Kassiquan

Traumatic Memories

Growing up, I got a lot of beatings from my Dad; they hurt, the back of my legs had welts and bled and it was painful to sit on the wooden chairs in elementary school.  I cannot remember when I got my first beating from Dad and for what but I can sure remember my first and only beating from Mom, one of my earliest memories.

I hear some people say they can remember things as far back to at least two years old.  It's rare to hear someone say they can remember when they were a year old.  I cannot remember anything prior to the age of three.  There is one memory that I can recall from the age of three; so vivid, so clear that I can retell this memory in the order in which it happened.  I know I was three because my mother told me how old I was because she was in the very memory and I will never forgotten what happened... nor will my behind... ouch, ouch, and ouch!

It was a Saturday morning, very early because my Mom and Dad were still asleep.  My brother and I shared a bedroom right next to Mom’s and Dad’s bedroom that had a door way between us which hung a curtain where a door should have been.  At the opposite end of our bedroom was a door leading to the hallway and the top of the stairs.  The bathroom was to the left with a step leading into the bathroom and another leading to where the tub sat on the left.  A door leading to the roof was at the right where Mom hung the wash.  The toilet was in the front corner of the tub and the sink at the opposite corner and a small window was in the middle.  I went to pee and saw on top of the tank of the toilet a pack of cigarettes, Winston’s and a book of matches.  My Dad smoked Winston cigarettes at the time before switching to Newport.  I took the matches to bed with me and started striking the matches, slowly, one at a time while my brother who was about a year and a half would point with glee at the lit match and say, “Light, light!”  

My brother was in his crib opposite my bed; the doorway with a curtain was between us.  I would slowly strike each match and watch my brother point to the lit match and listen to him say, “Light, light” and I would just drop the match in front of me.  This kept going for about five minutes or so until I hear the bed make noise.  Mom and Dad slept on an old iron bed on a mattress on top of a box spring which was just that, a box of springs with no covering like the box springs we have today.  My mother came through the curtain asking what was going on.  As my brother kept pointing and saying, “Light” I got up from the bed and said, “I gotta pooh.”  My mother could smell the smoking matches and I heard her yell my name, come to the bathroom, pooh or no pooh and grabbed me by the arm and with a look of fear on her face gave me a whupping that was so painful that I cried for the longest, sitting at the corner of my bed against the wall.  Child Protective Services would have a field day with this one; yes indeed!  When my Mom finished lashing out at me, she pointed to the mattress and I saw a hole still letting off smoke.  I did not understand then but it was just a hole.  To my mother it was not; it was a memory that came back to haunt her.

My Mom was seven years old when their house burned down.  It started out as a chimney fire which was outside my Mom’s and my Aunt’s bedroom.  Early that morning my Grandmother yelled for everyone get out of the house.  My Grandmother grabbed the parakeet cage and my Grandfather’s guitar.  My Mom, frozen in fear could not run out of the bedroom to pass the burning chimney which now was lighting the rest of the room.  My Grandmother went back in the house to get my Mom.  Neighbors came to help as all waited for the fire company but it was too late, the house was gone.  My Mom carried this traumatic experience with her and I remember growing up with her being sensitive to smelling smoke.  What I did that Saturday was “trigger” that traumatic memory and out of fear saw I could have started another fire and add to her trauma.  I got the whupping; not because of what I did or almost did that Saturday but for bringing back one of Mom’s memories, her own traumatic childhood experience.  Mom and I have talked about this memory; including others of her abusive past that formed links between us.  Mom is grateful that I am a Social Worker and have experience working with victim survivors who have experienced trauma in their lives.  I understand.  So does my Mom.

70% of adults in the United States have experienced some type of traumatic event at least once in their lives.  This equates to approximately 223.4 million people.  Up to 20% of these people go on to develop Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD).  As of today, that equates to approximately 44.7 million people who were or are struggling with PTSD.  An estimated 8% of Americans – 24.4 million people have PTSD at any given time.  That is equal to the total population of Texas.  An estimated one out of every nine women develops PTSD, making them about twice as likely as men (www.ptsdunited.org/).  If you struggle with reliving traumatic experiences, have flashbacks, have trouble sleeping or have nightmares of the event, avoid people or places that remind you of the experience and are anxious and have trouble eating I encourage you to talk to your doctor who best knows how to assist.