When I wrote the article about my PTSD as a Modern Warfare veteran, I was unsure how the public would take it. I debated for minutes whether I should put myself out there like that. Ultimately, I decided to post it. If I could help just one person, that was enough for me.
To my surprise, an absolute out-pour of love flooded my social media. I garnered one like on my Tweet - Nearly 100% more likes than average:
But love does not exist without the presence of hate. Reddit user, Kimpy22, shit on my grammar and called my experience a complete joke:
I'm well aware of my trash grammar, but what do you expect? I wish I had the privilege to sit at my kitchen table, learn what a verb is, and turn my homework in on-time. The hard truth is that not everyone gets to live marshmallow lives. I was in the trenches fighting a fucking free-for-all in a shipment yard. Structuring a proper sentence wasn't exactly my biggest concern.
Nevertheless, I stayed positive through it all. It only took that single like from @DwayneRetszby to confirm the capacity of my story; With the power of my grammatically incorrect words, I saved someone from taking their own life, presumably. But even after curing Dwayne, the bottomless pit in my stomach remained.
During the weekly meeting with my therapist, I had an epiphany. It was a memory I must've subconsciously stored in the deep depths of my brain. Modern Warfare wasn't the seed responsible for my PTSD; it was my time as an international (bound by a house) child spy…
I was 6-years-old when I first joined the high-profile agency so cleverly named Spy Club. The organization consisted of me…and that's it; It was a club of 1. As a spy, you must avoid developing intimate relationships of any kind — The exact reason why my father still hasn't hugged me.
Despite my age, I was the most talented spy on the force. Even in high traffic areas, like family parties, I had an uncanny ability to be completely invisible in plain sight. Being the complete mistake that I was, I quickly learned how to be seen but not heard. My parents didn't know it at the time, but they were grooming the perfect spy.
Fast forward: It's the summer of 2002. At this point, I'm eight years old with two years of experience under my belt. My Aunt Joanna and Uncle Fred were making their annual trip to Michigan. Every year they would stay in my room, leaving me to sleep in the moldy basement.
Although I despised my aunt and uncle for this, I managed to keep my cool and pounce on the opportunity to gain intel on my enemy. They arrived on a Friday afternoon. As they walked upstairs to place their bags down, I proceeded to follow and make small talk. I didn't care what they actually had to say; I was there to scout my newly arranged room. After making a mental map, I returned to my basement base.
That night we enjoyed a lovely supper at the local Chile's. Why Chile's, you ask? Because why take a chance on vacation when you can be guaranteed the same results, state-to-state.
The discussion was delightful. My aunt and uncle told stories of their plane getting delayed, ongoing issues conceiving a child, and being forced to file for bankruptcy. More importantly, though, I was informed that my parents would be taking my siblings shopping for the first half of Saturday without me. I knew right away; this would be my chance to gather serious intel.
The next day, I woke up at the crack of dawn. I hadn't been assigned a mission this significant since I found out where my parents hid the Christmas presents.
After my parents left, I shut the basement door to signal that I was going to take my daily nap. Without the knowledge of my aunt and uncle, I snuck upstairs to my room and hid under the bed. I was in place, ready to get some dirt on these motherfuckers.
About 30 minutes later, the two came frolicking into the room. I could hear them confirm with each other that I had returned to the basement. Everything was going exactly to plan.
My aunt then said, "Remember what we did last time we stayed in this room?" My uncle responded, "Oh, I remember. A camera in that corner and another over there."
I fucking knew it: They planted cameras in my room! The tables were turned. Who were they working for, and why were they spying on me? Was it the Russians? It had to be the Russians. I begin to sweat profusely as my mind races. Then all of a sudden:
**squeak…..squeak…..Squeak….Squeak…Squeak..SQUEAKSQUEAKSQUEAKSQUEAK**
"What the fuck is going on?" I thought. During my mild panic attack, did I miss an argument? Were they physically fighting on my bed? Next came the screams, but not screams of pain…"Are they…are they fucking on top of my Space Jam sheets?!? They are!!" I realized.
I was stuck with nowhere to go. My uncle had the stamina of a Nigerian marathon runner. For two and a half hours straight, they went at it, only taking breaks to prop the cameras back up. All I could do was lay there and listen to my own family go to work. My loud sobbing was canceled out by my uncle as he proceeded to beat bricks. After it all came to an end, they both cleaned themselves up with my favorite hoodie, only to refold it and place it back in my drawer.
I never was quite the same after that. I quit spying the very next day. My parents never understood why an 8-year-old child would choose to sleep on the basement couch rather than his king-sized bed. I was a broken child. I had nowhere to turn, no one to tell. But 17 years later, I feel it's time to let the public know. Like my Modern Warfare article, if I can help just a single person who experienced a similar situation, I can consider this a success. Just know, kid under the bed, things get better.
**Please share this article. You never know who's life it may save.**