Why Can I Speak Up? Pt. 1
Introduction
There’s a lot of trauma that happens all over the world. Trauma can affect you physically, emotionally, and mentally. As we discussed in the previous post, trauma affects every person differently. The most traumatic experience that a baby experiences is falling for the first time. Up to that point, nothing has scared the baby more than falling and not knowing what that pain was. I conclude that traumatic experiences can be received and expressed in various ways that can give the same amount of pain, even if the trauma’s caliber is not the same.
Why do I get to speak on this subject? What kind of trauma can I have that would warrant an article on trauma. What makes my story so interesting to give advice on dealing with experiences in life that are less than ideal? In this post, I hope to be able to answer that question. The next couple of posts will account for my experiences in life; Hopefully, this will give some validity to the words I write in the future.
1years old-10 years old
During these years, I lived a good life. I had friends, my family was together, and I spent a lot of my time riding bicycles in town, dancing, playing baseball, and doing rodeo things. I had a lot of fun living life and enjoying the time I had with my family.
My mom schooled my sisters and me while she started her career in the mortgage industry. We volunteered at the Rotary Club. My sisters and I would spend every summer asking businesses to raise money for our community firework show. This is where my sister and I learned how to speak to anyone and everyone. We were able to take so much pride in the show because of our hard work, sweat, and determination to raise money.
My sisters and I were inseparable. Everywhere I went, they went. I remember sitting down in their room with my action figures and creating elaborate scenes of action and comedy with their Barbie Dream House and my He-Man action figures. We would spend hours remodeling our rooms, building giant blanket forts, and cooking any form of food we could think of making.
My parents’ relationship was always rocky, though. They would spend most nights fighting until early in the morning. I remember running to my sister’s room to protect them from the fighting. I remember going out in the hallway and screaming at my parents to stop fighting and begging them to love each other. One night, my parents fought for an entire day non-stop. I went to bed, but I couldn’t fall asleep. I continued listening to my parents, screaming back and forth. Finally, I got enough courage to sneak to my door frame to peek out to see the fight. When I did this, I watched my father chuck a mason jar at my mom’s head… I was terrified. How could my father do something like this? He was drunk and angry. From that day, I can remember consciously deciding that I had to make sure my family was always safe. When my parents fought, I would stay with my sisters to comfort them. One time, I brought them out to our trampoline because it was so loud in the house, and we put all the blankets on us to watch the stars as we fell asleep. I think this was the first time I experienced God. I remember looking up in the sky and seeing the layers of stars. I felt at peace right then. I didn’t recognize what it was. But, now that I’m older, I realize that was God holding me that night.
After years of arguing, the day finally came. My mom had told my sisters and me that they were getting divorced. I had mixed emotions about the divorce. What did this mean for my future? What did it mean for my family? What are my friends going to say? How am I going to live? Do I have to move? All of these thoughts continued to flow through my mind. That day, my mom took us to Lompoc to be with my grandparents when my father got the divorce papers. We stayed for the weekend with them. On Sunday, when we went back home, there stood my father in the living room. He was angry and hurt that she was leaving him. They argued, but it was apparent that this was finally the last straw, and our family was officially broken.
My mom, sisters, and I moved out of our big house that I grew up in and started on a journey that began the most difficult years of my life. When the divorce was finalized, my parents said it would be possible for them to live in the same house. We learned very quickly that it wasn’t going to work. So, my mom started finding us a home to live in. She started calling friends and family, trying to find a place to live. Finally, one of our friends allowed my family to move into a garage that they renovated into a playhouse for their teenage son. We had a roof over our heads. That’s all we could ask for at that moment. My mom’s business wasn’t doing well, my father wasn’t paying child support, and our living situation was only temporary. We were scavenging for food. I remember eating peanut butter and honey on corn tortillas with tap water to drink for a month because that’s all we could afford. I remember my mom making the food, but I never remember seeing her eating anything. I remember times that there wasn’t a lot of food, and I would feel guilty about eating, and I would go to bed hungry because I didn’t want to eat it all. My sisters ate every day, and that is all that mattered. It wasn’t much. But, at least we had a roof over our heads, and we were making the best of a bad situation.
10 Years Old-12 Years Old
I remember hearing my mom crying from all the stress and having my heartbreak because there was nothing that I could do, being I was only ten years old. At the end of that summer in 2008, my sisters and I started going to public school for the first time. I was so nervous. This was my sixth-grade year. I was going into a new school for the first time in my life. I didn’t know anyone there. When I walked into the school, I was welcomed with open arms. I met a group of friends right away, and I felt safe. I played wall ball every day for recess, I hung out with friends every chance I could, and I found a way to escape from my home life; even if it was only for a moment.
At home, things weren’t as simple as they were at school. Everything was in the air all the time. At this point, it had only been four months since my father was served the divorce papers, and my family had already moved three times. Within the course of my sixth-grade year, my family had moved 8 times. We had lived in quite a few places but could never be there long enough to call the house a home. Within this timespan, I remember being without a home three times. I remember having to move to the desert for two weeks because we had no place to stay. Other times we stayed in a hotel for a couple of weeks while we looked for new homes for us to be able to lay our heads. It was stressful being eleven, helping my mom, going to school, managing my emotions from the divorce, and not knowing my next meal.
I would get these crippling migraines that would not relent for days. No amount of medicine, sleep, eating, or counseling would help. I remember sitting in the car, coming back from Java Hut, crying to my mom because the pain wouldn’t go away. It was the stress that I was holding on too. It was too much for me to bear. Finally, my mom met a guy, and he stepped in as a father figure in our life. He paid the bills, taught me how to be a man, loved my mom and sisters, and gave us stability. I finally felt that I could release some of this stress I was harboring. All of a sudden, the headaches went away. I thought that I could be a kid again.
When this man entered my family’s life, I was relieved. I felt as if I had some weight taken off my shoulders. I began to have fun and enjoy life again. Every weekend my family and I would go out to the desert to ride dirt bikes; he taught me how to shoot a bow and arrow. I would ride my bicycle around town almost every day. I was able to enjoy my childhood for a brief moment. But, the moment of bliss didn’t last. The man that my mom loved decided to leave. So, again it was my mom, my sisters, and I.
After this man left, my life was shaken up again. I started going to middle school. I went to the largest middle school in town. A big, blue gate surrounded the school, creating a prison feel to our day. There were security guards all around, monitoring the students at every moment of the day. Here I met my first and only bully. This kid did not like me. He felt that he could push me around, belittle me, and hurt me. I remember going home with a pit in my throat, holding back tears, because I no longer had a safe place away from home. I would dread school just as much as I dreaded going home.
I was halfway finished with my seventh-grade year; my family moved a handful of times since sixth grade. My family was still struggling with money, but we were unstoppable. My family took on the world because we knew how we operated and loved each other every day.
The new year started, tax returns came back to my mom. My family went through a lot in two years. So my mom decided that it was time we took an extended vacation. We went to Las Vegas, Hoover Dam, and we were supposed to go to Washington for a snowboarding trip. But, with a massive turn of events, my mom dumped her boyfriend at the time, and we drove back to California to pick up a new guy that she had known for a while. His name was Wayne. He and my mom talked for a time, and she decided that he would be the next best guy in her life.
We drove from Las Vegas to Ramona, CA. We picked up this man named Wayne. Wayne had a massive goatee. He had tattoos on his neck of racing flags and fire. He wore his white hair spikey and dressed as if he was still in the 1980s. He rode motorcycles and worked out. At first glance, Wayne seemed very cool. We would spend a lot of time together working outside, playing with the dogs, riding motorcycles, and enjoying life. I didn’t see him as a threat to my family. I actually liked him. He quickly moved into our home. Wayne promptly asserted himself as the head of the household, which I didn’t necessarily like. Things had to be done his way, and no one could ask him ‘why.’ But, it was okay. My mom was in love with this man already. He decided he was moving to North Carolina to find a better place to live. My family needed a fresh start so bad, as we were being evicted from our home yet again. So, we decided to move to North Carolina with him. We finished the school year, packed our clothes into two trailers, and started our trek to North Carolina.
The road trip to North Carolina is the reason why I hate driving to this day. A journey that usually takes five days took us nine to do. My sisters rode in our Tahoe with my mom pulling the dune buggy trailer. We put our box springs and mattress’ on the outside of the trailer. We used ratchet straps to hold the ‘walls’ together to create an enclosed trailer. It was the most…innovative way of packing. While my sisters were riding in the nice air-conditioned car, I rode in Wayne’s pre-runner truck. Wayne had a 1970’s truck that was created for racing. It had an engine that was way too large and had no tork. It was a great truck. But, it was a terrible truck for pulling a seven-ton trailer. When we moved to NC, it was the middle of August in the country’s southernmost part. So, it was hot, to say the least. The pre-runner truck started overheating constantly. In the middle of August, we ran our heater to help the overheating of our vehicle.
We couldn’t drive over 50 mph, and we had to stop every hour for thirty minutes to allow the truck to cool off. I remember drinking an entire 16 oz bottle of water every thirty minutes. But, no matter how fast we drank the water, we couldn’t keep it in. I sweat every bit of liquid I drank on that trip. I think I used the restroom twice a day throughout the entire trip. As we drove further east, I began to learn what humidity was. Once we hit eastern Texas, I began to feel the thickness of the air. I kept asking why I was swimming when I should be walking. It was ridiculous! I never felt so grateful for air conditioning in my life. Remember, I came from a state that never required homes to have A/C because the weather was perfect all the time! The drive was terrible. The humidity was awful. The person I rode with was annoying, and I was not happy we moved from my hometown away from my friends.
Once we arrived in North Carolina, I was terrified. Before I came to NC, I watched all the ‘redneck’ movies. Unfortunately, things I saw in those considered funny movies were not a false stereotype or exaggeration of the truth. Within my first hour of being here, I saw my first wall of Confederate flags, butchered an animal, been told ‘bless your heart.’ Needless to say, I was not having the best first impression of the south. It was hot, I couldn’t understand the accents, and I moved to a place I didn’t want to go.
Wayne quickly urged my family and me to find a church. The friends he had in NC had suggested Concord First Assembly, now known as Multiply Church. So, my mom, sisters, and I went to check it out. Now, we were Catholic. Going to church meant there would be a lot of squats, rituals, and dressing up. But, on top of all of that…church was boring. I hated going every Sunday. But, my experience at Multiply Church was not that; it was fun, enlightening, and an all-around great experience! I remember getting in the car and talking to my mom about my experience there.
I was excited about the game we played. I had to put pantyhose around my head and walk like an elephant to knock over water bottles. My sisters talked about the kid’s ministry and the connections that they made there. My mom was blown away by the service. She started crying from all the lights, singing, the sermon, the people, and experiencing God for the first time in her life. The Catholic church never had lights in service; we never sang modern songs; we never had fun in church. But, most importantly, we never experienced the Holy Spirit. All four of us felt the same thing that day. My whole family had the same words. We wondered what the people in that church had and how we could get it. So, we became involved in the church. I got involved in the children’s ministry and fell in love with the church.
From birth to twelve years old, I experienced divorce, uprooting, fear, and hunger, and constant unsettling in my life. I assumed the position of the ‘protector of my family’ and took it seriously. I fought for my family, cried for my family, and tried to do all that a twelve-year-old could do to help my family survive.
I have broken up my experiences into two different posts. My next post will discuss my life from twelve to eighteen, the most traumatic experiences of my life. Through God, counseling, prayer, and help from friends and family, I can now talk about everything I experienced. Stay tuned to hear the rest of my story and how I believe God uses my story to help people experience freedom from traumas that happened in their lives.
