A Myriad of , Traumas

My first known notable trauma:   

  I was apparently dropped thrown or otherwise abused landed hard on my back.        

  I don't remember specifically that exact incident but now that I look back, I honestly think I was either brutalized or a victim of roughhousing from my babysitting 19 years older than me half brother.    

  It was I believe probably not either of my parents doing. However, there was a medical examination that was done at some point, whereas I had supposedly tested positive for Tuberculosis as many people do get false positives which at that point required an x-ray.  However, they may have been looking for damage to my spine from the injury that is something I cannot say for certain.  

  I do remember not talking for some very emotional reason but it was obviously after I was six months old something happened I am not sure what but I do remember  something scared the living crap out of me were as I was not communicating with my parents like we normally had previously.   

  I remember very specifically, that my mother was somehow astonished when she discovered me in my little rocking chair that had a little music box that was powered by rocking the chair back and forth I was singing along with the tune and making up my own words.  

   I seem to remember that that was the day when it became OK in my mind to talk to my mother about what I was thinking. I was about 18 months old at the time.   

  There seemed to be a whole year that was kind of difficult for me to remember.  But I think that's understandable considering how young I was at the time.     

 

 

Second trauma I accidentally killed my pet kitty:

   This may somehow be connected emotionally to the first trauma? 

   I had a little kitty I loved that little kitty.  

   I somehow had enough time that I thought, my parents probably would not discover me doing attempting to give the kitty a bath in the bathroom sink where I could reach when I stood on my stepping stool.   

  I think I got the idea because I used to watch my mother bathe her Silver Persian cats in the kitchen sink that she raised professionally.   

   I heard one of my parents coming in the direction where I was.    At that point, I panicked and attempted to hide the kitty in one of the drawers of my dresser.  My parents told me later when I could understand what happened that when I stuffed the kitty into the drawer that the kitty somehow got into a position and either suffocated or got a broken neck from my attempt to conceal that I tried to give the kitty a bath and I did not have him clean and dry yet by the time mom or dad returned to the area where I was.       My parents were mostly very kind people especially my mother she was an exceptionally kind person.   

  I do not remember them trying to punish me, but it was quite difficult for them to explain to me at 18 months old, what happened and how it happened.   

   I think between the time it happened and the time I actually understood that I had killed the kitty was probably the in terms of months or years rather than days.    

  I am not sure if it was one of those things where shutting it out of mind, because it's so terrible. I am thinking that it was one of those times for me.   

  That still freaks me out sometimes because that kitty was like my best friend.   

Third trauma:

“The swing set chain over the head incident”   

  There was a small swing set in our backyard that was for me to play on, it was my swing set.   

  There was one missing swing that I think my parents had removed for safety reasons.  Because the swing set legs were not tied down and also the possibility of two children swinging in the same direction at the same time could actually tip, the whole swings set over and possibly cause injuries to me or other children.  

  A friend of mine from across the street apparently had a swing set exactly like the one I had. He brought a swing seat with the chains attached to it.  

  I thought he was giving me my missing swing seat back.  However it did not belong to me, it was his.   

  When he went away from me with his swing seat the to go home with it I tried to grab it and take it away from him because I thought he was taking my swing seat away from me “again”.   

  That is when he clobbered me over the center of the head really hard with the chain.  

  In fact, I remembered to this day seeing “stars”.  

  I am absolutely certain that this did cause some sort of brain damage of some kind.  My parents did not really detect it.   

  Ever since then I have had trouble concentrating whenever I am under any kind of stress.   

  The more stressful the circumstance the worse it gets until it gets to the point where every little thing that causes stress is magnified greatly.    

  There are times when I mentally and sometimes physically “freeze up”. What I mean, is that when I am under stress my experience is that in any circumstance friendly or not I sometimes have the fight or flight freak out inside of my head however instead of fighting or running I just freeze like a rabbit in the grass, “knowing” that there is a predator about to pounce somebody. 

  And at that moment, I feel like I am one of the main potential targets of the lethal predator.   Redondo Beach California: 

The vehicular assault:

  I was in the backseat of our Buick special station wagon. My mother was driving when we got hit from behind it made our car spin out and blew a tire or two.  

  At this point in time, I honestly believe my mother was sexually assaulted. I was told by my mother to lie down in front of the backseat on the floor and hide.   

  She received whiplash as an injury from the accident.   

  That is what made her so grumpy that the cigarette package beating incident that is noted in a later paragraph is certainly due in part because of that painful injury.  

The transition from Montessori school in public school and the threat from my second-grade teacher that she would cut off my penis:

 

 

  When I was preschool age all the way through first grade I went to Montessori school.   It was one of the most joyful experiences I had in my life going to that school.   

  For financial reasons that's not entirely clear to me however it's pretty obvious that my parents did not have enough money to continue my enrollment in that private school.        

  First of all, just the transition from Montessori school to a public school in itself in a normal circumstance is a little bit traumatic.   

  I'm certain I would have been able to handle it if that's all it was but it was a lot more stressful for me than it ever should have been because of that horrible second-grade teacher. 

  That basically ruined my life, as far as school and public education is concerned.       

  What had happened was I and some of my “male” friends were being bad. 

  We were lifting skirts and dresses up on the girls in the school.   

  We definitely needed to be reprimanded and corrected but that teacher went far beyond that, she threatened in a very mean serious, frightening way to cut off or to have our penises cut off if we did, things like that to the girls.  

  I'm not sure what happened with my friend who had the same threat at the same time I did for the same reason.  

  I remember him being removed from that school almost immediately by his parents or authorities.    

  I'm not really sure what his personal circumstance really was.   

  I lost a friend, my teacher turned into a scary monster that could explode in anger at any time and mutilate me.   

  That was not all about that teacher that was horrible to me.

  I was born and raised in California and had very little if any experience with people that had Southern accents. 

  Like from Texas, Mississippi and places like that. So even today I am reminded of that horrible trauma of all of second-grade not just that one incident, where the teacher threatened to mutilate me with a knife and cut off my penis.   

  To this very day, I get extremely stressed inside my thoughts and feelings when I hear anybody that talks with the Southern drawl or those horrible Kansas Southern hateful, despicable overtones that that terrible ugly monster second grade teacher had.                  I

  That actually destroyed my willingness to listen to the authority within an educational system, because that teacher’s whole point in life seemed to be based on. 

  I'm the boss “Master” and you the students in my class are my personal property when I'm teaching my class. 

  The whole classroom is literally, in all sense of the meaning: “My personal property” and because it's “my personal property”… 

  …She really believed that she could do anything she wanted to do with it (us the second graders) even destroy it (us) or mutilate (us)...  

  I'm absolutely certain that the experience caused a huge amount of psychological damage.    

  The Damage That Was caused ended up being, far more destructive to me (psychologically) than “the chain over the head incident” that happened in Sylmar California.   

  Because that is the first thing that happened in my life that I could remember so vividly that I literally thought I wanted to commit suicide.   

  When I told my mother that I wanted to kill myself I think at first she thought it was because I saw in the movie on television somebody saying that and getting away with something that they should not have gotten away with.   

  When she realized it was because of that second-grade teacher she finally took action and organized P T A and the school board and eventually had her, (the second grade school teacher from Kansas) banned from the whole West Los Angeles County school district.   

  However, that did not change the synapses in my brain that had been damaged by that experience.   

  Compared to Montessori school that second-grade teacher was for me like a daily visit to Abu Grebe in Iraq as a “guest” so to speak.   

  Only the torture was more mental than physical, however that the teacher did beat on some children. 

  Also, their parents gave her permission to do that, whereas my parents would have sued her if she did that to me.   

  The penis removal threat was just too hard to prove in court, bruises would have been much easier to prove.  Therefore, that teacher did not physically beat me.   

Although, it did leave me mentally upset enough to become depressed and potentially suicidal.   

  It also landed me in to the world of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (“P T S D”) and stress related attention deficit disorder (“S R A D D”).  

From long division two short division, back to long division and back to I don't give care anymore about it! Spin out mathematics, deep inner ear infection, and dyslexia:  

  When I was going to the Montessori school, I learned how to multiply by the time I was ending the first grade.

  I was actually ready for third-grade math at that point.   

  I was forced to do all the mathematical problems that old long way, such as long addition and multiplication. 

  Doing things that required me to do a lot of writing, of which I had a lot of trouble with at that point, because I was experiencing the first stages of dyslexia and experiencing a lot of anxiety.   

  I finally got used to doing the mathematics the long way.    

  Then low and behold, the whole entire school district required us to learn short math.      

  One would think that it would be easy for me, but it was very difficult because of the dyslexia.    

  I was using the long math kind of like a roadmap for where I was in the problem.      

  Switching back to short math was more of a mind twist about authority and its relationship with me than the mathematics itself.   

  At that point, I still loved mathematics.  

  At that public school in Redondo Beach, mathematics was still my favorite inside the classroom subject. However, that sort of changed when I began experiencing certain aspects of dyslexia that hampered my ability to stare at a piece of paper with writing on it for any more than about 10 seconds without the lines on the page moving and phasing out of focus, and out of alignment with the other lines on the page to the point where I was reading the same line on the page repeatedly.   

  That got extremely frustrating.

  At that time, I was in the end of third-grade.  

  Also in third-grade, I actually was sent to a special reading class. However, I was still able to read pretty darn good compared to most of the other kids I was still getting good grades on my reading skills.   

  I went to a special reading class, but the reason I was going to the special reading class was because I was having an extreme amount of trouble writing.  

  My mother told me that when I first started picking up a pencil or pen to write on something with or crayon I would use my right hand but sometime after that trauma between Montessori and public school I could no longer use my right hand to write with, as it was causing me to experience severe mental depression whereas in the best of my recollection that was one of the times I expressed to my mother that I might want to commit suicide.  

 

 

Mrs. Phillips the substitute teacher during third-grade:  

   Mrs. Phillips, reminded me so much of that second-grade teacher from Kansas that the PTSD kicked in, really hard.   

  Whenever I saw Mrs. Phillips's car in the parking lot of the school where I went I would get so freaked out that my mother actually allowed me to stay home from school and do the work at home that I was supposed to do in school that day.   

  She was one of those ultra authoritarians that forced us to line up in alphabetical order, to our last names like ducks in a row boys on one side girls on the other side before class, and after recess at the front door, whereas nobody else in the whole school had to do anything like that ever unless Mrs. Phillips was their substitute that day than they did have to do that.   

  That was right around the time when the school district in that area was becoming more aware of the physical abuse that teachers would commit on primary grade school students that they required written permission with specific instructions about what the teacher can do physically to that student from that particular student's parents.   

  Mrs. Phillips did slap a couple kids for talking back.    

  She also paddled some kids in the back room and also when she really got upset.  She paddled one of the kids in front of all the other kids in that classroom.  

  I think the embarrassment factor on that particular child was worse than the actual paddling. Unlike the one from Kansas, she held her punch.     

  Mrs. Phillips mainly used it as an implement of embarrassment more than an instrument of pain.   

  Whereas in comparison to my second-grade teacher whom seemed to get some kind of a thrill out of paddling children and in particular, boys.    

  As a matter of fact, Mrs. Phillips brought a paddle with her. It was her “club”, so to speak that she would spank a student with if that student were to get out of line with her.      

  To me as a kid that age Mrs. Phillips was too old fashioned, closed-minded and mean with almost no tolerance for differences.

  She was too rigid. I was just plain frightened of that woman. 

 

My father's first heart attack:

  I was about six years old. 

  My father was 35 or 36 years old when he had his first heart attack and almost died.   

  When he came home, he stopped smoking.  

   My mother could not stop smoking.   

  One day, I broke a pack of my mother’s cigarettes in a futile attempt to stop her from smoking, because it was making my dad want to start smoking again.   

  I don't think my mother ever beat me so hard before or after that incident.   

  That was my first introduction to a form of drug addiction and abusive physical force from my mother.    

  That's about the same time; my parents tried a new experimental discipline strategy with me they started getting physical.

  Lots of spanking, face slapping, standing in the corner, getting sent to my room and not expressing myself IE: “talking back”.   

  That was very traumatic for me and it was an abysmal failure on their part.      

  They then started explaining things to me more carefully and my behavior without the physical beatings slapping corner standings etc. improved exponentially.  

 

 

My grandfather had a stroke, so we had to move to

Spring Valley San Diego County:

  We moved to a town called Spring Valley in San Diego County, California at the beginning of school summer vacation so at that point in time, I lost all my friends from Redondo Beach.  

  I had a hard time finding any friends in Spring Valley all summer long, the teacher at that school in Spring Valley that I had to go to at the beginning of the school year was old and looked rigid and scared me like Mrs. Phillips did.   

  She reminded me of Mrs. Phillips.

  The first day I was there, she slapped the crap out of some kid named Jerry Jarman.    However, she was nowhere near as mean as Mrs. Phillips was.   

  It was a split grade class third and fourth grade I was in the fourth grade.   

 She was not so bad, actually.   

  But they changed the math on me again (then} at this point (now) in time in my life at 48 years old I don't remember which math it changed to or from but it was really another bummer for me at that point, all I cared about was passing the grade I no longer cared about mathematics nearly as much as I did before.   

  Then right in the middle of that school year, they changed the mathematics on me again.   My father was a scientist mathematician electronics designer, and also he taught mathematics, science and chemistry in high school.   

  I know I would have gotten along with him much better in my life if I would have had a better experience with mathematics in school. Instead, my father had no patience so far as teaching me math was concerned.   

  He was more like a college professor, or senior high school math and chemistry teacher than a grammar school schoolteacher.

  He had very little patience with people that had a hard time understanding what he was saying.   

  The trauma for me in that experience was the lack of communication with my father because of my frustrations in public school in general, but very specifically with the mathematics.   

  I think he really needed me to know more for him to have been able to instruct me without getting too frustrated.   

 

Troopers instead of Boy Scouts:

  I went to a Boy Scout meeting in San Diego County. I wanted to become a Boy Scout eventually.    

  I was already a Cub Scout from when I lived in Redondo Beach.   

  In Redondo Beach, the Cub Scouts were very nice to everybody and they stuck to the Cub Scout books.    

  It was for the enjoyment of it and for urban and suburban kids to experience the outside, and to learn how to be and become a responsible person.   

  But in San Diego County, it was a lot different than that.   

  San Diego County was more like a boot camp in the Marine Corps is and not really good for young boys in Cub Scouts. 

  The people in San Diego County were military people mostly and those people didn't know how to allow kids to be kids while they are young enough to be kids instead, they were training them to go to Vietnam and “kill “gooks”” in their words.   

  That was actually very traumatic for me emotionally I realized at that point in time that my future is not what it would have been if we stayed in Redondo Beach. In fact, it was a lot worse.   

  I hated San Diego County so much that I got so stressed. 

  I got reoccurring stomach ulcers.   

  I was scared I was depressed I was lonely and I was frightened of those militant people.      

  It seems like everybody wanted to beat me up there so I stayed home allot, and I only had about three or four friends total the whole time, we lived there.   

  Even one of those so-called friends bullied me and tried to beat me up all the time.     

 

 

Escape to the free school near El Cajon:

  My parents finally took me out of that horrible public school in San Diego County.     The school had property was fenced in about 13 acres of an old avocado orchard.   

  The school had some small buildings, a main building, a couple of grain silos and tack room plus a tool shop.  

  It was very loosely run based on Summerhill.    

  I still had major stomach ulcers at that point from the trauma in the public school      

  After going to the free school for a short period of time, one of the students had a hashish pipe that had some residue left in it.

  He showed me how to smoke it.   

  That is the exact moment that I discovered that cannabis products and escape from bullies can tremendously help people like me from feeling suicidal.   

  My stomach ulcers went away shortly thereafter. 

  My conclusion of that scenario is that number one: public schools destroy the minds of smart people and number two cannabis relieves stress.

  I believe that relief from stresses is a cure of numerous diseases that we are plagued with today.

 

The move from the house in San Diego into a 16 1/2 foot travel trailer to the golden gate trailer court in Marin County California,

The sexual assault:

  When Grandpa died we moved to Marin in our little travel trailer. 

  My mother, father me and one cat.

  Even though it was crowded for us in that little travel trailer it was still really great to get the hell away from God forsaken San Diego County.

  The biggest trauma that happened there did not happen in the trailer court, but it happened on the street so to speak.

  It was a common practice for young people in the Marin County, California area to hitchhike.

  Unfortunately, I decided I was going to visit a friend without securing a ride home with somebody trustworthy or my parents.

  So when my friend’s mother told him that all of his friends had to go home unexpectedly I was more or less positioned to hitchhike to get home.

  I got picked up by a rapist who thought I was a girl, because I had long hair.

  He first tried to sodomize me once we got to a hidden area in the woods.

I screamed so loudly because it hurt so much.

  He then proceeded to force oral copulation with threats of violence and death.

  After he forced me to give him information about where I lived he then threatened to kill me if I told anybody ever. I was very frightened, and I believed him. 

  So I did not tell anybody for a long time.

  Later on in life, I was about 29 years old when I apparently was in a situation where I realized afterwards that that was the guy who did that to me.

  I had a choice during which time is that he was actually close enough to physically do something to him like attack him if I did I’m afraid that I probably would've killed him in front of my godmother who may have understood why I would do that and maybe even agree that something should have been done to him for raping me but certainly not killing him in front of her in her yard.  That is for sure.

  We also knew at that point in time that that person had H I V AIDS.  And my thought was also I did not want to get any of his blood on anybody else, especially my godmother.

Footnote:

  Even to this day at this point in time  I don't really know whether I whimped-out or whether I was wise not to do or say anything about the assault that happened to me when I was 12 years old.

  At a point, in time when I was about 30 my main fear was that nobody that mattered to me would have believed my story about the sexual assault and that I may have acted inappropriately in regards to the person’s disbelief.

   I was a little concerned for the physical safety of myself and others, because I was so deeply hurt psychologically both consciously and subconsciously or worse.

  Now I realize that, number one.  I've always had a snappy but moderate mostly nonviolent temper. 

  Therefore, I always mute my temper subconsciously to start with, but consciously also

I have trained myself not to ever blow up on a person or a living animal even if it means I may be in more danger as a result. 

  I was extremely successful in that particular self-training technique. 

That is one thing I could actually say truthfully I am proud of.

 There is a myriad of other significant things that traumatized me in my life.  But at this point, I have not edited it enough.  And I don't want to be libelous.

 

odballamericanman odballamericanman
51-55
Mar 22, 2009