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This Is My Story Part 1- PTSD

Do I believe in God? Yes but I really think he could care less about me. I have respect for him so I will not sit here and berate him in my anger because I am just one of many who haven’t had the best of luck in this lifetime.  Also I don’t want to suffer from his wrath that may fall upon me.
Please don't get the impression that this is one of those God or nobody loves me sad stories because it isn't one of those at all. It is a story that I decided to share because writing has become a therapy.  I use to dread writing but not anymore.  I still may not punctuate the best, dot every I or cross every T so please bear with me.
How can I love my mother after all of the tragic events in my life? She sat back and watched so much evil being done to me while living in New York. I don’t know! I guess because she was mommy.  I use to get beat to bed and also beat to wake up by her boyfriend. She use to fight for me, then after she got beat down so many times herself for defending me, she stopped fighting back and I became this shell of a happy kid that I once was.
I use to get beat downs and abused in the closet so the neighbors wouldn’t hear me crying. I remember being kicked in the stomach and slapped in the head so hard at times that I thought I would die. When was she going to jump in and help, I use to wonder?  Who was going to fight for me? Nobody I thought, I use to would try and dial my father to come help me without consciously realizing that I didn’t even know his number.
There was a Saturday morning I will never forget, when my mother went out of town to visit my sister down in NC during one Christmas holiday season and she left me alone with Ian, her boyfriend. He wouldn’t feed me at all. He went to work and he always kept this fancy cheese in the refrigerator. I felt that this was finally my chance to eat. I ate but I started eating too much because I was so hungry.  He came home from work and went straight to the refrigerator and weighed the cheese.
Till this day I don’t recall ever getting a beating so bad after the cheese incident. He slapped me in the head so hard that I remember wishing he would just kill me. When he got that drop cord out and scarred my face and punched my body like I was a grown man, I thought he would finally do it. Unfortunately for me, He left me alive.
My mother came home from visiting my sister late one night and she glimpses at my face, then hugs me and cries. She made it home just in time to celebrate Christmas 1974 and I have to say it was the worst Christmas in my whole life because I spent the whole day getting beat downs for playing with my own gifts. It is also the main reason I don’t like the holiday season.
When I look back and reflect on the night that we were robbed, my mother, Ian and Ms. Ethyl, my God-mother were all wounded; Ian was shot in the head gasping for breath and Ms. Ethyl was stabbed to death. I was shot in the hand and I clearly recall the guy who shot my mother aiming the gun from a distance at my upper body.  I also watched him take the knife he stabbed Ms. Ethyl with and stab another neighbor who was also present at the time as well.
I watched Ms. Ethyl take her last breath while she was calling out my name through prayer and my mother spitting up blood on the wall from her gunshot wounds.  
Deep down out of all the evil that was done to me I felt sorry for Ian, my mother and most of all Ms. Ethyl who was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. No one deserves to die like that.
I knew right then and there at 7 years of age that my life would never be the same and it hasn’t been. What is joy and happiness? I never knew any of the two long-term wise.  Probably never will but I would love to. I have tried church, drugs, etc. and none worked.
The night of the robbery I can remember all three young men that robbed us sitting and talking in the hallway stairwell while I was taking the trash to the trash bin.  All I had to do was tell my mother or any adult in our building and they could have called the police to prevent any of this.
I was passive and I trusted that they wouldn’t do anyone any harm. Little did I know that these men would greatly impact my life, taking me from a life of physical and sexual abuse to a life of witnessing murders. I then entered the world of PTSD. (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder)
When I was taken to the hospital to be examined, I was asked was I hungry? I was asked that question because the cops found cans of fruit under my bed, I wasn't strong enough to use a can opener but I was able to always use it to at least make a small hole in lid to suck juice out. That's one reason why I use to eat out of cans when I got older and people didn't understand.
I am not looking for any empathy of sympathy by sharing my story and will not use my past as an excuse for any failures or mistakes that I have made in my life.  No excuses! But this is my story.
Please feel free to follow Herman @babethomherman on twitter

2 Comments to This Is My Story Part 1- PTSD:

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