There are two kinds of reaction, generally speaking, to surviving in the years following abuse among those with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, those who are fortunate enough to disassociate and block them off, forget them.... And those like myself who have recurrent memories, flashbacks, and other problems with them.

Last night was a bad night, and waking suddenly from nightmares that were half memory I had a very difficult time getting back to sleep. I don't know if I yelled or not, but it seemed like it was me as I woke up and then my head cleared and I felt a bit embarrassed. Hoping that I had dreamed that scream and not awakened the old geezer in the apartment above me or the guy next door.

The dark material I write is full of the stuff that serves as metaphor for my experiences. I did not realize I was doing this until I looked back on it. I cannot understand idealism, although how much remains to me is sometimes astonishing. That I can trust at all is doubly astonishing. Maybe it is a matter of rationalizing what went on.

Even the most understanding and watchful of parents can only be there sometimes and not 24/7. I was raised by my grandsparents, who I referred to as Mama and Papa. Until I was five or six I thought they were my parents, but then Mickey moved back into my life and she was fortunately never here long with my brothers.

I always thought of myself as male even though I was born female. Everytime Mickey moved back in with us the first thing she did was try to brow beat me into acting like a "lady". I got into martial arts as a kid and when she made one of her returns was truly appalled by this. Either she would go silent or she would make snippy remarks like "The only reason a woman would want to know martial arts is to get into fights with men."

It was around this time that my youngest brother, Don, started trying to force me into fights, demanding I fight him, getting generally in my face with rage, and I began to suspect that the subject of my training was being discussed by Mickey, my step-father Mike, and my two half brothers. Mama begged me not to fight Don and I promised to just keep my head down and not get into it with him.

We moved to Texas, partly because I wanted to get away from them. I got into college and kept training, although by that time I was into a different style and starting over. One day we got a phone call, Mickey was letting us know that they had sold their house and would be arriving in Texas to live in three days. No warning. I felt like I had taken a solid blow to the stomach that knocked all the air out.

They arrived and Don, in a surly mood, had just gotten out of the Marine Corp with the rank of sergeant, came with them. He had gotten meaner there and he had been mean to start with. He made my life miserable for a week before I lost it in the middle of one of his tirades and doused him with a glass of water. His response was to throw me across the living room, hard and high. I went over the couch as if nothing had been in my path and hit the piano behind it cracking two ribs. He followed up as I gained my feet and got a choke hold, both hands on my throat. There was a heavy flashlight on the piano, I grabbed it and stepped in rather than pulling back, let him have it in the face hard enough to crack his jaw and then went for his nose. This lessened his grip a bit and I was able to use an sidewise drop and break to get free. By that time I simply wanted to kill him. So I kept hitting him.

The next day Mickey and Mike descended upon me to read me out for hurting Don. No one asked whether I had been hurt or not. No one except Mama and Papa cared.

Semper Fi, Little Brother.