The Storm Settled In

The storm settled in.  In the Midwest, people often sit on porches to watch thunderstorms or tornadoes, holding coffee or sweet tea. We're both fascinated and afraid of storms, drawn to their awe but sometimes forgetting the danger. 

  That stormy feeling covered me as a pre-teen, wandering Louisville's Highlands streets at night. I spent nights aimlessly, seeking distraction from home. Whoever wandered with me was welcome if it meant escaping reality, smoking, listening to a boom box, talking about girls, and avoiding my realities.

  Mom worked the second shift, and my stepdad wasn’t pleasant.  Their house felt more like a busy train station, with chaos and constant coming and going.  Nothing was stable or settled. Inside, I felt the storm was also inside me, but I kept my feelings to myself—vulnerability was never safe, and anger was all I knew. 

  It would be one thing if the storm only affected me, but that’s not how trauma works. My two little sisters were caught in their storm—our storm. I was so caught up in my own chaos that I didn't realize the storm was hitting them, too. The storm raged on, and even if I looked up to find hope, I wouldn’t know what I was seeing.

  One night in junior high, I woke to yelling outside my bedroom; my mom and stepdad were fighting out of control. It was normal not to care, but I did—angry and scared for my mom.

  I felt panic after hearing my sisters crying. Fueled by rage, I grabbed mom’s keys, took my sleepy sisters, and left. We headed to Krispy Kreme on Bardstown Road, the only place open for us, to comfort my sisters. The lady gave us three donuts and milk—kindness in a dark storm. 

  After a few hours, realizing we had nowhere else to go, we decided to go home. Maybe things had calmed, and it was time for school. When we returned, Mom looked disheveled but helped the girls into uniforms while I dressed. None of us spoke. Then we headed out for our usual walk to school. 

  This incident was common. I remember one Friday night at a friend’s house, with alcohol and LSD. Seven of us joked and felt the effects when mom’s car arrived. I saw her with a black eye; I was furious. She said she was going to a friend's, but I can't recall her words clearly. She left, and I stood there, angry, ready to get my gun and end this. I muttered, "I am sick of this S.O.B. I would put an end to this." Luckily, my friends noticed and stepped in. They held me back and talked me down while my high increased, numbing my anger. 

  I called my dad that week, even though he had moved to California, hoping for help. I remember raising my voice and saying, “He is hitting on mom.” The silence on the line showed help wasn’t coming. I think Dad felt helpless, knowing Mom was married and he was three thousand miles away. I didn’t know what to do now.

  As the days went on, my grades were barely hanging on, and worries about my learning faded away. I still partied, chased girls, annoyed teachers, and often ended up in the principal’s office. I just wandered, searching in the dark. I honestly didn’t care, and I didn’t care that I didn’t care. The storm grew darker with stronger winds, and this way of living became my norm. 

  Sometimes I called Billy amid drifting, needing something, and feeling it was easiest. I knew what it meant after the TV went off, and then the bedroom, but I needed attention. Even if I felt bad later, I thought my coping methods would silence it. Billy took me to a truck lot to check a semi he considered buying, planning to go on the road in it. 

  “Would your mom let you travel with me over the summer?” Billy asked repeatedly. I had no idea what my mom would say to that. All I could think about was how amazing it would be to get away from home. To this day, I am grateful I never got in that semi-truck or went on any summer road trips with Billy. Maybe that was a small break in the clouds. 

  After finishing junior high, I entered public school, where drugs, alcohol, and girls became daily. We hung out at the “smoke patio" between classes and in the field behind some trees to smoke bongs, sharing hash or pot. We drank from a keg in the parking lot before school, living a Woodstock-like dream—feeling great when unaware of anything different.

  Later that year, I met a girl I instantly connected with after selling a few joints. We became a couple. As our relationship grew, we stole her parents' stash to listen to Led Zeppelin and hung out at her house during school. It was just our party. She confided that her stepdad was abusing her, and her mother knew. This made me ashamed of my own past abuse by Billy, as I felt involved in her pain. We were both lonely and believed we were meant for each other.

One day, her parents came home and found us. We were caught, and everyone was yelling—her crying, cursing at her parents, and calling the police. Her stepfather kicked me out of their house. When the officers arrived, I told them that this man was sexually abusing my girlfriend and that he had a box of drugs on the table before rushing off their property. I never really saw my girlfriend after that; she ended up in a group home, and things got worse for her.

I started spiraling downward, using drugs to self-medicate and acting out. Billy stayed in my life, and my darkness grew deeper. I lost control and didn’t care. When I was over sixteen, my mom suggested I visit the Marines’ recruiting station, but I failed their exam and felt even more stuck.     

Moving to Portland, Oregon, marked the next chapter of my life, where I lived with my dad off and on until graduation. Those times felt somewhat normal: doing homework, reading books, and exploring the Northwestern U.S. with him. Although we weren't very close, I remember him sitting with me to help with homework because I genuinely didn’t understand it, even reading aloud to him. Dad’s care and encouragement meant a lot, though I didn’t fully appreciate it as a teenager. Still, it was a small relief from the clouds, even if I couldn’t see that then.

Back then, I felt safe but isolated, secretly indulging in my habits while trying to stay close to my dad. I was lonely, wishing to return to Louisville. I didn’t realize then, but Dad and Portland were a blessing.

  I ended up back in Louisville to finish high school, and things became more intense. I didn’t care. Meanwhile, my mother was growing deeper in her faith as I continued to spiral out of control. We were originally a Catholic family, and I remember serving as a dedicated altar boy when I was a kid. I didn’t understand what faith was or what it all meant, but I felt something when I was at mass. Something in the prayers and my thoughts about God moved me deeply, but I still walked alone. The thought of it still brings me to tears.

  My mom didn’t drift from God; after her divorce and my sisters moving to Portland, she changed—singing and attending church often, radiating joy. I, however, remained trapped in bad habits, living as a zombie with dark music fueling suicidal thoughts. I sang songs like “Highway to Hell,” hurting her, yet she kept talking to me about Jesus’ love, despite my rebellion.

      I remember a party near my house with Wild Turkey, downers, and dope. I was so drunk that when two friends fought, I tried to break it up. Instead of gratitude, they turned on me and beat me up.

As I staggered home that night, I uttered a desperate prayer… “God, if all there is to life is sex, drugs, and rock-'n’-roll, then I am done!” The plan was simple: make it home, grab the pill bottles, and drift off for good. I simply didn’t care.

I got home early on a Saturday night. Mom greeted me and cried when she saw me. “Rob,” she said, “If you want happiness and a wife to love you as you are, it can only be through Jesus.” I’d like to say I pulled her into a hug, cried with her, and dedicated my life to God in that moment. Instead, I cursed at her, then broke out into one of my songs as I stumbled to the bathroom.

  I was following my plan but wanted a shower. While holding the showerhead and leaning against the wall, I heard, “If you want happiness and a wife to love you as you are, it can only be through Jesus.” I prayed on my knees, asking, “God, if you are real like my mother says, come into my heart as you did for her.”

  I immediately stood up and realized I didn’t feel drunk. I pulled back the shower curtain, looked in the mirror, and said, “God you are real!”

The storm inside eased considerably. I felt like I could breathe— I could finally see hope, and I embraced Him (August 1983).

Do you have a story to share? I would be honored to listen, see, and hear you. If you need a space where you can be heard, seen, and acknowledged, feel free to reach out.

Peace to you,

Rob