Content Warning: The following is my true story that contains graphic and detailed descriptions of severe, prolonged childhood abuse and neglect. Themes include explicit physical violence, psychological torture, attempted murder, starvation, and medical neglect. This text is intended for mature readers and is deeply disturbing in parts. Please proceed with care.

Estimated Reading Time: Approximately 3 hours.

---

The Field, The Brink, and The Voice

Introduction

The Man They See, The Past They Don’t

Hello. My name is Floyd Kelly, and this is my true story.

If you saw me today? Just another man in his sixties, walking my dog in a small city. Quiet. You might find me exchanging pleasantries with neighbors, people walking in the town, maybe the cashiers at the stores. On the surface, I’m just like anyone else, navigating the day with a calm stride. But people don’t see my thoughts, my heart, my history; my path in life starting with darkness, violence, and neglect.

My life began differently.

My life began not in warmth and safety, not with the gentle comfort and security every child deserves. While my earliest years are a blur, around the age of six, things just started getting bad.

I remember July 20, 1969, when I was only six years old, watching the Apollo 11 mission and the astronauts landing on the moon on our black and white television, eyes and face as close to the TV as I could get. Funnily, I remember looking up at the moon at night, trying to see the men walking around up there. A small glimmer of hope, for a future I could not yet envision.

What started as a seemingly normal household quickly turned into a ‘horror house,’ a place of systematic cruelty, relentless deprivation, and starvation – both physical, mental and emotional. Everything became worse as the months and years passed by. I was not a child who was nurtured, protected, or loved. I was a child who was targeted, subjected to a calculated campaign of suffering that intensified over time.”

My story unfolds, starting in the early 1960s, specifically in Pasadena, Texas. It was a place defined not by picturesque landscapes or vibrant community life, but by the heavy, industrial smell of nearby refineries that perpetually hung in the air. A place dominated by the oppressive, humid heat of the Texas sun, and the constant, buzzing hum of locusts in the dry summer air, a monotonous backdrop to a life anything but monotonous. It was within this seemingly ordinary, yet subtly detached, setting, in a world that felt dark, twisted, unforgiving, and utterly unrelenting. There, people who were simply wicked, devoid of empathy or compassion systematically stole my childhood from me.

The formation of all my nascent ideas and thoughts were not of the future, of hope, or of happiness. Instead, they were of sheer, desperate survival and the constant, vigilant avoidance of the next act of violence. This past, so harrowing in its stark and brutal reality, doesn’t just tell my story; it begs a fundamental and deeply unsettling question. The question echoes not only in the minds of those who glimpse the terrifying landscape of my past. It is one I have often pondered myself in quiet moments of reflection. The question is simple, yet profoundly complex: How? How did I endure such unimaginable suffering – the relentless physical torture, the soul-crushing psychological degradation, the near-fatal violence that has left both visible and invisible scars – and emerge not utterly broken beyond repair, not consumed by bitterness or rage, but with a capacity for kindness, contentment, try to contribute positively to the world, building a life deliberately from overcoming immense hardship? This is the story of that arduous and improbable journey. It is a story of survival, yes, of clinging to existence at the very edge of the abyss, but more than that, it is the story of a life that was not given, but willed into existence through sheer force of my will and perhaps divine intervention at the very brink of death. It is the story of how my single, desperate act of defiance and self-preservation on a cold winter night became the unlikely genesis of everything that followed, the fragile seed from which a new life would eventually grow.

Let me be clear from the outset, with absolute certainty and without reservation. Everything I share in this book is the absolute truth, 100% real, without any embellishment, exaggeration, or tall tales designed to elicit sympathy. This is my raw, unvarnished story, told as it happened.

Writing this book now, in my sixties, the urgency of the past feels different, viewed through the lens of decades. For so long, the raw wounds needed distance, time to heal, before the emotional tumult of revisiting this traumatic period could be approached with a clearer perspective. Now, in the twilight of my years, it seems the right time to finally give voice to experiences that were once unspeakable.

Over the years, in quiet conversations or unexpected moments of vulnerability, people would invariably ask why I spoke of such painful memories. My answer always circled back to the quiet conviction that my story, however harrowing, might resonate with others trapped in their own private horrors, or stir something in those on the periphery who sense that something is not right. It is this profound and deeply felt resonance that ultimately compelled me to recount a childhood I would wish on no one.

My story has never been told. I write this in hopes that somebody out there somewhere in the world may find even a portion of it helpful to them.

Part 1

The Anatomy of a “Horror House”

(Childhood Abuse and Neglect)

Chapter 1

The Unseen Cage

My very first memory, the absolute earliest imprint on my consciousness, is not of a warm embrace or a comforting lullaby, but of being placed into a crib. I guess it was a crib, a structure meant for infant rest and safety, except I wasn’t placed on a soft mattress or a protective pad; I was placed directly onto the bare, unyielding box springs. I don’t know why this was the case; I have never spoken of this, and it was simply how it was. It’s a memory that stands out with a peculiar, unsettling clarity. It was a strange beginning to my life that would be relentlessly marked by constant physical discomfort, emotional neglect, and a pervasive lack of basic care.

This initial memory set the stage for a childhood defined by the absence of fundamental comforts. My favorite color is blue.

First we lived on South Street in Pasadena, next to the Washateria and the store. I did not know it at the time, I was there until 5. My older sister, Linda, I don’t remember much about her during this time.

We then moved into a house about a mile away from South St. to Washington St., near Deepwater Elementary.

This new house was to become my world.

The new home’s backyard on Washington Street featured a large, iconic oak tree. Its old, massive trunk was gnarled. Thick roots spread from its base, visible on the surface of the ground before going deep into the soil. In season, acorns from the tree would fall onto the yard. The tree’s large canopy provided significant shade. This shade was a relief on hot Pasadena summer days, especially when I was ordered to mow the front and back yards.

It wasn’t until I was around eight years old, as time went on, that I discovered this old oak tree was my safe spot. Sitting under it, the large trunk could hide me, making me unseen from the chaos of my home and the scene of my life. It was a chance to not hear the raspy spoken orders from my mother.

Beyond the chaos, my world was also defined by a constant dimness, a deliberate shutting out of the sun. The windows in our house, in every room except the living room, were covered completely with aluminum foil. No sunlight ever entered our house. The living room, with its long, drab curtains, offered little more. Even during the brightest Texas days, the interior of our home remained a shadowy place, a constant reminder of the darkness within.

No Bed for Me

For eleven consecutive years, from the age of six to the cusp of adulthood at seventeen, I never once had a proper bed to sleep in. My nightly resting place was the cold, hardwood floor, a stark and unforgiving surface that offered not much rest. Adding to the physical discomfort and the pervasive sense of unease, our house was infested, not just with a few scattered insects, but with hundreds upon hundreds of roaches, a teeming, scuttling nightmare. I became sick of the constant roach smell; it was gross, and their droppings were everywhere. At night, the horrifying reality was that a few of these creatures would crawl on me as I lay on the floor, sometimes even finding their way into my ears and nose as I slept. I remember many times laying on that hard floor at night, hoping no roaches would crawl into my ears and nose because it happened frequently. It was a constant source of profound fear. I didn’t have a real pillow to cushion my head, a rolled up pair of jeans, perhaps a towel, something waddled up for a pillow, and only on rare occasions did I manage to get a thin, inadequate blanket for warmth. Winters in Pasadena were cold, and there was minimal heating in the house to combat the biting chill. Sleeping on that frigid floor, in the darkness, with roaches crawling over me, was not an occasional hardship; it was a nightly, inescapable reality.

My mother was a woman steeped in superstitions, and she passed one onto me concerning the weather that instilled a genuine, lasting fear. I had always found a certain comfort in the sound of afternoon thunderstorms, and I loved the sight of sun showers – those moments when a storm would momentarily break, allowing rays of sunshine to pierce through the clouds even as a light rain continued to fall. To my young eyes, it was a beautiful and wondrous spectacle in the sky.

However, my mother perceived something far more sinister. Whenever this particular weather occurred, she would exclaim in her raspy, emphatic voice, “The devil is beating his wife!” She’d often repeat the phrase, her own fear palpable, as if she truly believed this invisible drama was unfolding. The first time I experienced this, she pointed to the mingling rain and sun as ‘proof’ of the devil’s cruel act. Then, her voice laced with alarm, she would order me away from the door or window, as if the devil’s fury could somehow reach into our home.

At that age, I had no concept of ‘the devil,’ nor did I understand words like ‘evil’ or ‘Satan.’ The only thing I knew, the only reality I absorbed from her intense reaction and urgent warnings, was that something profoundly scary and dangerous was happening just outside. This particular superstition, so vividly impressed upon me, became deeply ingrained, a chilling echo and a scary understanding of the world.

My Sitting Spot

From my designated sitting spot on the floor, my view of the living room was dominated by my mother’s collection of treasures, fancy things bought by my father while away overseas. Cheap metal shelves, a TV, and a large curio cabinet, were carefully adorned with an array of things of luxury, as she considered them, each one a testament to her pride and joy.

I recall a ceramic lamp shaped like two Siamese cats, its soft lit eyes always casting a nice warm glow on the wall, and a large geisha doll, a souvenir from overseas, encased in glass and perpetually serene. On the wall, a pendulum clock, its rhythmic tick, was a constant backdrop to the happenings in that room.

The living room floor, a shade of what I recall as a worn olive or avocado green, etched with abstract, woven lines – a pattern that became intimately familiar. My designated sitting area was there, a fixed point on the floor just two feet from the entrance. Day after day, usually my legs crossed, no talking. This was my small world.

In the long stretches while my mother sat in her chair, often watching her soap operas, her verbal abuse would frequently intensify. With me confined to my spot on the floor, her words became brutal weapons. On many occasions, her raspy voice, cold and devoid of any warmth, would cut through the air, calling me a bastard or telling me that I was ugly. There were also those other times, a few occasions that seared into my memory, when she would look angry and tell me with a flat, chilling finality that she wished I had never been born.

At times, if I dared to ask a question, to seek some understanding, her angry, raspy voice would snap back with a chilling response: ‘Don’t ask me any questions, I won’t tell you any lies.’

During these times, that carpet became my only refuge. I learned to tune out the world, her world, by immersing myself in the one at my feet. Staring. Focusing. Her words turned to a blur. My eyes would trace the intricate dance of the lines, study the geometry of the weave, my mind getting lost with each second passing, noting the subtle variations in the fabric, the character of each stain, the map of its wear. I would sit there and make trails and retrace my trails, my travel through a small world This concentrated exploration of that small, unchanging landscape was my vital escape, a silent, internal space carved out from the surrounding anguish.

How can I escape?

My escape wasn’t always confined to the abstract lines of the carpet. In that same tired room, battling the same weariness day after day, my mind would often race far beyond those woven patterns.

From my designated spot on the floor, the door, a mere two feet from me, thoughts of actual escape would flicker and surge. In the long, monotonous hours of sitting there, with the TV droning and my mother absorbed in her own world, I would mentally rehearse scenarios of freedom.

Sometimes, I had to do what I now understand adults call “thinking it through,” a process no one ever taught me. I’d imagine myself standing up quickly, a sudden bolt. Then, opening the front door – it was right there – and just start walking. Walk. Walk. Walk. Don’t stop walking. I thought to myself. The mantra would play in my head. But then reality would crash in. I knew nothing of the world outside our street, a vast and terrifying unknown. And worse, I knew with chilling certainty what would happen if I actually tried. She had caught me before when I’d dared to run; she would simply haul me back inside, and the beating that to follow would be severe. I wouldn’t get far.

So, that scene of desperate escape, the image of myself just getting up and going, played over and over in my mind – a loop of longing and fear. I remember so many times staring at that door, so close, thinking, It’s right there. All I have to do is get up. Get up off this floor, stand up, and go! But the invisible chains of fear, and the knowledge of the inevitable consequences, held me captive in that spot, I was a prisoner just inches from a door I couldn’t bring myself to open.

Over the next years, as my siblings came into my existence, they slept in beds, one on each side of the room and I was always on the floor. I do not know why to this day.

Those roaches

Roach droppings were everywhere in our kitchen cabinets. Once a year, the exterminator would come into the house and spray everywhere. Our family would have to be gone for hours during the process. When we returned, I was faced with a daunting challenge. Being ordered by my mother to pull everything out of the cabinets, use soap and water and clean out all the dead roaches and droppings. It was not something I looked forward to. It was a long chore, tiring, and gross. Nobody helped me. I was so small, I had to use a chair to climb up onto the countertop to reach the top shelves of the kitchen cabinets. There before me, a layer of hundreds of dead roaches. There they were, laying belly up on the cheap off-white cabinet covering was a task that I utterly dread. I was scared to get sick, the smell of the poison used was overwhelming. This one chore would take hours. Then, after all that, I might get a break, ask for a drink of water. Then, it was my chore to do the same to the bottom cabinets, wash every dish and pan and utensil and then cook for the family. The next day I would move the furniture away from the walls to clean dead roaches, then anywhere else where dead roaches were found. Over the years, the problem became worse. Even with the exterminator once a year, the roaches would almost immediately return and multiply.

Bathing and Privacy

Bathing was another significant problem in our house. I didn’t get to bathe often, and when I did, in my very young years, it was a communal bath, but then at some point I was allowed to bathe by myself, just, not that often. There was no concept of privacy in our house, no such thing as a personal moment or a closed door for solitude.

My earliest memories are not of the soothing sounds of lullabies or the gentle touch of caring hands. They are of the acrid, lingering smell of cigarette smoke that permeated every corner of the house. A contradictory message delivered by the very person who was supposed to be my protector and guide. I vividly remember my mother, a constant cigarette perpetually held between her fingers, telling me with a strange conviction that they were “good for me.” Later, the world outside the confines of our home offered its own bizarre and unsettling echo of this twisted message. It came in the form of candy cigarettes sold at places like 7-Eleven stores. They were a child’s innocent imitation of an adult habit, a sweet, powdery stick designed to mimic the very thing that cast such a long and destructive shadow over my home and my mother’s life. It’s jarring now, looking back, to think of that seemingly innocent imitation existing alongside the brutal and unhealthy reality I lived within those walls.

Life inside the house was a constant state of profound deprivation, a metaphorical and sometimes literal cage where my basic human needs were not just unmet, but actively weaponized and used as tools of control and punishment. Oral hygiene, a fundamental aspect of health and well-being, was non-existent. My parents did not allow me to brush my teeth, nor did they offer any guidance, instruction, or tools on how to care for them. For eighteen years, my entire childhood and adolescence, this fundamental aspect of health was deliberately denied. The consequences were horrific and long-lasting. Coupled with severe and chronic malnourishment, my body didn’t develop as it should have. This impacted everything from my height and weight to the very structure of my mouth. My mouth became a visible and painful testament to the profound neglect; my “baby teeth” and “adult teeth” grew in simultaneously, occupying the same crowded, inadequate space, creating a grotesque and unnatural appearance. I literally looked, and consequently felt, like a monster from a movie, a distorted version of a human being. The embarrassment and shame were so profound that I instinctively walked around covering my mouth with my hand. I was desperate to hide the physical manifestation of my parents’ cruelty and neglect from the outside world.

Food was another weapon

Food, like hygiene and shelter, was not a source of nourishment and comfort. Instead, it was a tool of control and manipulation. My daily diet primarily consisted of rice, beans, biscuits and tortillas, white bread, and lots of peanut butter. On occasion we would get a treat like Whataburger or the sandwiches from K-Mart. Food arrived in waves. When my father was gone we were on a tight budget, but when he was home for about 3 months, we ate better, more money. This constant cycle of having and not having.

I remember many times, my meal being one slice of white bread with just about a tablespoon of butter or mayonnaise. That was all. To spice things up, my mother invented “burnt bread”, where I would turn on the stove and toss the bread onto the flames until I heard crackling and a slight char, then the other side of the slice of bread. Finally, either butter or mayonnaise. That was my meal.

When my father would return home from overseas, the bottom portion of the refrigerator was his spot. His spot in the fridge for his stacked cases of beer. Mostly two cases, and sometimes 3 cases. When he would buy food, I was in charge of the shuffling of things around in the refrigerator to make room for his beer.

My mother placed absolutely no emphasis on healthy foods, provided no guidance on proper nutrition, and did not teach me anything about balanced eating habits. She taught me nothing about how to live.

For school lunch, a time when other children enjoyed a variety of foods, my meal was typically the same thing: two pieces of bread with about two tablespoons of peanut butter. A small bag of chips. Maybe, if I was exceptionally lucky, I’d get a single banana. That was the entirety of my lunch.

I remember discovering the cafeteria at school. Reflecting back, the bright large room, the trays, just walking down the line and seeing all this FOOD! The long cases with lots and lots of food. Oh, the smell, the colors, all the women working.

This severe, constant lack of adequate food at home meant I relied heavily, almost entirely, on the school cafeteria for any real nourishment. It was a lifeline. Every day, driven by a gnawing, aching hunger, I would go to the vice principal’s office. I would humbly ask for money to cover the cost of a meal. It was a humiliating but absolutely necessary ritual. Eventually, recognizing my consistent, desperate need, they put me on a punch card system. A bill was constantly being tallied for the food I received, a debt I could not possibly repay. There were agonizing times, due to the unpaid bill, when I was told I couldn’t eat. It was a crushing blow to me – hungry.

Yet, miraculously, in those moments of despair, someone would step in and pay my bill. It was a silent benefactor whose identity I never knew. They cleared the debt and allowed me to eat. And sometimes kindness came directly from the cafeteria ladies themselves. They were compassionate women who would quietly pull money from their own pockets, a few crumpled dollars or coins, to ensure I had something to eat, a warm meal in a cold, hungry world. I honestly, truly, and unequivocally believe that the school cafeteria, and the hidden kindness within it, saved my life during those years. It was the only consistent source of nourishment in a world of profound, constant deprivation – a lifeline that kept my body functioning and my spirit from completely breaking. Even at school, the physical toll of the neglect was painfully visible and drew unwanted, cruel attention. Other kids, observing my emaciated frame, would heckle me because I was so skinny, so boney, so clearly different.

In gym class, when we would split off into two teams, and the captains chose their team members, I was always the last one chosen. A deeply sad experience for me every time.

But despite the taunts, I knew with absolute certainty that I needed that food to survive. If I had not had the school cafeteria during those critical school years, if not for the quiet, anonymous generosity of those compassionate individuals, I probably would not be here writing this text today. My story would be untold.

Adding to the constant, gnawing hunger, both my mother and father would literally take away my food plate, mid-meal. They would do this if they were angry at me or if they perceived, often arbitrarily, that I had done something wrong. Food was not just scarce and inadequate; it was a weapon actively used for punishment, a cruel and immediate way to assert their absolute control and inflict both physical and emotional suffering. The act of having food snatched away was a powerful demonstration of their power and my powerlessness.

My mother’s financial desperation, often fueled by her addictions, added yet another layer to the pervasive deprivation and forced me into deeply humiliating and inappropriate roles. When she ran out of money, a frequent occurrence, she had two primary methods for acquiring more, and tragically, I was central to both of them. The first was to order me to go to the neighbors’ houses and brazenly ask to borrow twenty dollars. Amazingly, my parents had absolutely nothing to do with any of the neighbors. They never had a conversation, not once, with the people living right next door.

When my mother first told me to do this, I was confused but did what I was told. I remember being scared, this was something new to me I had not experienced. I knocked on the neighbor’s door. A man answered. I don’t remember the man’s face who answered the door, probably in his 60s and I asked him if I could borrow twenty dollars. No salutations. Just the question. He looked at me, paused, then I think he talked to a woman and then opened the storm door and gave me twenty dollars and I went back to the house.

Due to my success. My mother then repeated this request shortly after. And again and then, again. I was knocking on the doors of places I did not know. I did not know the people. They did not know anything about me. The fear I went through each time, seeing people react to me, perhaps thinking I was an odd person.

When I returned to our neighbors house, the first man. When I knocked on his door, and once again, simply asked, “Can I borrow $20?”. He addressed me from behind the screen of the storm door, and asked me if I knew what the word “borrow” means. In my quiet way, I told him no. He then asked me how I was going to pay the money back. I told him I didn’t know and became embarrassed. He stepped back into the darkness behind him, the door simply left ajar and he returned with $20 and gave it to me. And off I was.

This is when I felt my first betrayal by my mother

As I was walking back to the house, she was standing near the driver’s side of our small Toyota Corolla. She was waiting for me and told me to get in the car. My designated seat, the front passenger seat. I gave her the $20 and she drove to the 7-Eleven. She parked the car and went into the store. She came back, got into the car and opened her pack of cigarettes. For the next 5 minutes, me, my siblings in the back, all packed in this little car, and we had to endure the heat and now a cloud of cigarette smoke. In these moments, I tried to face the window to get some relief from the combination of heat and stench. Then, she counted the change and told me to go into the store and buy a loaf of white bread and a jar of peanut butter, a bag of potato chips and a bottle of RC Cola. The bread and peanut butter being our supper.

I felt both betrayal and shame at the same time. Consistently not returning the “borrowed” funds inflicted profound shame upon me. This tactic worked at first, exploiting the neighbors’ initial goodwill, but as the borrowed money was never paid back, the neighbors became understandably shocked, confused, and eventually, angry. I would receive stern words from them, reprimands and bewildered questions. They thought I was the one asking for the money for myself, not realizing I was merely a terrified child sent on a humiliating and impossible errand by my mother. If our direct neighbors adjacent to our home were unavailable, or if they had understandably started saying no to my mother’s requests delivered through me, she would send me out further. I would go to other houses on the block or even in the neighborhood, to people who didn’t know me at all. I would knock on their doors and ask for money. It was an act of profound humiliation, a deep and lasting violation of my dignity forced upon me by my own mother’s desperation and crippling addiction. And the cruelest, most heartbreaking part of this degrading ritual was that if I was successful at getting some money, even just a few dollars, as soon as she got her hands on it, she would immediately become a somewhat normal person, at least temporarily. Not truly normal, the damage was too deep for that, but the intense rage would subside, the immediate threat of violence would lessen, replaced by a fragile, fleeting calm. This happened over and over. It was a perverse reinforcement of her destructive behavior. Those poor neighbors never did get their money back, and they had no idea their hard-earned money was going to fuel her addiction instead of feeding me, her very own hungry child.

If I was successful in getting some money, the cruelty was compounded exponentially. This became a routine, my mother would take the money, get in the car, and drive off to buy cigarettes instead of food or other basic necessities for us. Her addiction always, without exception, took priority over our well-being.

The other option, when begging from neighbors failed, was to haul us all, my siblings and me, to my grandma’s house to ask her for money, visits that carried their own heavy burden of tension and shame, exposing our desperate circumstances. Water, a fundamental element for survival, too, was often treated as a luxury, frequently denied as a form of control or simply due to neglect. The thirst could become overwhelming, a physical ache that consumed my thoughts and made it difficult to focus on anything else.

I remember one day, desperate for a drink, my mouth dry and aching, I asked my mother if I could get a glass of water, she said no. I was so thirsty I was desperate. So, I thought of trying to use the sink in the bathroom to get water. I asked my mother if I could go to the bathroom, she said yes. So I quickly went to the bathroom – even simple, necessary requests required her explicit permission. I was surprised she agreed.

Once I entered the bathroom, I gently closed the door. And slumped down, my back against the wall facing the sink. The large blue light-blue tiles provided an instant coolness in this unlit bathroom. I looked at the sink thinking I could get water from the sink. But the sound of running tap was too risky. She would undoubtedly hear it and the punishment would swiftly follow.

It was here that my desperation could probably be relieved with a thought that only just now occurred to me in these next seconds. Sitting here, on the cool floor in despair, my eyes fell upon the toilet tank. I briefly thought of getting water from there, but I had seen the inside and there was no way I was going to drink that water. Then, my mind gravitated to the toilet bowl. I began thinking about the water within, cold and still – it presented a desperate, unspeakable possibility.

In these seconds of extreme need, the thirst so consuming it overshadowing everything else, I overcame any revulsion. I stuck my entire head into the toilet bowl. I began to suck in the cold water, gulping it down. It felt amazing, a life-sustaining gift, incredibly good, a primal relief. This was the stark, degrading reality of my childhood. I found relief in the most humiliating and degrading circumstances imaginable.

After drinking as much as I could, I stood up, looked in the mirror above the sink, and to my left, standing there was my mother at the door yelling “What are you doing in there?”I managed to evade her and swoop by her as quickly as I could as if nothing was going on.

Scraps of Food

In addition to seeking out water where I could find it, I would also instinctively save scraps of food, small crusts of bread, pieces of tortillas, a stolen treat from 7-Eleven or leftovers, hiding them away in a small cubby hole I discovered in the garage next to the washer and dryer. Like an animal instinctually hoarding resources for survival, I created a secret stash. It was a small buffer against the constant, terrifying threat of hunger and the unpredictable availability of food. It was a desperate, primal act of survival, born directly from a complete lack of basic security and consistent access to nutrition. I chose the cubby hole because my mother was lazy, and I would run the washer and dryer mostly and she didn’t come into this one room that much.

The room with the washer and dryer was a dark room, one incandescent to light the space. The smell of old wet wood, water training from overflow on the concrete floor of the room which is in the garage. The garage was cluttered, unkept, and big rats. I remember one day, I saw a giant rat walking the rope above me while standing in the garage. I got scared, very scared and sprinted to the door leading to the garage and back into the kitchen. I slammed the door behind me and the glass panel in the door shattered.

Chapter 2

Instruments of Pain

My mother’s rage was not a fleeting emotion but a force of nature, unpredictable in its timing and terrifying in its intensity. It was often directly linked to her various addictions – the constant need for cigarettes, the sugary rush of RC Cola, the stimulating effect of coffee, rum, and the early, potent diet pills sold at the nearby pharmacy, which seemed to amplify her erratic behavior. When she didn’t have these substances, the physical and psychological withdrawal fueled a terrifying storm of abuse. Her temper flared with explosive violence. But when money was available and she could acquire them, a grateful, temporary calm, a brief eye in the storm, would descend upon our living room. Ordering me to make her a drink with rum and RC Cola; when this happened she would then sit in her chair, a bit relaxed. This dependency created a cruel and twisted cycle. My safety and well-being were contingent on her access to the very things that ultimately fueled her destructive behavior and made her a danger to me and my siblings.

The beatings were not isolated incidents; they were frequent and brutal, inflicted with a chilling intentionality and a disturbing lack of emotion. She didn’t use her bare hands, which might have offered some small, albeit inadequate, measure of restraint; she used hard, unforgiving sticks and rods, chosen specifically for their capacity to inflict maximum pain and damage.

When striking me with her weapon, her aim was precise and cruel. In moments of terror, I would curl myself into a ball, imprisoned in the confines of the corner in the living room, trying to protect myself from the stinging pain to come. While striking me repeatedly, she would pause to analyze my posture and then start targeting the parts of my body that were most sensitive, most vulnerable, bone and joints.

And if my screams or tears were, in her estimation, insufficient or not convincing enough or even too loud, she would deliberately aim for bones and joints, seeking to cause maximum, excruciating pain, a calculated act of torture. This wasn’t random, uncontrolled violence; it was calculated, systematic torture, repeated over and over and over with a horrifying regularity.

My small, thin body was a canvas of this constant brutality, perpetually marked by the evidence of her attacks. I always had bruises and marks all over me, especially on my legs, my thighs showing large bruises, a roadmap of the violence I endured. Some of these bruises were so severe, so deep beneath the skin, that they would linger for weeks, turning sickening shades of green or yellow, colors that clearly indicated significant internal damage beneath the surface.

One particular incident stands out with horrifying clarity for its sheer brutality and the lasting physical mark it left: my father, in a fit of rage, swung a belt with a giant, heavy buckle on the end. It wrapped around my face with tremendous force. The heavy metal buckle left a distinct, searing imprint across my skin, a mark of his cruelty. That is just one example of how brutal and unrestrained the violence could be.

The Broom

One day, in a fit of rage, my mother struck me several times in the head, causing a burst blood vessel. Blood began spurting out onto the drab carpet. When this happened, seeing my blood shooting out and landing on the carpet, I automatically knew this was different, this was bad. I ran to the bathroom and tried to close the door. As I entered the bathroom blood was spurting all over the tiles. I wadded up a bunch of toilet paper and applied it to my wound. Before I could do anything, my mother came into the bathroom, yelling at me and looking around the bathroom. She saw all the blood splattered and instead of helping me, she simply told me to clean it up and left me in the bathroom alone. She didn’t take me to the hospital, she just left.

It was in these moments that my heart was simply broken. As I grabbed toilet paper to stop the bleeding, it wasn’t enough; another wad, and then another wad of toilet paper. Finally, it stopped and I was down on my knees, slumped over on the bathroom floor, looking at all my blood.

The tears that I shed in these moments were so overwhelming. A relentless pouring of tears and feeling the pain of utter anguish.

This incident is still with me today. I can feel the physical scar by touching the area on my head, the scar tissue, a constant reminder of this event in my life.

I hated that broom

Another day, in another fit of rage. And, honestly, I don’t remember what set my mother off. She told me to go to the bathroom. So, I went into the bathroom. She then grabbed the broom and entered the bathroom and closed the door. I stood at the sink, not knowing what was happening. I immediately became scared. She then told me in her raspy voice to lean my head back into the sink. I was confused. She told me to turn with my back facing towards the edge of the bathroom sink and lean my head back into the sink. She then grabbed the straw end of the broom and then proceeded to use the hard wood of the broomstick and bashed my mouth and teeth about 5 times. I screamed in excruciatingly painful horror. She then left the bathroom and did not say anything and closed the door. When she closed the door, she closed the door to me, her son, now covered in blood. I turned to use the faucet and looked at myself in the mirror . And there I was, my mouth covered in blood, my lips swollen. At this time in my life, my baby teeth and adult teeth occupy the same space along with deteriorating bleeding gums and now the result of this brutality inflicted upon me. I used my right hand to scoop water into my mouth to rinse … and rinse and rinse until the bleeding stopped. The tears, I couldn’t stop crying because I was so alone and in so much pain and suffering.

But one torture stands above all

There was one method of torture that stands out above all others, a memory etched into my mind with horrifying clarity, worse than anything else I endured. Imagine the sharp, intense, debilitating pain of severely stubbing your toe, that sudden, searing agony. Now imagine that pain multiplied not just a few times, but thirty times in a row, one after another, a relentless assault. Then imagine that same agonizing process inflicted on the other foot, another thirty blows. This was a reality I lived through, a recurring nightmare. My siblings, tragically and disturbingly, were sometimes forced to participate in this torture. They were made to hold me down to the ground, restraining my small body to prevent me from moving or escaping the impending pain. While they held me immobilized, my mother would sit in her usual vinyl 60s style chair, a picture of cold, detached cruelty, and next to her chair was a small table. On that table laid the instruments of her torture, the weapons in her arsenal against me: stern switches fallen from the tree in the backard, hairbrushes with the plastic bristles removed to expose the hard backing, one rolling pin. We called it the tortilla pin because it was also the same pin I would have to use to make tortillas for the family.

The Fear and the Fire

The fear of experiencing my own mother turning on the gas stove in the kitchen, the front right burner, on high, and she orders me to stick my hand into the flames. (I have a mental blackout with this event, I don’t remember what happened.) Obviously she wanted to burn my skin.

Chapter 3

Psychological Warfare and Public Shame

The abuse I endured wasn’t limited to the physical violence and the constant deprivation of basic needs. It was also a pervasive and relentless assault on my spirit, my sense of self-worth, and my dignity. My parents deliberately limited my exposure to the outside world. This was especially true of my school attendance. I was only allowed to attend two, maybe three days out of the week, a meager and insufficient amount of time for me to receive a proper education or develop social skills. This wasn’t about my ability to learn or my potential; it was about control, about keeping me isolated, uneducated, and dependent on them. My grades, predictably, suffered immensely due to this inconsistent attendance and the lack of support at home. I was consistently a C and F student, not because I wasn’t capable of understanding the material. It was because I wasn’t allowed the consistent attendance, the necessary resources, or the emotional support required to succeed in an academic environment. On the few days I was permitted to go to school, the humiliation and degradation continued, extending the private horrors into the public sphere. I was forced to wear the same limited set of clothes repeatedly – typically a worn Spiderman t-shirt and a pair of red jeans – even if they were visibly soiled or smelled. This was a constant source of deep embarrassment and shame, marking me as different, as neglected, setting me apart from my peers.

My Anxiety in the Classroom

When I was in the ninth grade, it was already apparent to me in my ongoing life that my appearance sort of freaked out my classmates. My biggest fear was the reports we would have to get up in front of class and do our oral presentation. When my turn was up, I gave my presentation and while I looked out towards the class, all my classmates were not listening to what I was saying. They are fixated on my mouth. It was as if they were trying to figure out why I looked the way I did. At this time, I already had two rows of teeth, occupying space for one, and no oral hygiene. I would do my report and go back to my desk, being oh ever so thankful that it was over. This same event played out again at least 3 times along the way. This is when my thoughts began about walking around anywhere, any place, always with my right hand over my mouth. I would not take my hand away. This went on for some time.

The Stage and the Silent Audience

In the ninth grade, I met Mr. Arnold, our drama teacher. He held auditions for the school production of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” Despite my small size, I was cast as a pixie. The other students, much taller and bigger than me, seemed aghast at my appearance. However, my mother, in her typical fashion, would not permit me to join, and so I was regretfully recast.

The following year, in tenth grade, Mr. Arnold again accepted me into a school play, “Deadwood Gulch.” Once more, due to my stature, I was cast as a scared Chinese man in a saloon. I performed my part well, though the dancing routine proved to be a perplexing challenge. During rehearsals, Mr. Arnold asked me to improvise to some music for a scene, but I was utterly unable to dance. I didn’t understand what he meant by “improvise” in that context, or how to move my body in that way. He tried to guide me, but still, I couldn’t grasp dancing. The constant struggle of my home life, especially manipulating my mother to enable me to participate in these activities, was immense. Sometimes Mrs. McAfee or another teacher would drive me back and forth between our house and the auditorium, along the same route the bus would take. I performed my part in the production, but it was heartbreaking that my parents did not care to show up, unlike all the other students’ parents. I remember the cast dispersing after the night’s production, going to their families, and I just stood there on the stage, alone, taking it all in. A tinge of sadness overcame me.

In the eleventh grade, something truly exciting happened. Mr. Arnold was casting for “Razzle Dazzle,” a montage of musical hits from popular shows like Grease and South Pacific. I desperately wanted to be in the play, and I was cast as an extra. What I didn’t realize until the night of the production was that I was to be a very special extra. The music I was to be a part of was “There Is Nothin’ Like a Dame.” My special role involved climbing a human pyramid, four levels tall, formed by my classmates as the choir sang and the music played. This was it! After the pyramid was formed, being so small, I climbed to the very top, positioned myself on my knees, and with a strong Bass II voice, sang, “There is absolutely nothin’ like a frame of a dame!” As I looked out at the crowd, all the girls in the upper sections were jumping up and yelling with happiness, clapping. Then I got off the stage. At that moment, watching the cheering crowd, my parents were not there. It was my proudest moment to myself, and they did not care to be present. After the play, once again, the students dispersed to their families, and I was just alone, wandering the stage.

More ridicule

My mother wasn’t content with just passive neglect; she actively sought to make me an object of ridicule and scorn among my classmates. Before sending me off to school, she would deliberately grab stale, old, wet cat food – the kind that had a horribly strong and offensive odor. She would rub it all through my hair, matting it and making it reek. The smell, the greasy appearance of my hair, it was all meticulously designed to ensure I would be an embarrassment. It was a calculated and malicious act of public shaming, adding another layer of profound pain to the private horrors I endured within the walls of our home.

Mrs. Brockman

I looked at Mrs. Brockman, the school bus driver. She, over the years, saw me grow up. She was always nice. The bus ride was always my favorite for the day. We lived in Pasadena and the high school is in Deer Park, a 10 minute drive. Many times, I got to sit a few rows from the back, stare out the window, watch the familiar scenery, quiet, alone with my thoughts. The hum of the bus, the physical rumble of the mechanics creating a massage-like feeling throughout my entire body as I sat in the big green thick-cushioned seat. For those minutes, it allowed me to relax in a way. On a school day, this was twice a day. I never talked to anybody, I was always silent.

I remember one very cold morning, a school day. It is bitter cold. I am standing at the bus stop, and I do not have a coat. I am standing, shivering, my body starting to convulse from the cold, my muscles contracting back and forth. I am in my usual Spiderman t-shirt, red jeans, cat food in my hair, my backpack, my books and thankfully here is the school bus.

As the door opened, Mrs. Brockman made a comment about not having a coat. I don’t remember her exact words. I was just thankful, at a primal level, to get into the bus to warm up. Thank you Mrs. Brockman.

There were times while riding the bus, I would sit towards the front and watch Mrs. Brockman operate the bus, changing gears. The steering wheel seemed large and she always took me to school and back with a special helpful and caring pride.

The Stripping of My Dignity

Sometimes, the control and degradation extended to stripping away my most basic sense of privacy and dignity in the most inexplicable ways. There were times, for reasons I never understood, when my mother would make me stand outside the house completely naked, exposed and vulnerable to anyone who might pass by. There was no explanation offered, no discernible reason behind this bizarre and cruel command, just the order and the resulting humiliating exposure. It was another way for her to assert her absolute power, to degrade me, to make me feel utterly vulnerable, ashamed, and dehumanized. It was a confusing and deeply painful act. It left me searching for a ‘why’ that simply didn’t exist in any rational or understandable sense.

Still, small victories emerged

Despite the severe limitations placed on my school attendance and my exposure to the outside world, I did manage to have brief, fleeting moments of connection, learning, and even accomplishment.

In ninth grade, amid everything I was going through, I discovered the music choir. It was a world away from the suffocating confines of my home, a place that offered a semblance of something new to me.

Amazingly, when I tentatively asked my mother if I could join the choir, she unexpectedly said yes. It was a rare moment of permission that felt like a crack of light in the pervasive darkness of my life.

The choir was getting ready for their annual musical production, that year being “The King and I.” The choir teacher was a kind and observant woman. She had blonde hair and she always dressed nice. She seemed to sense, perhaps intuitively, that something was amiss in my situation. She was particularly fond of me and my quiet presence. She also knew, somehow, that I possessed a talent for art. So, to help with the production’s set design, she gave me a photograph. She told me it was a scene from the musical. She introduced me to a folded up canvas being unfolded by some classmates, revealing a large canvas that would serve as the backdrop for the stage. She then asked me to transfer the image from the photo onto the canvas using charcoal and heavy pencils, a daunting task I had never attempted before. Why she asked me to do this, at first, puzzled me, because my first thought was “How?” … a minute went by and I figured out a way. I focused on copying the image square by square, meticulously transferring the squares and shapes. The seemingly overwhelming task became manageable. It was broken into smaller, achievable steps. I meticulously transferred the drawing, piece by piece, until the entire image from the photograph was replicated on the large canvas. The choir teacher then brought in the art department, and together, they painted the canvas, bringing my drawing to vibrant life on a grand scale. Seeing my work come to life on that large stage backdrop was a profound and deeply validating experience. It was something I had created with my own hands and mind. It was, in that moment, my first real success as a human being. It was a tangible accomplishment born from my own effort and an idea

However, this brief, precious period of light and accomplishment was extinguished with casual and arbitrary cruelty. This happened in typical fashion. On the night of the production, the culmination of weeks of hard work, dedication by me and others, and my moment of potential pride, I was not there. I didn’t see my artwork on stage or share in the collective achievement. Simply because my mother, without offering any reason or explanation, flatly said “NO.” There was no acknowledgment of my effort, no recognition of my achievement, just a cold, arbitrary denial that stole the moment from me. She had no interest in what I had accomplished and simply did not care about the significance of that night for me, or the validation it would have provided. It was a devastating reminder. Even the smallest moments of joy, success, or recognition that existed outside her direct control would not be tolerated or allowed.

A voice took flight

It was in 9th grade, when I had already embarked on my journey in the choir, that another astonishing chapter of my musical awakening unfolded. At that point, my knowledge of music was precisely zero. Nothing. I truly knew nothing about notes, scales, or proper singing technique. And this fact, in hindsight, remains profoundly shocking to me.

Yet, in only a matter of six short weeks – yes, only six weeks – I transformed from someone who didn’t know how to sing into a competitor in the state music competition. This period was a relentless struggle. I was juggling the unending demands of household chores, managing my time between the grim reality of my home and the hopeful escape of school rehearsals. Sometimes, Mrs. McAfee, my drama teacher, had to personally pick me up to ensure I made it to practice, and other times, I relied on the late bus, pushing the boundaries of my precarious schedule. I managed to practice my singing diligently, tirelessly repeating my lines for a song in Italian, a language entirely foreign to me.

To qualify for the state competition, you had to sing your chosen piece in front of the entire choir, with the teacher grading each performance. Only the top ten students would be eligible to advance. When the results were announced, I was genuinely shocked to learn I had made the cut. It was a moment of disbelief, a validation of effort and an unexpected talent I never knew I possessed. Mrs. McAfee, it was clear, was deeply in my corner, supporting me in ways I couldn’t fully comprehend at the time.

One day, I was sent on a fabricated errand, a deliberate ruse designed between Mrs. McAfee and another teacher. As I completed my task and returned to the choir room, class still in session, I walked in just as Mrs. McAfee was speaking to the choir about… me. She didn’t hide it; she knew I stood there in the room and continued without missing a beat. She was telling the choir that I was an example – an example of dedication, of progress, considering that just six weeks ago, I had known nothing about music, and now I was on my way to the state competition. She was being encouraging, inspiring them to work diligently like me, rather than demeaning. It was a powerful, public affirmation of my rapid progress and commitment, a moment I would carry with me long after the competition ended.

It’s striking, and perhaps telling, to realize that from the age of six to seventeen, the only book I read cover to cover, the only complete narrative I absorbed during those formative and difficult years, was “Escape from Warsaw.” It wasn’t a book I chose for pleasure. It was a requirement for an English class project in the ninth grade. The teacher had many books available for students to choose from, and I got to select one to read and write a report on. I didn’t know any of the titles or their contents, but I chose that one, perhaps drawn by the title on a subconscious level. It was a story about escaping a place of unimaginable horror, mirroring my own reality and my deep-seated need for freedom and escape. It was the only book I completed during those years. It was a testament not only to the severe limitations placed on my education and ability to focus due to my circumstances. It also showed the unexpected impact of a story that spoke directly to my profound need for liberation.

I received an A+ on the book report. I was scared I would utterly fail because English class was always my favorite class and the chaos at home didn’t allow me to concentrate much. I couldn’t believe it, when the teacher (I wish I could remember her name) gently put my paper on my desk and in the top right hand corner A+ and circled it with a red pen.

Pictures in Magazines

I also remember that we had a collection of National Geographic magazines in our home, if you could even call the house “home.” I didn’t understand the writing within the magazines because of my situation. I was unable to retain much mentally due to the constant stress, the pervasive fear, and the severe lack of proper nutrition and sleep that impacted my cognitive function. But the pictures within those magazines were a story in themselves, offering glimpses into worlds far removed from my own. I remember seeing a photo of a common egret standing elegantly in the wetlands, its graceful form silhouetted against the marshy backdrop, a picture of serene natural beauty. Around that same time, our school was holding a contest. It was for the best drawing or artwork to be featured at the Harris County Rodeo and Fair. I drew the common egret in the marshes, meticulously translating the image from the magazine photo onto paper, capturing the essence of the scene. And, to my surprise and quiet delight, I won second prize. It was another small but significant moment of recognition for a talent I possessed. It was a creative ability that found a way to express itself despite the oppressive and unsupportive environment I lived in.

Growing up in Pasadena, Texas, with its industrial refineries, the suffocating heat, and the pervasive dryness, my reality was starkly different from the natural beauty I saw depicted in those magazines. There were no mountains, lakes, rivers, or tall evergreens and cool, relaxing days. Yet, as a child, long before I ever saw them in person, I would draw pictures of majestic mountains, serene lakes, flowing rivers, and towering evergreens. It was just my thing, a recurring theme in my drawings. It was a visual expression of a longing for a different kind of world, even though I had never experienced these scenes firsthand. Where did that imagery come from? Was it an innate longing, a genetic memory of places I had never been? It’s a question I still ponder today. Fast forward many decades to the present, and guess what? I live in a place of literal mountains, beautiful lakes, flowing rivers, and abundant evergreens. It feels, in a profound and almost mystical way, like coming home to those childhood drawings, a physical manifestation of a deep-seated longing that existed within me even then, a dream that eventually became reality. My mother’s constant repetition of vulgar language directed at me, over and over, day after day, imprinted itself deeply on my young mind. I eventually showed up to school one day in the second grade, filled with a confusing mix of emotions. I had this new, volatile thing I had learned – the vulgar words and the accompanying gesture. I don’t know what possessed me at that young age, what internal turmoil manifested externally, but I suddenly went up to other students, pointed my finger aggressively, and said the vulgar words. I did this over and over, repeating the learned behavior, and even directed it at the teachers, who were understandably in shock and disbelief at what I was doing). One teacher, trying to understand, asked me if I knew what the vulgar words meant. In retrospect, this is supposed to be funny in a dark way. I replied, with the innocent ignorance of a child, “No,” and without missing a beat, I raised my hand again, shot the finger, and said the vulgar words before turning and running away. Thankfully, it was only that one day that I went on a rampage, aggressively shooting the finger and yelling obscenities at everybody. It didn’t stick with me as a permanent behavior, thankfully. Of course, this all came directly from my mother’s consistent use of the same behaviors at home. It was a toxic environment where I learned and absorbed her patterns. It wasn’t my fault; it was a direct result of the environment I was forced to inhabit.

As a child, I did not know the world or how things are in a normal world. I was exposed only to what was allowed by my parents, my mother being the most controlling. The only thing I knew was the pervasive and relentless control over my actions and behaviors, and that I was not allowed to speak up for myself. This, I believe, led me to be timid and shy, a quiet talker, with people often asking me to speak up because I was so quiet. I did not display any assertiveness or pride or any behaviors of self-preservation when met with challenges in real life. I remember situations where most people would speak up about something bad happening during the day, and instead my brain would ‘freeze up,’ unable to think about protecting myself. It was only after many years had gone by, well into adulthood, that I finally gained the confidence to assert myself, especially after the USMC. In the midst of this constant abuse, as the years went by, somewhere around my high school years, I became smarter, more strategic, and more adept. I learned to deal with my mother and navigate the dangerous landscape of our home. I learned to manipulate her, to anticipate her moods and reactions. I learned to make myself unseen in the household by strategically placing my body behind her so she didn’t see me. Or, I would retreat to another room when her rage seemed imminent. For example, if I was doing the dishes, a constant chore, I would deliberately take a long time, stretching out the task just to get away from her presence and be out of sight, buying myself a few moments of relative peace. I learned manipulation well, not as a tool for malicious intent, but as a necessary survival skill. It served me in ways that allowed me to endure.

I did not have friends at school. Nobody played with me after school. I wasn’t allowed to have friends. There was a great chasm created by my “mother” and “father.” I was alone in many ways. My father never once took me out to sports games, not one time! I was never shown how to play football or baseball or any sport. I didn’t even watch sports on TV at home. There were too many occasions in my childhood and teenage years where I had personal conversations with God. I would ask “Why me?”. I simply could not understand. I was only a child, I didn’t know anything. I wasn’t violent, I wasn’t unruly, I wasn’t a bad horrible person, I was simply, only a child. I never got any answers to “Why me?”.

Chapter 4

The Daily Grind and Unseen Divide

Beyond the brutal beatings, the constant deprivation, and the psychological warfare, my childhood was fundamentally defined by relentless, forced labor. My mother would sit comfortably in her cushioned chair, absorbed in the escapism of her soap operas. My father would dictate what everyone else in the household would watch on television. “All of us,” he might say with a sweeping gesture, but he invariably meant everyone except me, the designated outcast. I was the designated slave of the household, burdened with the entirety of the domestic work. My duty was constant, demanding, and unending. I had to cook all meals from scratch, wash every single dish, pot, and pan by hand, sweep and mop the floors, do all the laundry for the entire family, clean the bathroom thoroughly, and dust the furniture. It was an unending, exhausting list of chores, dictated by commands given to me over and over, day after day. It was a monotonous and physically draining routine.

Yet, amidst this daily grind, there was one small, recurring task I found myself secretly looking forward to. We had two cats, Fluffy and Pinky, and almost every evening, as twilight settled, my mother would order me to open the front door to let them in. Standing at that threshold, peering out into the front yard, was a brief escape. Before I even saw the cats, the air itself would feel different. The first thing that often registered was the sound – the constant, rhythmic chirping of crickets and the belching of frogs, a sound so prevalent on those humid Texas nights it was like the earth itself breathing. And then, as my eyes adjusted to the dimming light, I’d see them. It wasn’t always a lot, sometimes just a few, but the sight of the fireflies – or lightning bugs, as we always called them – was magical. Oh, what a sight those tiny, intermittent sparks were, dancing silently in the dusk. For those fleeting few moments, with the sound of the crickets in my ears and the flickering lights of the fireflies before me, the oppressive weight of the house would seem to lift, just a little, before Fluffy or Pinky would finally saunter in, or my mother’s voice would call me back.

This wasn’t shared family responsibility, a collaborative effort to maintain a home. It was unrelenting servitude, a form of slavery. I performed these tasks with little energy, often weak from the lack of enough food and water, my aching.

My mind, while engaged in physical labor, was also constantly working. I was strategizing, trying to figure out how to outsmart my mother. I needed to complete the tasks efficiently enough to avoid her scrutiny and trigger another outburst. She would simply sit in her chair, issuing orders. It was a stark and cruel division of labor, I was forced into exhaustive work while the adults in the house remained uninterested, indifferent to my struggle.

Amidst the relentless deprivation and cruelty, there was a bizarre and deeply confusing ritual that played out twice a year: Thanksgiving and Christmas. On these two specific days, and only these two, a strange transformation would occur. My mother, who typically ordered me to do all the cooking, would enter the kitchen and take charge, preparing an elaborate feast. My father would even participate. The most bewildering part was that, for these brief holidays, they would act like decent, almost normal people. The usual tension and menace would temporarily recede. But then, with jarring predictability, the very next day, they would revert to their callous and abusive selves. As a child, I could never comprehend this stark shift; I didn’t understand why they could be one way for a day, only to become so cruel again immediately after.

This daily grind, this constant expectation of servitude, was as much a part of the abuse as the physical violence. It was a constant assertion of control, a dehumanization that stripped away my childhood. It replaced it with the burden of an adult’s responsibilities.

On too many occasions, in the blazing, suffocating heat of a Pasadena, Texas summer, my mother would order me to mow the lawn. I was already thirsty, physically exhausted from the constant chores and lack of nourishment, I didn’t have much energy to spare. It was a big yard, both front and back, a daunting task for me because of my small size.

Several times, while pushing the heavy mower under the relentless sun, I became dizzy. I almost passed out from the combined effects of exhaustion and lack of water. These moments were terrifying, a stark reminder of the physical toll the neglect was taking and the dangerous situations I was forced into.

My childhood home was a stark battlefield of contrasting forces, a divergent household that pitted a distorted masculinity against a manipulative femininity. My father, a physically imposing figure, embodied a brutal, unyielding masculinity. He was a macho brute, brawny and very fat, his weight probably about 300 pounds or more. The power behind his slaps and punches was overwhelming, painful, and literally breathtaking. He was often gone for most of my childhood, working away as a merchant marine, sailing overseas. When he was home, usually for intense periods of one to three months, his presence cast a long shadow of fear. I was scared, very scared, because his disapproval was palpable. He did not like me for some reason, I don’t know why. In stark contrast, my mother exerted her control through a twisted form of ‘feminizing’ me. She would order me to do things that felt deeply personal and intimate, activities I later understood were far outside the bounds of normal.

She would make me rub her feet for long periods of time, brush her hair for equally long stretches, and even paint her toenails. At the time, I thought it was normal. It’s very sad to think now that I simply accepted these commands without question, as just another part of the unending servitude and psychological manipulation I endured. These acts, intended to assert her control and define my role in the household, drew a sharp, unsettling line between her manipulative femininity and my father’s overwhelming, brute masculinity. I was caught in the chasm between these two extremes, raised in a household that, in hindsight, was a constant, divergent clash of warped self, leaving me to navigate a fundamental misunderstanding of what it meant to be a cared-for person.

The unending servitude was exhausting, and the tasks my mother assigned often felt designed to demean as much as to get chores done. Brushing her hair for what felt like hours on end was one such regular torment. My arms would ache, and my patience would wear thin. The TV on, her relaxing while I was so tired, just broke my heart.

I must have been around thirteen when, one particular day, a spark of rebellion, or perhaps just mischievous frustration, got the better of me. As I stood behind her chair, brush in hand, I was simply tired of it, tired of the ache in my arms, tired of the mindless, repetitive task.

Instead of brushing her hair smooth as usual, I began to subtly tease it, working the brush in a way that I knew would create snarls and then, eventually, a matted mess. I suppose it was a foolish, childish act of defiance, a small way to assert some control over a situation where I had none. For a little while, she didn’t notice, lost in her own world as I meticulously tangled her hair. When she finally told me to stop, I did. She reached a hand back, her fingers sinking into the knotted bird’s nest I had created.

Her reaction was instant and furious. Ooooh… the beating I received that day was severe, a swift and brutal punishment for my brief, ill-advised insurrection. It was another harsh lesson: any attempt to ‘fight back,’ even in such a petty, indirect way, would only bring more pain. My small act of rebellion against the monotony and degradation of brushing her hair only served to reinforce the violent reality of my existence.

Chapter 5

The Silent Witnesses and Utter Abandonment

Perhaps one of the most painful and infuriating aspects of my childhood was the inaction and silence of the adults around me. It was a source of deep and lasting wounds. These were people who saw glimpses of my reality but chose not to intervene. I had aunts and uncles, extended family members who were present at times. They socialized with my parents, witnessing fragments of the reality I lived behind closed doors. I remember them “partying along” with my mother, and sometimes my dad when he was home. They engaged in casual conversation and shared activities. Meanwhile, I was subjected to daily servitude, psychological abuse, and the constant, terrifying threat of violence. They saw things, they must have known on some level that something was terribly wrong, that the situation was far from normal or healthy. My Aunt, in a moment of what seemed like genuine concern, even told my mother at one point when I was a young child that she was going to end up killing us. It was a chilling prophecy that went unheeded.

They chose silence

Yet, despite witnessing these signs, none of them stepped in to help me. None offered a hand, a safe place to go, or reported what was happening to the authorities. They were witnesses, privy to the unfolding horror of my childhood, but they chose silence and complicity through their inaction. This devastating failure to protect me, from the very people who were supposed to be family, who had a moral obligation to care, instilled in me a deep and lasting wound. It left me with a profound sense of betrayal.

The most horrifying and pervasive fact of my childhood was the profound sense of being utterly abandoned and uncared for within my own family of eight. Surrounded by siblings and parents, physically present but emotionally absent or actively harmful, I was fundamentally alone. I was a child for whom no one seemed to genuinely care or prioritize their well-being. This lack of care from the outside world mirrored the lack of care within the walls of my home. It reinforced a profound and crushing sense of being utterly alone in my suffering. It led me to the painful and heartbreaking conclusion that none of those adults cared enough to intervene, despite their physical proximity and familial ties. They didn’t offer the safety net a child in my situation desperately needed. Not one adult in my extended family, with one significant exception, offered the protection or support that could have changed the course of my childhood.

My grandma was the exception

There was, however, one significant and deeply appreciated exception to this pervasive pattern of silence and inaction: my grandma. I remember one visit to her house, a place we were sometimes reluctantly hauled off to when my mother was desperate for money. At this time, due to the horrendous and ongoing abuse I was experiencing, I had largely stopped talking to everyone. I was scared of people, withdrawn and silent. Conversation felt impossible, a burden I couldn’t bear. My grandma, sensing my withdrawal and the fear in my eyes, tried repeatedly to get my attention. She was persistent and gentle in her attempt to understand why I was not talking, why I had retreated into silence. Despite my fear and deep reluctance to open up, I finally relented. Her persistent kindness drew me. I scooped my small body up off the floor and sat with her in her comfy lounge chair. It was a place of warmth and softness I rarely experienced. I was small enough to fit next to her, sharing the chair, and she gently hugged me, a simple act of physical affection that felt foreign yet comforting. In that moment of closeness, as she held me, she noticed the marks and bruises on my body. It was undeniable proof of abuse. She knew, her eyes saw the truth I tried to hide. She asked me about the bruises, and I hemmed and hawed, trying to deflect, to minimize, to avoid revealing the painful reality. But she saw the truth clearly. Immediately, her demeanor shifted. She pushed me gently aside, stood up – an eighty-year-old woman, frail in appearance but strong in spirit – and clinched her fist as if ready to strike someone, her protective instincts ignited. She looked directly at my mother, her voice firm and demanding, “Are you hitting these kids?” In that powerful moment, she was ready to defend me, to confront the perpetrator, and she did, standing up for me when no one else would. It was a powerful instance of an adult family member acknowledging the abuse and directly confronting the perpetrator. It was rare and isolated, a stark and necessary contrast to the deafening silence I had grown accustomed to.

I always looked forward to going to my grandma and grandpa’s house on my father’s side, Cecil and Ada. They were in their 80s. My grandpa would sit in his comfy chair, working on plastic models, very intricate ships. I would sit and watch him. Next to him was his cubby hole of treats, books, and his lamp, his masterpiece unfolding as he constructed things, sparking imagination. Next to him in a matching cushiony lounge-style chair sat my grandma. She was always nice to us all. I feel sorry for grandma and grandpa for a few reasons. Anytime we would show up was because my mother needed money. And, we would show up unexpectedly at times and usually on a Sunday, which grandma and grandpa’s home had the wonderful aroma of a pot roast! They were on a budget, and our family would show up, and my grandma, I could tell, was sometimes dismayed because she did the right thing and fed us her and grandpa’s Sunday meal.

Years later, my grandma died. At the time, I did not know what death meant. All I know is that we were at her funeral, standing in a line to see her sleeping, and she wasn’t going to wake up. I love my grandma. Years later, so too my grandpa passed. I was not there for his funeral due to living so far away and only learning after some time passed after his passing away. My Aunt Sonja, I guess she would be my favorite aunt, even though she ultimately did not stand up for me or offer lasting help. Every time she came over, her primary purpose seemed to be to get food and suntan in her bikini in the backyard. She seemed oblivious or indifferent to the fact that I was in constant trouble, in need of help, and suffering. Never mind the fact that my life was a living hell. Her focus was on her own pleasure and convenience. She too would use me as a slave, laying in the sun in the yard. She would order me to fetch her some cold iced tea, treating me as a servant rather than a child in distress. Year after year, this pattern of self-absorption and exploitation went on. Then, incredibly, she had the audacity to send me a letter 30 plus years later, long after I had escaped. She told me to forgive my parents. Are you kidding me? After witnessing glimpses of the horror and doing nothing, she had the nerve to demand forgiveness from the victim?

Chapter 6

The First Attempt to Escape

When I was 10 years old, I was late getting out of class and then late getting home. The day was like so many others: hot, dry, the grass brown, the faint sound of a cricket here and there.

I walked from the Junior High along my usual path, past the large barren field and then the elementary school. I was still a block away from home, the scary place that was my home. I just knew, with certainty, that I was going to be yelled at and punished badly by my mother for being late. The fear that came over me in that moment was so big, it made me freeze.

At this moment, I realized I just couldn’t do it, I couldn’t go back home. I was unable to bear any more yelling and pain and crying.

So, in that instant, standing just a block away from my house, I just decided: I would run away to some place better. Hopefully.

I felt really scared: scared to go back home and scared because I did not know the world. I remember thinking whatever happened to me was probably better than staying at home.

At the time, I was really small and skinny. Others probably thought I looked much younger than my actual age, perhaps like a toddler wandering alone. I managed to start walking towards a major road. I was heading towards something, anything, about a mile away from my home. I did not know where I was going. I had no plan, no destination. All I knew was I couldn’t take the hitting anymore; I had to get away.

I walked forward, past my own street, turning left onto the next, heading towards South Street. The sidewalk was uneven, and I focused on watching my step, trying not to trip. As I walked, I remembered the funky, foul smell of the bayou, the bridge I usually crossed. Then, the street became lined with trees, giving me short, cool spots of shade. My first thoughts were of food. I knew the 7-Eleven was nearby, and the other small grocery store, but I had no money. I continued walking, eventually arriving at the four-way traffic stop at South Street. I looked to my left and could see Dairy Queen in the distance, I quickly thought of going there for food. I remember having a conversation with myself about how to ask for food at Dairy Queen, rehearsing the moment in my mind since I did not have money. I hoped, perhaps, they would just give me something to eat. As I crossed this big street, I saw a police car.

Then came my first police car ride.

I managed to get about two miles from home. Some time had passed, the sun was setting, and I found myself on a street I did not recognize, surrounded by tall, dead grass where my small body seemed to disappear into the weeds. I became worried because I did not know where to go, I thought of “just keep walking.”

Then a police car suddenly showed up, pulling over beside me. The two police officers got out, opened the back door, and didn’t say a word to me initially. I didn’t say anything, I just got in the car, and I was so small, I had to climb up to get into the back seat. I remember the black seats, everything was black, the seats were huge!

The police officers then asked me where I lived, and I told them my address, the place I was trying to escape, and they, just like they were supposed to, took me home.

As the police officers drove and got closer to my house, I started getting really scared. I did not know how my mother was going to react. I was unable to communicate to the two police officers what I was going through and stayed silent.

When the police officers handed me to my mother, she immediately started to act for the police. She pretended to be really worried. She promised to take me to Jack in the Box for fries as a treat. It was just a fake promise to make the police think she was a good mom. It was all just a show for the police. After the police left, satisfied with her act, the facade dropped. She returned to her usual mean self, punishing me for running away and for the police coming. My attempted escape was a harsh and painful lesson in how my life really was.

In reflecting on this day, I wish I could go back in time and relive it. If I could relive the moments when the police gave me a ride home, I would have told them everything that was happening to me, but I was so meek, timid and shy that I was unable to say anything. If I had said something, anything, to indicate my situation, maybe my life would have turned out differently?

Chapter 7

A Missed Chance for Rescue

My best guess, based on my best memories of that time, is that I was around thirteen when something happened. It offered a brief, tantalizing glimpse of potential rescue, a flicker of hope. Only to have it cruelly snatched away, leaving me in despair. One afternoon, a black car, official-looking, pulled up in front of our house. Two men in black suits got out and walked to our door, knocking. My father answered the door, and the two men started talking to him in hushed, serious tones. I was about ten feet from the door, close enough to hear snippets of conversation). They were investigating whether he was abusing his children; the words hung in the air, a sudden, shocking possibility of intervention.

I saw my chance

I knew instantly what was happening. This was a chance, perhaps my only chance, to get help. My first, impulsive thought was to scream really loud. I wanted to make sure the two men would hear me over my father’s responses. I was going to yell “HELP!”, to scream for rescue. Just then, my father, sensing the danger or perhaps simply angered by the intrusion, became so visibly angry. He slammed the door shut with tremendous force, the sound echoing through the house. The sound was jarring, violent. It silenced me, the words catching in my throat. I was heartbroken at that moment because I had missed my chance. The opportunity to get help had been cruelly and suddenly snatched away.

The truth is, in that terrifying moment, I was more afraid of my father’s immediate and violent reaction if I defied him in front of the men than I was of remaining in the abusive situation. I knew with absolute certainty what he would do to me if I spoke against him in front of them. The men, their questions seemingly deflected or dismissed, eventually left. They didn’t come back. My heart was broken; I had sunk to a low not felt before, the weight of the missed opportunity a heavy burden. That moment, that agonizingly close but ultimately missed opportunity for intervention, underscored the absolute power my father held over me. It highlighted the terrifying reality that even when help was physically near, my deep-seated fear kept me trapped and silent.

Chapter 8

Hidden Scars: The Toll on My Health and Development

The physical consequences of the abuse and neglect I endured were profound, visible, and long-lasting. Being severely malnourished and underweight, weighing only 90 lbs at the age of 17 when I should have been a growing teenager, was a stark and undeniable indicator of the physical deprivation I suffered. This wasn’t just about being thin. It impacted my growth and development in tangible and permanent ways. This was evidenced most clearly by the severe dental issues that resulted from a complete lack of oral hygiene and proper nutrition for eighteen years, and the overall stunted growth caused by chronic malnourishment during my formative years. Looking like a “monster” and instinctively hiding my mouth behind my hand was a constant, painful reminder of the physical toll the neglect had taken on my body.

Beyond the visible scars and developmental issues, the constant state of fear I lived in had significant impacts. So did the chronic exhaustion from forced labor and the pervasive trauma. These undoubtedly had unseen but significant impacts on my developing body and mind, affecting everything from my cognitive function to my emotional regulation. Furthermore, I was so profoundly sheltered and isolated from the outside world. I was deliberately kept ignorant of normal life. This meant that at 17, I was not only severely malnourished, physically scarred, and deeply scared. I was also fundamentally “unknowing” and “uneducated” about the most basic ways of life outside that house. I was a mess, a product of an environment that deliberately stunted my physical, emotional, social, and intellectual growth. It left me ill-equipped to navigate the complexities of the world.

Part 2

The Point of No Return

(The Night of Attempted Murder)

Chapter 9

Building Towards the Breaking

My father was a merchant marine. It was a profession that kept him away from home for extended periods. He was overseas on ocean-going vessels most of the time. His presence in our lives was sporadic and unpredictable. When my father would come home, he may have been home for a month to three months, a brief, unsettling interlude, before heading back into his maritime ventures. Because of this consistent absence, my father never taught me anything meaningful about life, about being a boy or a young man. He never engaged in simple, bonding activities like playing catch with a baseball and glove, as I saw other fathers and sons do. He never took me to a baseball game or a football game, never shared those common experiences that build connections. He never hugged me, never showed any genuine caring, affection, or interest in me as a person. He was a mean, brute of a man, an alcoholic who would routinely chug an entire case of beer in one night, his personality becoming even darker and more unpredictable under the influence.

While other children in families were involved in sports at school, participating in extracurricular activities, and sharing moments with their parents, none of that happened for me. My life was devoid of such normalcies. My parents were too consumed by their own way of living, to even talk about basic life topics like “the birds and the bees,” leaving me to navigate the world with a profound lack of knowledge. Both my parents, through neglect and indifference, did not teach me anything about life. Nothing of substance or value. It’s as if I was just there, a physical presence existing in the moment for them, a burden or an object, and nothing else.

At times, it was difficult to discern who to be more afraid of, my mother or my father. The scale of terror went back and forth depending on their moods and actions, as they were both capable of immense brutality. While my mother was the primary architect of the systematic daily abuse, the relentless torture, and the unending servitude I endured, my father’s presence carried its own distinct and terrifying threat when it occurred. It was a different kind of danger. The night everything changed, the night that marked the point of no return, was one such time when his volatile presence was a palpable force in the house.

The stage was set

The air that night must have been thick with unspoken tension, a heavy, suffocating atmosphere. Or perhaps the violence erupted with sudden, terrifying speed, a swift and brutal explosion of rage. Looking back now, with the clarity of decades and the understanding of the patterns of abuse, it’s clear that his return home set the stage for the horrific climax of my time in that house. It was the event that would finally force my escape.

Chapter 10

The Attack

The brutality of that night, the sheer, unadulterated violence inflicted upon me, is etched into my memory with horrifying clarity. It is a moment that plays back in vivid, painful detail. My father was a large man, physically imposing, who weighed around 300 lbs, with a 40-plus-inch waist. He was powerful and mean. When the force of his hits struck me, a small, underdeveloped 90-pound weakling, the result was devastating and absolute. There was no possibility of fighting back, no chance of defending myself against his strength and rage.

I remember sitting in my designated sitting spot on the floor in the living room. My father and mother are watching TV. My father said something to me, I don’t know what it was, but the conversation quickly escalated when he sat in his comfy spot and strongly told me to go brush my teeth. He then looked at my mother and in an angry voice, asked her “What are you teaching these kids?”. And then he quickly rose from his seat and approached me with a fury.

He attacked me

Before his attack on me, he systematically incapacitated me. He punched me forcefully in the diaphragm, instantly knocking the wind out of me. The power of his punch stole my ability to breathe, scream or resist. He yelled at me to fight. But I couldn’t. Then, he quickly and with a force, using the palm of his hands, he slapped my ears really hard causing an instant deafness and a ringing in my head. This further disoriented and disabled me, making it even harder to comprehend or react to what was happening.

He tried to murder me

With me helpless, stunned, and struggling to breathe, he then pulled me outside to the front porch and threw me down onto the cement. He got on top of me, using his immense weight to pin me down against the hard cold cement. His grip was absolute and inescapable. He took my head in his two hands. The left side of my head and face towards the cement. His fingers were like vises, his grip absolute and crushing. And then, with deliberate force, he bashed my head into the cement – repeatedly. I felt the impact and pain. In reflecting upon this moment, I would see that his intention was chillingly clear and undeniable: he was trying to murder me, to end my life with his bare hands. The impact of my head against the hard cement was searing pain that shot through my skull. I was unable to move or escape. On the third head-to-cement contact, I recall my conscious state warped and trying to leave me. It is a moment that defies adequate description, a horror that words cannot fully capture. He did a lot of damage to me in those terrifying, violent moments.

The other reason I was unable to fight back was because my mother had raised me in such odd ways, essentially brainwashing me not to fight back, ever. I was simply not capable of fighting back against him. My failure to fight back against him that night only seemed to make him even more angry, to the point where he felt the need to end my life.

Chapter 11

Left for Dead

When the brutal assault finally stopped, he got up off of me, I remember, lifting my head just slightly and turning to see my mother and the blurry figures of others. They then all went back into the house and closed the door. I was not offered aid. No hand reached out to help me. Instead, in an act of ultimate cruelty and indifference, I was simply left for dead. I was abandoned where I lay. It was a bitter winter night in February, the cold air biting and unforgiving, seeping deep into my bones. I was outside, on the cold cement, with only a thin white t-shirt and my usual red jeans. Injured, disoriented, my head pounding, the swelling, in immense physical pain, and emotionally shattered, I was abandoned in the darkness. I was left to the elements.

In those moments, just before my injured body finally gave out and I collapsed completely, I remember the raw, desperate confusion bubbling up from within me. It was a torrent of unanswered questions. Crying out loud into the cold, still air, my voice weak and broken, I asked the questions that had no answers. I was a teenager who could not comprehend the senseless cruelty: “Why?”, “Why me?”, “I don’t understand!”. I distinctly remember my internal monologue, “I haven’t done anything to anybody, I don’t understand. What did I do to deserve this?” It was my crying plea.

I was utterly unable to grasp the reason behind the senseless and brutal violence inflicted upon me by the very people who should have loved and protected me. The feeling of utter desperation and being completely alone, even in the face of near-death, was overwhelming. It was a crushing weight on my young spirit. All I had ever done, from my earliest memories, was try to survive, literally. Simply exist from moment to moment.

Chapter 12

The Field, The Brink, and The Voice

Somehow, amidst the searing pain, the profound confusion, and the crushing despair, I managed to escape. Driven by my will to survive, I fled into the darkness. My injured body carried me away from the source of the horror, away from the house that had been my prison.

After my father bashing my head into the cement, he and my mother and siblings went back into the house as I laid on the cold cement. Suddenly the front door opened. Somebody threw out a large black garbage bag. When this happened, I recall thinking that this was a symbol of “go away and don’t come back”. I remember in those seconds I had a choice to make. I remember thinking my father is going to kill me and there is no way I can go back inside. In a flash of fleet, I pulled myself up off the cement. I did not hesitate. I grabbed the garbage bag that was tossed out towards me at the house. I stumbled across the street and into the field, about a hundred feet from the house. It was here that I collapsed.

Nobody knew I was in the field. I collapsed, first my knees hit the ground, then I bolted over in extreme tears and anguish and then I laid face down in the cold dirt. My body was unable to carry me any further. In these moments, I realized that I was ready to give up. Surrender to the pain and cold. The frost on the dirt pressed against my cheeks, the pounding of my head a drumbeat. The cold sunk in. No coat. No jacket. Then came the shivering of my body and contractions of my stomach muscles along with the continuous pounding sensation emanating from my head where the bashing of the cement occurred. I recall having lost so much energy that I was unable to pick myself up off the ground. A fleeting thought was to simply relax, let go. I was literally seconds from death. Then, I don’t know what to call it. I call it an imprint maybe, in these seconds, I was about to release myself from this world and an internal voice said. “Get up!”. … “Get up!”. Again, “Get up!”.

These words … not a voice as we think of a physical auditory sound; perhaps an imprint in my mind. I do not have any clue as to why, nor do I understand it. I do know that I was close to death and a pervasive thought with the simple phrase “Get up!” played in my mind. I eventually became aware that if I did get up, I would live – though for what, I did not know. Perhaps it was a primal instinct, self-preservation in those moments. There was not any physical manifestation or jolt; I eventually, slowly and gradually pulled myself up from the ground. My body was aching and my head was pounding. I made it to my feet and as I stood there, I was now faced with the unknown world outside, I had to make a decision. As I stood there, I looked at my house, the porch light was on. I then looked to my right and I saw lights on in the church across the field. I then looked back at the house and asked myself “Do I go back home, or do I just … go?”. “Go! Get out of here, go into the unknown? This is my choice.”. The thought of returning to the house, to my parents, was terrifying, but so was the terrifying unknown of the outside. I made my choice. I could have turned left and gone back to the house, but instead, I decided enough was enough. I didn’t care what was next in life; I turned right to head towards the church across the field.

It was a pivotal moment

Looking back now, with the clarity and with the perspective of decades, I know with absolute certainty that my decision was the single most significant and pivotal moment of my entire life. It was the decision to get up when I wanted to die. If I had not gotten up in that field, I would not be here writing this text today.

What is heartbreaking and profoundly sad to me is that this experience, this terrifying night, was my experience alone. It was my solitary battle for life. I have never spoken about it to anybody before this writing.

Part 3

Taking the First Steps

(Immediate Aftermath and Early Survival)

Chapter 13

Finding First Refuge

Standing there in the field, my body aching and my head throbbing, having just gotten up from the cold of the dirt, my head was throbbing with agonizing pain from the bashing. The bitter cold was deep into my bones. I desperately needed to get help. But I didn’t know a soul in the world outside my abusive family, had no one to turn to, nowhere to go. Except to the church.

I slowly bent down and grabbed the garbage bag that had something in it. The bag was light. I looked inside the bag and there it was. My Spiderman t-shirt. In finding this, I remember taking a pause and I remember thinking that I don’t have to wear this shirt anymore. So, I dropped the bag and the shirt, on the spot, and started taking my first steps towards the church.

The beacon of hope

I remember seeing, in the distance, across the field, lights on. It was Parkwood United Methodist Church. When I saw the lights, I immediately thought, “There’s probably somebody there.”

Yes, there were other houses on the block that I could have gone to for help, and all were strangers to me. Why I chose the church, I do not know. It was a symbol of hope and potential safety in the vast, cold darkness of the night. With nowhere else to go, driven by my will for survival and desperation, I decided to walk towards it. I was drawn to signs of life and lights. I entered the church. The warmth was a welcome relief from the biting cold. I was then drawn by the faint sounds of voices. I could see feet shuffling under a door. This meant people were inside, finishing something. Hope flickered within me. Perhaps here, in this place, I could find help. I could find someone who would care.

Help arrived

When people left the room and saw me standing in the hall, their reaction was immediate and deeply moving. Several people gasped loud when they saw me. It was my injured state, my thin, inadequate clothing, my swollen face, the visible signs of trauma and distress etched on my face and body.

Among them was a girl, she was a classmate with her mother. They spoke to me with concern and gentleness, and despite my inability to literally talk, speak, to articulate the full extent of the horrors I had just escaped – the words simply wouldn’t come, locked away by trauma – they understood enough. They took me in for the night, offering immediate shelter, warmth, and safety. I slept on the floor in their living room. They took me in without knowing the full, terrifying truth of what had just happened to me. It was a moment of unexpected and profound kindness from strangers. It was the very first help extended to me after I had made the crucial choice to get up from that cold field and choose life. They provided immediate refuge, a safe harbor, a stark contrast to the brutality I had just escaped.

Chapter 14

Stepping Into a Hostile World

Even after finding that initial refuge at the church, the world outside the “horror house” was not immediately a place of consistent safety, ease, or understanding. I was still severely malnourished, weighing a mere 90 lbs at 17. It was a physical state that was both a visible scar of my past and an ongoing challenge to my health and well-being. Beyond the physical, the psychological impact of years of relentless abuse and the recent attempted murder was profound and debilitating. For about a year or two after escaping, I was literally scared of all people. It was a pervasive and overwhelming fear that made every human interaction feel fraught with potential danger and threat. My nervous system had been rewired by years of trauma. It perceived others not as potential sources of connection or safety, but as threats. It was a direct and tragic consequence of the fact that the people who were supposed to be my source of safety, love, and security were the very ones who inflicted the most harm and terror upon me.

Navigating the world in this state of pervasive fear and deep-seated distrust was incredibly difficult. It was a constant internal battle against the instinct to flee, hide or withdraw altogether. Trust, the foundation of human connection, had been annihilated. Rebuilding any sense of safety or connection around other human beings would be a long, arduous, and often painful process.

On that night, after leaving the temporary safety of the church, I was speechless, literally unable to articulate the horrors I had endured. I had a hard time talking. My voice was weak and hesitant. I was unable to convey the depth of my suffering, the trauma that had rendered me mute. I was desperate for help, for someone to understand. And I was scared because I didn’t know a single person in the world who truly cared about me or could offer lasting support. I had been sheltered, or rather, imprisoned, in a horror house for so many years. I had just escaped, a terrifying leap into the unknown. I knew with absolute certainty that I was not going back. In that state of profound vulnerability and uncertainty, I was mostly in tears, the emotional dam finally breaking. Stepping out from the temporary safety of the church and into the world alone was overwhelming. I was brutally injured, my head pounding from the bashing. I didn’t know a single person outside of my abusive family, and I had no idea where anything was or what to do next. I had never been away from home before, and the fear was immense. Thoughts ran through my mind about a place to sleep and food. But I had no money, no wallet, no ID at that age. I was physically unable to speak that much, literally. And when I did, people asked me to speak up because they could not hear me. Remember, I was tiny, frail, beaten, broken in every way – low energy, fearful, and weary, all rolled into one.

My initial survival in the outside world involved moving from place to place, what is commonly called couch surfing. I relied on the temporary kindness of strangers or distant acquaintances. I was a wanderer, rootless and alone. No one from my family reached out, searching for me, or showing any interest whatsoever in whether I was alive or dead. No parent, no brother, asked any questions about me. Not one inquiry into my whereabouts or well-being. There was a complete and utter lack of interest in me as a person whatsoever, a continuation of the abandonment I experienced within the home.

My first real bed was short-lived

Amidst this rootless and uncertain existence, I managed to find temporary refuge, going from one couch to another, from one temporary safe haven to the next. One night, through a connection I no longer recall, a family whose children were fellow students from school took in me. The older male student in the family was away at the time, and I was shown to his bed, offered a place to sleep for the night. It was, in that moment, the very first time in my entire life, from my earliest memory of being placed on bare box springs, that I had ever slept in a real bed, a bed with a mattress, sheets, and blankets. It was so amazing, so incredibly comfortable and soft compared to the hard floors I was accustomed to, that I slept profoundly well, a deep and restful sleep I had never experienced before.

The next morning, the older male student returned home unexpectedly and found me, a stranger, sleeping in his bed. He immediately reacted with shock and anger. Without a word of explanation, he took a pillow and used it to whack at me, yelling at me to get out of his bed. I understand, with the perspective of time and experience, why he reacted that way; finding a stranger in your bed is alarming and unsettling, and I don’t hold him in the wrong for his initial reaction based on his limited perspective and understanding of the situation. But what he did not realize, could not possibly have known at that moment, was the profound significance of that moment for me, the deep irony and pain of being hit while experiencing the simple comfort of a bed for the first time. That was the first time I had ever experienced the simple safety, softness, and comfort of a real bed in my entire life, a brief, precious respite from years of sleeping on cold, hard floors infested with roaches. The abrupt return to conflict and violence, even if understandable from his point of view, was a harsh and painful reminder of the ongoing challenges I faced in navigating the outside world with the heavy weight of my past and my lack of social understanding. It was, in a way, part of my accelerated crash course in ethics, social norms, and the unpredictable nature of human interaction after leaving the only world I had ever known.

Because I was so used to sleeping on the floor for 11 years, at first, I would not stay in bed. In the middle of the night I would sub-consciously decide to move my body to the floor where I had been accustomed to sleeping. This went on until USMC bootcamp, and I may have done it once or twice in bootcamp. Thankfully, I outgrew that.

I quickly learned, through these difficult experiences, that just because I was in trouble, just because I was in desperate need of help and support, didn’t automatically mean I would be rescued, full stop. The world outside was not inherently a safe or compassionate place for a child like me. So, I learned that I simply had to go full-on, to hit the road, to learn, adapt, and adjust to the harsh realities of independent survival. It shocks me, even now, to think that I was in several homes, taken in temporarily by families, where the parents had no genuine interest in me whatsoever, their only concern seeming to be how soon I would be gone. It’s not like I was a large, intimidating presence, a 6 foot 4 muscle-bound person in the way; I was tiny, weighing only 90 lbs, my physical state a clear indicator that I needed help, that I was vulnerable. It’s possible, though painful to consider, that I was so hideous in my appearance due to the severe teeth problems caused by neglect that I was simply hard for people to look at, my physical state a barrier to their empathy.

I quickly realized that if I was going to survive, I had to work to support myself, to earn my own way in the world. This led me to my first jobs, working at places like Sonic and Pizza Inn, minimum wage jobs that provided just enough to get by. I worked to pay my way at 17, without any real skills, formal education, or knowledge of how the world operated. I was having trouble keeping up at times, struggling to make ends meet and find stable housing, and that’s when I was introduced to the possibility of military service, a structured environment that offered a potential path forward.

About a mile from my home in Pasadena was a laundromat, but the sign on the building, for whatever reason, said “Washateria.” My whole life, growing up, I referred to the place solely as “Washateria” because that’s what the sign said. So, years later, after my time in the USMC, I moved to the sprawling city of Los Angeles, a place vastly different from Pasadena. In my first few days there, I was looking for a place to do my laundry, and I confidently asked people on the street, “Where is the Washateria?” Turns out that’s not the real or common name for a laundromat; it was a local peculiarity. I found out the hard way by repeatedly asking people on the street, “Where is the Washateria?” and being met with blank stares and confusion. Nobody knew what I was asking about. It took a while, through trial and error and confused interactions, but I eventually learned that the correct term is “laundromat.” LOL, it’s a small, almost humorous anecdote, but it highlights how sheltered and uneducated I was about the most basic aspects of the outside world.

Nobody cared about my plight, or so I thought for a long time. At least, that’s how it felt immediately after my escape. But later, I learned that the choir teacher, Mrs. McAfee, the kind woman who had encouraged my art, knew about my difficult situation, my plight. She managed to get a fund started with other compassionate teachers at the school, and together they bought me clothes and paid for a rental unit, a small apartment. It was stark, scary, and cold, a far cry from a comfortable home, but hey, it was a place to rest my head without complaints or fear of violence. However, I was completely uneducated about managing money, about the responsibilities of renting, so I did not stay at the apartment long because I simply did not know that I was supposed to pay rent regularly. Why didn’t any adults teach me anything about these basic life skills? It’s so incredibly sad and frustrating to think about the fundamental knowledge I lacked.

When Mrs. McAfee found out I lost the apartment, she didn’t stop trying to help me. I suspect she knew more than I could realize about the depth of my condition. She then rented (her money) a room in an elderly woman’s home to get me off the street. She warned me ahead of time that the place is cold and dark. And, it was. I wasn’t there but for a few weeks. I am thankful to Mrs. McAfee, she is always in my heart.

My school counselor, Mr. Williams, at one point, called me into his office. He had been around for years, a consistent presence; he was my counselor at both the junior high and high school levels. He knew all about my problems, the difficulties I faced at home and school. As I sat there, tiny and sunken into the chair, feeling small and insignificant, he looked at me with a kindness I rarely encountered and told me, “Floyd, you are going to be a successful person. You will have much success in your life.” He didn’t dwell on my current struggles; he spoke of a future I couldn’t imagine. He gave me some much-needed hope with those simple, powerful words, a flicker of belief in my potential that stayed with me.

To be honest, I was in such a fog and unable to retain much due to my hardship and constant fear, I was unable to fully grasp what people were actually doing for me. Yes, it was nice that the cafeteria lady reached into her pocket but I was unable to derive anything from it other than YES, I get to eat today!, and with Mr. Williams, his words did strike me as something out of the blue because nobody had every given me a single compliment in my life, his may have been one of the few that stuck with me. And, with Mrs. McAfee and the teachers helping me, I was unable to appreciate it because there was too much history and emotional scars that I was unable to operate like a normal person who is relaxed and/or content.

Part 4

Early Adulthood

(Career and the Struggle for Healing)

Chapter 15

A Different Kind of Bootcamp

Thinking about this time in my life, I decided I had another option to move forward in life, to join the military, just like my sister did. Eventually, this led me to the United States Marine Corps, hopefully helping give me the discipline and basic life skills I desperately lacked.

I remember the recruiters giggling. Telling me that I would not make it through bootcamp, obviously perceiving my small frame. So, some time passed and I thought about it and went back to the recruiting office and told them that joining is what I wanted. They giggled again, one jokingly told me he was going to place bets on me. So I signed all the paperwork and then received my letters and plane ticket … my plane ticket to take me on a journey.

My journey began with my flight from Houston out of Hobby airport – leaving behind the landscape of my trauma, to San Diego, California.

The Plane Ride

This was my first plane ride in my life … wow! It was an overwhelming experience. I remember settling into my seat, the hum of the plane idling on the tarmac – a strange powerful new sound. I sat quietly, looking out the window to my left.

First the plane slowly moved, I remember the awe of seeing the other planes, the buildings getting further away and smaller, the stewardess announcement, my seat buckle locked. Then came the takeoff; a sudden bump and surge of acceleration as we lifted off – startling me, a brief moment of fear in the midst of the excitement. Then, as I looked out the window, I watched the ground and all the buildings fall away as we ascended, my world transforming into a patchwork quilt below, of shades of green, all the trees, the buildings, becoming smaller and smaller, and soon we were above a vast sea of clouds – an incredible sight!”. I felt comfortable. The seat was comfortable, everybody in a low hum of action and talking. Enjoying peanuts and a soda felt like a luxury, and I was surrounded by so many new faces.

For the next few hours, a quiet conversation unfolded in my mind. Thoughts of the life I was leaving behind mingled with a nervous anticipation for the unexpected future that lay before me. I felt relief knowing that I was traveling far away from the confines of my small world. As I gazed at the breathtaking scenery unfolding outside my window, my thoughts drifted to Mrs. McAfee, Mr. Williams, and Mr. Arnold. A wave of sadness washed over me. They didn’t know what had truly happened, why I had vanished from high school in my senior year, just months before graduation. After all they had done for me, I had simply disappeared, unaware of where my own path would lead.

Yet, despite the altitude, a surprising sense of safety enveloped me in my seat. A quiet peace settled over me as I sat there, not speaking to anyone, just reflecting on everything I had endured and the completely unknown place I was heading towards. For me, this plane ride felt like a form of closure, a definitive step away from the constant yelling, the screams, and the utter insanity I had known. Still, an undercurrent of fear remained during those hours in the air.

As the hours passed and we began our descent, curiosity, excitement, and caution wrestled within me. Stepping off the plane in San Diego, I was immediately enveloped by an unfamiliar aroma, a scent I’d never encountered. Once outdoors, the sight of palm trees and the bustling energy of people moving about made me pause to take it all in. There was a distinct scent to the air, and I took a deep breath, the wonderful aroma perhaps from the earth itself, a damp, loamy fragrance that I found surprisingly relaxing and pleasant. This was an entirely new world.

I followed the instructions the recruiter gave me. I was to look for the MCRD sign and follow the line on the concrete. I didn’t take time to venture around San Diego, I didn’t get to see anything, I just followed what I was told to do. Which then brought me to a big olive green bus, a bus and two men asking for my ticket and told me to get on the bus and sit, no talking.

So, I got on the bus and I chose the middle of the bus, instead of going near the back like I did growing up. At this moment, I was still unaware as to how dramatic my life was about to change in just the next few minutes. A stark realization was about to unfold.

Other recruits boarded the bus, I didn’t look at any of them, my face towards the window, eyes looking out at the activity of the people outside. A tense quietness filled the bus as they took their seats. Then, without warning, the bus door slammed shut, and a figure of imposing authority burst onto the bus, yelling loud, demanding, barking orders with an intensity I had only previously experienced at home.

The sudden, aggressive onslaught of sound, authority, and controlled chaos was jarring. It triggered an immediate, physical, mental and emotional reaction within me, my fears expanding to the point of tears that I had to hold back. I remember my body sinking down into the cushions of the bus seat, my mind reeling, an internal conversation expressing my disbelief, “Why? I don’t get it. … I just escaped all those horrors, and now this? … More yelling? … No! This can’t be!”.

This was a moment of profound internal conflict, while also realizing that I could not flee. My mind battled fiercely against my new reality and the need to adapt. In that instant, amidst the man’s yelling and the fear, I made a conscious decision, a command to myself that would become a crucial survival mechanism for the challenging years ahead: Literally … “Suck it up,” I told myself, “be a man,” “this was my time, this was my moment, and I had to push all the pain, all the fear, all the trauma internally and move on, to face what was in front of me.” It was a pivotal moment, a forceful conversation with myself to suppress the past and face the immediate demands ahead.

My vortex

After receiving, I remember my first time in the barracks – a long room, clean polished floors, the lights from above and the ambient light from the day exposing everything in the barracks to stark ambient lighting. The sound of a platoon marching outside. I remember the bunks, all of us with our shaved heads, standing in our skivvies, shirtless and standing at attention. Our orders were to be eyes forward, standing at attention. These next moments were about to throw me into an internal vortex. As I stood at attention at the foot of my assigned bunk, three drill instructors entered, a burst of loud voices.

My eyes were forward, I could see the drill instructors come into my peripheral vision and I see they are walking down the line as if to assess each of us recruits.

Eventually, one of the drill instructors stopped in front me, facing me. He looked me up and down. I remember his height. He was shorter than me! He stood so close to me and with his short height, the brim of his drill instructor hat was pressed against the bottom of my chin. Suddenly, in a raspy voice, he said “You some kind of p***y or something?”. When I heard those words my internal self imploded. I remember taking a deep breath and feeling a sudden physical reaction. Honestly, I wanted to cry but I couldn’t. The drill instructor’s words caused me to feel anguish, anger, shame – all at the same time – my mind, my thoughts, my physical self was a torrent of emotions that had to be contained. I remember that I became more rigid in my standing at attention taking in what is unfolding.

The moments of this inspection were what some might call “the reveal”. For the first time in my life, I was physically exposed to light and inspection, a full-on revealing of what I looked like as a recruit. And, I understand why eventually all the drill instructors stopped in front of me to make comments about me during the inspection.

There I stood, motionless, not wearing a shirt. One could see my rib cage, the sign of malnourishment, my arms and legs were thin, head shaved, a distorted mouth with two rows of teeth, a shell of a person. I noticed the other recruits seemed normal, tall, fit, full of energy. But, sadly for me, I was different and it wasn’t my fault. The shame I felt knowing I was lesser than others was all encompassing.

What I did not know during this moment is that my body was about to become stronger.

The next day, I was introduced to physical training and my first time with an obstacle course and the running track. It was an overcast day, morning and I remember that earthy aroma again – for me, invigorating. A fresh start to a new day!

This was a good morning as I mentally took in the newness of this environment – California, the new faces, the new people, all unknown to me but we are all facing our first challenge with our introduction to the obstacle course.

The drill instructors then began their introductions and told us what we are supposed to do. One by one, each of us got our turn. When it came my turn to plow through … well … the best way to describe this moment is when you play a record and knock the needle off the vinyl and hear that jarring sound.

I approached with a slow gait. I remember, stopping and standing and I’m now looking up at this wall. I guess it’s 6 or 7 feet tall. I stood there at the wall, looking for something to grab onto. I didn’t see anything, yet as I am standing there, the other recruits are climbing over this wall like it’s nothing to them. I then tried to climb it but I couldn’t, I didn’t have the energy. So, I stood and watched even more recruits climb it and I became flustered, gave up and just ran to the next in the obstacle course. “Oh crap, what is this?”, my reaction when I saw the tall thick dangling rope my heart kind of sank.

The drill instructor showed us how to climb the rope. Then, one by one, recruits started to climb the rope and back down using the technique shown to us with ease. It was then my turn. In reflection, I laugh at it now, but it wasn’t funny at the moment. I tried to climb that rope and I didn’t have enough energy to get a quarter of the way up the rope and my arms gave out.

You want me to run?

I managed to get through the obstacle course but by running around the obstacles I couldn’t physically perform. Then a man appeared near me to point me towards the jogging track. He looked me up and down as if to analyze me. The man then starts to show me how to run. Literally, he is showing me with his hands pointing to his thighs, showing me the bending of his leg, and how to run. My best guess was that he knew I didn’t have much in me physically and thought that I did not know how to run. I did what he said and I managed to get about an eighth around the track before giving out.

The next days, day after day, getting further around the track, a quarter mile, a half mile, then I had a growth jolt and I was then easily running 1 mile … 2 miles … 3 miles!

As the next weeks unfolded I slowly became stronger and faster at running. For the qualifying test later in boot camp, I ran three and half miles in 24 minutes.

The physical demands of boot camp were relentless, and my body, still weak from years of malnourishment, faced a great challenge. On the long, grueling hikes under the blazing California sun, the weight of my full gear felt crushing on my small frame. Sometimes I would fall behind the platoon, my energy utterly depleted, each step an act of sheer will.

The running was the worst of it. At first, I couldn’t make it an eighth of the way around the track before giving out. Day after day, I pushed, getting further—a quarter mile, a half mile. Then, after weeks of proper nutrition and relentless effort, something shifted. A growth jolt. Suddenly, I was running one mile, then two, then three.

Some days were not so good

The physical demands of boot camp were relentless, and my body, still weak from years of malnourishment, faced a great challenge. On the long, grueling hikes under the blazing California sun, the weight of my full gear felt crushing on my small frame. Sometimes I would fall behind the platoon, my energy utterly depleted, each step an act of sheer will, at one point collapsing face down in the dry dirt, my canteen thankfully halfway full get up and keep going. The hikes for me were a test of both physical and my mental endurance to keep going.

It was in those moments of lagging, or sometimes later, perhaps while cleaning my rifle after a day at the range, that the perceptions of others would become a heavy burden. I sensed the irritation from some of the other recruits, their muttered comments about my inability to keep up weren’t always subtle. The drill instructors, too, would deliver stern reprimands for my falling back. A weary, helpless question would often echo in my mind: What was I supposed to do? Was everyone angry with me simply because of who I was, because of what my body, through no fault of my own, couldn’t yet give?

Then, a few weeks into my new reality, something unexpected happened.

A Secret Visit

There was a secretly arranged meeting with my older sister, Linda, who had joined the Marines about two years ahead of me. One day, the drill instructor ordered me to go to a certain building. As I walked past a few buildings, I saw a person. A woman with a big grinning smile, in her uniform. It was my sister, Linda! This brief encounter, a familiar face in my new world, was a small, quiet moment of connection in a place designed for isolation and intense discipline. We didn’t hug, I was in the midst of my transformation to a Marine so I was already composed at all times. My sister and I didn’t get to talk much, just a hello and that she was proud of me. Our meeting was only about a minute and I returned to the barracks.

I don’t know who set the meeting up or why, but it gave me enough smiles and hope that I can do this, I can keep going, I can get through bootcamp. I can do this.

Shame

I recall one particularly brutal afternoon, the sun beating down, when I had to sit and rest for a moment, tired and contemplating my day. A cold knot of shame tightened in my stomach. There I was again, I thought, the weak one, the straggler, just like in gym class, always last. The memory of being heckled, of always being different and unwanted, felt as searing as the California sun on my skin. But then, the decision I’d forged on that bus upon arrival – to ‘Suck it up,’ to endure – would resurface. I remember thinking to myself, “This is my journey now.”. I had to keep moving. So, I’d push the feelings down, gather what strength I had, and force myself back to my feet, to continue.

Yet, amidst the harshness and the often brutal demands of bootcamp, there were rare moments where my extreme physical need was recognized, albeit in a blunt and unconventional manner. I remember being treated a bit differently in some ways, set apart from the rest of the recruits. While the rest of the platoon might be engaged in rigorous physical therapy or training exercises, my drill instructor would sometimes escort me to a small, nondescript hut. Upon entering, there was nothing inside but a chair, a small table, and a platter piled high with sandwiches – a sight for a recruit like me. His command was simple, direct, and devoid of explanation: “Sit … EAT!” I remember being confused. It’s only in retrospect that I see that it was a blunt and unceremonious form of care, acknowledging my severe deprivation and taking steps to try and physically rebuild me, to put weight on my bones and strength back into my body.

Amidst the relentless drills and the constant pressure of bootcamp, there were moments that felt like a lifeline, a profound comfort: chow time. Marching in formation to the mess hall, the rhythmic cadence of our boots on the pavement, became one of my favorite parts of the day. It wasn’t just the brief respite from training; it was the promise of food, an abundance I had only ever dreamed of.

Walking that line in the mess hall was an almost overwhelming experience for me. After a lifetime of gnawing hunger and being denied even basic nourishment, the sight and smell of so much food laid out on the steam tables felt like a miracle. Large scoops of everything – potatoes, vegetables, whatever the main course was – would be piled onto my tray, a stark contrast to the single slice of burnt bread or the meager peanut butter sandwich that had often been my entire meal. I ate as much as I could, gratefully.

Oh, my absolute favorite, the food I looked forward to the most, was the warm bread pudding. My senses filled with the sweetness in the air, the comforting warmth, the sheer, simple pleasure of it. It was more than just dessert; it felt like a simple comfort, an experience of both exhilaration and relaxation at the same time.

Those meals in the mess hall were more than just calories to fuel my body; for me, they were a daily reminder that I’m not going to go hungry, so … enjoy!

A shocking encounter awaited

Bootcamp also brought another significant, albeit initially shocking and deeply embarrassing, encounter with the long-lasting consequences of my childhood neglect: my very first dental checkup and cleaning. After eighteen years without ever brushing my teeth, without any form of oral hygiene, my mouth was in a dire and shocking state, further exacerbated by the developmental issues caused by severe malnourishment.

When the dental hygienist in bootcamp looked into my mouth, it was simply horrendous. Plaque, tartar, calculus build up, two sets of crooked teeth occupying the space meant for one, jutted buck teeth, bleeding gums. All it took was a simple finger press on the gums and blood would ooze. This, of course, was all my parents fault for not teaching me a damn thing to take care of myself. What horrible human beings they were.

When I sat in that dental hygienist’s chair and opened my mouth, revealing the damage, the man’s reaction was immediate, loud, and unforgettable. He literally screamed out loud in horror at what he saw, a genuine and uncontrolled expression of shock and revulsion. It was a moment of deep and profound embarrassment for me, exposing a hidden scar of my past, but it was also a stark and undeniable confirmation of the severe neglect that I had endured and the long-lasting physical toll it had taken on my body.

The hygienist then called someone over to look and said something, I don’t remember what he said. Then, the hygienist, perhaps understanding that my condition was not normal, that my level of dental decay and overcrowding was indicative of something far more serious than poor habits, the hygienist gently placed his hand on my shoulder or arm, a silent gesture that I interpreted as an attempt to convey calmness, reassurance, or perhaps even empathy.

This was my first teeth cleaning, I had to spit out a lot of blood.

A few weeks went by and I then found myself in the hospital, recovering from my first of two surgeries to extract teeth from my mouth. I think they took out eight and left some for a second surgery later. After I was released, I returned to the barracks and the drill instructor told me to get to the chow hall because I had missed breakfast and lunch because of the surgery.

I went to the chow hall and loaded up what I thought would be possible to eat with my gums throbbing, my face pounding, the recovery was painful. Stitches throughout my gums. So, it was my favorite, bread pudding and some soft foods. While I was eating my meal, it was between meals so there was not anybody else in the chow hall, I was the only person. I remember this moment vividly, sitting there, in pain, trying to eat, the warmth of the sun shining through the tall glass windows. I could hear the people in the background, clanking pots and pans. Then a few other people pass by, walking by, they don’t acknowledge me. They can see I’m a recruit.

The USMC, while undoubtedly brutal and demanding, also served as an unconventional but effective school for basic life skills. The USMC taught me things that I was already supposed to know, fundamental aspects of self-care and social interaction that had been denied to me in my childhood: taking care of myself, the importance of bathing and personal hygiene, brushing my teeth regularly, the necessity of physical exercise, and a basic framework of ethics and conduct. Even though the environment was often harsh and unforgiving, I am still profoundly thankful for my time in the USMC. I truly believe that if I had not enlisted, if I had not decided to enter into that structured environment that provided basic needs and discipline, I probably would not be here today. The challenges of navigating the outside world alone might have been too overwhelming. That’s a huge and undeniable impact that the Marine Corps had on my life.

I chose a different path

Here is an oddity, a strange juxtaposition in my story. Thus far, I have described in detail all the abuse, the violence, the suffering inflicted upon me. But, what about me? Did I, due to enduring such brutality, abuse others or become violent myself? The answer, perhaps surprisingly to some, is a resounding no. Somewhere in the midst of those eleven years of relentless abuse, in the darkness and the pain, I had a talk with myself, an internal dialogue that set a course for my future behavior. As a child, I set it firmly in my mind, a deeply held conviction, not to become violent myself. This resolution has stuck with me my entire life, a conscious choice that stands in stark contrast against being the target of literal and brutal violence for so many years. I was so opposed to violence, so repulsed by what I had experienced, that it simply did not come into my thinking as a way to interact with the world.

So, in bootcamp, we had to endure what is called “The Bridge Over Troubled Water,” a training exercise designed to simulate close combat and aggression. There are two teams, one on each side of a moat with water, with a narrow plank that reaches across. Two men, opposing team members, walk the plank towards each other, equipped with a helmet, some protective gear, and a padded baton. The goal is to strike the opponent with the baton until they lose their balance and fall into the moat below. I could not believe what was happening. For the first time in my life; I was being instructed, ordered, to strike or hit another human being, to inflict physical force upon someone else. My brain freezed. I was shocked that I was now the one striking another human being and, for the first time in my life, being able to fight back. I had a fleeting internal conflict about participating in this exercise. Needless to say, when my time came to meet my opponent on the plank, I was so small and underweight, I was so hesitant, that all it took was one whack at me from my opponent’s baton, and I was knocked off the plank and into the water.

Not going to make it?

About two-thirds of the way through bootcamp, one of the instructors told me in a private conversation that the word was out about me and how I wasn’t going to make it. Him making funny gestures as to possible bets that I would fail. Well, guess what. I did not fail, I succeeded and graduated!

When I entered bootcamp I weighed 90 lbs, literally. By now I was weighing 110 pounds.

More about running

Then came the qualifying test for the three-and-a-half-mile run. As we lined up, I remember thinking, this was it. I had to do this. I had to get it done. I needed to put all my force and energy into completing this run as fast as I possibly could.

The race started, and a fire I never knew I possessed ignited. I remember passing the first recruits, then some more, then some more. My strategy became simple: I would focus on one person ahead of me, just one, and zone in, pushing my body to its absolute limit to get past that single person. Then I’d lock onto the next, and the next. My legs burned, my heart pounded with a fierce power I’d never felt before. I could feel sensation escaping my legs, but I pushed anyway, fueled by something more than muscle.

I passed the finish line and went straight to the fence that separates Camp Pendleton from the airport. Breathing as heavily … I walked around, looking at the planes arriving, and I saw the recruits I had left behind. I could not believe it; there were not that many ahead of me. Then, I bolted and vomited the most vomit I had ever experienced in my life, like a torrent. When it was over, I gained my composure, stood up, and just stared at the airport through the fence with a sense of pride I never thought possible.

Building Confidence

Now was the time to build confidence in what is called the “Confidence Course” – an extreme measuring will, fortitude, and mastery over fear. Upon seeing the course and our drill instructors telling us how things were going to go down, I began to realize that what was before me was something that was going to severely challenge me and my small frame. As small as I was and with the daunting obstacles before me, I thought to myself, ‘There’s no way!’ But, guess what? I did it. I completed the Confidence Course. There were some obstacles that caused other recruits to freeze up and be disqualified, but I maintained. One obstacle was the “Stairway to Heaven,” which consists of large logs formed into a ladder. To be able to climb something like that and then back down without falling is a tremendous feat of accomplishment. I was so small compared to that structure; it truly was a physical and mental test. Another part of the course, there was climbing up a giant wooden structure, and at the top was a rope leading back down to the ground at an angle with water underneath in case a recruit falls. The goal was to ride the rope and switch into three different positions while on the rope without falling. I didn’t fall; I made it. I completed the Confidence Course with amazement, and yes, it did give me confidence.

While my mind knew, based on the training I was going through, trained to use force, my thoughts gradually became to simply, self defense. What I was learning, which should have been taught by my father, was self-defense. Even though I was adverse to violence, I was gaining a crucial skill.

Then came USMC Graduation. I remember the immense pride I felt that day. Oorah! Semper Fi. Marching in the parade, the rhythmic sound of boots on the ground, the rumble reverberating through the concrete, the precise movements of all of us graduating, the music, the banners; parents and families cheering in the stands. My parents, however, were not there. It was obvious they did not care to be there. In that moment of collective triumph and familial celebration, their absence was a stark and painful reminder of the abandonment that continued to define my life.

Chapter 16

Building from the Ground Up

I then went on to Infantry Training School, then to my assignment. When my time in the Corps came to an end, I stepped back into the civilian world, a world that still presented its own set of challenges. I was honorably discharged, a formal conclusion to that intense period of my life. I didn’t have a high school diploma, only a GED earned after completing bootcamp, and I had received no formal education whatsoever throughout my childhood. None. Yet, faced with the daunting prospect of making my way with so little to my name, a familiar sense of inadequacy pulled at me even as I knew I needed to find a way to support myself, to build a life independent of the past and the limited resources I had.

When I was 21, one of my first jobs was in the mailroom at a large insurance company. I became accustomed to people everywhere, the business of the downtown area, the streets below me in this skyscraper. Lunch hours were usually high motion with people moving about. I reflect on this one day, at work and the craving for McDonald’s hit me. It was a few blocks’ walk, and as I stepped out of my building, the city was in full midday surge – people spilling from office towers, a jumble of cars and buses, the whole scene humming under the high sun. The smell of the exhaust, the rubber from the tires of all cars. Police officers managing traffic.

On the way to McDonald’s, I passed this fountain, an unexpected calm spot with tall panels of light-green glass, water streaming down into a large man-made pond. Some people were sitting on the low wall around it, probably waiting for a bus. That’s when I saw a man who looked like he was having a rough time – clothes a bit worn, hair kind of shabby. The thought just came to me, simple as anything: Since I’m going to McDonald’s anyway, I could get him a meal. He might be hungry. I knew what being hungry felt like.

So, I got two meals. Walking back, bag in hand, I saw him still by the fountain. I took a breath and walked. “Here sir…” I said, holding out the bag. Just like that.

What happened next hit me like a physical blow. The man exploded. His arms shot up, waving wildly, and his voice, suddenly loud and harsh, ripped through the city sounds around us and the fountain. He yelled at me, “What? You think I’m a homeless person or something?!”

Heat flooded my face. I could feel the eyes of everyone at the bus stop looking at me, staring. The simple bag in my hand suddenly felt like it weighed a ton. I did not say anything. I couldn’t have spoken if I’d wanted to. I just pulled my arm back, turned, and walked away, the sound of his yelling still ringing in my ears.

As I walked back to my office, my internal dialogue was both confusing and also a sudden different perspective. In those moments, the city’s noise seemed to fade. A wave of sadness washed over me. That went so wrong, I thought. I just wanted to do something nice. The memory of his anger, the stares – it all … well, just sad. I’d made a mistake, misread the whole situation.

Then I simply focused on my intention and let it be at that. I remember thinking My intention was good, though. I wasn’t trying to judge him, just… help. It was a small, hard lesson and perhaps just irony. It didn’t sour me on wanting to help people, not at all. But it did plant a seed, a feeling that maybe I needed to be a bit more careful, to look a little closer, before stepping in. My heart still felt for people.

Oh those classifieds

I remember back then there was no internet, no smartphones. The Sunday newspaper was the most valuable tool for me to keep looking for a better job, learn some new skills. I remember so many times reading the classifieds, carefully circling the ads so I don’t ruin the print, seeing all the new words to me, I found it fascinating. Writing letters to people I don’t know. I eventually got a new job that was to become a quite pleasant experience.

I landed my first real 8-to-5 job as a circulation manager for a trade publisher that focused on the truck building industries. For the next couple of years, this role provided a stability I’d never known: a consistent daily routine, the comfort of good food I could afford, a regular paycheck, and, importantly, my own apartment.

The change was profound, not just emotionally but physically. About six months after being stationed back home and settling into this new life, I remember stepping on the scales and seeing 120 pounds! It was a significant milestone from the 90 pounds, and even up from the 110 I’d reached by the end of bootcamp. Six months later, I hit 130 pounds. My body was finally responding to regular nutrition and a less traumatic environment.

The weekends became my own time for exploration and a different kind of nourishment – for the mind and spirit. With the pressures of my past momentarily quieted by the routine of work and the peace of my own space, I found myself drawn to experiences I could only have dreamed of when I was a kid.

I remember the cool breeze of the spring day, the tall oak and pecans swaying with their rustling sound as I casually walked to the museum area of the city. I’d spend Saturdays and Sundays lost in worlds of imagination and discovery. I loved visiting the planetarium, getting lost in the cosmos. The butterfly exhibit was a burst of delicate color and life. I explored the contemporary art museum, letting my mind wander through different perspectives. The aquarium brought the ocean’s mysteries close, and laser light shows were pure, dazzling fun. The hands-on exhibits at the Science Museum sparked a childlike curiosity. And then, at the NASA Johnson Space Center, I stood before—and even touched—the literal Apollo 11 command module. That grainy black and white image from our television, decades earlier when I was just six, was now a tangible reality before me, a silent, awe-inspiring testament to childhood wonder and impossible journeys made real.

Looking back, this was a genuinely fun time for me. It was a period of quiet rebuilding, of discovering simple joys and the freedom to just be in the world, experiencing its wonders without the constant shadow of fear.

Hello World

One day at work, I found myself drawn to a different kind of discovery. One of the first IBM Personal Computers (PC) showed up in our office.

I was immediately intrigued and I remember questioning in my mind what it was and what it was supposed to do? The computer was assigned to the bookkeeper and one day I asked her if I could at least touch it, and she said no. I asked her why, she said I might press the wrong key and break it. … Well, she wasn’t wrong.”

Then another computer showed up in the office and another. I was alone one day in the office and I was working with some mail when I saw two computers, humming as if they were turned on. Out of curiosity, I walked to the desk, touched the keyboard and the computer shut down. I got scared and ran out.

The computers piqued my curiosity which eventually led to me seeking out something new in my job, something with computers. I had no formal training, no background in the field, no degrees or certifications.

One day at a job interview for a junior programmer/analyst, I remember sitting politely as a man was talking to me. I looked to my right and I saw a person typing in front of a big blue CRT screen, and I saw the commands on the screen. When I saw the words, I became extremely focused on their meaning and how the words were being used. I then remember a spark in my mind, my brain latched onto computer programming as something I might want to pursue. Well, I got the job. Thank you to that first sight of a programmer/analyst in action at Texas Instruments. From that point forward, I read every book I could on programming, practiced, broke things, had lots of fun.

Sometimes I would get lost in reading about all the functions, the parameters. What new world have I discovered? It seemed boundless. The months passed by and I was into creating relational databases, multi-relational databases, using Structured Query Language (SQL) and the first dBase.

These new skills I was acquiring meant so much to me that I didn’t miss any days at work and set into a rigid routine. This routine would carry me through the next few years. Every weekday morning, I’m up out of bed, into the shower, all looking nice, looking at myself in the mirror feeling proud of myself. I didn’t use dry cleaning much, my morning ritual included the starching and ironing of my shirts, and ironing my usual khaki slacks. Standing at the closet lost in a world of which tie to choose, I had many.

Job or education? Education or job?

I remember having a conversation with myself one day. Addressing my need for education. I found myself at a juncture. I remember asking myself “Should I go to school or keep working? Because I needed to support myself.”. I eventually decided that getting formal education would not have benefited me due to the immediate need to bring in income. So work became the most important to me. I decided I will work, work, work. And, fortunately for me, I found something that I actually excelled at, computer programming.

When I was working there were many personalities that I had to deal with and I wasn’t perfect, as I was learning. Some days were good, some, not so good. That being said, I didn’t give up. To give up meant homelessness and death for me. I came from such a poor upbringing, I had not any savings to rely on, living paycheck to paycheck. So the constant drumbeat of survival and my need for relief from the mental ongoing torment of my childhood was always in conflict.

California Sun Fleeting Freedom

The years between roughly age twenty-three and thirty marked a distinct phase, my ‘big time’ career days. This period started small, but after the discipline of the Marines and the intense focus of teaching myself computer programming, I began to find success. My career progressed as I learned more; immersed in programming code at work from 8-to-5, day after day, week after week. I attended so many meetings, wrote so many lines of code, and my responsibilities became more prominent. The months went by so fast.

I remember looking at the calendar sometimes on a slow day, daydreaming and thinking how it seemed Christmas was just a few months ago, when in reality, much more time had passed. Sometimes, I’d sit and flip through calendars, going back in time and I could see how fast time was passing by, and, also causing a bit of concern.

I began to be concerned that I was missing out on life. That the way I was living wasn’t what I wanted due to seeing all the time that had been swept up in business and fun.

This era, particularly when I was in California, was also a time where these eventual successes allowed me to consciously try to cast off the heavy inhibitions of my past and experience times of genuine fun. Life took on a new rhythm. I remember many nights spent partying, dancing away at the night clubs, letting loose in a way that was a stark contrast to the constant vigilance that had defined my earlier years. I could always be found at the beach; places like Malibu Beach and Laguna Beach became both fun and safe spaces for me. I often took long walks alone at the beach, watching the sunsets, finding a measure of peace in the sound of the crashing waves. It was a period of exploration, an attempt to truly live and enjoy life.

Alongside my intense focus on my programming career and my attempts to consciously cast off the inhibitions of my past by embracing the California lifestyle , I also threw myself into building myself up physically. The lean machine I’d become in bootcamp was a foundation, but now I had the resources and a different environment. I got serious about working out, pushing myself through intense gym routines and high-impact aerobics. I remember the satisfaction of seeing my body change through sheer effort and better nutrition. After those initial gains to 130 pounds post-USMC , I kept at it, watching the scale climb – 140, then 150, eventually reaching a solid, muscular 170 pounds. This wasn’t just about weight; it was about strength, a feeling so wonderful to me, I was full of life!

My physical transformation became another part of trying to forge a new identity, to build a stronger outer self. Yet, my newfound physical strength and the vibrant California life couldn’t silence the echoes of the past entirely. Throughout these years of regular physical fitness, building my career, and trying to have fun and enjoy life, the terror dreams persisted . Many nights, I’d jolt awake screaming loud, my body paralyzed in fright, the vivid images of my mother abusing me, her face, her dark brittle hair, as real as if she were in the room. After the first few horrifying times, I learned to fight back in the only way I could: I’d force myself into a kind of lucid dream, telling myself mentally to relax my body, to consciously re-enter the dream for a moment, and then guide myself to slowly wake up. These nightmares, coupled with regular flashbacks during the day, were a constant, grim reminder of the battles that continued to rage inside, no matter how much my outer life seemed to change.

Despite these attempts to embrace a new life, a deep-seated low self-esteem – a constant companion throughout my entire life – remained. In California, surrounded by the confident buzz of people going about their day, the streets filled with fancy cars, and an air of ritz and glamor so foreign to my upbringing, I often felt like a nobody. While navigating my career and this new social scene, I encountered many people. Yet, frequently, I would look at someone and automatically assume I wasn’t worthy enough to even say hello. I think these feelings were heavily shaped by my past and my perception of my own appearance; I still carried the belief from my childhood that I looked like a ‘monster’ and that others were inherently better looking. This profound sense of inadequacy was a persistent undercurrent during any social interaction. Even after graduating from USMC boot camp, I still felt less-than.

Chapter 17

Addressing the Hidden Scars: Years of Dental Reconstruction

The severe state of my dental health, a direct and painful consequence of eighteen years of complete neglect and chronic malnourishment, was a significant physical burden I carried with me into adulthood. It wasn’t just about aesthetics, about how my mouth looked; it was a constant, painful reminder of the profound deprivation I had suffered and it significantly impacted my ability to function normally, to eat comfortably, and deeply affected my self-esteem and confidence. Around the age of 21, a friend, seeing my struggle and perhaps the visible condition of my teeth, courageously and kindly confronted me about the state of my dental health, gently but firmly urging me to do something about it, to seek help. It was a difficult and embarrassing conversation to have, but their concern came from a genuine place of care and a desire to see me heal.

Recognizing the significant financial and logistical challenge ahead in addressing such severe and long-standing dental issues, another friend stepped in with incredible generosity and support. He went to an orthodontist’s office and, without my asking, put down a substantial deposit of $1500 to get the process started, providing the initial financial means to begin the long road to reconstruction. This act of selfless financial support was a pivotal moment, providing the necessary resources to begin addressing a problem that felt overwhelming and insurmountable on my own.

The path to correcting the severe overcrowding, decay, and damage in my mouth required significant and complex medical intervention. I underwent two separate surgeries, both requiring hospitalization and recovery time, to remove the excess teeth that were occupying the same crowded space in my mouth, a physical manifestation of the developmental issues caused by malnourishment. These were not minor procedures; they were complex oral surgeries necessary to create a foundation for future correction and alignment. Following these surgeries, I began the long and arduous process of teeth alignment, a lengthy and often uncomfortable journey. This wasn’t a quick fix or a simple cosmetic procedure; it took a full seven years of ongoing orthodontic work, with braces and adjustments, to gradually shift and align my teeth, slowly transforming the “monster” I saw in the mirror into a more normal and functional appearance. This extended period of dental reconstruction was a tangible and lengthy process of healing the visible scars left by years of profound neglect and abuse, a physical manifestation of my journey towards recovery.

Even today, after all the surgeries, the years of orthodontics, and the significant effort put into correcting the damage, a couple of gaps remain in my smile. While these are normal and expected to me, a result of the extensive work needed to correct the severe overcrowding, I am aware that others sometimes perceive me as being toothless, a subtle but lingering reminder of the past.

Chapter 18

The Breaking Point and the Limousine Ride

You’re gross! Well, that is the expression that I perceived when a man at work looked at me. This made me think deeply about myself. Years of working and too much fun had taken a toll on my health. I had started to let myself go, in the beginning, wearing my standard white shirt, paisley printed tie, khaki slacks, and blue blazer to jeans and a button up shirt, unruly hair and zits on my face. This was my wake up call.

I remember a night where our company had some kind of important event, and I happened to be with the group invited. An event that was considered something special and should be an honor to attend. On this night, I remember feeling so much shame, when I decided not to attend because I was basically a mess both inside and out. I remember my thoughts along the lines of “Most people would do anything to go to this…” but I chose not to and in reflection it was the best choice for me and others, I say that with a small chuckle.

Because I was abused for many years, then went into the USMC, and then into a career – there was not any personal time to heal myself based on all I had been through. The past few years were a constant motion and I did not have any time to just sit, and be – to catch up. I did well, until it all became too much for me. The combination of rage, dealing with the general public, composure for daily business, flashbacks, terror dreams, screaming in the middle of the night, my body paralyzed in fright within my flashbacks, so vivid, so real, my constant low-self esteem, feeling less than other people. I couldn’t handle it anymore.

I didn’t know who else to turn to, the need to reach out to anyone had become so strong. There was this one building I’d passed by many times, on my way to the gym where I’d work out several times a week. I remembered seeing a poster there, something about ‘self-help.’ Because of that poster I’d seen one day, I thought they might be able to help me, so I walked in. I still don’t really remember the name of the place. Inside, I sat with a man in his large office. I don’t know who he was. I sat in a large black leather chair and he was on the other side of the room, sitting in his chair, behind his big desk. For 30 minutes I proceeded to tell him what I was going through. The look on his face was devastating to me and yet, very truthful. I remember him saying I needed help.

I returned to my apartment, pulled out some newspapers and started looking in the back sections where I frequently had seen ads for alcoholism. There were a few to choose from. I laid on the floor of my large empty apartment, sparsely furnished, beer bottles everywhere, crying in agony, trying to figure out how to do this. I had to consider insurance. Turns out, I had good insurance and medical leave through my employer. I picked up the phone while in the quiet of this place, and I talked to a woman. I opened up to her and she told me about the hospital and she took my information. She called me back about 20 minutes later and told me that I would be checked into the hospital, not to worry about anything and be ready at 10 a.m. the next morning for a car to pick me up.

I remember standing outside my apartment waiting for the car. Right on time, at exactly 10 a.m. – the time the woman had said a car would pick me up – a limousine pulled up. Living in Los Angeles, naturally, my first thought was that it had to be for somebody else; limousines were a common enough sight. But then I looked around, checking to see if there was anybody else standing or walking in my direction, and no, it was just myself. That’s when the thought, the confusing realization, began to hit me: ‘Oh, this is for me?’ I tried to hold back a grin. Yes, I rode to rehab in a limousine.

This was the first time I ever rode in a limousine. The driver was quiet. As I looked around, I saw the fancy containers of alcohol, the shelves stocked to the hilt. I didn’t touch anything, didn’t drink anything. Instead, I spent most of the time staring out the window, watching all the L.A. traffic and scenery. I found myself keeping track of where the limo was travelling, trying to get a sense of where I was going in relation to my apartment. A lot of my thoughts were dwelling on my job: my sudden departure, the medical leave, the projects I’d been working on, and who was going to take over. I was worried, anxious that I might not even have a job to go back to, that this was leaving a bad mark on my reputation. It was a heavy feeling, heading towards such an unknown. The limousine ride eventually ended at the hospital doors. My entry into this new world began with an immediate stripping away of the old.

Upon arrival at the hospital, I encountered my next humiliation, the emptying of my backpack and inventory. I remember the sudden shock and shame at the same time, it was in these moments myself, my very being, deflated. Then a day or two passed and I started to meet others there.

Then a day or two passed and I started to meet others there. This new world was so weird to me, and not just because of the new routines or the way people talked about recovery. As I met people, they all seemed to be nice enough. But I did notice a couple of individuals who, at mealtime in the cafeteria, would get their tray and then take it back to eat in solitude in their own rooms. When I saw that, it immediately triggered a flashback for me. I’ve told you about the severe dental problems I had, starting back in the ninth grade, and how for all those teenage and young adult years, I was always so embarrassed to eat in front of other people. The state of my dental horror, especially as it got worse, created such a profound shame around eating in public because I felt I looked like a creature to others. Seeing those people eating alone in rehab just brought all that rushing back, a fresh wave of those old, familiar feelings in this supposedly new place.

The hospital, listening to the conversations, the regular food, the different personalities. It was here that these people were talking, talking about steps, higher power, powerlessness, … sanity. The way I perceived these people, well, just odd. They were using words I had not heard before. As I ventured into my first meetings, I was a bit scared. As the days went by, I was hearing words like Step 1, Step 2, Step 3 of the 12-step program. In times of reflection in my room, sitting on my bed, writing in my journal, I remember feeling a bit of relief. I was now in a safe place where there were no meetings to go to, no user interfaces to code, no parties, no distractions. Pausing in these moments, it sank in that my being here in the hospital is what I needed to do for myself. I needed to listen even if it sounded weird, adapt, and try to apply what the nurses and workers are telling me … to take it all in so maybe I can have some peace in my life.

My First Meetings

I remember sitting in a large circle in a big room, the place for our meetings and communal activities. I noticed piles of magazines, some seemed to be cut or destroyed. It took me a little while to understand what all those magazines were really for; they weren’t just for boredom, which I initially thought might be why they looked so used. Eventually, I learned they were for each person’s ongoing art project. We were all given a white cardboard, and in our downtime, or when we just needed to relax, we’d sit and flip through magazines, cutting out pictures, words, anything that resonated with us. Then we’d arrange and paste these onto our personal cardboard. It was a project that unfolded throughout our 28 days there, a visual way for us to tell our story, whatever we wanted or needed to say. The plan was that upon graduating from rehab, we would each take a turn presenting our cardboard collage to the group, sharing whatever we wanted to about it.

As we each took our turn introducing ourselves in those early meetings, I listened to each person speak. Some of their stories shocked me; people would introduce themselves as an alcoholic or a drug addict. When the time came for my share, I didn’t really know what to say. I knew I wasn’t just there because of alcohol; it was so much more than that. I wanted to get sober, yes, but I also desperately wanted to find a way to repair my inner self. To make things simpler at first, and because I had already accepted Step 1 and 2 by then, I just introduced myself as an alcoholic. It just felt easier than trying to unpack everything else right away. It wasn’t long before I realized, after everyone had shared, that I was truly in a place where I could share without judgment.

As the next weeks unfolded, a sense of family was building in our group. I remember sharing the brutal parts of my childhood in a share, my big share, and one woman started crying and got up and left the room. She then apologized to me one on one afterwards and told me that she too had been abused.

Part 5

Navigating the Legacy

(Healing and Truth)

Chapter 19

The Journey of Healing

When I first started to get help for my Complex PTSD, first there was one therapist at the hospital who talked to me over a few sessions and used odd techniques to get me into a different mindset and he would often ask if I was over the anger towards my mother. He gave me instructions to start writing in a large notebook, writing my past down on paper.

In reflection to be honest, much of that specific time is a blur now, but I do recall writing so much down; I think I ended up with 50 pages or more. Those pages eventually got stained and tattered from all the times I revisited them, adding more details as the days and weeks passed. Basically, for about four weeks, it was like a stream of consciousness being transferred to paper. I’d sit in the silence of my room, the time passing with only my thoughts as I contemplated, remembered, and evaluated everything. It was a true moral inventory, not just of what was done to me, but also looking at what I did, my own actions and reactions during those times. Though, as this inventory took shape, it became obvious that this first 4th step, both the writing and the art piece that was connected to it, was going to be completely about my childhood and teen years.

It was very difficult and a long process … and I was tired of revisiting the dark part of my life over and over. I would tell the therapist that I was over the anger so we could move on, but he did not believe me.

Working with the therapist was a challenge. He would ask me questions that were triggers and my mind would instantly go into horror replays that were so intense that I tuned out the voice of the therapist and I was in such a trance he had to yell to get me out of it.

Simultaneous to regular meetings… I had several sessions with a therapist. I did not know it then but he was my guide for my first 4th step, a searching and fearless moral inventory of myself. This was an on-going process covering weeks. Writing and journaling were my new activities now. So my written 4th step was connected to our art project. Then I worked with another counselor with daily one on one intervention. Eventually, I would journal everyday and talk with the counselor. The counselor would read my journal entries. No limits, write about anything. Going through that intense process with my written inventory and the art project, and beginning to understand and experience the power of the 4th and 5th steps, truly felt like a significant weight had been lifted from me. It gave me a profound sense of newness in my life, a fresh start. Coupled with that, the regular food and care had a clear physical impact. I remember by then I had tipped the scales at 170 pounds.

And that is the last you’ll hear from me about my weight. After all those years of gnawing hunger, I discovered I have a real fondness for food, so we’ll just let the numbers on the scale be my secret from here on out.

I made it through rehab with a sense of exhilaration. I was now trying to put my new sobriety and the facts of life to a test.

My Road Trip

After rehab, I moved away, embarking on an extended road trip. I yearned to change everything, to find a true home, a place where I could finally settle. But before I started my trip, I visited the local animal shelter, looking for a new friend. I came across a Labrador. I still remember the moment: I stood at the kennel door, and the Labrador slowly approached me. As I put out my hand, the dog’s head bowed. “This is my new dog!” I thought. So, I completed all the paperwork and bought a leash and collar. The assistant brought her out to me, and as the dog was handed over, I looked at her and asked, in a normal voice, “You wanna go on an adventure?”

And that’s precisely what my new friend got—an adventure—a grand, sweeping circle we traced by car across the map of North America. We traveled through Sedona, Arizona, with its striking red rock landscapes. I drove through Santa Fe, New Mexico, and distinctly noticed the dramatic change in the trees and flowers compared to how I grew up or even California. Our route also took us to Roswell, New Mexico, where, on a backroad, I encountered a billboard featuring a mechanized, green alien with big eyes, made of light material, waving hello to passing cars. We then journeyed across the vast, dry western plains of Texas, before visiting Dallas and Houston. In Houston, I made sure to visit the Space Center, where I got to see the actual Apollo spacecraft and explore its various museums.

Continuing our adventure, we experienced the varied landscapes of Colorado and Wyoming. Driving through sections of the Rocky Mountains required careful attention due to wildlife. We then returned to Montana, under its expansive skies. Our travels took us through the scenic areas of Washington state before crossing into British Columbia. We ventured into northern British Columbia, driving the majestic Cassiar Highway, and then on to the Yukon Territory. Our final destination was Alaska, where we explored places like Seward and Anchorage. Throughout our journey, I stayed in numerous hotels and motels, often finding advantageous week-long rates in various towns.

I then settled in various places along the way, my friend always there.

I finally found a place

And after settling in, I found a local 12-step meeting with a unique setup.

Thank you David H.

This nice man, David H., became my sponsor and a friendly face as I attended meetings regularly over the next 4 years. The meetings were in an old church, built with big bricks, a wing of the church for meetings and church functions. This particular meeting would start in a large room and then after formalities, we would break off into groups of 4 or 5 people depending on how many are in the meeting.

David H. explained everything to me and I began to hear stories in the meetings, other people telling their story or whatever they wanted to say. This was different from the hospital. These people lived in the area, people I would see on a regular basis and I then became part of the group so-to-speak..

I remember meetings where I had no idea what the person was talking about. There were times when I wanted to be off doing something else, but I knew within that I needed to be here, in the chair, being present for people as they are for me. My sponsor always affirmed, “Listen.”. When I was writing and sharing about my childhood experience while in the hospital, that was easy to get onto paper because it was so pervasive, but this time, in this new 12-step meeting, my shares were … well … uneven. That’s the best way to describe it.

For me, having admitted to the first three steps, my sponsor then guided me into my 4th step. This was different than when I was in the hospital. I remember reading and writing, words like “selfish”, “self-centered” … “doing the same thing over and expecting different results”. My 4th step notebook wasn’t as big as the one in the hospital, but just as important.

Then, the day came to take my 4th step and do the 5th step with my sponsor and when I was done reading, I burned the pages as a symbol of release.

You would scream so loud

Moving forward in time, a few years ago at a doctor’s appointment, I was met by a Behavioral Health Sciences doctor and she did not know anything about me or my past. I had only about 10 minutes to convey what was going on with me, as we are both new to each other. This is true. I told her I wanted her to go with me on a hypothetical exercise. She was taken aback a bit. I told her if we were to pretend we are Vulcans from Star Trek, and if we did a mind meld like Vulcan’s do, and she could see and feel my inside self, my history, my past, – she would then let out the biggest scream ever in fright that the people in the buildings across the adjacent freeway would hear her. She giggled a bit and then understood what I meant. This was only a few years ago, so even after rehab and twelve step program meetings, still, there is a residual of my childhood after all these years.

Also, in that passage with the doctor, there was also another doctor. The two of them discussed what I was going through in pieces and the second doctor said I should forgive my parents, but he did not know any details, not one. The Behavioral Health Sciences doctor DID know what I was talking about and she looked at him and I looked at him and we both said together, “It doesn’t work that way.”.

I also carried a significant amount of contained rage in my younger years, until about the age of 22. Working through this rage, year after year, through various avenues like therapy, support groups, and the process of actively building my own life and seeing the positive fruits of that work, the intensity of that anger gradually subsided, replaced by a sense of peace and acceptance. These lingering mental and emotional scars, along with the physical ones from the abuse and neglect, are an undeniable part of my legacy, a reminder of the past that I continue to navigate and manage on a daily basis.

Healing isn’t a linear process, and it’s certainly not “done” for me. The lasting effects of my childhood trauma include persistent low self-esteem, a deep-seated feeling of inadequacy, and the constant, often debilitating, thought that other people are inherently better than me in many ways, more capable, more worthy. This feeling of being less-than has been a constant companion throughout my entire life, a difficult internal narrative to overcome.

Even today, I am 62 and I still have flashbacks. That being said, they are nowhere near as overpowering as they were years ago. These days I can assess when I’m having a flashback, experience a few seconds of thoughts and then go back to what I was doing before the flashback. I haven’t had a terror dream since I was 40.

I used to say to myself I have never been loved in my life. Well, that is both true and false at the same time. One may think, a dichotomy. When I say I have never been loved, I’m speaking from a parent and child relationship. And, with adults and romance, I have never been in love. Does that mean I have never been loved? Nope. I have found love through strangers and acquaintances along life’s path. Along the way, there have been people who came to my aid, that is love in action right there. It happened a number of times, so, I can’t say I have never been loved, just experienced in a different way.

I must confess that I have cursed God many times in my life. I guess, who wouldn’t? There has always been a battle of trusting God and not trusting because of all the pain and the suffering that I went through, constantly asking God, “Why me?”. That being said, as I went on in life, God has been and always is there – just not in a way I WANT God to be present. It’s a difficult topic to discuss. I do know, now, today, that there is a God, perhaps something/a being I am unable to comprehend. But I see crumbs through the trail of my life and see where divine intervention is the only plausible explanation for how some things happened.

Chapter 20

Confronting the Past, Facing Denial

As I navigated my long and difficult journey of trying to find meaning in life burdened by the profound trauma of my childhood, I made a significant and deliberate decision: to confront the past, indirectly, by sending my meticulous documentation, the written account of my experiences, to my parents.

After escaping at the age of 17, I never spoke to them again, the break clean and necessary for my survival. Years later, after entering rehab and spending time meticulously documenting everything I had experienced, every act of abuse and neglect, I was faced with a choice – burn the documents, symbolically destroying the past to “let it go,” or send them to the source of the horror. I chose to mail them, a deliberate act of sending my truth back to the people who had denied it for so long. It was a final communication after years of silence, a way of saying, “This is what you did, this is the reality of the life you subjected me to.”

Their denial was absolute

The reaction to receiving my documented story, first with a phone call to my mother and she only had one word for me “Liar!” and then I heard again via my sisters, was painful but perhaps not entirely surprising, a confirmation of their continued denial and lack of accountability: my parents, when confronted with the truth in writing, simply called me a liar, dismissing my experiences as fabrication. This denial, even when presented with the stark and undeniable reality of what they had done, reinforced their complete lack of accountability and their unwillingness to face the consequences of their actions. My assumption, based on their reaction and their characters, is that they both died without ever acknowledging the harm they had caused or making any amends to me.

Adding to the complexity and pain of navigating family reactions to my story, I received a letter from my Aunt, the one who had witnessed some of what happened during my childhood and had, years ago, confronted my mother, telling her she was going to end up killing one of us. In her letter, she told me, with what seemed like a complete lack of understanding of the depth of the trauma, to forgive my parents. This request, coming from someone who had witnessed some of the abuse firsthand, highlighted the profound difficulty and complexity of the concept of forgiveness after enduring such prolonged, severe, and life-threatening trauma, including attempted murder. How on earth, I wondered, grappling with the weight of her words, does a person do that? How do I forgive people who inflicted such pain and showed no remorse? It is a question that resonates deeply within me – acknowledging the immense psychological and emotional challenge of reconciling with such deep and lasting wounds.

The only way I would have even attempted “forgiveness” towards my parents and the other adults who were in positions of responsibility and failed to protect me were if they had first made amends, a genuine acknowledgment of the harm they caused and an expression of remorse.

They received my long, detailed text about the abuse, so they can’t honestly say they didn’t know the truth of what happened. If they had made amends to me before passing away, if they had shown any sign of regret or understanding, I would have been willing to give forgiveness a shot, to try and find a way to release the burden of anger and hurt. But they’re dead now, and they never made amends, never offered a word of apology or acknowledgment. Nothing was said, nothing was done to try and heal the wounds they inflicted.

The Passings

I reflect on two days in my life in recent years. One day, I was perusing the internet and performed a search for my father’s name. I found his funeral posting. When I saw and realized that… I had to take a moment.

I know most people experience deep anguish over finding that a relative has passed. People have different expressions. Most of them experience great sadness. However, when I realized that my father was dead, I did not jump-and-down in glee. I was not happy. I was not sad. I did not have any regrets. A peace came over me, a physical relaxation that started at my head, then neck and expanded to my body. In reflecting on this moment in my life, and still, today, I still feel the same, my normal today self.

Two years later my mother passed away. And. Again, the same peace came over me with an exception. A realization that my mother did not make any amends, never said at least I am sorry. All the horrible things she did – I don’t know if she had remorse or not. And, even though I can think about this in my senior years, I still wonder if in her heart she made any kind of reconciliation with herself and God.

Chapter 21

The Witness and The Truth

Amidst the denial from my parents and the struggle with the concept of forgiveness, there was a powerful and deeply validating moment from an unexpected source within my family: my oldest sister. I had not spoken to or seen my older sister since the age of 19, so decades had passed. She called me out of the blue. She was days from death, as she had a tumor in her esophagus and the doctors told her she probably would not survive the operation. So, it was her last thing she wanted to do. She called specifically to let me know that I am not “crazy” or “making shit up,” she was there with me through it all. She told me that she had confronted our parents and our other brothers and sisters about what happened to me, forcing them to face the reality of the past. She was there; she knew the truth of the abuse, she had witnessed it firsthand. Despite our parents’ denials, she knew the truth and she wanted me to know that.

My truth was validated

Tragically, my other brothers and sisters, perhaps as a coping mechanism for their own experiences, their own trauma, or their forced participation in my abuse, seemed to have achieved a mental blackout, a collective amnesia where they claimed not to recall anything about the horrors of our childhood. My other sister, whom I spoke to when our mother died, explicitly told me that she had blocked it all out, unable or unwilling to remember. While understandable as a protective psychological measure against overwhelming trauma, this collective amnesia from the others made my oldest sister’s validation even more significant, a beacon of truth in a sea of denial. Her willingness to remember, to speak the truth, and to stand in my corner, affirming my reality, was a powerful counterpoint to the pervasive denial I had faced. It affirmed, definitively and unequivocally, that I am not a liar, that my experiences were real, and that my truth is valid because it was witnessed by someone who chose to remember.

Part 6

Meaning, Contribution, and Unconventional Success

Chapter 22

Finding a New Family

In the midst of navigating the ongoing challenges of aging and the difficulties I faced in forming close human relationships, I found a profound and unexpected source of companionship, unconditional love, and purpose in my service dogs.

About twenty years ago, around the time I retired, I took on my first service dog, a rescue from the humane society, giving a home to an animal in need. This marked the beginning of a deeply rewarding journey of sharing my life with these incredible animals. I provided a loving home for that first dog from the age of six to thirteen, went on road trips, and after she peacefully passed away, I welcomed another service dog into my life, who lived for ten years, offering my new friend companionship and support and loved to swim in the rivers and lakes.

My current dog is approaching senior age now; I got her when she was just weeks old, a tiny puppy who would grow to be my constant companion. My current friend is something else. I have never met a dog who loves people so much, all people. My dog’s affection for people is commonly a hindrance to walking as my dog thinks a person, even a block away, is a new friend to be greeted with happy leaps and bounces of joy.

In some ways, I came to realize, with a sense of both sadness and profound gratitude, that my dogs are like my children. Given my struggles with forming intimate human relationships, they fill a deep and fundamental need for connection, family, and unconditional love. I take care of them to the absolute best of my ability, providing for their every need, ensuring they are healthy, happy, and have fun, experiencing the joys of being a dog. It’s a challenge, a constant responsibility and maintenance, as they are, in a sense, like toddlers who never grow up, always requiring care and attention, and it is a challenge that I am profoundly glad and grateful to accept. The bond I share with them is incredibly rewarding, a source of immense joy and comfort, and I get immense enjoyment from their presence, their unwavering affection, and their simple, uncomplicated love.

The cashiers here in town know me and my dog. When they see us approaching they already have a treat waiting for my friend.

It’s not just about me

Over the years I have experienced both comfort and sadness in seeing cashiers come and go. Some have been here for years. Many times, as I walk towards a store, I think about them. I think about what they are going through. The day-to-day routines, the driving, some living paycheck to paycheck.

Chapter 23

Moments of Profound Connection

The depth and purity of the bond I share with my dogs is perhaps most evident in the quiet, vulnerable moments of caregiving, times when the usual barriers of human interaction are absent. My current dog, my loyal companion, suffers from lupus in her snout area, a chronic and challenging condition that is both depressing to witness as it progresses and difficult to treat effectively. The veterinarian prescribed various ointments to help manage the condition, but applying them to that sensitive location, while simultaneously trying to prevent her from immediately licking them off, is a chore that requires patience and a gentle touch. Yet, there are moments during this difficult and routine process that are truly poignant and deeply moving, moments of profound connection. If you were a fly on the wall in my apartment, silently witnessing what happens during these times, you would likely have tears in your eyes, witnessing the tenderness and trust. I approach the task of giving her the medication with the utmost care, gentleness, and patience, speaking to her softly and reassuringly. For about three to four minutes, I am able to gently hold my dog’s head in my hands without her moving, without her trying to pull away, and she relaxes completely into my hands, trusting me implicitly as I apply the ointment to her nose. In these moments, she is still and calm, her body relaxed, and the two of us are both at one, connected in a moment of quiet trust and care, while the medication is absorbed. It is a moment of profound trust and connection, a gentle, healing touch shared between us that stands in stark and powerful contrast to the forced, painful, and brutal touch of my past. It is a powerful reminder of the capacity for tenderness, for connection, and for healing that exists, even after experiencing such deep and lasting brutality at the hands of others.

Chapter 24

Contribution and Finding Connection

Despite the trauma of my childhood and the significant challenges it created in my life, I have always felt a longing, an internal need, to contribute to the world and help others, particularly those who are suffering or in need. Reflecting on my life, I have fond memories of helping families with food and clothes. I have volunteered at food pantries, often taking on the hard work that nobody else wants to do, simply because I know hunger. I know what it feels like I’m not a hero or saint, I’m just one person looking for a small way to contribute.

In my daily life, and for the past lengthy number of years, I have seen homeless people in my local community. And, yes I do know what they are going through. As I walk my dog and we pass the store where people usually stand, I may be a block away and see someone. In the next moments, it becomes very personal for me. I think to myself, “That’s me.”. It truly is. To me, it does not matter how that person got there, but to help in the moment. What if I have a five dollar bill in my pocket and I don’t at least think about giving it to the person. What if that person does not have any success and goes hungry today? Perhaps living out of a van for months. In passing that person while on my walk, I think about these things and so I am compelled to help.

Deep down, despite the trauma I endured, a quiet certainty resides: my inherent worth is no different from anyone else’s. My belief fuels a conscious choice to learn, to grow, and to look out for others who struggle. A soft spot, a deep well of empathy, consistently draws me to those suffering—physically, emotionally, or financially. For me, mere sympathy feels incomplete; it is in the tangible act, in offering concrete help, that I find my truest connection to the world.

I sometimes encounter people standing on the street, holding a sign up, asking for help, when I see them I like to walk up to the person and ask one simple question, “Have you eaten a meal today?” If they hesitate, hem and haw, or don’t answer directly, I take it as a sign that they are hungry. I then go into the nearest grocery store, where they often sell cooked whole chickens and healthy premade sandwiches, I buy one and a bottle of water, and I give it directly to the person asking for help. That’s just me; it’s not about impressing anyone or seeking recognition. It’s simply the right thing to do, and it’s how I hope people would treat me if I were ever in the same desperate situation.

I know from reading news articles and observing the world that there are many children in the world who are suffering badly, enduring abuse and neglect, even to the point of death, often at the hands of their own parents. My heart aches for them, and I wish I could reach out to all of them, to offer them safety and support, I truly do. I wish with every fiber of my being that there were not any children suffering in the world. When I see these articles, it turns my world upside down as I immediately get a flashback and can identify with each of those children who have been hurt or had their lives cut so short by those who were supposed to care for them. Even though I was abused and tortured for so many years to the brink of death, not every child escapes – so, I consider myself extremely fortunate, and even those words are inadequate. There’s only so much one person can do; there’s only so much I, as an individual, can do. I have taken the stance, the conscious decision, that the most effective and meaningful way I can be at helping others is to focus on the ones I encounter in my daily life, the individuals whose paths cross mine – helping them one on one, person to person. Beyond that, beyond those direct interactions, I don’t often see assistance truly arriving for people when they most desperately need it.

I find myself to be a person looking out for those who don’t know I’m looking out for them. I remember a neighbor long ago, she had just moved in.

To welcome her to the apartment, I went to the grocery store and bought her some chicken and vegetables and other sundry grocery items and left them on her doorstep. I did it because it was the right thing to do and nobody else was going to do it. Turns out, I found out later, months later, she was talking to her daughter about me and she blurted out “And he bought me groceries!”, like that the best thing one could do. I did not say anything because that is not what it was about, not about attention seeking, just to show a bit of love to another person I do not know.

Mission Accomplished

About 12 years ago, I met a stranger, a woman. I lived in a small two bedroom apartment, with a kitchen window view of hills, tall evergreens and pines, and the beautiful river.

One quiet spring day, I looked out my kitchen window and noticed a woman with very long blond and white hair and quite frail. She was standing outside alone under the nearest pine tree to my apartment. I had not seen her before. I thought she might be a camper or tourist enjoying the scenery of the tall evergreens, the river just steps away, the hills, the beauty.

About an hour goes by, I look out the kitchen window and I see the woman again but standing in a different spot. Her arms folded, her lack of body motion, staring off into the landscape, it was as if she was in deep contemplation. Then, a truck pulls up onto the property and unloads a fifth wheel under the towering distant pine tree next to the river.

As the next few days passed, walking my dog, I realized that this woman is living in a rundown fifth wheel. Not even the door would close and it wasn’t a door, just a piece of wood. She was obviously poor. In a casual hello conversation, she explained to me that she was standing around the property trying to find the best place for the fifth wheel. She apologized if it seemed creepy.. She then confided in me and told me that she barely had any money and she told me that she had lost her service dog.

Because I walk my dog regularly, passing by her camp. She invited me and my dog in, and we would begin to have conversations. Conversations over a cup of coffee, or a piece of chocolate candy. Our conversations were not of a romantic nature, just two people, sitting, among nature, having coffee and talking. Two strangers crossing a path it seems.

I became her friend and I’m glad I did. Over the course of about three weeks she conveyed her story to me and how someone stole her service dog. She went into the details. It was so sad. She even showed me the medical letters saying that she and the dog were not to be separated. Turns out, she knew who took the dog and where they lived. Aha! I glimpsed a way to help her.

With my experience in legal firms, I knew the power of a 10-Day Notice. So, I typed up a notification letter sent via certified mail. By this time, the woman had already been separated from her dog for one and half years. According to the woman, on the day the person who took her dog – the person walked into the hospital lobby where she had been waiting for her appointment. The thief coerced her and wrangled the dog out of her arms and took off in a truck. Upon hearing this, I started to think of using my skills in a legal manner. I made the briefest of contacts and then told the woman that in 10 days she will be reunited with her service dog. She was in disbelief, I told her how it would go down. And it did. Send notice and then one phone call. When the time came for the phone call, I answered, the man on the other end stated something that was not agreeable to the situation and provided an unrealistic remedy. So, I said “No.” and hung up. The call only lasted 20 seconds. Ten days later a caravan of black vans rolled into our little town to deliver the dog directly to the woman in a large grocery parking lot. After the dog was successfully handed over, I received a message on my phone that simply said “Mission Accomplished”. It felt good to help the woman.

Chapter 25

The Thanksgiving Day Miracle

One particular memory from my time volunteering at a food bank stands out with striking clarity, a powerful illustration of how simply being present, showing up, can make a profound and unexpected difference in the lives of others. It was a Thursday, my usual day for the routine grind at the nearby food bank where I volunteered. I showed up at the usual time, unlocked the building, and began preparing for the day’s operations, setting up and organizing the provisions. Looking around, I noticed something unusual: I was the only volunteer there; the building was empty except for me. I went through my normal routine, expecting people to come in to receive food, but oddly, I remained alone for the entire four hours that we were scheduled to be open. No people came, no other volunteers, just me in the quiet building. I was really wondering what was up with this strange day, asking myself why no one was showing up. The doors were set to close promptly at 4 p.m., and just as I was about to lock up for the day, the door closed, I put the key in the lock to lock the door and … a car pulled up. A family, a family, one of our clients, to get their regular. When I realized who they were, I unlocked the door, turned on the lights and started the usual routine to give them their usual allotment with lots of goodies too!

In reflecting back on the moment, the exact moment, I am so thankful to be there at the very precise moment to help someone.

After they left, I went home myself, the encounter weighing on my mind. It wasn’t until I got home and happened to look at the calendar that I realized why no one else had been there, why the food bank had been empty – it was Thanksgiving Day in the U.S., a major holiday when most places are closed and people are with their families. My brain, perhaps just running on the ingrained routine of my volunteer schedule, hadn’t even registered the holiday. That’s why nobody else was at the food pantry, but the family that showed up, they desperately needed food, and it was Thanksgiving, a day traditionally centered around a meal. If I had not been there at that precise time and moment, if I had followed the norm and stayed home, those hungry people would have had a terrible, foodless Thanksgiving. But I was there, unexpectedly, at the right time, to help. In these moments, I realized the profound truth of my own survival. My survival, that singular choice to live forged in the despair of a cold field, now clearly had a ripple effect, extending outwards to impact the lives of others in unexpected and meaningful ways, ensuring this family had food on Thanksgiving Day.

Chapter 26

Creativity Later in Life

The Critic and the Convert

When I first started creating music, the sounds that came out were… parochial. Juvenile, even. But they were mine, and I was proud just to be able to create anything at all. I burned a few demo CDs, raw and unpolished, and decided to test them on someone. I didn’t know many people in the small mountain town I was living in, but I d noticed a couple down the way. One afternoon, I saw them outside, and with a demo in hand and my heart in my throat, I walked over and asked if they’d be willing to listen.

They said okay. I gave it a week, my stomach churning the whole time. I walked by again and saw them outside. I approached, and the woman, Rosemary, hailed her husband in a strange way. She went into the house and came right back out with the CD, handing it to him to give to me. He had some very stern words for me. He looked me right in the eye and asked if anyone else had told me my music was any good, and if so, he hoped they weren’t lying to me. He was shocked at how bad it was, he said, like something a toddler would put together. He was not happy. The honesty was brutal, a clean, sharp wound.

But I kept at it. As the years went by, whenever I released a new CD, I’d get a table at the local library on flea market days to sell them. And that same man, my harshest critic, would show up and buy every single one. Eventually, I moved away and lost contact. A few years later, I ran into Rosemary at a store in another town. I gave her my latest CD, which I knew was a true work of craft. Weeks later, she saw me again, and this time she was ecstatic, literally beaming. She told me how far I’d come, how much they both enjoyed the new music. And then she told me that her husband, the man who had been so appalled by my first effort, had copied the entire album to his hard drive to save alongside his other cherished music. That, more than any award or compliment, was a validation earned over years of quiet, dedicated work.

The Scratched CD

I was hitchhiking once, in a remote area, when a car pulled over. I recognized the driver’s face—a woman who lived in town, though I didn’t know her name. I got into the passenger seat, and as we went on, I glanced down into the little cubby hole by the gearshift. And there it was. One of my CDs. I reached for it, turning it over in my hands. It was severely scratched up, a spiderweb of silver lines crisscrossing the surface. I was surprised, and a little confused.

I asked the woman about it. “Oh, that,” she said with a smile. “My granddaughter listens to that all the time.”

I didn’t tell her it was my music. I didn’t have to. The truth was right there in my hands. Those scratches weren’t damage; they were evidence. Evidence of love. Evidence that a piece of my music, something I had created, had become so treasured by a child that she had physically worn it out with joy. I just nodded and handed it back, a quiet, secret warmth spreading through my chest.

The Outcast’s Endorsement

There was a woman in town named Romlyn. She was homeless, and her entourage consisted of four chickens, six ducks, and a dog. She was raspy in every way, rough around the edges, a little harsh to look at. But she was, without a doubt, one of the nicest people one could hope to meet. The first time she ever spoke to me, in our town of 500 people with hardly anyone around, she just grinned and said, “Hey, you wanna get stoned?”

I mostly kept to myself, but she was always happy to see me for some reason. I had one music CD on sale at the local bakery, and I mentioned to her that I didn’t think anyone would ever buy one. The next day, she went in and bought it. She listened to it, and a few days later she came over to my house. She didn’t so much knock as just appear, forcing her way in, grabbing the broom from the corner, and immediately starting to sweep my floor. I told her she didn’t have to do that, but I didn’t get angry. I knew she had some mental health issues, and sometimes the best thing you can do is just go with the flow.

Eventually, she plopped down in my armchair, satisfied with her work. I told her I’d just finished a new song and asked if she wanted to hear it. After it played, she was silent for a moment, then she threw her head back and yelled with pure, unfiltered joy, “Yanni ain’t got nothin’ on you!” It was the most honest and hilarious review I’ve ever received.

The Genuine Person

For about six months, I was staying in a small motel in a rural mountain town. It was the kind of place that saw it all—truckers, bikers, road-trippers—and the couple who ran it had a finely tuned sense for people. After a while, the husband started stopping by for chats. We’d get into these long, philosophical talks. One day he told me he’d noticed something different about me. A couple of weeks later, he came by and said they were reducing my weekly rate. His exact words were, “We know you’re a genuine person.”

A couple of months after that, they told me they were reducing my rate again. I asked why. The wife answered this time. “Because you’re not a hooligan,” she said with a chuckle. They’d found out I made music and had looked me up on Apple Music. A week later, she stopped me as I was walking by the office. “We bought all of your music,” she said. “All of it.” She paused for a moment, then looked me right in the eye and delivered the final verdict. “Now, that is real music.”

Coming from them, two people who saw the best and worst of humanity every single day, it was a profound validation of both the person I had fought to become and the art I had struggled to create. There were no words for that feeling.

The Audacity of a Goal

I was a regular at the library in that small mountain town. It was a quaint, quiet place with only a few regulars, and we all knew each other by name. One day, during a hushed conversation about music, a thought, an ambition so audacious it felt ridiculous, simply escaped my mouth. “I’m going to get into the Grammys!” I blurted out. There wasn’t a pause; the laughter was instant and universal. I laughed along with them, but inside, a quiet, stubborn seriousness took hold.

But how? The question was a brick wall. I had no formal music education. I didn’t perform or sing. I had no money, no connections, no industry insider to call. All I had was my computer and a relentless will. I came to a simple, stark realization: the only way to even have a chance was to create. To output music, again and again. So I set a schedule: one piece of music a month, maybe two. I would just keep creating, keep learning from my mistakes, and not stop.

For years, that’s what I did. After my second CD was distributed, I looked up the rules for joining The Recording Academy. It turned out, by their own metrics, I qualified. So, I applied. And I was accepted. Then, just as quickly, I was rejected. I got a call saying I didn’t meet the rules, and the reversed membership fee sent my bank account into a spin. But something felt wrong. I called the Academy back and asked for an explanation. The man on the phone told me I wasn’t in the AllMusic database.

“But I am,” I told him, staring at my own artist page on my computer screen. “I’m looking at it right now.” I gave him the details. There was a long pause. He found me. And just like that, my membership was reinstated. I don’t know why he didn’t look in the first place, but I was glad I had called, glad I hadn’t just accepted the rejection. For the next four years, I was an Associate Member of the Recording Academy. I competed four times, with one new CD each year. They revoked my membership in the fifth year without explanation, but it didn’t matter. The fact that I had done it, that I had competed in the Grammys four years in a row without ever leaving my home, armed with nothing but my computer and my own stubborn will… there are no words for that.

The Tally of One

It’s important to note that I am not popular. I never have been, and I never will be. And that was never the point of creating music. In my second year of making music, I had a long conversation with myself. I took a hard look at reality, at all the odds stacked against me: no music education, no merits, no money, no connections. Nothing. And I decided to change the goal. Instead of chasing the impossible dream of being popular, I asked myself a new question: What if I just touch one person out there in this big world? Just one.

That became my new ideation, my new measure of value. I found an online music streaming service that showed me all the countries where my music had been played. I started focusing on the number one. The single play. I began to run a handwritten tally, and for three months, I tracked that single listen in each country. At the end of those three months, my music had been played at least one time in 93 different countries.

Ninety-three. That was good enough for me. It meant I had created something, sent it out into the world, and somebody—93 somebodies in 93 different corners of the globe—had heard me. WOW.

A Final Thought on the Music

When I think about these music-related events in my life—the brutal honesty, the unexpected support, the impossible goals actually met—I do wonder. I wonder about life, about the strange and improbable paths we walk. It makes me wonder about a divine presence, maybe, a quiet hand that has guided me in ways I do not understand. This is simply how my life unfolded. It was not crafted or planned in any way. It just… happened. And in that happening, in those moments of connection and validation, I find a kind of faith, not in a grand design, but in the simple, powerful truth of a life lived.

Chapter 27

Embracing New Tools and Continued Creativity

Since then, my creative journey in music has continued to evolve, embracing new technologies and finding new ways to express myself. I have utilized Artificial Intelligence, a powerful and rapidly developing tool, to create a new pop album, experimenting with different sounds and production techniques. I have also produced over 230 videos on YouTube using A.I., combining visuals and music in new and innovative ways. This willingness to learn and utilize new tools, to adapt to technological advancements, demonstrates a continued adaptability and a prolific creative output, finding new avenues to bring my musical ideas and artistic vision to life in the digital age.

Beyond music and video, I’ve continued to engage in creative and community activities. I’ve participated in planting trees at our local dog park, walked my dog in the county fair parade, and even entered three A.l. film festivals. These activities, seemingly small but personally significant, are part of my ongoing effort to engage with the world around me and contribute in positive ways.

Chapter 28

A few seconds in the Public Light

Amidst the deeply personal journey of healing, navigating aging, and living a life of meaning, there have been unexpected and almost surreal moments in the public that stand in stark and powerful contrast to the hidden horrors and isolation of my past.

One such moment occurred when my name, Floyd Kelly, made it to primetime television, a place I never imagined I would be acknowledged. NBC’s popular singing competition show, “The Voice,” and KIA, the car manufacturer, held a contest where viewers could submit questions to the top 10 contestants. My question was chosen as the winner, selected from countless submissions, due to its simplicity and focus on the contestants’ vocal abilities: “What is the highest note and lowest note you can sing?” KIA, as part of the prize, turned my question into a commercial featuring the contestants. And on the Top 10 night, at the opening of the show, the screen went blank for 2 seconds. My name appeared on television, displayed to a national audience at primetime, followed by the commercial they had made featuring my question. The commercial even had the Twitter logo and my account name at the time, “@floydkellymusic”. It was a surreal and almost unbelievable moment, seeing my name, Floyd Kelly, displayed to millions of viewers across the country. The profound and undeniable thought struck me with full force: this surreal moment of national recognition, my name displayed to millions, was an impossible outcome made real only by a decision forged in the deepest despair of a cold field years ago – the choice to live.” These moments, big or small, serve as powerful reminders of the life that was forged from the brink of death and the unexpected paths it has taken.

Part 7

Reflection and The Enduring Spirit

Chapter 29

The Contrast and Lessons Learned

The contrast between the beginning of my life and moments like having my name appear on primetime television is truly amazing, a testament to the improbable trajectory of my journey. I was once a young person, utterly broken, severely malnourished, and near death, a child subjected to unimaginable cruelty, relentless neglect, and attempted murder. To go from that point of utter despair and vulnerability to building a life that includes professional achievement in a demanding field, creative output in music and video, and even a moment of national recognition on public television – the trajectory is profound, almost unbelievable. It is a powerful illustration of the depth of the darkness I escaped and the incredible light and life that was forged, painstakingly and with immense effort, from that escape. The sheer improbability of that journey, from the brink of death and a life of hidden horrors to moments in the public light and a life of contribution, is not lost on me; it is a source of constant reflection and gratitude.

Chapter 30

The Meaning of Survival and Compassion

Reflecting on my life, on the long and difficult road I have traveled, the question “How did I turn out this way?” often arises, both in my own mind and from others. People who hear fragments of my story, glimpses into the brutal reality of my childhood, sometimes react with shock, disbelief, and even suggest that I should be “mess up in the head,” that such severe trauma must inevitably lead to a life defined by negativity, dysfunction, or criminality. I have always maintained the mentality to at least try for some healing. I don’t claim to be a perfect person. And, it’s only by living through decades that I find that I am grounded and acknowledge my faults, my imperfections, and my failures. Like every other human being, my life trajectory defies those negative and limiting expectations. I have worked through the trauma, the pain, and the lingering effects of my past, year after year, through conscious effort, therapy, self-talk, gratitude lists, confiding in others and a commitment to healing.

I still bear mental and emotional scars, the invisible wounds of my childhood, along with a few physical ones, but they did not break my core capacity for decency, for kindness, for contribution, or for building a meaningful life.

Everyday I get a reminder. I can touch the area of my head where my blood vessel burst, the scar tissue from the wound. A reminder of what my mother did to me.

Twice a year I get more reminders … Mother’s Day and Father’s Day. These days used to make me angry in my young adult years, then the anger changed into disinterest. On these days I think about all the happy families across the land, people celebrating life and family. I try to focus on a positive image on these days and not replay the old tapes from my past.

At some point I realized that my overcoming trauma is not about being untouched by it, about emerging unscathed. It is about the ongoing work of navigating its impact on me, of processing the pain, and consciously choosing to build a life of value, purpose, and connection despite everything that happened.

I recall many times telling myself, even as a child enduring the abuse, that I will never be like my mother or father, that I would never inflict such pain on another living being, and I was and still am absolutely adamant about that resolution.

In a first-time conversation with a behavioral sciences professional, I told her that I pride myself in trying to be a nice and good person. The doctor was visibly moved when I said that. I guess she didn’t expect to hear someone articulate such a positive self-perception after just meeting me.

If you were to see me on the street today, you wouldn’t see someone defined by past trauma or my accomplishments; I’m just a normal, average dude. I don’t wear fancy clothes, own jewelry, a watch, or even a vehicle – a conscious choice for simplicity and a slower pace of life. There’s nothing outwardly special or remarkable about me in terms of material possessions or status symbols. If I stood next to someone extravagant, focused on material displays, I would likely be invisible, a nobody in that segment of society. I’m simply a small voice, so to speak, living my life quietly and intentionally. I have my faults, my weaknesses, and my failures, just like every other person; I also have my plusses, my strengths, and my accomplishments. This is simply my story, the raw and honest truth of my experiences and the life I have built.

Through the years, In quiet conversations with myself, I used to think I have never been loved in my life. Well, that is both true and false at the same time. One may think, a dichotomy. When I say I have never been loved, I’m speaking from a parent and child relationship. I sometimes wonder, “Does that mean I have never been loved?” Nope. I have found love through good and decent people along life’s path. Along the way, there have been people who came to my aid, that is love in action right there. It happened a number of times, so, I can’t say I have never been loved, just experienced in a different way.

I must confess that I have cursed God many times in my life. I guess, who wouldn’t? There has always been a battle of trusting God and not trusting because of all the pain and the suffering that I went through, constantly asking God, “Why me?”. That being said, as I went on in life, God has been and always is there – just not in a way I WANT God to be present. It’s a difficult topic to discuss. I do know, now, today, that there is a God, perhaps something/a being I am unable to comprehend. But I see crumbs through the trail of my life and see where divine intervention is the only plausible explanation for how some things happened.

Chapter 31

Finding Meaning and Connection in Solitude

Today, I live a quieter, more solitary life, alone with my dog in a small city, a deliberate choice that brings me a sense of peace and control. I intentionally don’t drive, structuring my life so that I can walk to do errands, go to the store, and handle everything else I need to do within my local area. This intentional lifestyle, centered around simplicity and accessibility, allows for a sense of peace, autonomy, and a connection to my immediate surroundings. Within this routine, I have found a gentle and consistent form of connection with the people in my local area, the individuals I encounter on a regular basis. The cashiers at the grocery store, the employees at the shops I frequent, people driving by who wave, my neighbors – they see me and my dog several times a week, a familiar presence in their daily lives. And, importantly, they are happy to see us, offering smiles and brief, friendly exchanges. These regular, positive interactions, these small moments of recognition and connection, provide a sense of belonging and community that is deeply meaningful to me, especially given my past struggles with isolation and distrust. My dog, with her open and loving personality, her wagging tail and friendly demeanor, undoubtedly helps facilitate these connections, acting as a bridge to human interaction, an extension of the kindness and warmth that I strive to embody and share with the world.

I live in solitude, some say isolation, there is not any TV here, no stereo, no music blaring, it’s very quiet, just me and my dog and I try to find things to do to be creative. I live in isolation with my dog, a chosen solitude, enjoying what I consider my sunset years, a period of reflection and peace. Today, after a lifetime of struggle and healing, I can honestly say that I like myself; I like who I am, the person I have become despite the circumstances of my upbringing. With all my low self-esteem, my perceived inadequacies, and my past failures, I have found who I am, a core self that endured, and I have been able to dedicate the time, the effort, and the resolve to improve upon myself, to heal, and to grow to the point that I now genuinely like who I am, a stark contrast to the internal hatred and rage I experienced for so many years as a result of what happened to me. The rage is gone, the intense anger has dissipated, and a sense of peace, a hard-won tranquility, is here, residing within me.

I also find deep meaning in helping those in need right in front of me. For me, it’s not about writing a check to a non-profit somewhere or being involved in heavy tasks; for me, the question is, who is literally in front of me that I see that I can help right now? This philosophy, born from my own experiences of profound need, guides my interactions and provides a sense of purpose in my daily life.

The question of how I broke the cycle often arises, and for me, the answer unfurled in the simple act of looking outward. My world narrowed to those literally around me: neighbors, acquaintances, people walking by. It was in shifting my gaze beyond ‘me,’ towards even the smallest act for another, that I began to understand how I found my way forward. It didn’t have to be a grand gesture; simply existing, smelling the roses, walking my dog and savoring the scenery — in these quiet moments, I discovered contentment, a truth I now experience daily.

Chapter 32

A Belief in Intervention

Looking back at the improbable turns of my life, at the journey from the depths of despair and near-death to the life I live today, a life of purpose, contribution, and quiet peace, it is impossible for me not to feel, not to believe, that there has been a divine intervention of sorts, a force greater than myself guiding and protecting me. That moment in the cold field, the voice urged me to “Get up!” When all seemed lost, I was ready to surrender to death, it felt like more than just an internal instinct for survival. It feels like a powerful, quiet yet powerful force intervening at the most critical juncture. The chain of events that followed, the unexpected opportunities that arose, the kindness of strangers who offered help, the improbable ability to overcome such immense obstacles and build a life of meaning and contribution – it all points, for me, to something beyond mere chance or coincidence. It is a personal belief, a deeply held conviction, a way of understanding the extraordinary nature of my survival and the improbable path that unfolded before me.

Chapter 33

My Truest Strength

My story, the narrative of my life, is undeniably one of profound suffering, of a childhood marked by unimaginable cruelty, relentless neglect, and deep betrayal. But it is also, and perhaps more importantly, a story of survival against impossible odds, of an enduring spirit, of strength forged in the fires of adversity. Despite everything that was done to try and break me, to crush my spirit, to steal my sense of self, my spirit remained, perhaps battered, scarred, and wounded, but ultimately intact. I have carried the weight of my past for decades, navigating the lingering shadows, the emotional scars, and the physical reminders of the trauma. But I have also, through conscious effort and a commitment to living, built a life filled with purpose, with contribution to others, with moments of genuine joy, and with meaningful connections, particularly with my beloved dogs, who offer unconditional love and companionship. My truth is valid, witnessed by one brave sister who chose to remember and speak out, and validated by the life I have lived, a life that defies the expectations of what someone with my history “should” become. The journey from the brink of death in a cold field to the man I am today, a man who has found peace, purpose, and self-acceptance, is the most powerful testament to the enduring strength of the human spirit, its capacity to survive, to heal, and to find light even after the deepest darkness.

Conclusion

The Life That Is

The life I live today, the quiet, purposeful, and meaningful existence I have built, is a direct consequence of the choice I made in that cold field years ago – the fundamental, life-altering choice to get up, to live, to not surrender. From the “horror house” of my childhood, a place of terror and despair, to the quiet, intentional, and purposeful life I now lead, the journey has been long and arduous, marked by both immense pain and extraordinary strength. I carry the past with me; the memories and the scars are a part of who I am, but it does not define the entirety of who I am; it is a chapter, albeit a significant one, in a larger story. The life that is, the life I have painstakingly built piece by piece, is a testament to the power of survival, to the incredible capacity for healing that exists within the human spirit, and to the enduring power of that spirit to find light, to create meaning, and to persevere even after experiencing the deepest and most profound darkness imaginable.

If I had not gotten up on that cold night, if I had succumbed to the pain and the cold, my name would have never appeared on TV screens with my name “Floyd Kelly” displayed on prime time television. That moment, that unexpected recognition, simply would not have happened; it is a direct result of the choice I made to live.

Afterthoughts

A Personal Reflection

My journey within these pages, as in life, is never truly over. The path continues, ever unfolding, with new lessons and new horizons.

I offer my sincerest apology if the words I chose to share within this memoir made you feel sad or uncomfortable. My intention was never to distress, but to simply convey my truth. I, just like any other person, have a grand story to tell, and this is my story, as real as I can tell you in words.

My hope, as you close these pages, is that somewhere out there in this big world, you will see something—even something small—that connects with you. Perhaps it’s a glimmer of understanding, a spark of recognition, or a surge of hope for a better future, especially if you are in need of help. I realize that even though my story may be hard to take, there are other people in the world in much worse conditions than I experienced. It breaks my heart to know that. I often wonder if, by sharing my own journey, my words might echo in the minds of those who witness similar suffering, offering a whisper of courage to intervene, to speak up, to become the voice that helps someone survive, just as I was.

World Peace

by Floyd Kelly​

When I wrote this song, my mind envisioned someone far away, a person whose decisions could impact countless lives—perhaps a leader, alone in the night, contemplating how to better the world, how to end conflict. This song is for that individual, a plea for peace, a reflection of the hope I carry.

This song is part of my personal journey, a continuation of the themes woven throughout this memoir. I am proud to share it as an expression of the peace I’ve found and the peace I hope for the world.

World Peace

In the mirror’s gaze, we see our flaws
A longing heart, in silent pause
We yearn to mend, to heal the scars
Embrace the light, beneath the stars

Searching for redemption in the night
A journey of healing, in the moon’s soft light
We, in shadows, seek to find
The path to goodness, in our mind

Through the twists of fate, we’ve lost our way
But hope still flickers, in the grey
We’ll rise above, the mistakes we’ve made
And find the strength, to not evade

Searching for redemption in the night
A journey of healing, in the moon’s soft light
We, in shadows, seek to find
The path to goodness, in our mind

With every step, we’ll strive to be
The people we’re meant, to truly see
In kindness found, we’ll make our stand
And reach out for, a helping hand

Searching for redemption in the night
A journey of healing, in the moon’s soft light
We, in shadows, seek to find
The path to goodness, in our mind

In the depths of our soul, we confront our fears
Release the burden, that’s weighed us down for years
With forgiveness and grace, we’ll set ourselves free
And embrace the love, that’s always meant to be

Searching for redemption in the night
A journey of healing, in the moon’s soft light
We, in shadows, seek to find
The path to goodness, in our mind

In the depths of our soul, we confront our fears
Release the burden, that’s weighed us down for years
With forgiveness and grace, we’ll set ourselves free
And embrace the love, that’s always meant to be

Searching for redemption in the night
A journey of healing, in the moon’s soft light
We, in shadows, seek to find
The path to goodness, in our mind

Searching for redemption in the night
A journey of healing, in the moon’s soft light
We, in shadows, seek to find
The path to goodness, in our mind.