The Perfect Storm

The Weight of Childhood Trauma

It was 1974. The year that marked the end of the Vietnam War, brought us Elton John’s "Bennie and the Jets," and gifted us "The Godfather Part II." I was nine years old, a time filled with carefree days of goofing off in class, riding bikes, and staying up late on summer nights. The world felt like an endless horizon of hope, where I could look up at a boundless sky and dream of a wide-open future. That’s how it should be for a nine-year-old, right? But life isn’t always that simple. Sometimes, the world feels like the ocean's waves—powerful and overwhelming.

One night, I woke up with tears in my eyes after a dream where my grandmother had died. We all called her “Mom,” even the grandchildren. I got out of bed, standing in the hallway, crying. My mother came out of her room, concerned, and consoled me in a way only a mother can. I recounted the dream, my voice trembling.

“I walked into her house and went through the dining room. When I got to the kitchen, I found ‘Mom’ slumped over the bathroom sink.” My mother wrapped me in a hug. “’Mom’ is going to live for a long time. You don’t need to worry.” She walked me back to bed, and that was that.

The Sudden Loss

Three days later, my cousin and I were exploring the neighborhood, looking for ways to fill our time. We found ourselves bounding up the steps of Mom’s porch. I wanted to go inside to say hi, so I opened the front door while my cousin stayed put. Usually, when you walk through Mom’s home, you take a familiar route. But that day, I walked through the dining room and into the kitchen. Suddenly, I froze. There was my grandmother, slumped over the sink. The shock still echoes in my heart today. I loved Mom so much. She was my safest place as a boy.

In a panic, I sprinted to the porch, grabbed my cousin, and shouted at Mom, trying to wake her up. She didn’t respond. I was terrified. My cousin suggested I fix Mom’s dress because her slip was showing. I was so scared.

The Impact of Change

The details of that moment seem surreal. As if losing a grandparent wasn’t enough, the world threw me another curveball. I changed schools a week later and enrolled in a Catholic school. Anyone who’s had to leave their neighborhood friends behind knows how hard that can be. The only person I knew at St. Francis was my cousin Lisa. At that age, being tossed into a new school felt like being lost in a barren desert.

Everything I’d known—friends, family, home—felt swept away in a gust of wind. How does a young kid even talk about that? How do you share your feelings when you’re unsure of what you feel? Weren’t the adults going through this too? Surely, they didn’t have time to hear the perspective of a nine-year-old. Those weeks felt like a bottle floating in the ocean, taking on water, not knowing which way to go.

The Struggle for Understanding

As the pages turned in that chapter of my life, my grades plummeted. I had once brought home straight-A report cards. School had been a joy, a place where I thrived. But now, I felt like a snail, moving slowly through life, not making any real progress. The school staff even worried I might have a disability and decided to test me. I was labeled. Did anyone stop to consider, “Yeah, he has a disability… It's called ‘a death in the family, a broken marriage, and a strange new school environment’”? Thankfully, that week ended with testing, and new arrangements were made to tutor me.

My teacher introduced a man to my mother and me, someone she thought could be a big brother and mentor. He arrived at our house for our first meeting, and it turned out my mother knew him. She’d grown up with “Billy” a few blocks from Mom’s house. I sat in our living room, across from Billy and my mom, trying to decide if I liked him. He seemed nice enough and was genuinely interested in my life, which felt refreshing. That evening, we headed to the arcade, where he handed me a stack of quarters. “Play as long as you want,” he said.

The Illusion of Safety

A ‘70s kid’s dream fulfilled. I decided I liked Billy, and for a moment, all seemed well in the world. He took me home that night and proposed the idea of spending the night at his place. To my excitement, my mom said yes.

A few weeks later, Billy picked me up again, and we drove out to a farm where he was house-sitting. I remember that evening vividly: fresh clothes packed, a bit embarrassed about the pajamas Mom picked out, but still excited. We ended up at the mall, where he handed me more quarters for the arcade. It felt like Christmas. We spent money, grabbed food, and headed back to the farm. The place was huge, and the accommodations were nicer than anything I’d known. Billy turned on the biggest TV I’d ever seen, and I settled in, watching a show while he flipped through a magazine.

Eventually, the magazine was shut, the TV turned off, and it was time for bed. I stood in the bathroom, annoyed at my choice of pajamas, then climbed into the biggest bed I’d ever seen. Sleep came quickly, and the visions of school, chores, and arcades faded.

A Disturbing Awakening

I woke up to Billy hugging me. Apparently, he’d been doing that while I was still asleep. Questions flooded my mind. This felt very weird. My mom and dad had never held me while I slept, as far as I could remember. I didn’t want him to do this. He smelled bad, and I was starting to dislike him. Wait, I had fun with him, right?

He had shown interest in me, so it must be okay. But as we lay there, I grew more uncomfortable. I felt stunned, scared, and paralyzed, staring at the wall. I began noticing things about my body that felt wrong. Time slowed down, and the night felt endless. The next thing I remember was waking up the following day, feeling dirty and completely different about myself. No words can describe that feeling.

The Aftermath of Trauma

That morning was awkward. What do you say in a moment like that? Did it really happen? With no answers, I stood there, lost. Before I knew it, I was in the car with Billy, driving through remote country roads. He pulled out a cigarette and smoked it next to me. The guy smoked like a freight train. Billy asked a lot of questions—maybe to get me talking or just to relax me. It was hard to tell. All I knew was that it was awkward, and I wanted to be home.

Back at home, Billy and my mom chatted in the living room. “Did you have fun?” she asked. I didn’t respond much. Billy pulled me into a hug, then left. I ran up to my room.

Visits from Billy became regular, and I stayed over at his place once a month or every six weeks. It wasn’t long before I was the one flipping through those magazines he allowed. He also let me smoke. He’d hand me cigarettes as we drove out to the country. Meanwhile, my grades continued to drop, and teachers probed into what was wrong with me, causing me to withdraw even further.

A New Family Dynamic

I did see my dad occasionally. My sisters and I would hang out at his apartment some weekends, which was nice. But loneliness became my closest friend. Not the best situation for a boy in fifth grade. That school year was much different from the one before. I wish I could say I became an ace pupil again, grew in confidence, and developed a strong sense of direction. But that didn’t happen. I was held back to repeat fifth grade, facing new friends and more probing into what was wrong with me. I started finding ways to get in trouble, and my grades hovered around C minus and below. Alcohol and girls became new hobbies as I entered sixth grade, and visits from Billy continued, though less frequently.

At some point, my dad decided to move to California. My mom married another man who had five kids. They all moved into our house, which made my loneliness easier to bear. My older step-siblings introduced me to new things, great music, and the party scene—even in sixth grade. Weekends were filled with alcohol, parties, and marijuana. My friends offered me pills that made me laugh, and I had no idea what we were taking. My world became a perfect storm, growing stronger and charting a course of devastating destruction. I simply didn’t care.

The Storm Within

The storm continued to rage, driving me toward mishaps, near-death experiences, and unbridled freedom. I walked the streets of the highlands on school nights with friends, avoiding vulnerability at all costs. The only emotion you’d see from me was anger. Instead of being a young man gazing hopefully at the horizon, I was a kid caught in the storm, a floating bottle in the ocean with a heart full of hate.

I wish I could tell you rescue arrived in a matter of moments, but it didn’t. No, my rescue didn’t come for another seven long years. If you have stories like this from your past that have been silenced for years, and you need a safe space to share at your own pace, I would be honored to listen.

I invite you to continue my story in "The Storm Settles In".

Peace, friend.

Rob