My Fears Revisited

Have you ever experienced a traumatic event in your lifetime that it continues to haunt you many years later?  Tragic events, milestones, and happier moments in your life all eventually manifest into the person you are today.  It is how we overcome these adversities, relinquish in the positives, and move past the problems of yesterday, that define a more wholesome you.  It takes courage, healing, a positive team, and constant reinforcement.  It is not something that can be tackled within a few hours, weeks, or years.  It takes time and constant work.  It may even take a lifetime.  For some, it is something they'll never forget.  These individuals will move through life, bobbing and weaving through that memory.  And for others, they are merely just existing in the fear as life passes them by.  We've all experienced fearful moments, some worse than others.  Yet, one thing remains the same for all of us, the effect it leaves behind.



The year was 1996 and it was a typical muggy day in Miami when ValuJet 592 crashed into the Everglades.  This fatal crash was a result of a fire that broke out on-board and when a request came in for an emergency landing, it vanished from the radar screens.  The airplane, along with 110 people on-board, nose-dived at above average speeds and what remained was bits of metal and human flesh floating in the swampy waters of the Everglades.   While this particular airplane crash is yesterday's tragedy and a story to tell, I have not forgotten the images on the TV, nor will the boy in my class, who's father died so tragically that day. This event has certainly left me with an indirect fear of flying that will forever be tattooed into my brain.  I am not one who thrives off the butterflies in my stomach while on a roller coaster ride, nor the thrill down a steep water-slide.  It literally scares me.   Yet, I will not let fear keep me from exploring my world.  It does however, take time and preparation when I travel.  I have to mentally prepare myself for the trip.  I have to fly certain airlines and at certain times of the day just to put my mind at ease.  Hey, whatever works to get me on an aircraft!  Nevertheless, with time, a little piece of a Xanax, and more traveling, my fears will subside and like the crash of flight 592, this fear will be a distant memory.

On August 24, 1992, the costliest storm in American history swept across Miami.  And like a thief in the night, Hurricane Andrew, robbed a lot of families of a life they once knew.  Miami consisted of a fun and sun, a thriving night life, and a boasting economy.  However, it was no match for Andrew.  Check mate, bitch!  My mom was preparing for battle.  She mustered up all the flashlights, batteries, and candles.  Bottled up all the water and filled up all the bathtubs.  Everything first aid, bleach, alcohol, and MRE's.  We were prepared for any scenario Andrew was ready to throw at us.  Andrew was reportedly expected to blow through Miami Beach and the surrounding neighborhoods but like all hurricanes, it's track was unpredictable, and shifted south.  A category 5 hurricane swept through southern parts of Miami-Dade with no remorse.  My family and I huddled up in our hallway as the winds shattered every window in our house.  The roof being ripped up, room by room.  My parents left us alone in the hallway for a good portion of the storm trying to keep the door closed so nothing could harm us.  The noises still haunt me to this day.  I remember the wind whipping my hair around and like a horror film, the flashes of light bursting through what used to be windows and doors.  Nothing was left but the concrete walls and I do mean, nothing.  The house my grandfather helped to build was merely walls and nothing else.  The water was up to our ankles and what once was a blue pool, consisted of a swing set, patio furniture, trees, and debris.  This was our worst nightmare and I was just waiting for someone to wake me up.  All we had known was gone within a few hours.  I'll never forget the smell of our house, the fear, or the howling of the wind.  To this day, I have trouble going out if an anticipated storm is expected to hit.  I constantly check the weather for updates and advisories.  And still jump a little during a terrible thunderstorm.  Once your house shakes and roars, no thunderstorm can ever be the same.

My first furry, four-legged love, Puppy, was MY first dog.  He was my first realization into the importance of having a pet and the everlasting bond between man and a dog.  He was my BFF.  I cuddled him like an infant and took him everywhere I could.  And like a baby with its blanket, he was my comfort.  One early morning, while walking to my car with Puppy, I felt a tug in the leash.  When I turned around, he was ripped from his leash by a wolf, dragged away from me, locked in the jaws of this beast by his neck.  This wild animal took my dog, continually throwing him up in the air and catching him like a rag doll, violently shaking him.  His screams that day are all to familiar and a sound I will NEVER forget.  I ran half a block down the road, chasing after this animal and Puppy while screaming, begging for someone to help me.  Help us.  It was my instinct.  In retrospect, it may not have been a wise choice, but I wasn't going to let my dog die in the mouth of this killer.  Not on my watch!  During a split instant when Puppy was thrown in the air, I grabbed him.  He attacked me not knowing it was me.  I said, "Puppy, it's me," and repeated this over and over.  I held him tightly, never giving this animal another chance to get to him.  There I was, being circled by this wolf with nothing between me and him but the grace of God.  Finally, I hear a young voice saying, "Dad, help me! Help me!" It was the son of the owners dog.  The father, a sick and sad individual to drunk for his own good, stood there, just watching, excited by what he just sat back and spectated.  This individual who was as deranged as his dog would allow this dog to attack other animals in the area.  He got a rise out of the torture.  Finally, the dog was taken away and I was left with a dog full of puncture wounds and he was literally bleeding out.  We were both covered in blood.  The police were called and to no surprise, the owner and his dog fled the scene.  My best friend, my little Puppy, survived this attack.  Shockingly, and as luck would have it, he was attacked two more times by my brother's dog.  Again, surviving each attack.  Following these horrific attacks, Puppy was never the same and neither was I.   My dog lived a long, healthy life.  He lived a wonderful life, but sadly, my little Puppy passed away a short time ago.  I was devastated!  I was angry.  Hurt.  Sad.  Depressed. I lived in guilt.  I would lay my head in his UM bed just to smell his memory.  In time, my heart has healed but I have never forgotten.  I can still hear his screams in my head and smell the blood on my shirt.  To this day, I have reoccurring nightmares of the attacks.  I have developed a fear of large animals and prefer not to go near them.  I try to be strong and courageous around other friend's dogs but that fear is always knocking on the walls of my cranium letting me know it's there.

PTSD is real.  Fear is real.  It is how you come to terms with it, is what separates you from the fear itself.  I will never forget some of the events I have been through in my lifetime.   I've learned to coexist with my fears.  They do not dictate my life. They live in me like the day they occurred.  My fears will always echo in my memory, however it is now but a whisper in the wind.  I was not put on this earth to live in a prison that is fear, but to thrive from it's challenges.  This is my mission.

Should you be interested in learning more about PTSD and what you can do to shut it up, click here.

All images were borrowed from Pinterest.