My Story of Trauma to Healing Part One.

This is my first blog post for my website, and it has been a long time coming due to my desire for privacy. However, I feel a strong need to share my story, hoping that it will resonate with others who are unsure about the work I do in shamanic healing. My goal is to help you see the potential benefits of this practice and inspire you to make a solid commitment to yourself, just as I have. Thank you for your support and for taking the time to read my story.

I have divided my narrative into three parts, covering my life from birth to preteens, then from my teenage years to college, and finally from my late twenties to the present. I understand that this will be lengthy, but there is a purpose behind it all. First, I aim to reclaim my power and stand my ground against the malignant narcissist in my life. Second, I want to allow myself to be seen and share my story in the hope that others who have experienced similar trauma can witness the growth that comes from healing. Finally, I want to offer empathy and understanding to anyone who has endured similar struggles and remind you that it was not your fault—you are not alone. Please be aware that the content may be graphic and factual, particularly concerning my childhood and preteens. Thank you again for taking the time to read the first part.

Like many children of the 80s, my childhood was not entirely negative. The culture was vibrant, the music was fantastic, and the freedom to play outside all day was a treasured experience. However, as many can relate, what transpired behind closed doors was often far different. A significant portion of my childhood was marked by isolation due to my parents’ divorce, as they used me as a weapon in their ongoing battle to hurt each other. Most of my early childhood was relatively happy until the pivotal moment when my parents divorced when I was four, which completely altered my reality. While there were certainly good memories, they weren’t enough to overshadow the darkness and isolation I faced. And, yes, I remember these early experiences vividly even now at 41.

One of my earliest memories comes from my time in a crib before I turned one. I recall hearing shouting and fighting (which I would later learn to identify). Children are often deeply connected to the spiritual realm, and I had the ability to astral project around my house. I saw my parents fighting, including a moment when my father threw a box fan at my mother. This moment set the tone for many experiences that followed. You might wonder how I know what I experienced was not merely a dream; if you've ever experienced astral travel, the distinction is often about your level of lucidity.

My next vivid memory is from my first birthday party, which was absolutely wonderful! My grandmother made a clown cake, a classic from the 80s, much like those found in “The Joy of Cooking.” I also clearly remember my second birthday celebration themed around HEMAN! However, interspersed between those joyful moments were significant memories of disarray. I recall being outside in my diapers, feeling the urge to relieve myself, and crying when I realized my diaper was soiled. My mother quickly came outside, yelling at me for being “disgusting” and a “complete inconvenience.”

As I mentioned, my early childhood consisted of a mix of good and bad memories, particularly once my parents divorced at age four. They often used me to inflict pain on one another, manipulating the situation for their own advantage. One noteworthy yet tragic memory involves the many strays in our neighborhood. Unable to get help from animal control, my mother decided to take matters into her own hands. I watched as she set out trays of food laced with borax, dish soap, bleach, and antifreeze. Not long after, strays started vanishing, and I later found myself on the news, being interviewed about missing pets, entirely unaware that the topic involved my mother’s actions.

As both my mom and dad began drinking heavily, I witnessed further unsettling behaviors. During one of my earliest weekends with my dad, I found him passed out in his chair after working all night as a police officer and consuming several beers. For those of you who, like me, grew up in the 80s, the VCR or Betamax was likely the first device we learned to operate. While looking for something to watch in my dad's movie collection, I stumbled upon a box labeled “NC-17 Texas Chainsaw Massacre.” As a small child, I had no idea what that entailed, but I was curious. That encounter was frightening and overwhelming for me.

That same year, while spending another weekend with my dad, he was again passed out. I often played outside his trailer around the trailer park and occasionally made friends with some older kids. One day, when visiting their home, we ended up watching a pornographic film that their parents owned. I had no understanding of what I was watching, but it left a significant impact on me.

Later that year, I found myself inexplicably locked outside my mother’s house at the age of four or five during winter. After knocking for what felt like ages, she finally came to the door, having been woken from a nap. Although I don’t recall the exact discussions, I remember a lot of yelling. That same year, a male friend spent the night, but something triggered him, leading him to bite my genitals, causing me to bleed for three days. Being a severe Hemophiliac A, my mother did not seek medical help due to financial constraints and shame about the injury. She often reminded me how costly it was to keep me alive and how disgusting I was for being a boy.

Despite the dark moments, there were glimpses of light. I had my first dog, Kelly Boy, who lived with us in our townhouse. However, that joy was shattered when a disturbed boy in the neighborhood threatened to kill me if I didn’t give him my dog. The next day, we discovered Kelly's collar burnt in half, with no trace of him left. My mother helped me make posters and search the neighborhood for him, but he was never found.

As the years progressed, my mother’s drinking escalated, and I transitioned from verbal abuse to physical punishment for every mistake I made. It may seem ironic that she would beat me, knowing I had hemophilia, but that didn’t seem to matter to her. On top of this, I was experiencing frequent bathroom issues; I would often urinate in my toy box and hold my bowel movements for so long that I would end up soiling my pants. This behavior led to significant shaming and verbal abuse from my mom, where she would call me gross and assure me that no one would ever love me, further compounding my struggles.

At some point during our church visits, I couldn't help but feel I might have undiagnosed ADHD. I often grew bored, fell asleep, or simply read the Bible or hymnal to stay awake. If I dozed off, my mother would resort to pinching my arm or slapping my leg to wake me. One particularly bored day at church, I rolled around on the floor, hitting people’s legs without a care. When I returned to my mother, she promptly snatched me up and carried me out, reprimanding me the entire way home.

When I was with my dad around this time, he would often involve me in car repairs, having become a mechanic after leaving the police force. If I didn't perform tasks to his satisfaction, I was ridiculed, told I was stupid, and had tools snatched away from me. Although I experienced bonding moments while fishing with him, those times were often overshadowed by harsh treatment. His family from West Virginia taught me how to navigate maps and manage the 8-track player during long drives, though I often felt inundated with large meals at family gatherings—by this time, I was definitely gaining weight.

Around this time, I underwent my first major surgery due to severe club feet, which had inward-facing and upside-down feet. My baby feet were set in casts, a common practice then, with doctors assuring us they would heal properly. Fast forward to a family trip to Disney in Florida, where we spent the day walking for eight hours; by the end of it, my feet were in agony, forcing me to walk on my ankles. My mother didn't offer assistance, and I had to make my way back to the car in that painful state. Soon after, I went to UNC Chapel Hill for orthopedic treatment—the only hospital willing to operate on hemophiliacs. They performed total bilateral ankle reconstructions, leaving me with permanent bruising and scars. I woke up screaming in pain, confined to casts from my feet to my hips. Afterward, I wore boots and had to learn to walk again, a process fraught with pain. I spent that entire summer transitioning from second grade to third in the hospital and was wheelchair-bound for six months afterward. Back then, the only buses accessible for wheelchairs were for kids with developmental delays, which I found myself riding.

Once I could walk again, I had several babysitters, including my second cousin, my mother’s friend, and a teenage girl from our neighborhood. My second cousin was the best; she was warm, kind, and fun to be around. However, an incident occurred where I inadvertently angered my mother, leading to her refusing to let my cousin babysit anymore. The personal friend was pleasant, but her husband made me feel uncomfortable. It turned out to be a fortunate instinct; after spending one night at their home, I learned from the news that he was a registered pedophile.

The teenage girl became my primary babysitter after that. One day, I went to her house, but I have no memory of what transpired. When I returned home, I told my mother about my day, and the look on her face suggested shock. She forbade me from returning to her home.

During holidays, I spent time at my grandmother and step-grandfather's cemetery, which became a cherished place for me. I enjoyed scavenger hunts organized by my grandmother and the opportunity to explore the grounds. It was here I began to notice that I had unique gifts. I experienced episodes where I would wake up in the night, feeling as if the refrigerator shook violently. I often saw visitors walking around, and sometimes I spotted vague, misty figures absent of legs or torsos, which sparked a deep fascination with death and the supernatural.

In school, during free reading time, I gravitated toward books about movie monsters like Dracula and the Wolfman. However, as I progressed through elementary school, I also began to feel a growing anger at my mother. Between the ages of eight and ten, this led to more punishments and verbal tirades from her. I often had to call my grandmother for "rescue" when my mom became wildly enraged. During this period, I developed a close friendship with a boy and his brother. As we entered a phase centered around exploration of our bodies, one boy would often sleep in the top bunk while the other and I engaged in discovery. This continued until one day, when we were playing on the floor, my mother walked in, screaming at us and calling us derogatory names. She made me dress immediately and berated me for a week afterward, beating and humiliating me and forcing me to simulate acts in front of her.

From there, my life veered into a dangerous phase that went unacknowledged by anyone but my mother, who often labeled me a destructive, angry child. When I was around nine or ten, my father gifted me a buck knife for self-defense against my mother. When her verbal tirades escalated, I would pull it out and stab the couch arms to vent my frustration, ultimately destroying three couches in frustration.

We lived in a trailer park during this time, and the environment was stifling. My mother would smoke heavily in the car and at home with the windows shut. My earaches grew increasingly severe, ultimately requiring tubes for treatment. The doctor chastised my mother for the impact of her smoking on my health, and she retaliated by screaming at him, effectively silencing any concern for my well-being.

Throughout the years, my mother would repeatedly remind me that she never wanted me and preferred a girl. She would express disgust for boys, implying they became pedophiles, and this was a sentiment she conveyed throughout my upbringing. You might wonder why I never spoke out—I had only one safe haven, my gay uncle. He was the shining light in my life, especially during the holidays. However, my mother berated him for his sexuality and attributed his HIV to that, dismissing the reality that it stemmed from a contaminated blood transfusion in the 1970s. This was also during the rise of the HIV/AIDS crisis, which filled me with fear because of my hemophilia. Before the early 80s, hemophiliacs relied on whole blood transfusions, putting many of us at risk of HIV or Hepatitis C. During my hospitalization for surgery, I even participated in a key study that led to the FDA approval of a synthetic product that transformed treatment for hemophiliacs.

At four, I contracted Hepatitis C from dirty blood, a battle I’ve fought through numerous treatments. My uncle, however, faced the grim reality of HIV. I could see the anguish in his face as my mother shamed him, fueling the familial divide due to her relentless bigotry. In the backdrop of this turmoil, my father’s use of racial slurs toward people of color added another layer of emotional pain. I absorbed these negative messages as a child, mimicking behavior without understanding its implications until much later. Thankfully, I recognized the harm in those words and stopped using them around the age of six or seven.

As I transitioned into my preteen years, we moved from the trailer park to our first real home. This coincided with the onset of puberty, a time when I began exploring my body—an ordinary aspect of growing up. One particular movie had an unexpected impact on me, sparking curiosities I couldn’t articulate. Around this time, my mother’s religious zealotry intensified, exacerbated by her rampant alcoholism. As I began asking questions about God, we visited various churches, initially a small Baptist church that I enjoyed—until I began asking difficult questions about biblical inconsistencies.

My uncle, an author, had always engaged me in literature, and I eagerly devoured the books he gifted me. Although I was in middle school, I was reading at a high school senior level. However, our attendance at church took a turn when a preacher made derogatory comments about homosexuality and another sermon claimed African Americans were inferior to whites. That moment confirmed my growing distaste for organized religion.

We soon switched to a Pentecostal Methodist church, where the message of kindness and love felt contradictory to the practices preached. During this period, I began having vivid prophetic dreams featuring Jesus and demons. In these dreams, Jesus encouraged me to perform small acts of kindness, never mentioning the sacrifice of his blood for salvation. I often saw visions of a white dove bringing me quiet messages I couldn’t recall upon awakening. One particularly disturbing dream occurred at my father’s trailer when I began to hear strange guttural sounds. I peered out the back door to see Xenomorph-like creatures killing my dog on the porch. Then, in an instant, I found myself outside with Jesus comforting me, reminding me to invoke his name when faced with fear. The dream left a lasting impact that would later connect to my healing journey.

As puberty continued to unfold, I was frequently at my dad’s place. I don’t recall the specifics, but one evening while watching a rented VHS movie with my dad, we stumbled upon a nude scene that left me shocked. Sitting there with my father amplified my discomfort. After the initial surprise, overwhelming guilt washed over me because of the religious zealotry my mother instilled in me. I expressed to my dad that I was too tired to continue watching the movie, so I prepared for bed. The guilt lingered with me, fueling my anxiety to the point that I thought I would go straight to hell when I fell asleep. I prayed fervently for forgiveness, reciting Bible verses repeatedly, but the guilty feelings persisted. Eventually, I laid in bed sobbing until, unexpectedly, I heard a pop in my left ear, followed by a voice saying, “Fear not, my son, for I am with you always.” In that moment, all anxiety, fear, and guilt dissipated, replaced with a profound sense of peace. It was a transformative experience, and I felt compelled to remember that moment as my inner compass, guiding me toward the feeling of peace for the rest of my life.

Returning home often felt like stepping onto a battlefield. I never knew what to expect. My mother’s alcoholism escalated to a point where I stayed awake until the early hours, ensuring she would not choke on her own vomit. During those chaotic times, I often had to turn her onto her side when she passed out in front of me. My growing independence made me more resistant to her demands, but that only fueled her rage. In one heated exchange, I cut the arm of her couch in frustration, and she retaliated by destroying my meticulously crafted models right in front of me, yelling that if I messed with her belongings, she would destroy mine.

One day, caught up in her manic, religious fervor, my mother decided to purge everything from our home that she deemed non-religious. She dragged me to the attic and demanded I hand over every piece of my childhood that “had nothing to do with God.” I watched helplessly as she discarded my X-Men trading cards, comic books, action figures, and many of my cherished toys, including my entire collection of original He-Man figures.

In those tumultuous formative years, anytime I told my mother she was hurting me or disagreed with her over anything—even trivial matters like where spoons should go—I faced physical violence, shaming, and verbal tirades. I spent countless nights on edge, going to bed after she unleashed a three-hour storm of anger. Often, just as I thought the night would end peacefully, she would burst into my room, retribution in hand, and the cycle would persist.

Not surprisingly, this led me to feelings of profound hopelessness. I started to pray desperately for God to either end my life or give me the strength to survive the onslaught of abuse. Each time I felt overwhelmed, I would call my grandmother, pleading for rescue, especially when my mother’s threats escalated. I’d lost my voice, feeling that nothing I said or did matter. It became easier to simply endure the abuse in silence, breaking down only after my mother exited the room.

You might wonder why I never sought help from teachers or family. It’s a question that often arises, and one I wish I had answers for. As any survivor of similar experiences might affirm, the fear of disbelief looms large. “Who would believe me?” I thought. I feared that reporting her would only lead to greater abuse. When I did confide in my grandmother, it resulted in an even harsher response from my mother—verbal tirades amplified by the guilt I already carried.

As I navigated this painful landscape, I was left with a distorted sense of identity. I often felt worthless, a burden, and believed I deserved the mistreatment I endured. I was just a child trying to survive, unaware of the reality that I didn't deserve such treatment. My mother painted me as a hateful, rebellious child, manipulating the truth to fit her narrative.

In her eyes, I was an ungrateful son who inflicted pain on a good Christian woman, completely oblivious to the cycle of emotional abuse that surrounded us. My understanding of narcissism was nonexistent, but I now relate her actions to patterns of emotional manipulation—flipping the script and gaslighting me into believing that I deserved the life I led. Simultaneously, she would express guilt over her actions while also lamenting about how different I was from the sweet child I had been.

As her sobriety took shape, she became a “dry drunk,” embodying more instability without the aid of psychological help. In that environment, I was effectively raising myself while also acting as a caregiver for my mother.

This concludes the first part of my story, from birth through my preteen years. In the subsequent segment, I will discuss my teenage years into my mid-20s. I recognize the graphic nature of this narrative may be difficult to digest, but this is my truth—the reality of growing up with a malignant narcissist for a mother and a distant father. My uncle was the sole constant in my life, alongside my grandmother, who played pivotal roles in my upbringing. I am sharing this story now because I am tired of remaining silent. I want to reclaim my narrative, reminding all of you that regardless of your past, YOU have the power to choose a different future.

Thank you for reading this far, and please stay tuned for the next segment. I encourage you to leave comments or questions, and I will do my best to respond to each of you. Thank you for your time.