Breaking the Cycle

The following is adapted from Rising Above by Sean Rogers.

One of my first memories is of when I was a small boy, and my mother, a single mom, had recently gotten a new job. She dropped us off at a babysitter’s house before she went to work. I had never met this sitter before, but my brother and I were instantly excited when we arrived at her place. It was a farm! There were animals everywhere and we couldn’t wait to play with them.

My mom talked to the sitter for a few minutes while we waited for her to come back and let us out of the car. My mother introduced us, and the sitter seemed like a nice lady. Within minutes, she shooed us off to go play. I was certain I’d spend the rest of the day running around outside until my mom came back.

Thirty seconds into our awesome new adventure, I found myself face-to-face with something evil. Neither of us moved a muscle, and it stared at me with hatred in its eyes. It looked like a chicken, but it was twice the size of one, and it was mean with its chest puffed out. It let out a terrible war cry and came at me with every intention of tearing me to pieces. I stood there frozen in fear, knowing the pending assault would not end well for me.

I was about three feet tall at the time and I was eye to eye with this thing. As it gained ground, its wings expanded and flapped with all its might, winding up for an aerial attack. The next thing I knew, it was airborne, clawing at my chest and flapping its wings in my face. It was a horrific assault.

Finally, the sitter calmly walked over and shooed that son of a bitch rooster away. I could tell she had been laughing, and I was pissed. I spent the rest of the day inside the house trying to figure out how I would get from the house to the car without coming in contact with that stupid bird again. Despite the evil rooster attack, this is one of my fondest memories — it’s the last time I remember my mother being responsible and working.

Returning to good times is an essential part of this journey, and when I was a boy getting chased by a rooster, I had no stress. I didn’t feel like I was going without. I felt fulfilled, and without realizing it, it was one of the last times I would be free to be a child without stress and anxiety constantly lurking around me. I have no doubt that if this stress-free path had continued, I’d be a different man today. Unfortunately, that path was over.

Soon after the rooster attack, I remember my brother and me sitting in the back seat of my mother’s car speeding down desert roads. I had my knees on the seat and was facing backward out of the rear window. A man in another vehicle was chasing us. I had no idea what was happening. I watched in amazement as he reached out of the window while speeding down the bumpy dirt road and pointed a gun at us firing two rounds. One of the rounds split the top of our car’s roof right down the center. The other hit the emblem on the trunk of the car and deflected downward. If it wasn’t for that emblem, that round would have went into the center of my chest. That was how our new reality was shaping up, and it all began after the accident.

The Accident

We were at my grandparents’ house in Ontario, California. They owned a forklift repair company, and the house was connected to the shop. When my grandparents were working, all we had to do was walk next door to see them. They were highly respected, and that place was a safe haven for us. It was my favorite place to be as a kid.

I’ll never forget the day my mother needed to run some errands and asked me to go with her. I told her I’d rather not go because I wanted to keep playing with my new toy motorcycle, but my mother insisted she didn’t want to go without me. Feeling needed and important won me over, so I strapped in. The next thing I remember is being in the hospital.

For me, that accident was just a blip on the radar. For my mother, it was the beginning of the end. She soon fell victim to the opioid epidemic, and it didn’t take long for her to become a full-fledged addict. She manipulated providers into filling her scripts despite the obvious signs of addiction, and she got kicked out of doctor’s offices. Somewhere along the way, my mother also became bitter. Everyone was against her and the world owed her something. As I sit and write and think of all she had gone through, I feel less angry with her — I’m sad. She did awful things and made poor choices, but she also endured truly difficult circumstances I would never wish upon anyone. I have no doubt she felt like she had to endure those things in order to protect us.

Somewhere along my mother’s path, she met a man named Steve, and we moved in with him almost immediately. He had two sons about the same age as my brother and me. We hated them, and they hated us. My sister stayed out of the feud, but between the boys, it was war. We gained their father’s acceptance, something they so desperately longed for, and we saw them as weak and annoying. We fought them often and not in the way kids usually fight.

I remember when one of the brothers, Shane, who was my age, talked bad about my mom. In response, I pinned him to the ground and grabbed a handful of his hair, then I slammed his head into the ground until the hair let loose. He was left with a fist-sized bald spot on the top of his head. It was always my brother and I versus them, and we were not about to lose.

Shortly after moving into Steve’s place, my mom stopped leaving her bed. Months had gone by, and she hadn’t been up. She was in a constant slumber, and we kept waiting for her to come back. Finally, I broke down and asked Steve if my mom was going to die. I was sobbing when he hugged me in a cold, disconnected way, and he whispered that she would be fine. Then he stood up and walked away as though I was never there. Little did I know, Steve was the one causing it all. He kept my mom in a drug-induced coma to collect her income checks. Steve knew my mother was going to leave him and decided he couldn’t let that happen. I spent months thinking my mother was on her deathbed because of this guy. I would like to say there is forgiveness in my heart, but if I saw him today, there would be an ass whooping.

Dark Days

These moments were so painful and shocking for me as a child that I began to disconnect from people. I felt so alone. This is where things got tough for my older brother, Chris, as well. Between the ages of eight and ten, I needed him as a protector. I depended on him for physical and emotional support, and this was a lot for a boy to take on. And he wasn’t protecting us from school bullies — he was protecting us from grown-ass men who beat us like we were adults. My sister’s father was especially violent toward my brother and me. He would break spoons on our backs and throw us around like rag dolls. Every time one man left, another replaced him. When they moved on, it was a relief followed by anxiety and fear. It felt good to watch them go, but we knew the next one might be worse. Looking back, it must have been more obvious to those around us than we thought — Child Protective Services was at our house regularly.

Chris adopted the role of protector and spent his childhood defending my sister and me. I see now that this role was too difficult for a boy, and it didn’t translate well into adulthood. Once my sister and I no longer needed his protection, he found others who did. He became the protector of people whom he felt he could save. This noble way of life brought him down into their problems and created more issues than he could handle alone. To this day, he struggles with his anger and need to nurture in his heart. He struggles to know who he is and what his purpose is.

Chris taught me that you can’t help others if you have neglected yourself. Even if you are trying to help others to fix yourself, it will not work — you have to face your own past and examine it. Determine what effects it had on you. Why did it hurt so badly, and how does it affect you to this day? Road rage? Inability to trust in relationships? I am sure the negative effects come to mind without effort.

This is only the start; you cannot accept the bad without the good. For all of the things I struggle with today, I accept that those things are equally responsible for my successes.

For more on Sean’s story you can find Rising Above on Amazon.

Sean “Buck” Rogers was born in Phelan, California, joining the military at the age of twenty-one. After a serious injury during Ranger selection, he went on to become a Green Beret with two combat deployments to Afghanistan.

When his military service was complete, he served his community as a member of the Denver Police Department, continuing to challenge himself by earning a master’s degree and running ultramarathons. Today, he uses his experience to help the next generation of Special Forces hopefuls through his podcast, The FNG Podcast, and his YouTube channel, FNG Academy.