1. The Birth of the Hyper-Vigilant Protector

The biological cost of a fractured anchor and the mechanics of self-protection

Our bodies carry a biological ledger of the environments we survive. In a predictable home, a child’s central nervous system rests at a stable, calm baseline. But when the initial conditions of a childhood are defined by addiction and volatility, the nervous system adapts by running hot. It calibrates itself to a state of constant, hyper-vigilant anticipation just to stay safe. In a house where the adults are the primary source of unpredictable danger, the central nervous system is forced to handle a massive, unmediated allostatic load. By the time I was a young boy, the machinery of my body was already being stretched to its limit.

The Signs

The scenario had already played out many times before.

When I was 9 years old, my mother began asking my father about something relating to money. At this point in my life, my central nervous system had become so in tuned with the micro nuances of my parents that I could tell within a few seconds if a serious fight was about to break out between them. My father’s tone, his facial expression, and his body movements were so easy for me to read. This would turn into one of the fights that would most likely end with the cops being called or someone hurt. Once the fight got going, my dad’s anger always became destructive.

A Smooth Operator

My childhood from the beginning wasn’t all bad. My earliest memories of my life, ages 3-6 were mostly happy memories. My dad was a true Okie. He worked in the oilfield his whole adult life and was a large, muscular man. He wore his hair long, a clear reflection of the hippie influences and rock music of his youth, and had terrible skin and teeth due to all the years of meth use. But as a young child, I didn’t care about any of that. My dad was cool. I looked up to him and wanted his approval and attention. He loved classic rock, and I remember him cranking the volume all the way up in the car whenever AC/DC or Pink Floyd came on, and sometimes he would even let me sit in his lap and “drive.” He took us fishing, taught me how to ride a bike, how to shoot a gun, and how to handle an overcorrecting car in the rain. Early on, my dad was someone I saw as very capable and safe. When he got home from work, I loved to lay on top of him on the couch, smelling his Old Spice deodorant as we watched the Discovery Channel and nature documentaries together. I was captivated by his world, and the things he liked, I liked. Classic rock, nature documentaries, and his deodorant are all things I still like to this day. My love for him was innate, and it was earned by his playful demeanor as well.

I had nothing but admiration for my father up through roughly age 7. It was about 2nd grade that a deep confliction began to grow in me. While I deeply desired connection with my father and loved so many things about him, he became that greatest source of my suffering in my childhood.

The Unanswered Scream

Back to the fight. In this incident, my father began doing his normal destructive routine. This time, he was screaming at my mom and began aggressively banging his head through the wall, breaking a large hole in the wall. I was terrified that he was going to hurt himself or my mother. I screamed out to God:

“Stop him, please!”

This episode would continue on for about another 20 minutes of incredibly intense fear for me. With every new fight, I began to fear more and more that my father would kill my mother or one of us in his rage. His anger was never directed at us explicitly, but in that house, getting in the way of his expression meant you were in danger.

This night, my brother, who is 3 years older than me, had enough and went and grabbed his shotgun. He threatened my father and said if he didn’t stop he’d shoot him. My father grabbed the gun and threw it into the yard, and the fight continued until the threat of calling the police was reached which always caused my father’s mind to begin the process of downshifting.

The Architecture of Manipulation

When the downshift finally happened, it was the part I hated the most. My father would become a sobbing mess. He would apologize for his behavior, hug all of us, and say how sorry he was and how he will never do this again.

I remember this particular night as the moment my body and central nervous system said “no more” and I no longer felt that sympathy. I just felt numbness. I also remember internalizing that emotional deep expressions cannot be trusted because of how manipulative they can be. So this 9-year-old boy started to see emotions as deeply dangerous and inherently untrustworthy.

This night was the changing point of how I would feel about my father. While I deeply loved him and wanted him to change, I was no longer going to believe his emotional apologies. He had to stop using drugs and abusing us emotionally and physically before I would trust him again and my admiration had turned to resentment.

The Silence from the Divine

My belief in God also changed that night. While we were never deeply religious and didn’t attend any church, I had always thought there was a God and that he cared about humans. I had never said a prayer out loud like that and begged God to intervene before, this was the first time. My young brain had decided that either one of two things was true. Either God didn’t care about me enough to intervene, or he wasn’t there.

Thus my disposition towards life began to shift. I no longer felt that I would ever be safe and there was no longer anyone to protect me, and I must protect myself.

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