I have been back in therapy of late. I go when my schedule allows, and by the generosity of the therapist.
We have been focusing more on my PTSD than anything else, as she thinks that may alleviate the depression and Darkness. Yes, PTSD. As a former volunteer paramedic from a Rescue Squad, I suffer from it. Some things cannot be unseen. Some things cannot be forgotten. Some wounds never heal.
In addition to memories from those days, we've been discussing events from my childhood. I hate even thinking about that time. One event in particular has come to mind recently, but I haven't spoken of it to my therapist... yet.
This is an old story, and has to do with family. I try not to write about family any more, but this one is something I want to explore. And after all, that's what this blog is about.
This happened in the winter/early spring. I don't remember exactly when it happened, but I know from what I was wearing it had to be when I was in fifth or sixth grade- probably sixth. That would place this story around 1978.
This was the height of the CB craze, and my dad had one in the truck. That point is important.
A little background: ever since before I was born, my family had been traveling to Oak Orchard Delaware, where my grandfather had a house. He built the house himself I'm told, and all my relatives would come down on different weekends.
Somewhere between 1976 and 1977 my dad managed to put together some financing, and bought a house down there. It was on the water, the Indian River Bay, and it was a dump. It was a sheer disaster, but my dad, being very handy, knew that he could fix it.
But fixing it meant taking time, and with my dad's work schedule, it wouldn't be easy. Usually about once a month, my dad would come home from work at midnight (after an 8 or 16 hour shift); and my brother and I would be packed into the back of his pickup truck with our dog Sabre for the long trip to Delaware- approximately 3 hours.
The truck had a cap on it, and my dad had built a table and two benches in the back for my brother and I to sit on. The benches were made of solid oak, and were very uncomfortable, but it beat sitting on the hot, vibrating truck bed, where the dog had to stay. As can be imagined, it didn't smell too good back there with a panting, sweating dog.
My older brother and I would try to sleep on the way, if possible. Remember, this is a vibrating 1970s era pickup truck.
Back then, Route 1 connecting the north side of the state to the south side of the state may have been someone's dream, but it was far from a reality. To get from the north to south in Delaware, one had to use Route 13, which went directly down the center of the state, and was filled with stoplights. That road joined with what was then rte. 1 just south of Dover AFB. It was a long trudge from north to south, and it seemed to take an eternity.
This story takes place just north of the town of Smyrna, which is north of Dover-the capital. My Dad pulled over to as he usually put it, "check to see the tires are Square." I also got out of the truck, because I had to go to the bathroom too. I told my older brother (OB) that I was getting out. He said "ok," indicating he knew I got out. So I went to the side of the road out of sight from the highway, dropped my pants, and was taking care of my business when suddenly I heard the truck door close, and the truck took off without me.
I remember running down the road with my pants down at my ankles. It was a cold night, but not severely, so I was wearing blue jeans and a denim jacket (popular at the time.) I remember it because I really liked that jacket and the Mighty Mouse patch on the back. I ran for a little bit, crying and shouting "Stop! Stop! Wait!" and I watched as the tail lights disappeared in the dark.
After I got over the initial shock of being left at the side of the road, I remember feeling strangely calm. I had to think of something. I needed a ride.
It was around 1:30 in the morning. Most of the traffic were big trucks. I tried to flag one down. I remember one had so many lights- it seemed like a Christmas tree.
Eventually someone pulled over- a pink Cadillac driven by an elderly African American man. I explained what happened, and where I was going. He said he was also going to Oak Orchard. i didn't believe him, but it was nice of him to offer to take me. So off we went at high speed. He thought we might catch up with the truck or find a police officer- one or the other.
I don't remember how far we drove- but I think we made it to Dover. We saw a state police officer in a 7-11, and pulled over. The driver explained what happened, and that he was speeding to catch up to the truck. The officer asked me a couple of questions, and sat me in the front seat of his car. he took me to the police barracks, where I waited.
I never learned that Good Samaritan's name.
Now, the part I wasn't around to see.
Apparently, the CB radio came alive with reports of a "kid on the road." One trucker said he almost hit me, which was true. People were wondering what I was doing out there, etc. Then the reports went quiet (I guess I'd been picked up by then.)
My mum tells me that OB started banging on the window separating the back from the cab, yelling that I wasn't back there. Apparently he claimed that he woke up and I wasn't there. However, he was awake when I got out of the truck! I KNOW that! So what took him so long? I reached my own conclusion long ago.
In any case, my parents travelled "twenty minutes later" or "almost at Oak Orchard" when they turned around. (The account varied.) According to Google maps, measuring from the north tip of Smyrna to Oak Orchard is 65.6 miles- an hour and a quarter (using the route we took back then.) I'm sure that time seemed to be distorted- it was for me.
In any case, they turned around and headed north, and my dad started asking about me on the CB. Someone told him that I'd been picked up and taken to the State Police barracks (I don't know who) and they went there.
I remember seeing my dad talking to a police officer and entering the place where I was waiting. I remember being scared- I was afraid I'd be severely punished. I'm sure mum came in as well, but I don't remember her being there. I remember my dad shaking hands with the police officer as we left.
I climbed into the back of the truck, and we were off. I fell asleep, I think. I think we made it to the house at around 5 am, but I'm not sure.
Not long after that, on a later trip, I saw the pink Cadillac parked down the road about a mile or so from my parents' house. Turns out the guy DID live in Oak Orchard.
For years after, whenever we passed "the spot" my parents or I would mention it. "There's the spot!" I don't think I could locate it now, thirty years on.
I got a job at Burger King in 1982, which marked the end of my going to Delaware for quite some time. I stayed home so I could work. During that time, I was crossdressing (I think I started that in 1979.) As I've mentioned before, I stopped that in August of 1983.
In the 1990s, route 1 was built along the length of Delaware. What once took a very long time now has been cut by almost half. During the 80s and 90s, my dad worked tirelessly on essentially rebuilding the house. The interior is now quite beautiful. They retired down there in summer of 1995, and live there to this day. My dad is still working on the house, constantly tweaking it. It's his hobby.
My parents and I disagree as to OB's part in this. That's all I'll say about that.
So. I was 11 years old when this happened. How did it affect me? Was there any long lasting damage? I'm not sure. You'd think I'd have an abandonment issue or something, but I don't. When I think back on it, I feel angry.
I wasn't angry then- no- I was calm. I kept my head. But now, thinking about it makes me angry.
Riding in the back of the truck was common for kids on long trips back then. In fact, many things that would "shock" people of later generations were very common, such as being beaten with a belt. Now it's abuse- then it just was what it was. On many trips, I'd gotten out of the truck to answer the call of nature- no big deal. But once... once I was left on the side of the road.
This was NOT my parents' fault. They didn't know I was out of the truck. I guess I should've said something, but I never had in the past, and there was never a problem.
So, from where does the anger come? Is it misplaced? Why does it still haunt me?
I have some thoughts on this, but I'll bounce them off my therapist.
Some wounds never heal.
Be well.
We have been focusing more on my PTSD than anything else, as she thinks that may alleviate the depression and Darkness. Yes, PTSD. As a former volunteer paramedic from a Rescue Squad, I suffer from it. Some things cannot be unseen. Some things cannot be forgotten. Some wounds never heal.
The only pic I know of with me in full gear. Dec 1986
In addition to memories from those days, we've been discussing events from my childhood. I hate even thinking about that time. One event in particular has come to mind recently, but I haven't spoken of it to my therapist... yet.
This is an old story, and has to do with family. I try not to write about family any more, but this one is something I want to explore. And after all, that's what this blog is about.
This happened in the winter/early spring. I don't remember exactly when it happened, but I know from what I was wearing it had to be when I was in fifth or sixth grade- probably sixth. That would place this story around 1978.
This was the height of the CB craze, and my dad had one in the truck. That point is important.
A little background: ever since before I was born, my family had been traveling to Oak Orchard Delaware, where my grandfather had a house. He built the house himself I'm told, and all my relatives would come down on different weekends.
My grandfather's house. Year unknown. It was torn down in the 80s I think.
Somewhere between 1976 and 1977 my dad managed to put together some financing, and bought a house down there. It was on the water, the Indian River Bay, and it was a dump. It was a sheer disaster, but my dad, being very handy, knew that he could fix it.
But fixing it meant taking time, and with my dad's work schedule, it wouldn't be easy. Usually about once a month, my dad would come home from work at midnight (after an 8 or 16 hour shift); and my brother and I would be packed into the back of his pickup truck with our dog Sabre for the long trip to Delaware- approximately 3 hours.
The truck had a cap on it, and my dad had built a table and two benches in the back for my brother and I to sit on. The benches were made of solid oak, and were very uncomfortable, but it beat sitting on the hot, vibrating truck bed, where the dog had to stay. As can be imagined, it didn't smell too good back there with a panting, sweating dog.
My older brother and I would try to sleep on the way, if possible. Remember, this is a vibrating 1970s era pickup truck.
Back then, Route 1 connecting the north side of the state to the south side of the state may have been someone's dream, but it was far from a reality. To get from the north to south in Delaware, one had to use Route 13, which went directly down the center of the state, and was filled with stoplights. That road joined with what was then rte. 1 just south of Dover AFB. It was a long trudge from north to south, and it seemed to take an eternity.
Modern Google map. Red arrows point at Rte 13. Smyrna is at the bottom.
I remember running down the road with my pants down at my ankles. It was a cold night, but not severely, so I was wearing blue jeans and a denim jacket (popular at the time.) I remember it because I really liked that jacket and the Mighty Mouse patch on the back. I ran for a little bit, crying and shouting "Stop! Stop! Wait!" and I watched as the tail lights disappeared in the dark.
The truck, 1970s. That green building is long gone. So's the boat. And the truck
It was around 1:30 in the morning. Most of the traffic were big trucks. I tried to flag one down. I remember one had so many lights- it seemed like a Christmas tree.
Eventually someone pulled over- a pink Cadillac driven by an elderly African American man. I explained what happened, and where I was going. He said he was also going to Oak Orchard. i didn't believe him, but it was nice of him to offer to take me. So off we went at high speed. He thought we might catch up with the truck or find a police officer- one or the other.
I don't remember how far we drove- but I think we made it to Dover. We saw a state police officer in a 7-11, and pulled over. The driver explained what happened, and that he was speeding to catch up to the truck. The officer asked me a couple of questions, and sat me in the front seat of his car. he took me to the police barracks, where I waited.
I never learned that Good Samaritan's name.
Me in 6th grade. This is how I looked around the time this happened.
Now, the part I wasn't around to see.
Apparently, the CB radio came alive with reports of a "kid on the road." One trucker said he almost hit me, which was true. People were wondering what I was doing out there, etc. Then the reports went quiet (I guess I'd been picked up by then.)
My mum tells me that OB started banging on the window separating the back from the cab, yelling that I wasn't back there. Apparently he claimed that he woke up and I wasn't there. However, he was awake when I got out of the truck! I KNOW that! So what took him so long? I reached my own conclusion long ago.
In any case, my parents travelled "twenty minutes later" or "almost at Oak Orchard" when they turned around. (The account varied.) According to Google maps, measuring from the north tip of Smyrna to Oak Orchard is 65.6 miles- an hour and a quarter (using the route we took back then.) I'm sure that time seemed to be distorted- it was for me.
In any case, they turned around and headed north, and my dad started asking about me on the CB. Someone told him that I'd been picked up and taken to the State Police barracks (I don't know who) and they went there.
I remember seeing my dad talking to a police officer and entering the place where I was waiting. I remember being scared- I was afraid I'd be severely punished. I'm sure mum came in as well, but I don't remember her being there. I remember my dad shaking hands with the police officer as we left.
I climbed into the back of the truck, and we were off. I fell asleep, I think. I think we made it to the house at around 5 am, but I'm not sure.
Not long after that, on a later trip, I saw the pink Cadillac parked down the road about a mile or so from my parents' house. Turns out the guy DID live in Oak Orchard.
For years after, whenever we passed "the spot" my parents or I would mention it. "There's the spot!" I don't think I could locate it now, thirty years on.
I got a job at Burger King in 1982, which marked the end of my going to Delaware for quite some time. I stayed home so I could work. During that time, I was crossdressing (I think I started that in 1979.) As I've mentioned before, I stopped that in August of 1983.
In the 1990s, route 1 was built along the length of Delaware. What once took a very long time now has been cut by almost half. During the 80s and 90s, my dad worked tirelessly on essentially rebuilding the house. The interior is now quite beautiful. They retired down there in summer of 1995, and live there to this day. My dad is still working on the house, constantly tweaking it. It's his hobby.
At my parent's house, Thanksgiving 2015.
My parents and I disagree as to OB's part in this. That's all I'll say about that.
So. I was 11 years old when this happened. How did it affect me? Was there any long lasting damage? I'm not sure. You'd think I'd have an abandonment issue or something, but I don't. When I think back on it, I feel angry.
I wasn't angry then- no- I was calm. I kept my head. But now, thinking about it makes me angry.
Riding in the back of the truck was common for kids on long trips back then. In fact, many things that would "shock" people of later generations were very common, such as being beaten with a belt. Now it's abuse- then it just was what it was. On many trips, I'd gotten out of the truck to answer the call of nature- no big deal. But once... once I was left on the side of the road.
This was NOT my parents' fault. They didn't know I was out of the truck. I guess I should've said something, but I never had in the past, and there was never a problem.
So, from where does the anger come? Is it misplaced? Why does it still haunt me?
I have some thoughts on this, but I'll bounce them off my therapist.
Some wounds never heal.
Be well.
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