This is the story of my early childhood
I wrote this article many years ago, not looking for sympathy but knowing there were many others in this world who had a much harder life than I and I wanted them to know that hardships early in life were not an end but a beginning.
Throughout my life I have been aware that I exhibit symptoms of ADHD although I believed I was not a candidate for that malady. However, something was clearly up. I just could not put my finger on it. Recently I have come to realize what I have been combating all my life and I am sharing it here, not because I am looking for any sympathy but because I believe it is good for us human beings to be more open and honest about our lives.
Many people, I feel, look around and say, “why is everybody's life perfect except mine!” We are all living a life that is perfect for us. I like the saying of the Zen Buddhist monk “Life is like a painting – with each moment of our life we should make the best brush stroke we are capable of.”
I was born in a small town, tucked in the extreme southeast corner of Kansas to two extraordinarily beautiful people. Two sisters preceded me by three and five years. I ran across my father's yearbook when I was about 16 and was shocked to see every white space filled with girls asking him for a date. He looked like Kirk Douglas' little brother, only better looking, and danced like Fred Astaire. When I was about four years old my mother grew weary, so I am told, of him bringing women to our home for entertainment so she kicked him out. He worked for the railroad so a move out of town was easy for him, he moved to Kansas City where there were a lot of bars with dancing. In short order my mother had a boyfriend, and he liked the girls OK but he did not like me so I was shipped off to live with my father in Kansas City. We lived in a one-bedroom apartment in an old house, owned by an elderly couple whose children had flown the coop years ago. This was the “ultimate” one bedroom apartment as it was just that; a single bedroom. We shared a single bath with two other trainmen who rented the other two bedrooms upstairs. I saw my father twice a day; Once when the phone rang at six in the morning which was the “caller” calling to make sure all trainmen got to work on time, and when he came home in the evening, showered, shaved, and headed out to the dance halls. He made a deal with the old couple to look after me and feed me. They never spoke to me and every evening for dinner I would be served a chicken pot pie. I will not eat a chicken pot pie to this day! This house was fairly isolated on top of a hill so there were no neighbors. I entertained myself during the day by playing in the back yard. My favorite toy was an old, discarded dustpan. I would collect dirt in it and shake it at varying frequencies and watch how the dirt would separate according to size. I was happy! This was my life and I accepted it wholly. I loved my father and although I did not see him very often, I was happy when I did.
When the phone woke me in the morning, I would stay awake until my father said goodbye and gave me a kiss. One morning I fell asleep briefly and when I re-awakened my father was nowhere to be found. I was beyond devastated, my little heart was broken, how could my father have left without giving me a kiss? I ran down the stairs crying and burst out the door and down the steps to the sidewalk. I did not know which way to go but chose left, running as fast as I could, crying and yelling for my father. I put up with everything like a good soldier, but this was more than I could bear. Then, someone picked me up from behind. It was my dad, he had not left for work yet, I simply could not locate him. He took me back up to our bedroom, gave me a kiss, told me goodbye and I was good.
Then one day my father decided he would give me a treat, so he took me out to the bars with him that evening. I had a great time, standing up in the booth, drinking “green rivers” and all the ladies were talking with me. Then, the scene changed. Apparently, my father had danced with the wrong woman because the next thing I knew we were all in the alley, I knew there was a problem, but I wasn't sure what it was. Then a man commenced to beat my dad bloody while the ten or so guys standing around cheered him on. I ran desperately from one set of kneecaps to the other begging someone to stop the fight, but they wanted no part of stopping it they wanted more blood. The next thing I remember, my father and I were in the bathroom, and I was helping him clean the blood from his face. I kept asking him “Are you all right dad? Are you all right?” To which he replied “Yes.” It always bothered me that I did not remember the part between where my dad was getting beaten and the bathroom.
PTSD is a well-known syndrome these days, thanks to all of the wars America promulgates, but it was not heard of when I was four years old.
I have been hypnotizing people since I was sixteen years old (60 years ago) and am a hypnotherapist. I recently took a class in the treatment of PTSD, I had a good idea what to expect and a general idea of the mode of treatment but knew none of the specifics. Mental health professionals have compiled, over the years a list of eight or more (depending on how you count and who you listen to) symptoms a person must be in possession of before the diagnosis of PTSD can be bestowed on one.
I was shocked to learn that since the incident with my father, I have been in full possession of nearly every symptom of PTSD for most of my life. I have grown up a member in good standing of the PTSD club of America and it has been fascinating. In my 20s I sought the help of a psychiatrist for a while but that went nowhere. I had been married several times, unable to maintain a relationship. Some of the “symptoms” I carried through my life, that I thought were “just the way I was” included:
Despite these “disabilities,” throughout most of my life I have been in pursuit of enlightenment, although I was not certain what it was. I found myself attracted to Zen Buddhism as I felt it held the most promise. Then one weekend I was headed into my local bookstore in search of books on enlightenment and as I walked through the door, instead of going to my usual place, philosophy, I walked to the wrong part of the store and as I approached one shelf, my arm came up and my hand selected a book! All, I might add, without my conscious consent! Pulling the book out I read the cover. It was a book by Herbert Puryear, I think it was “The Edgar Cayce Primer.” I took one look at it and said to myself, “I know about this fellow, he is a KOOK! I then replaced the book and proceeded to the “intelligent” persons guide to enlightenment. As I crouched down to examine the books on the bottom shelf I suddenly found myself standing and walking back to the same place as before. Again, my hand raised and selected a book, without my consent or cooperation. As my hand pulled a book out again, I looked at and to my horror it was the same darned book! I replaced it with more force this time, for emphasis and went back to my regular spot. I was not there for five minutes when AGAIN I found myself walking back to the Edgar Cayce book and for the third time my hand pulled Herbert's book from the shelf! OK! OK! I said to whoever was listening, I'll read your darned book!
I took the book home, read it, and have never looked back. From Edgar I learned a “recipe” for enlightenment: Meditation, prayer, service and keeping a dream journal. I also discovered ASFG groups and promptly joined the nearest one. The beginning of my immersion in the Edgar Cayce material was the beginning of the end of my PTSD disorder(s). It has been a long road.
Armed with my own private road map I began in earnest! I discovered the ARE library and ordered a mountain of books to read. My condo was a treasure trove of books lying open all over the place. I could not read them fast enough. Then, some interesting things happened. My boss quit to start his own company and he hired me as his first engineer. Thus, I was working in an office by myself writing software and designing hardware, which are both very meditative endeavors and the office was only a half mile from my condo. Simultaneously I began a “non deliberate” withdrawal from society. I would still have a date from time to time but gone was the weekly outing. I primarily stayed home and read. I became a monk in the middle of the beltway in Northern Virginia! My life consisted of:
Waking, filling out my dream journal
Twenty minutes of prayer
Twenty minutes of meditation
Light breakfast
Off to work
Light lunch then run or swim for 20 minutes
Back to work and home at 5:30
I would read until around 9:00 then take a hot bath, followed by
Twenty minutes of yoga
Twenty minutes of prayer
Twenty minutes of meditation
Prepare my dream journal and off to dream land.
After becoming a “Monk in the city” my dreams began to change dramatically; I began to have precognitive dreams and astral projection dreams. I would have dreams helping me at work, I would see software bugs in my dreams, I would be given clues to my hardware problems. I had dreams that seemed to be taking place in Greece, with huge marble columns, desks, and benches where we would be seated as Edgar lectured. I had dreams of being with Jesus in a wheat field in Kansas when Jesus laid his hand on my head, the vibrations throughout my body were so intense I woke up! I was on a spiritual fast track experiencing new things every week. Then after almost precisely a year, upon returning from the bookstore, I was walking across the common ground of the condo when I felt an intense radiance coming from the sky. All I could do was to stop and raise my hands to soak up as much of the radiance as I could. I stood there for who knows how long but I recall having the thought “Gee if anybody sees me standing here with my hands up in the air they will think I am crazy.” With that thought the radiance ceased and I went into my condo. Over the next two or three weeks I realized that I was being communicated to during that session but it was all non-verbal, it soaked in to my consciousness slowly over the weeks.
I am delighted to relate that through the last 25 years of meditation and spiritual work I am (almost) normal. One must accept the fact that our observations of ourselves are biased and therefore the crazy person never fully realizes their particular level of lunacy. I would not change one second of my life because I have learned a great deal and to change any of it would erase my learning experience. I never, for one second during my life felt sorry for myself. I faced what was in front of me squarely and overcame, even when I was four years old, because I had no one to rely on except myself. My experience has helped me to become more aware and sympathetic of the hardships of others.
My experience highlights the need, in the world, for treating our children, as well as the adults who are victims of war and abuse. Children in our country experience atrocities far worse than mine, on a daily basis. Who treats them? Who finds them and offers them a hand up? It has been shown clearly that rape results in PTSD that is oftentimes worse than that experienced by our soldiers in combat. What are we doing for them?
Many people, I feel, look around and say, “why is everybody's life perfect except mine!” We are all living a life that is perfect for us. I like the saying of the Zen Buddhist monk “Life is like a painting – with each moment of our life we should make the best brush stroke we are capable of.”
I was born in a small town, tucked in the extreme southeast corner of Kansas to two extraordinarily beautiful people. Two sisters preceded me by three and five years. I ran across my father's yearbook when I was about 16 and was shocked to see every white space filled with girls asking him for a date. He looked like Kirk Douglas' little brother, only better looking, and danced like Fred Astaire. When I was about four years old my mother grew weary, so I am told, of him bringing women to our home for entertainment so she kicked him out. He worked for the railroad so a move out of town was easy for him, he moved to Kansas City where there were a lot of bars with dancing. In short order my mother had a boyfriend, and he liked the girls OK but he did not like me so I was shipped off to live with my father in Kansas City. We lived in a one-bedroom apartment in an old house, owned by an elderly couple whose children had flown the coop years ago. This was the “ultimate” one bedroom apartment as it was just that; a single bedroom. We shared a single bath with two other trainmen who rented the other two bedrooms upstairs. I saw my father twice a day; Once when the phone rang at six in the morning which was the “caller” calling to make sure all trainmen got to work on time, and when he came home in the evening, showered, shaved, and headed out to the dance halls. He made a deal with the old couple to look after me and feed me. They never spoke to me and every evening for dinner I would be served a chicken pot pie. I will not eat a chicken pot pie to this day! This house was fairly isolated on top of a hill so there were no neighbors. I entertained myself during the day by playing in the back yard. My favorite toy was an old, discarded dustpan. I would collect dirt in it and shake it at varying frequencies and watch how the dirt would separate according to size. I was happy! This was my life and I accepted it wholly. I loved my father and although I did not see him very often, I was happy when I did.
When the phone woke me in the morning, I would stay awake until my father said goodbye and gave me a kiss. One morning I fell asleep briefly and when I re-awakened my father was nowhere to be found. I was beyond devastated, my little heart was broken, how could my father have left without giving me a kiss? I ran down the stairs crying and burst out the door and down the steps to the sidewalk. I did not know which way to go but chose left, running as fast as I could, crying and yelling for my father. I put up with everything like a good soldier, but this was more than I could bear. Then, someone picked me up from behind. It was my dad, he had not left for work yet, I simply could not locate him. He took me back up to our bedroom, gave me a kiss, told me goodbye and I was good.
Then one day my father decided he would give me a treat, so he took me out to the bars with him that evening. I had a great time, standing up in the booth, drinking “green rivers” and all the ladies were talking with me. Then, the scene changed. Apparently, my father had danced with the wrong woman because the next thing I knew we were all in the alley, I knew there was a problem, but I wasn't sure what it was. Then a man commenced to beat my dad bloody while the ten or so guys standing around cheered him on. I ran desperately from one set of kneecaps to the other begging someone to stop the fight, but they wanted no part of stopping it they wanted more blood. The next thing I remember, my father and I were in the bathroom, and I was helping him clean the blood from his face. I kept asking him “Are you all right dad? Are you all right?” To which he replied “Yes.” It always bothered me that I did not remember the part between where my dad was getting beaten and the bathroom.
PTSD is a well-known syndrome these days, thanks to all of the wars America promulgates, but it was not heard of when I was four years old.
I have been hypnotizing people since I was sixteen years old (60 years ago) and am a hypnotherapist. I recently took a class in the treatment of PTSD, I had a good idea what to expect and a general idea of the mode of treatment but knew none of the specifics. Mental health professionals have compiled, over the years a list of eight or more (depending on how you count and who you listen to) symptoms a person must be in possession of before the diagnosis of PTSD can be bestowed on one.
I was shocked to learn that since the incident with my father, I have been in full possession of nearly every symptom of PTSD for most of my life. I have grown up a member in good standing of the PTSD club of America and it has been fascinating. In my 20s I sought the help of a psychiatrist for a while but that went nowhere. I had been married several times, unable to maintain a relationship. Some of the “symptoms” I carried through my life, that I thought were “just the way I was” included:
- Fear – I never knew when someone was going to show up out of nowhere and beat me up. I never in my life backed away from a conflict and was a very good wrestler all my life. At 120 pounds soaking wet in high school, I could beat most of the larger kids on the mat. I LOVED wrestling. All of my wrestling and all of my fights never quieted the fear. The first forty years of my life I continually devised means and methods of overcoming my constant companion, fear.
- Inability to concentrate – I graduated with a degree in biology with a three-point seven grade point average which was quite good for someone who could not read more than ten lines of any book without falling asleep. I paid attention in class and took excellent notes.
- Could not walk into a bar without experiencing considerable fear.
- If I went to a movie, I would experience significant fear. It was close enough to a bar that my subconscious did not differentiate.
- Self-blame. I blamed myself for not stopping the fight and still do.
- Inability to feel empathy.
Despite these “disabilities,” throughout most of my life I have been in pursuit of enlightenment, although I was not certain what it was. I found myself attracted to Zen Buddhism as I felt it held the most promise. Then one weekend I was headed into my local bookstore in search of books on enlightenment and as I walked through the door, instead of going to my usual place, philosophy, I walked to the wrong part of the store and as I approached one shelf, my arm came up and my hand selected a book! All, I might add, without my conscious consent! Pulling the book out I read the cover. It was a book by Herbert Puryear, I think it was “The Edgar Cayce Primer.” I took one look at it and said to myself, “I know about this fellow, he is a KOOK! I then replaced the book and proceeded to the “intelligent” persons guide to enlightenment. As I crouched down to examine the books on the bottom shelf I suddenly found myself standing and walking back to the same place as before. Again, my hand raised and selected a book, without my consent or cooperation. As my hand pulled a book out again, I looked at and to my horror it was the same darned book! I replaced it with more force this time, for emphasis and went back to my regular spot. I was not there for five minutes when AGAIN I found myself walking back to the Edgar Cayce book and for the third time my hand pulled Herbert's book from the shelf! OK! OK! I said to whoever was listening, I'll read your darned book!
I took the book home, read it, and have never looked back. From Edgar I learned a “recipe” for enlightenment: Meditation, prayer, service and keeping a dream journal. I also discovered ASFG groups and promptly joined the nearest one. The beginning of my immersion in the Edgar Cayce material was the beginning of the end of my PTSD disorder(s). It has been a long road.
Armed with my own private road map I began in earnest! I discovered the ARE library and ordered a mountain of books to read. My condo was a treasure trove of books lying open all over the place. I could not read them fast enough. Then, some interesting things happened. My boss quit to start his own company and he hired me as his first engineer. Thus, I was working in an office by myself writing software and designing hardware, which are both very meditative endeavors and the office was only a half mile from my condo. Simultaneously I began a “non deliberate” withdrawal from society. I would still have a date from time to time but gone was the weekly outing. I primarily stayed home and read. I became a monk in the middle of the beltway in Northern Virginia! My life consisted of:
Waking, filling out my dream journal
Twenty minutes of prayer
Twenty minutes of meditation
Light breakfast
Off to work
Light lunch then run or swim for 20 minutes
Back to work and home at 5:30
I would read until around 9:00 then take a hot bath, followed by
Twenty minutes of yoga
Twenty minutes of prayer
Twenty minutes of meditation
Prepare my dream journal and off to dream land.
After becoming a “Monk in the city” my dreams began to change dramatically; I began to have precognitive dreams and astral projection dreams. I would have dreams helping me at work, I would see software bugs in my dreams, I would be given clues to my hardware problems. I had dreams that seemed to be taking place in Greece, with huge marble columns, desks, and benches where we would be seated as Edgar lectured. I had dreams of being with Jesus in a wheat field in Kansas when Jesus laid his hand on my head, the vibrations throughout my body were so intense I woke up! I was on a spiritual fast track experiencing new things every week. Then after almost precisely a year, upon returning from the bookstore, I was walking across the common ground of the condo when I felt an intense radiance coming from the sky. All I could do was to stop and raise my hands to soak up as much of the radiance as I could. I stood there for who knows how long but I recall having the thought “Gee if anybody sees me standing here with my hands up in the air they will think I am crazy.” With that thought the radiance ceased and I went into my condo. Over the next two or three weeks I realized that I was being communicated to during that session but it was all non-verbal, it soaked in to my consciousness slowly over the weeks.
I am delighted to relate that through the last 25 years of meditation and spiritual work I am (almost) normal. One must accept the fact that our observations of ourselves are biased and therefore the crazy person never fully realizes their particular level of lunacy. I would not change one second of my life because I have learned a great deal and to change any of it would erase my learning experience. I never, for one second during my life felt sorry for myself. I faced what was in front of me squarely and overcame, even when I was four years old, because I had no one to rely on except myself. My experience has helped me to become more aware and sympathetic of the hardships of others.
My experience highlights the need, in the world, for treating our children, as well as the adults who are victims of war and abuse. Children in our country experience atrocities far worse than mine, on a daily basis. Who treats them? Who finds them and offers them a hand up? It has been shown clearly that rape results in PTSD that is oftentimes worse than that experienced by our soldiers in combat. What are we doing for them?