INTRODUCTION
Faith to Freedom: From Dumpster to Doctor will inspire readers to take a good, hard look at their lives and access the truth about who they are deep down in the crevices of their souls.
I am sharing my powerful story of overcoming childhood sexual and physical abuse, self-destructive thinking that led to over 23 years of chronic crack cocaine addiction, abandonment, homelessness, serving time in jail, being shot in the head at point-blank range, and being stabbed multiple times.
On the flip side, I was also given the miracle of staring death in the face, and inexplicably surviving the unimaginable.
After so many traumatic experiences in my life, I became spiritually aware and conscious, and pro-active and responsible, to change the self-destructive thinking and behaviors, that hurt me and others. As a result, I am now a Doctor of Psychology, CEO, author, and living a more enduring, purposeful, and productive life.
Faith to Freedom: From Dumpster to Doctor calls attention to a Higher Power, and spiritual forces that work for and against us. It compels the reader to ponder the meaning of their own existence. There is one universal and undeniable truth about life that we all have in common; death awaits us. And the question we often ask ourselves is: “What happens after life?”
I have been through hell, put others through the same, and cannot leave this world without sharing my story and affirming that self-forgiveness, redemption, and overcoming human struggles are possible.
There is hope for everyone, no matter how hard they fall, or how mercilessly trapped and chained they are to habits and addictions. The raw effects of trauma and self-destruction can become the past, if there is breath in the body, physical and mental capabilities, and a will to get up, clean up, make up, and rebuild.
Chapter One
“MY EARLY YEARS”
I was born in West Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. My mother and father had three sons: me, Kenny, and Kevin. We were close in age and have maintained strong brotherly relationships to this day. I also have two other half-brothers by a different mother: Rasheed and Jamal, who were born about three years after my mother and father divorced. They were never close to us, growing up and living in different homes.
I lived in West Philadelphia until about the age of eight. The neighborhood was poor and gang infested. To me, it was evident that there were forces of evil working against me, as well as more angelic forces operating on my behalf. For example, my mother told me that she fell down a flight of stairs the month of my birth and feared I had been injured or killed in her womb. But, I was okay.
During those early years in West Philadelphia, my life was scary and confusing. I can recall going into my brother Kevin’s crib to drink some of his juice or milk because I was hungry. I also remember getting up at night to change my underwear because I feared getting a whooping or being ridiculed for wetting the bed. (That was a habit I continued until about the age of nine.) My fears were reinforced after my mother divorced my father and got remarried to a very abusive man who would beat the hell out of me for wetting the bed. (I will elaborate on these incidents shortly.)
During the time my parents were married, my father often left us in the house alone at night while my mother worked the graveyard shift. Based on my mother’s accounts, my father never came home with money and always had an excuse for being broke. She often referred to him as a liar and a “no-good” man.
My mother was the disciplinarian because my dad was very passive and appeared disinterested in punishing us. I can recall a time my mother had to argue and force him to beat us for something we had done coming home from school.
In the late 1960s, Kenny and I were walking home from school, and we got arrested for throwing rocks from the train bridge. We often bypassed the streets and preferred to walk on the train tracks, which we knew we were not supposed to do. I remember the policeman treating us like grown men and forcefully throwing six-year-old me and seven-year-old Kenny into the back of a squad car. Once we arrived at the police station, we were then taken into a small room with no windows. It was terrifying. I felt claustrophobic and extremely anxious. For hours, we were left in this small room wondering what was going to happen, and very much afraid of the impending whooping we were going to get from my mom.
Eventually, our mother did show up, which scared us even more. My mother did not play. She was serious about beating us with a belt when we screwed up. I do not think for one minute her intentions were to abuse us; that is just the way we were punished back then.
My mother argued with my dad a lot because he never brought home his paycheck. They fussed all the time over his not having any money, not buying food, and not paying the bills. Because we were often left without heat, my mother would huddle me and my brothers together in her bed and pile a lot of blankets on top to keep us warm in the very cold winters of Philadelphia. I often wondered where my dad was while we were going through this routine.
My mother was strong, determined, and ambitious. She worked the graveyard shift as a nurse’s aide to take care of us and found a way to keep food in the house, even if she had to get help from a neighbor. That is how she eventually met John, my stepdad. John lived next door with his mother and would help my mom out when we didn’t have food or money. She never wanted to accept his help, because she was a proud and hardworking person. But she knew that she had to, or we would go hungry.
I can recall my mom telling her telling me and my brothers the importance of paying your debts and keeping your word. This is exactly what she did when John gave her money for food, she made sure to pay him back. I suppose that my mother grew fond of John because he never let her down like my dad, who should have been providing for us.
My mom often depended on my father to watch us at night, especially when my brother Kevin was incredibly young. But my dad left us alone the entire night, doing who knows what. It made my mother furious; when he finally came home, the fights and arguments got even more dramatic. My mom had a heavy load to carry during these years such as sending me and my brother Kenny to a private Catholic school from the first grade, paying all the bills on her own and making sure there was food to eat.
The home environment was very tense, and I could never understand what was going on. I loved my dad, but could see the hatred my mother had for him, which was confusing and scary to witness. My mom was often agitated, angry and disgusted. I wanted her attention and validation in so many ways; yet, she always appeared to have other things on her mind. As a young child there was nothing I could do but accept, adjust, survive, and stay out of the way.
For some reason I believed, and still believe to this day, that my mother seemed to favor my older brother, Kenny, and was not as affectionate with me. She also chose to give Kevin lots of her time, because he was the baby in the family. Yes, I was the middle child and, yes, I did feel left out. But my mother always told me I was the strong one, and that she depended on me, because I seemed to get things done on my own and did not need much attention. I would cook, clean, and complete my schoolwork, even at an early age.
There was also a time, when I was around seven or eight years old, that my brothers and I were separated from my mother and got sent to my Aunt Margaret’s house. Aunt Margaret was my dad’s so-called “aunt”; however, I discovered that my dad was adopted, and I knew nothing about his parents. My aunt made it clear that my oldest brother was her favorite and had no problem telling me that. This feeling was familiar to me because of the way I had noticed my own mother’s affection toward my oldest brother. Aunt Margaret was mean and nasty to me in both her words and actions. She told me she simply did not like me. When we ate meals, she would cook food that she knew I could not or would not eat. She would verbally, emotionally, and sometimes physically abuse me. I had nowhere to turn, so often, I would just accept the situation, without complaining.
I could not understand my thoughts and feelings, or the external factors affecting me when we stayed at Aunt Margaret’s. My brothers and I would sit on the porch steps outside, waiting for my dad to come and pick us up from his job as a trolley driver. I craved his attention and protection. Once we saw him walking up the street, we would run up to him, and jump right into his arms.
During this time, I thought my mother had abandoned us, and remember many nights wishing I could see her, especially because Aunt Margaret was so mean to me. This woman was not even a blood relative, for God’s sake, not that that would make anything right. Nonetheless, as a young child, I did not know how to deal with the terror I felt being left alone with her, so I threw temper tantrums and ran around tearing up everything I could find in Aunt Margaret’s house, when my father walked through the front door. I was angry, scared, hurt, and devastated, because I did not know where my mother was. When I look back at my struggles, I realize that there were many good times; however, things could change so quickly and instantly become unstable, frightening, and dysfunctional.
One day my Aunt Tina on my mother’s side came to pick me and my brothers up, and she took us to the hospital. We entered a room and saw our mother lying in a bed with all kinds of tubes attached to her body, and my brothers and I immediately ran up to her. I was experiencing so many emotions all at once: happiness, ambivalence, and anger, I simply did not know how to return the affection she was giving us. As a matter of fact, I was never able to show or receive affection from her or anyone else for many years into my adulthood, at least not often. I wanted affection and love, but my actions would push people away, even though I was terrified to be left alone.
We later found out that my mother needed surgery to remove blood clots that had lodged dangerously close to her heart. Thankfully, she made a full and miraculous recovery.
Chapter Two
“WHO THE HECK IS THIS MAN?”
We were reunited with my mother about one month after that initial visit to the hospital. Later that day, my father (i.e., my biological father) took my brothers and me to a new home in the North Philadelphia section of town, across the street from the projects. While he drove off, we knocked on the front door and John answered. The door opened slightly more to reveal my mom lying on the couch. She appeared weak and fragile and was obviously still recovering from surgery.
I looked back to John, who was standing there, holding the door open. He seemed scary to me; he was tall, muscular, and had an overbearing presence. I registered a total dislike for him and wanted him to leave my mother alone. I wanted my “real” dad back and could not accept that this man was about to become an important part of our lives. I decided not to listen to him or be nice to him, which would cost me dearly.
My mother’s health continued to improve during the summer months before I attended second grade, and we remained in that North Philadelphia apartment for about one year. My brother Kenny and I were both placed in another private Catholic school. Right from the start, I did not want to go to school for fear that my mother would be gone again when I got home. Seeing my mother in that hospital room had made me feel insecure and uneasy. Those memories just kind of lingered. I guess my mom sensed that something was wrong with me, because she would try to reassure me that everything was going to be okay and would even come to class sometimes, and sit with me for a while, until I got comfortable.
For some unexplained reason, John started to become verbally and physically abusive toward me and my brothers. He beat me for wetting my bed and ridiculed me for sucking my thumb, something I alluded to earlier in Chapter one. I was terrified of John and afraid of telling my mother, who seemed to also bare the brunt of his verbal and physical abuse. The relationship he had formed with my mom was no longer temporary; he was now officially my stepdad. My brothers and I found out they were married about two months after moving to our apartment in North Philadelphia. We were at John’s mother’s house when they announced to his family that they had eloped.
We moved to West Philadelphia in the summer before I entered the third grade. In spite of my immense dislike for John, my stepdad was a tough, ex-Navy man, who brought a sense of stability and order to our lives. He worked hard, and helped my mother pay the bills, so we had food in the refrigerator, lights on in the house, heat in the winter, and new clothes on our backs. My stepdad and mom seemed happiest at the family events that John’s family hosted. They played music, partied, and played cards, while my brothers and I played with my cousins (my stepdad’s brothers’ and sisters’ kids). We also started having other new experiences that made our lives less routine, like going to the movies (especially drive-in movie theaters), out to dinner, attending frequent picnics, and going to county fairs.
In the beginning, John was both hot and cold. Some days, he seemed nice, loving, and funny, and then on other days, he appeared angry, upset, and frightening. But he was capable of turning on us at any moment and launching into a tirade of verbal and physical abuse against my mother, my brothers, or me. It was hard to explain John, because I knew he had a good heart and that he cared, because he showed it in so many ways. I just could not understand what made him so angry.
Then one day I remember coming home and walking into the apartment, where I witnessed my stepdad’s brother in the room with two of his male friends, all naked, with one female in the bed and one of the men on top of her. The all appeared to be enjoying what was happening based on the sounds I heard coming from the room. I discovered later that what they were doing was taking turns having sex with her.
I was only about seven years old, and really did not understand what was going on. There were also a few times when I peeked into my mom’s room and saw her and my stepdad having sex. Once I got caught, they sat me and my oldest brother down, and explained to us what they called “the birds and the bees.” My mother and stepdad were very descriptive about what sex was, and made it clear that sex was not right, unless you were married. I was now really confused, because I witnessed my stepfather’s young adult brother, his friends, and a female (all young adults) participant doing what they were telling me was wrong (something I never told them).
I started getting curious about sex at that early age. What made matters far more confusing was, soon after these events, my mother hired a young adult female babysitter to watch me and my brothers when she and my stepdad went out on dates. The babysitter would play this game with us called “house.” She said that she was the mom; and picked me or my oldest brother to be the dad. In the beginning, she would often pick my oldest brother to be the dad and ordered me and my younger brother to go into the other room and play with our toys. We never knew what was going on in the room between her and my brother; we simply went along with the game.
One day she picked me to be the dad, and I must say that impacted my life forever. When I entered the room, she forced me to take off my clothes. After I did what she told me, she said, and I quote: “Since you are the dad, you are supposed to let me please you because that is what wives do to their husbands.” She then started forcing all kinds of aggressive sexual acts on me. As a seven-year-old child, I was feeling nervous, confused, scared, and physical pleasure, all at once. She would also force me to place my hand inside her private area and rub on her. She was very mean, intimidating, rambunctious, and coercing, while demanding that I do what she asks.
None of her behaviors or what I was feeling made sense to me. Things really got bizarre when she grabbed my head with both her hands forced my head in between her legs to perform sexual acts on her and told me that good dads please their wives this way. She continued to forcefully validate her experience, at the expense of my innocence. Again, remember I am only seven years of age and powerless over her domination of me, yet feeling physical feelings of pleasure that no doubt overwhelmed my young innocent mind and body.
So I always wanted to play dad, due to those feelings. Whenever she picked my brother, I would get angry. When I finally got my chance to play dad, the experience was the same and sometimes even more intense. Although I was confused and scared, I liked how it made my body feel and the repetition of the sexual molestation she inflicted on me dominated my thoughts.
I feared what my stepfather and mother would do to punish me, if they found out that I was involved in this type of activity. I never realized as a young child that I was a victim of my babysitter’s sexual molestation and abuse. I was afraid of telling anyone. My perception was that sex was wrong and only for marriage. Yet, as a child, the feelings it gave my body were extremely pleasurable and overwhelming. I asked myself: what was I to do, who could I tell, and what would happen to me if I told? I was simply stuck in a dilemma beyond my understanding and the actions I was being told to perform.
Then one day, while playing in our backyard, these two older, female teenage neighbors asked me and my brother to come down the basement steps. We started walking down the steps in their direction, when one of the girls pushed me up against the wall and started kissing me, using a four-letter word to describe what she wanted me to do to her. I did not understand what she meant, and she could see that I was confused. So, she explained that she wanted me to put my private part in her private area. Immediately I remembered my mother and stepfather’s explanation about the “birds and the bees” (sex), and that I should not do it, because a girl could get pregnant and have a baby, and I should wait until marriage.
I told the girl I was scared because I did not want her to have a baby and my mother told me it was wrong to do. I was young about eight years old, and still very much a child, so having a baby was really not possible; however, that was my perception at that time. I had no clue what “sexual intercourse” meant. However, in the course of her sexually abusing me, such as rubbing my private area and molesting me in all types of perverted ways; again, I was both confused and felt physical pleasure.
The girl kept telling me everything would be okay, and finally coerced me to have actual sex with her, something that was also confusing, scary, and pleasurable. This time I experienced an indescribable physical feeling, and both my mind and body were overwhelmed. So here I am, this eight-year-old child (young, naïve, and innocent), and my body was feeling things I never should have felt at that age.
After the many sexual molestation and abuse encounters, I would often touch girls in elementary school (second grade) inappropriately and think it was funny, until one of my classmates told a teacher that I touched her butt and laughed. My mother was summoned to the school and informed about my behavior. She never knew of the sexual abuses; however, she punished me and set a clear boundary on that day. I simply stopped the behavior and never inappropriately touched a girl again. However, the thoughts of how my body felt during the sexual abuse experiences never left me.
We still spent weekends at my Aunt Margaret’s house and would often go swimming with my biological dad, who was also a lifeguard (part time, in addition to being a trolly driver), and well loved by everyone. I never saw the flaws in my dad; I was simply happy and excited when we were with him. He was always nice and kind; he never hollered or screamed at us. Even when I threw temper tantrums, he had this way of calming me down and handling me with love and kindness. Everyone we met while we were with my dad said nice things about him and treated him with love and kindness, except my mother, who often referred to him as a no-good liar and cheat. Over time we found out that those incidents when he would leave us alone in the middle of the night while my mother was working, it was to be with another woman (i.e., the woman he eventually married and with whom he had two sons, Rasheed and Jamal). My mom hated my dad and made it a point to let us know verbally.
During my weekends at Aunt Margaret’s over the course of the next year, I became obsessed with my aunt’s next-door neighbor, Vanessa. She was a few years older than I was, and incredibly attractive. I was now about eight or nine years of age and started to explore masturbation thinking about her. Yes, that is right, I said masturbation. I was about eight or nine years old and the thoughts of sex (i.e., what it made me feel when I was previously sexually abused, molested, and violated) were now prominent in my mind. One day, while visiting my Aunt Margaret, I met this girl named Lulu, who was around the age of 10, and lived down the street from my Aunt Margaret.
Lulu and I would sneak in the bathroom sometimes and explore kissing, touching, and rubbing each other in our private areas whenever I would come to visit my Aunt Margaret. We were both so young and truly both apparently victims of sexual abuse and molestation I suppose. I say that because it never dawned on me where and how she learned to be thinking about a very natural act such as sex at an incredibly young and immature age.
There is one thing for sure, and that is our bodies, especially our private areas, have natural senses for pleasure, and when a young child is sexually molested and violated in his or her private area, the thoughts of it feeling pleasurable and the unbeknown internal confusion do not go away. Going to Aunt Margaret’s was now no doubt the highlight of my life. I looked forward to weekends and summers to see my dad and now, Lulu. This obsession with wanting to be with her was pleasurable and confusing at the same time.
My dad often took us swimming and taught us how to swim like sharks. We were treated incredibly special by everyone who knew my dad because we were his sons. He was a legend in West Philadelphia and at John Bartram High School. He was a track and field champion in the 180-yard hurdles from 1955 to 1957 (an event that is no longer run). The women loved him because he was very handsome and charming. I might also mention that my Aunt Margaret’s mean treatment of me stopped after my mother got out of her long stay in the hospital. I always wondered why her attitude changed, but hey, that was a good thing; I was happy she was not being mean to me anymore.
When I was 10 or 11, my dad said he was coming to get me and my brothers one weekend and never showed up. This behavior went on into my adulthood, and until his untimely death at the age of 52. My mother and my stepdad would often say nasty things about my father, especially when he did not show up to get us. I simply did not listen and would often fall asleep in the window, waiting for him to arrive. My mother would have to make me go to bed and say he was not coming. She insisted that he was not coming to get me because he was a liar. Nevertheless, I waited and fell asleep on the window seat.
Sometime later, my stepdad’s evil side started to get worse. His verbal and physical abuse of my mother increased. They would argue for hours into the night, and most often, he would be the one forcing his will or control over her. My brothers and I became even more terrified of this guy. I was a very picky eater and still am today. What made this scary is that he did not care if I liked to eat something or not. If he said eat it, you ate it.
I was so afraid of being forced to eat food that I did not like, whether it was at home, school, or anyone else’s home, that I would secretly stuff food in my pocket. When I was home, I would hide the food behind the refrigerator and my mother would eventually find it and he would punish me. I also sucked my thumb for many years, and these behaviors seemed to make my stepdad incredibly angry.
My stepdad would often go out of his way to stop some of my habits (behaviors that he found unacceptable) by either ridiculing or physically abusing me. For example, he would put hot sauce and other hot spicy foods I did not like on my thumb so I would not suck it. He would tape my thumb or my arm or to my body so I would not suck my thumb and tell me only “faggots” and “sissies” (words he often used to describe me and my brothers that I never understood) sucked their thumbs, or he would simply punch me out. I had sucked my thumb since I was a baby to mitigate whatever I was feeling, and it was comforting to me. I finally stopped sucking my thumb a few years later because the kids in the neighborhood would tease me.
Then there was the weekend at my stepdad’s house that became one of the worst moments of my life. We were at one of the many parties held at my stepdad’s mother’s house. James Brown music was on, and everyone was dancing. My stepdad told everyone that “his sons” (referring to my brothers and me) could out-dance anyone at the party. So, he ordered us to dance. I do not know why he told everyone that we could dance, because I was shy and my brothers were also somewhat shy, especially outside our home. My stepdad kept insisting and ordering us to dance, to no avail. He was noticeably angry and upset that we did not follow his orders.
As soon as we got back home, I can remember him ordering us to take off our clothes, including our underwear, and he began beating us with a belt in an unbelievable rage. The beating was brutal and vicious. He also ordered us to call him “dad” with every lash to our naked bodies. He hit us with the belt until our bodies turned red. I was more terrified for my brothers, even though I was hurting, because I could see their terror and heard them screaming in a manner I had never seen before. My body went numb after the beating. He warned us that if we ever referred to him by any name other than “dad,” he would beat us.
After the beating, I was in a constant state of terror and extremely uncomfortable, especially when my biological dad would come to pick me and my brothers up. I did not want my biological father hearing me refer to another man as my dad; nor did I ever want to call anyone “dad,” except for my real father. I was terrified to even tell my real father what was going on because he did not live with us, and I believed that my stepdad would have killed me.
There were other instances of terror I experienced from my stepdad: he would choke me until I passed out on a regular basis because I refused to fight him back when he would punch on me, saying he was trying to make me tough. Sometimes I would follow his orders, and, if I got lucky and landed a good blow to his face, he would become infuriated and hit me harder, then still choke me until I passed out. This behavior went on for many years, until I was about 15.
I was stuck in a catch-22 situation; if I did not fight back, I got knocked out, and if I did fight back, I would get knocked out too. What made matters worse in my mind was that I assumed my mother just allowed this man to beat and abuse me, which added to all my fears and feelings of low self-worth. For some strange reason, I assumed that my mother never liked me, so going to her for help was not an option. I later found out that my mother never knew of the choking and punching that my stepfather inflicted on me.
There were also many times I was beaten with a belt and, in some cases, an extension cord. The beatings had a sort of ritual to them in that I was told to bend over with my pants down, exposing my skin. I was also told not to cover my “butt” with my hands when the lashes were rendered. In some instances, it appeared to me that my stepfather seemed to let off steam when he beat me, which only made for harsher lashes that seemed to go on forever.
These accounts of abuse are just a few examples of the environment I grew up in with my stepdad, and there were other traumas I had to endure that my mother was never aware of. Unfortunately for me as a young child, I did not have the cognitive abilities to differentiate and understand the physical and verbal abuse, or the mixed messages I received. All I knew was that I felt unsafe, intimidated, and afraid.
Moreover, I could not understand the interpersonal, environmental, or social factors that contributed to my mother’s and stepfather’s troubles, or their constant fighting and anger. As a result of the abusive and dysfunctional environment I lived in during my childhood, much of my perception of reality became very distorted.
What I hope you as the reader understand is that the sexual abuse and physical abuse became profoundly serious antecedents in the development of my self-image. When you read about my promiscuous and self-destructive behaviors later in the story, please be very mindful of the foundation of my internal thinking. It is easy to forget how someone develops their self-image. I also want to make it clear that we each develop resiliency, coping skills, and the ability to make good or bad choices as “individuals.” There are many who have been abused and made different choices along the way. Whether those choices are good or bad, we are uniquely wired to internalize the external world that will invariably shape our subconscious and conscious beliefs which drive our feeling and behaviors.
This book is not about excuses or blame, nor does it imply that. It is simply my story and a deep introspective process I had to complete to better myself. I have totally forgiven my stepdad, my father, and my mother, and honor and love them all. (I will expound more on how I was able to let go of my pain later in the story.) But, the bottom line is that as a child, I was a victim; however as adult, I am not.