Yesterday, I time-traveled. Not in the cool, H.G. Wells, steampunk kind of way, but the CPTSD way. The no warning, no mercy, full-body flashback kind of way.

The time machine? A body spray. Specifically, the Old Spice Superman limited edition.

Yeah. A superhero-branded deodorant did me in.

But this wasn’t about smelling fresh. This was about how scent, more than sight, more than sound, can rip open a memory so fast you don’t even have time to brace for it.

Superman: A Symbol of Hope

You should know this about me: I love Superman. Always have. Something about the whole truth, justice, and hope shtick hits deep. The guy’s not just muscle and tights; he’s about holding on when everything’s falling apart. The idea that someone could be that strong and that gentle? Yeah. That meant something to me growing up. And even now, it still does.

So imagine my surprise when, instead of a little nostalgic smile, that bottle cracked open a memory. Not just a thought. Not a flicker of discomfort. A full-body, sensory, soul-deep plunge back into him. My abuser. That smell, his smell. It’s not just cologne to me. It is him. Not a hero. Not to me anyway.

And the worst part? Superman was supposed to be mine.

As a kid, he was my symbol. My hope. My reminder that even when the world feels like it’s crumbling, you can still rise above it. But there he was, emblazoned on a product that yanked me straight back to someone who tried to destroy me. A cheap can of body spray became a portal to the worst parts of my past.

The Hidden Nature of CPTSD Triggers

That’s the problem with CPTSD. There are no warning labels on triggers. They don’t wait for you to feel comfortable or happy, and they most definitely don’t ask for permission. For those who haven’t experienced it, they may not always make sense.

You could say it’s just a body spray or a made-up character. But if you know. You know.

You will know how a smell can open a door you locked years ago. How a sound can short-circuit your nervous system. How a phrase, a place, or a cologne with a cape on it can send your body into survival mode.

Suddenly, you’re back in the fire. And no one else can see the flames.

The Reality of Healing

There’s no tidy conclusion here. No easy lesson. Rather, the reality is that healing is and will always be ongoing for me. I’m still sitting with it. Still trying to untangle what it means for something I loved, someone I looked up to, to be used to sell something that hurt me. Still, grieving a loss that most people wouldn’t even recognize as a loss.

But maybe naming it helps. Maybe that’s the point of writing this. Of putting it somewhere outside of myself. Today, for me, healing looks like saying, This happened. It sucked. It still hurts. But I’m here.

Because Superman always stood for hope. And maybe hope isn’t about staying invincible. Maybe it’s about standing back up, again, and saying:

This didn’t destroy me.

Even if it tried.