Every growing child experiences a moment of trauma that can permanently scar them for life. It can either be a result of crude parental upbringing or due to an external influence different from that of their parents. As for me, the former is the case.
I remember when I was a kid, my mother would always make sure that I had everything I wanted. She bathed me, she fed me and she even fixed me up when I bruised myself. The love my mother showed me made me have nothing but love for her, I was always around her and seen with her where ever she goes, to the point I was given the name, "Mama's little boy". It may sound far-fetched but that's what it was. My father wasn't really happy with the way my mother was pampering me, but he couldn't have a say in it cause my mother practically ran the house.
One day, my mother decided to attend an emergency work meeting which meant that she was not going with me. The next best option apart from a babysitter was my father who I had spent a little amount of time with. At first, I cried and begged her to stay but she insisted that there was an emergency.
Finally, I was all alone with my father. I spent most of my day In my room away from my father because I didn't know exactly how to act around him. His demeanor wasn't exactly welcoming, he gets vexed at the slightest error... even a misplaced breath can trigger his anger. So I hid.
My room was my place of solitude, a place I could be safe and be me without the judgment from family and friends, it was a place second to my mother. I had posters of my favorite power ranger, Tommy Oliver, on my wall. Because to me he was just the best. I even had action figures of the rangers in a variety of colors. I sat down at the center of my room which was neatly tiled and scattered my toys and action figure in front of me. And without further hesitation, I began to play with my imagination. Crafting my world where I made the hero and the villain do battle, I decided who won and who lost, I decided who lives and who dies.
I was having so much fun playing with my toys that I lost track of time. Suddenly, the door to my room swung open and my father walked into the room. His face enveloped in anger, he matched straight to me and my heart sank with every step he took. I knew I was in trouble.
"Where were you all this time i'been callin' you", his eyes fixed on me with intensity great enough to move a mountain.
"I...I ...I ...", my mouth stuttered words that my brain could bearly process. I didn't know what the right answer was. But, I kept searching my brain for the right word, the magic word but nothing came. Just then I notice his gaze turn away from me, he fixed them on the toys on the floor.
"So this is what you been doing with your time... Playing with garbage while you ought to be reading your books, or evening helping me down in the garage..." He paused momentarily. " Maybe I been too free with you boy...maybe, just maybe..." as he spoke, he reached for the belt on his waist. And slowly, he undid it. He beat me till I could cry no more.
When my mother came back, she found me crying on the floor of my room, she asked what the problem was and I reluctantly told her. She immediately stormed downstairs and she and my father got into a bitter argument. This led to my father storming to my room to pack all my toys, as many as he could lay his hand on. He burnt them all, and I watch through my window as my imagination went up in flames.
Although my father's approach was very unorthodox it still prove very helpful in shaping me into the man that I am. I did eventually grow a close bond with him, but his method did, was to help me get my head out of the cloud and focus on reality at a very young age, thus increasing my chances of success in life. While my mother remains my confidant and my pillar of support.
Finally, not all traumatic childhood experiences are bad, some are good and reshape the way we see life and our approach to humanity, while others are barely significant but also have a long-lasting effect on a growing child.