I felt the injustice of that. Both for D’s sake, but also for my own, because I felt similar to him. I was definitely always being blamed for something, anything. And that blame usually involved a lot of screaming.

Had been anxious about discussing 10.27.14 dream with P because (1) it was so unsettling, and (2) I didn’t think she was one of the characters, but what if she thought she was? (She didn’t.) We did talk about it some, but we mostly talked about poop. And my traumatic childhood experiences in bathrooms. Bathrooms in my grandmother’s house, as it happens.

One of these incidents also involves D, a tricksy lock on the door, the police unexpectedly showing up to my grandmother’s house to inform my alarmed/disbelieving/mortified parents that their 5 year old child was locked in the bathroom, and who was responsible for that?

I told P maybe this incident helped D get away with something, and I hope it did. But I got screamed at, hopefully after the police left, although I don’t actually remember the details. At first I was just really confused. I’d been locked in the bathroom for hours. Had tried yelling out the window to my parents, who didn’t hear me or were ignoring me. I made the best of it — what else could I do, but wait for someone to notice that I was missing. (Which never happened.) The police calling, looking for D, was a stroke of luck for me. They got me out. They wanted me to get out. No one else cared.

Hey, I wonder if Mrs. Nocerino (the real person) asked lots of obnoxious questions later on?

For years and years after that, I wouldn’t lock the bathroom door, in case I got stuck again. I was afraid to lock any doors, in case I got trapped somewhere. I still always check bathroom stalls to make sure there’s enough room at the bottom that I could crawl out if I had to; if the door goes all the way down to the floor, I won’t use the bathroom unless there’s no alternative.


P has suggested I try standup comedy. She says the way I present a lot of my stories shows the humorous side (while perhaps minimizing just how traumatic the original experiences were). The audience would have to be really sympathetic, though. Generally I don’t tell strangers any of this stuff; only very gingerly do I mention it to people I’d like to get to know better. Lots of people have accused me of lying. Or exaggerating. Or they suggest that I’ve lost touch with reality. Because surely no one’s parents would actually behave like that!?! O hai, Just World Fallacy, my old frenemy.

Anyway, poop. Turns out I had a lot to say.

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