Childhood Trauma

At Dickinson Elementary in Tampa in the early sixties. I watched my school principal through her window beat one child after another pulling their dresses up or his pants down, exposing their vanilla creamy Flesh. Some of these struggles were epic eight and nine year old bodies not giving in as the razor strap slapped their young Flesh. There was much golden water that flowed to the floor. One boy being bullied daily after each class by two are three other's caught out of class was her favorite. If she had a penis looking back at my misfortune it would have punched a hole through the desk she would have me bend over. I firmly believe now that the earlier in life we experience such trauma, the more difficult it is for us to adapt to life in a meaningful way. Childhood trauma more often than not is an ongoing chipping away at the soundness of the soul through emotional and/or physical abuse. My soul having to then fend for itself was thus invariably shaken, cracked and hence unfortunately made unstable. The resulting symptomatology was by today's standards, predictable. Latter at twelve the shock treatments were terrifying and then my soul could not unlike yours unfold, not unlike a beautiful flower bud which, due to such criminal abuse, could not blossom. I now think. Blessed with unlearned discernment I did not kill small animals and through grace those many other's whom took such great pleasure in the harming of small children.