Where did the children go?

Here is Part IV to my ongoing story. I got a little braver this time. This is kind of out of my comfort zone to tell a story like this, or really any writing of stories since I'm more of a poet. I keep wanting to rhyme.

_________________________________________________

Time went by, and I kept visiting Racheal. Some days I was quiet, while other times I cracked bad jokes and goofed around. One thing was clear: we were getting along pretty well. She was nice, and I really felt like she cared. At least, it seemed that way. She never pushed me to talk about stuff I wasn’t ready to discuss. Most of our conversations revolved around my mom or my job hunt, which was dragging a bit. Sometimes I’d play a song from my playlist for us to listen to, and other times I’d share a poem I’d written. Talking to her felt easy, and I was doing a decent job of avoiding the topics I didn’t want to touch.

But there was one issue. The nightmares had returned.

At night, the dreams would hit me, and they were terrifying. They felt so real, almost like a movie. I’d find myself in that awful place, repeating NO over and over, drenched in sweat, and then I’d wake up, pounding my pillow in frustration. I was grateful I didn’t share a bed with anyone else. It was frightening! I could really hurt someone. In fact, I had once. Back when I didn’t have my own room, I was crashing at my current roommate Jennifer’s place. She had this tiny two-bedroom apartment, and I was kind of couch surfing. I shared a bed with her while her daughter, who was almost five, slept in the other room. Jennifer wanted her to have her own space filled with her toys and the pile of stuff she always bought on sale. Jennifer often mentioned how I tossed and turned in my sleep, but one night, I woke up to find her nose all red. Apparently, I had accidentally hit her in the nose while I was sleeping, and it bled. I felt terrible and apologized a ton, but soon after, it was decided I could either sleep on the couch or the love seat in the baby’s room. Honestly, I couldn’t blame her. Thirteen years later, and I was still dealing with nightmares. Not all the time, but enough to know I had to face it.

Alright! I told myself, The time for tiptoeing around was done! Today, I was finally going to bring it up, or at least start the conversation. But what should I say? “Racheal, I keep having nightmares about.....” UGH! Why is this so tough, I wondered?

Then it hit me. How I could bring it up.

At 6pm, as I headed to Racheal's office, I was a bundle of nerves. My stomach was in knots, and my head was pounding. I popped three extra-strength Tylenol and hit the road on I-10. When I arrived, I had a five-minute wait, which gave me a moment to shake off the jitters. I had been seeing Racheal for two months now, and it was time to get into the real stuff. I needed to talk about more than just my complicated feelings about my mom—how I loved her but also felt hurt that she never told me herself that she was dying. Two months! That’s eight sessions! The door swung open, and Racheal stepped out, greeted me, and we both went into her office, where she closed the door behind us. The nerves crept back in.

“So, how are you doing today, Sam?” she asked.

“I’m good,” I said. “Well, maybe a little anxious...”

“Anxious? Really? What’s going on?” she probed.

I let out a sigh and admitted that I felt like I hadn’t been saying muc

Oh? She went on, "You know, at the start of a relationship like this between a therapist and a client, there's this gradual process of getting to know each other, and that's totally normal. But we can chat about anything you want."

I nodded and started, "I've been having these nightmares for a few years now. They're pretty intense. I often wake up hitting my pillow or in a panic. I even busted my roommate's nose once years ago. But now that I sleep alone, I guess that's not a concern anymore." She asked if I wanted to dive into those nightmares. I said I would, but first, I wanted to share a song I've been really into lately. I think it relates. She waited while I pulled it up on YouTube. The song was called "Romance", which was kind of funny since it wasn’t really about romance at all. The music played:

When the song wrapped up, Racheal said, “Interesting... Why do I feel like this song isn’t about your fear of relationships?” I looked at her and replied, “Because it’s not. Honestly, I don’t even care about being in a relationship. That’s not what scares me” I hesitated, feeling that familiar weight in the back of my mind. I really didn’t want to go there! But I was 57. When was I going to start facing my issues?

We sat in silence for a moment, then Racheal asked, “What scares you, Sam? Is it connected to why you avoid talking about your brothers?” I looked up.

I had spent weeks discussing my mom and barely mentioned my brothers, I talked about Mark and Tim, a little. Mark was my favorite. When he was a teenager, around 16 or 17, he was so cool. He had long hair, smoked, and listened to Lou Reed and Alice Cooper. He was my hero, even if he thought I was going to hell for being gay. Yeah, he found religion after marrying a Baptist girl at 19. She’s alright, I guess. They’ve been married for over 30 years now. That’s impressive! I can’t even make it past year four in a relationship.

I must have paused a while because Racheal asked, “Sam, you okay?”

That snapped me back to reality, and I just decided to spill it out. “My brother, Ronnie, the oldest one, my half-brother... he abused me.” There it was. I pushed myself to keep going. “It all started when I was 8. Back then, he was my favorite. He’d hit fly balls over the fence and give me a quarter every time I jumped over to get them. When he and his wife came over, I felt like I was rolling in quarters!” I grinned for a moment, but then the smile faded as I continued, “After my mom passed away, living with my brother Tim was a nightmare. He was an ogre, always bossing me around like he was my father. He even searched my socks for cigarettes, and when he found some, he grounded me for two weeks. I was stuck in my room the whole time. I couldn’t stand him. I did like his wife, though, but they were having a lot of problems, especially with a new baby. She thought he was too hard on Mark and me, but he didn’t agree. Eventually, they asked the executor of my mom's estate to find us a new place. Mark went to stay with some friends, and I begged to move in with my half-brother, Ronnie. It was my first time back in public school since 5th grade because my mom had me in private school. It was great at first. I made friends quickly and felt pretty happy. But after a couple of months living with him and his wife, he started hitting me. She didn’t do anything to stop it and even hit me a couple of times too. I wasn’t a bad kid; he just had a terrible temper. One time, he even hit me with a big wrench and gave me a huge bruise on my knee. He thought I was laughing at him while he was fixing a pipe, but I wasn’t.

“It sounds like he had some serious mental issues, Sam,” Racheal chimed in.

"He totally did. He’d shove part of his fist in his mouth and let out this little squeal right before he lost it. I could see it coming every time. I’d flinch, and somehow that just made it worse. It got to the point where I’d do anything to keep him from getting angry."

I offered to share a poem I wrote when I was 13, and she was really excited to hear it. (see below)

After I read it, she looked like she was about to cry. I told her not to, and she apologized, and we moved on.

I explained how after the first few times he hit me, especially when I ended up with that big bruise on my knee, I went to the school nurse for help. I knew I should’ve done something about him a long time ago, but he had never hit me before. This was different. The nurse checked out my knee and some older bruises on my arm, then sat me down and said, “Honestly, there’s not much I can do, Sam. The school usually doesn’t get involved in family issues, and we can’t be sure these injuries weren’t self-inflicted.” Racheal looked furious and said, “I’m so sorry she let you down like that.” I brushed it off; 1978 was a different era. But I couldn’t help thinking about calling that nurse now and telling her what she did to me, how she sent me back to that hell. I snapped back to reality and looked at Racheal. Still no tears in my eyes. I knew it was time to go; my visit was over. I had made a start... but I hadn’t even scratched the surface of the worst parts.

There was always next week, I thought. As I was getting ready to leave, Racheal, who is a huge proponent of consent, asked if she could hug me. I blinked and said, “Yes.” When she hugged me, she whispered in my ear, “Everything is going to be OK”...

I wanted to believe that sooooo much!

_________________________________________________

Previous parts of the story can be found below: