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I never created an introduction because I didn't know whom to introduce. And although this isn't an introduction, it is quite revealing as that I am no longer who I once was--so says the wife. At this point it will do. When I first took the ACE I had a score of 4; then I took it after a few months of therapy and had an 8; now, it's a 9. And unless someone went to prison and never told me that should stand. I began EMDR in the Fall of 2014, using audible and tactile sensation alternating from one side to the other. Because I had been meditating since 7th grade this was quite enlightening as it enhanced my ability to focus. One of the first areas of focus was an event that happened in 2nd grade because I drew a bat. It was around Halloween when I saw a PBS documentary about how bats were useful and critical to an ecosystem. So, I drew a very large bat on a joint art work with a girl from my class. She cried. She was terrified by the artwork of a 2nd grader. The teacher was telling her that it was OK, not to be scared, and that "bats aren't real." The teacher and I had a shouting match about the reality of bats. I spewed forth everything learned from the documentary. She had me cover it up with a tree. No one came to my defense. Another altercation was in the library. A 6th grade bully took a record off the phonograph as I was listening to it. I threw a fit. The librarian came over, wrapped her hands around me, and carried me out of the library. I was kicking, screaming, and clawed her hands so viciously that it drew blood. "She had to wear bandages," my mother yelled. A third incident was when a teacher had her hand on my shoulder leading me to the principal's office for kicking a girl. We were seated Indian Style (PC crowd get a grip!), as I adjusted my leg, it popped forward because it had gone numb. I apologized profusely but to no avail. The teacher's nails were digging into my shoulder as I tried to squirm away from her escort. I reached up and grabbed her wrist, then pulled--executing a rather deft martial arts throw for being untrained--she rolled down a hill of large lava rocks. The report was that I "beat up a teacher." For one week I was kicked off the bus, so my mother hired a taxi to take me to school each morning and return me home. I was so embarrassed by this that I hiked the hills to get to school instead. These events all happened in a few months time. I was expelled from Happy Valley Elementary (irony?), then expelled from a special needs school, followed by the whole school district. At least this is what my parents tell me. I have contacted the school, they have no records of this--you would think that if all this took place there would be a real, and quite serious, permanent record of events--although I have my report cards that ask my mother to take me to a psychiatrist, twice. My parents sent me to Saint Catherine's Military Academy by Thanksgiving. And here comes the abandonment issues, but only to a certain degree because my mother was distant to begin with. She was quite detached as she had already lost three children: My eldest sister died 30 hours after birth; an older brother died at age 7; a still birth at 8 1/2 months. Also, I had another brother that was in a state hospital due to a broken chromosome issue. While sympathy, and even empathy, are not without merit, you don't leave an 8 year old to fend for himself to the point that he packs his own lunch and cooks his own meals. I could fix eggs by age 5. Although I have often noted that I learned to cook out of self defense because her cooking was quite bad (my sister taught me to cook!) I am now at this boarding school, seated on my bed, staring at my hands, and wondering "what did I do so evil?" I envision bars on the windows. There are no other students because I was dropped off during Thanksgiving break. The isolation still hurts. Although, sadly, no emotions at all toward my mother for leaving me there, even during EMDR. The first day of school, a Commandant decided that he needed to swat me with a paddle for not knowing left from right quick enough, and it gave him the "opportunity to work on his golf swing." Following that I was beaten by an 8th grader because he wanted to be first in line to the canteen for the afternoon snack. With blood coming from my nose, tears from my eyes, a nun told me I was just homesick. I replied, "that's the last place I want to be." How did I really get there? This is where I can thank therapy. During EMDR a pain in my chest began to stand out. A rather angry, spiked, black miasma with bright red eyes, inside a cage with runes on the bars to ensure he cannot get out, resides in the center of my chest. Also trapped within the miasma was a rare, male calico cat. The miasma was dubbed Chaos; the cat, Sherlock. Sherlock likes to sit on a bed in a very large library. He is stoic, knowledgeable, and can delve secrets from everything he sees, hence the name. Chaos is quite acerbic, will use knowledge as a weapon, and will fight back in pure rage (that poor librarian). Why the schism? Not long ago, during another EMDR session while talking to Chaos, my right hand went numb and I felt pressure on my throat. I wanted to vomit. Having studied enough psychology I immediately realized what had happened. During the time frame above, my older sister came into my room one night saying, "the guy that is watching us is in my bed and it is making me uncomfortable. Can I sleep with you?" Years later my step-father told a story about how he got rid of that same guy "threatened to call the cops and claim he raped our 12 year old daughter." I was shocked by this story. I immediately told my step-father about the night that my sister came into my room. My step-father was stunned. Wait, he didn't know? Recently, I asked my mother about that guy and she said that he had stolen jewelry from them and they chased him off. My mother has pieces of jewelry that could cover an ivy league collegiate education but didn't call the cops? Something didn't add up. This guy had access to the house. My sister came to my room. My step-father didn't know about it. This guy supposedly stole jewelry. The cops were not called. Was my mother not home that night? My mother was probably with my step-father where he worked as an entertainer. My sister must have told her what happened. My mother had my step-father chase off that guy. They couldn't call the cops because she would have to explain where she was. Also, this was during custody issues with my father and my mother couldn't let him win. My mother was that self-centered! It was more important to save her own hide than get proper help for her children. That is seriously demented. Now, after that last detour into the details of what caused the schism, I could finally address Chaos in that cage: He had a secret. One that he was not allowed to tell. I can hear my mother's voice through clenched teeth, "we do not talk of this!" This is why I watched PBS and read books at every opportunity. It was so I could think about, or talk about, anything but what had happened. The violent reaction that developed during this time came from being grabbed, pinned down and held by the throat--perhaps even a knife. And why I was not taken to psychiatrist. Because I was talking about it but no one would listen. A psychiatrist probably would have and my mother would have been exposed. Someone violated me in some sexual manner. No, I am not able to recall what precisely happened, nor do I wish to. But the good news is that Chaos is no longer in a cage; he even smiles when I talk to him. Sherlock could still use a bit of help because no one has ever shown him any love--especially not his parents who hate "those academic types." That aspect will take time but now that Chaos is happy Sherlock is sure to follow. It is truly amazing what you can discover about yourself from therapy and how much it can help you relieve a burden. Perhaps I should have an ACE of a 10; someone should have gone to jail--not Chaos.