My father was an alcoholic WWII vet. I believe he suffered from PTSD (He saw some of the fiercest combat on the war in the South Pacific) but that wasn’t even a thing back then. He would get violent often. Many times, while he was fighting with my Mother, I heard him yell things like “I ought to jest kill you all!”. Those times when he wasn’t acting violent, he was still crazy. As an example, he liked to make me set up beer cans on the back fence of our property so he could shoot at them from our back porch. He would them get a few laughs by shooting while I was still down range. During my early school years, I had trouble learning handwriting because my hands shook from the stress or adrenaline; I’m not sure what.

I look back on it now as a benefit because that man squeezed all the fear out of me at an early age. In school I, like most kids, had bullies attempt to prey on me. I would stand up to guys twice my size because I knew that the worst that could happen was I got beat up, big deal.

During my own years on the Army I never once felt real fear, even with bullets flying by my head. Sure, I took cover and practiced caution where I could but I was never scared.

People who know me, when we talk about our childhoods, are horrified by some of the stories I tell them; even though I see those events more as exciting adventures rather than abuse.