Morbidly Obese Woman in Brown Polyester Drinking a Peanut Butter Shake Phobia

Throughout my cruel and beyond unusual sentence in this life time, I have run the gamut of shrinks and other mental health workers. What I have found to be universal is they will all diagnose you with past underlying issues. No shit, you're kidding me? All this time I thought my koutaliaphobia (fear of wooden spoons) was due to splinters – not the fact that my mother broke over 100 on my ass as a kid.

It usually takes an average of six to eight sessions, depending on your insurance, before they come to the underlying issue revelation. For the uninsured, it might be the second session followed by the phrase “you're too fucked up I cannot help you”. Either way, if you go for therapy, you will be told you have unresolved issues. As if we don't fucking know this. It's always nice to be reaffirmed that you are fucked up. Especially by someone with a professional license whom you are paying. It makes your fucked up-ness credible.

Good shrinks will tell you that resolving these past underlying issues can take years. They instead work in the here and now then address the underlying issues causing your current fucked up-ness. The insurance milker shrink will want to tackle every past issue never really getting to what is fucking you up in the present. As one shrink told me, it took me 40 years to get this fucked up, it could take him another 40 to go back and help me resolve all that shit. See, I just saved you thousands. Make sure your shrink works in the here and now. Oh, and if the shrink starts on the mother bullshit, run like you just stole a television during the LA riots.

Most of our fears stem from childhood. If you are ever really bored, think back and make a list of your fears as a kid. Of course, mine are rather fucked up. Here are a few: the dark, the zoo, the circus, animal shit, the toilet, snakes, condoms, G.I. Joe, Mister Rogers, school, the basement, heights, playing sports, Santa, just to name a few. They should just roll off the top of your head pretty easily with no effort.

General past fears we eventually get over with age. A few stick around which we manage as need be. I still have a strong fear of heights but can rationalize myself through a situation when at a high elevation. G.I. Joe can still freak me out. My penis ended up growing and my crotch no longer looks like his unless I manscape. However, some of our childhood fears can manifest and turn in to phobias. Most of these are treatable through cognitive therapy. There are those which are too complex and beyond fucked up to treat. Treatment generally involves exposing yourself to the fear gradually over a period of time. Then the traumas which are so fucked up might occur only once in a life time. These are multifaceted fears linked to a specific event. The problem with these phobias is the complexity and number of fears involved. An one of the facets can trigger panic. Recreation of the initial situation is near impossible. This prohibits exposure therapy. Basically, you're fucked in the ass if you have a complex phobia.

I have a multifaceted phobia which has crippled me to this day. There is no given phobia name. It is too fucked up. The only way to diagnose it is to call it what it is: Fear of morbidly obese woman with body odor, wearing tight brown polyester, drinking a peanut butter shake. Just typing that resulted in a gag reflex. In multifaceted phobias, not all elements need to occur simultaneously to create panic. Exposure to a single element can trigger anticipated panic causing the brain to subconsciously associate the single element with the others from the initial trauma thus resulting in a full blown panic attack.

Some traumatic events are repressed; others are as clear in or minds as they day they happened. This particular event is omnipresent. My exact age is unclear, but will guess 8 years old. It was summer time and the family was at the lake house. Every weekend, Mom and Dad would pick a night to take us putt-putt golfing then treat us to soft serve ice cream after the game. Most times my Dad had to finish my putts for me since I sucked at sports. This always resulted in my crying before the 18th hole. Putt-Putt courses that had windmills on a hole always freaked me out. I was always afraid my ball would get stuck and while trying to retrieve it, I would be decapitated. Water feature holes also scared me for there might be a snake in the water. It seemed as if time moved in slow motion while playing putt-putt. My only focus was it finally ending and running over to get in line for soft serve ice cream.

Being summer early evenings were quite warm and the soft serve ice cream stand always had a line. My parents would get a picnic table, give my brother and I money, and let us wait in line to order. Most of the other kids had to wait with their parents so we were the shit. This particular evening, my brother and I get stuck behind this family that was fat as fuck. I'm talking even the kids were as wide as they were tall. Forget trying to see what was happening in front of us being stuck behind these human billboards. I began to panic that this family being so large, their order would consume all the soft serve ice cream. The other line wasn't any shorter and more people had already formed behind us. When in lines, human nature seems to tell us the closer we get to those in front of us, the line will move faster which my brother and I did. Due to my panic of fat family eating all the soft serve, I didn't realize my face had ended up staring directly into morbidly obese moms ass crack. Suddenly, there was a smell. Not just any smell, but a smell so foul my eyes watered. It was a ass body odor smell, kind of synthetic, yet sharp like sour foot odor. I couldn't take it and motioned to my brother as I tried to turn to the side for air. Being the asshole my brother was, he caught the smell though was not as close as I was. He began pushing me so my head would actually hit her ass. I was terrified her smell would permeating into my skin. After several pushes I began to crying. What if I caught the smell and could never get rid of it? Would I smell like her forever? I already had no friends. This could make me the stinky gay fag at school. Gay fag was bad enough. At some point the Moby Marcia turned around and yelled at us to knock it off. I began to cry hysterically because all I saw was a brown Grimace, actually three conjoined Grimace's in a brown polyester stretch outfit. Her fat rolls changed shape as she turned to yell. Some actually appeared to be rolling in violence. The words were slow as they came from an oily wet face that had no definition from the mouth to her huge saggy tits. I wanted to run to my parents though I saw the fat family was ordering meaning we were next. I really didn't want soft serve ice cream at this point. I was covered in fat woman ass stank which I was convinced I would have for the rest of my life. This is when I heard Moby Marcia speak again: “An extra large peanut butter shake”. That was her order. I love peanut butter and shakes but not together. Now all I could think about was fat polyester ass stank with peanut butter and a shake. I was going to vomit. We stepped up to the window as fat family waddled off. My brother placed his order and my parents, then the woman looked at me. Nothing could come out of my mouth. The idea of eating anything made me want to barf. I started crying again and ran to find my parents. My brother ended up getting in trouble for teasing me. Once my Mom calmed me down, my dad went up and got me a chocolate dipped in chocolate soft serve cone. Yet, the smell would not go away.

35 years later, this experience haunts me and can trigger a full blown panic attack. Fat women in brown, boom panic attack. Seeing ice cream and peanut butter next to each other, boom panic attack. Fat people at soft serve ice cream stores, boom panic attack. The smell of sweat from polyester, boom panic attack. Soft serve ice cream on some levels will even trigger an attack. Due to the complexity of factors involved, there is no real way for me to get past this. It's just too fucked up for treatment. Those of you who take your kids for ice cream in the summer, keep them safe from fat woman in polyester.