Disclaimer: Mr. Justin Schwind is a personal Samson Society friend who resides in AZ. He was kind enough to agree to document his story in several installments. This is the first.
Trauma was explained to me as an emotional response to a distressing experience in life. So to start this story of my life, it all started with a distressing experience as I came out of my mother when she birthed me. I had poor oxygen, and they had to place me in the NICU for two weeks, and my trust in comfort and humanity was damaged at the start. This all took place on an island in Galveston, Tx, so YES, I am a Texas native. No one's fault in this matter; it's just how the cookie crumbles.
I was the oldest, so let it be known that my parents had no idea what the heck they were doing. It always seems to be that way as you learn from your mistakes and those mistakes allow you to be more aware, if you get a shot at it again. Growing up into trauma, let's just say I had a need for attachment, and that was not my mother's thing. She quit breastfeeding me at 6 weeks because she couldn't produce, and she wasn't patient enough to keep trying along with supplementing.
After having my own kids, I have seen the value of long-term breastfeeding via the connection and soothing of the child, especially the bonding element of it. I also was a colicky baby, and bless my mother and how she did not lose her mind in the process. The doctor, in his/her best understanding, told my mom to let me cry it out; so she did, and I did. I cried and cried and cried. There was no space to be secure, soothed, seen, or safe, just more room for abandonment. When I was two years old, my mom and dad went up to St Louis, MO to visit good friends and hauled me along with them. My parents were staying at their friend's parents' house. The kicker was the room my parents were occupying, during the stay, was a renovated detached garage into an extra bedroom. Great place to really have peace from the rest of the house, but not so much the best space for a 2-year-old to be left alone.
One night they decided to go out together while their good friends stayed home in case something happened to me. My parents laid me on the bed to sleep prior to going out to have fun. At some point after they were gone, I woke up and found myself all alone, having no idea what to do. I remember climbing down from the bed and going to the door and finding it locked. I was trapped, and tears began to pour down my face prior to me banging, with all my might, on the door hoping to find rescue from the outside. After a period of time, I gave up, all alone and broken. I decided to find the safest place in the room which, for a 2-year-old, was under the bed. Once I settled into a ball, I cried myself to sleep, only to awaken to my parents finding me and comforting me. This was the first traumatic experience I can remember happening and continuing the cycle of abandonment relative to me finding coping methods to soothe myself. To this day, I can't sleep with my door closed at night because of the anxiety it presents to me. To top it off, to this day, my mother still pokes and makes fun of me for that and states it wasn't that big of a deal. Right or wrong, own your mistakes and don't entice a distressing experience for anyone as it just creates a festering of the original experience.
One of the next biggest traumatic experiences I had during the early days of my life I feel truly sealed the deal on fracturing my trust with others, especially ones I loved. I was around three, and my father had built me a kid's dream house of a playhouse, and it was also kind of "several broken bones" waiting to happen. My father literally built it amongst the trees in the backyard - 15ft high. I was 3-years-old, and I now had a playground amongst the skies (that would take some getting used to).
My dad constructed the slide using stainless sheet metal, which no doubt would work well due to us living in a coastal town of Hitchcock, Texas. That being said, there was an apparent problem with the current state of the slide. Its sides had not been secured, and the exposed sheet metal edge was still exposed. At this point I had amassed enough courage to climb the 15-foot treehouse in the sky with the aid of my mother (with her following after). I made it to the top, and I thought I was on top of the world! You know the saying though, what goes up, must come down. Keep in mind that I had to ride that stainless beast down at a 45-degree angle with my dad waiting at the end.
I came up to the edge and braced myself, and simply couldn’t do it. There was too much fear in my heart of what could possibly happen. So that led to my father's impatience and rage. Yes I had a father that loved me, but he also had anger and rage that painted a sense of intense hatred for me.
Now at age three, all I could do was break down to someone I absolutely didn't trust. From there, I was screamed at to "Do it or else!". My mother, waiting at the top of the slide, was also hesitant because she could feel the fear looming in the air. Out of blind fear and giving the last ounce of trust I had at that young age, I proceeded to slide 20 feet down that 45 degree sheetmetal slope. But this is the catch that sent my trust out the window. I'd placed my hands on the outer sides of the slide. Sides that had not been folded over. Instead, there were two sharpened blades. Like a hot knife through butter, my 3-year-old hands went. When I was at the end, there was a lot of blood, tears, gaslighting by my father, and a trip to the ER which resulted in numerous stitches that took several months to heal. From then on, I was no longer going to fully let go. It was simply too risky for my childhood self.
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