A scream burst from his lips in the darkness of the night, and he woke up in tears. I awoke with worry and ran straight to my parents’ room to find my father sitting up in agony with my mom behind him in a comforting way.

I heard her whisper in his ear, “I’m taking you tomorrow morning first thing.”

 As I crept into the room, tears streaming down my face, in fear, my mother held out her arms as if to say everything is alright.

 I asked in my young voice, “What’s wrong with him?”

She said as if all was going to be ok, “Your father just had a nightmare, sweetheart. Go on back to bed.”

 Scared, I questioned, “Then where are you going first thing tomorrow?” in my sassy little voice.

 My mom, giving me all the reality, I needed at my age said, “We are going to the hospital to get your father tested for a disorder.”

More concerned about my eleven-year-old self at this point, I asked what she was going to do with my brother and me, not what disorder or why or how long they were going to be gone or even showing care for him. The next day, they left at 8 am, leaving my brother and me home alone. They came back at 2 after visiting three different hospitals with the same response every time. They looked so tired and frightened, my mom almost pale from the news, that when they came home they went straight to their room to bring themselves together emotionally.

It was around 6 pm that same day my father took my brother to his friends’ house telling him on the way there. I can’t even imagine his reaction. How painful it must’ve been for Austin only thirteen years old and to spend the night with his friend, having to keep all this emotion to himself and all the questions he had that were left unanswered in that short ten-minute car ride there.

Me, on the other hand, was left with my mom to tell me why this man I live with who was always either angry or sad, always leaving me confused. She sat me down on the big tan couch and sat close to me, almost as to touch my hand. She already had tears forming in her eyes, and I thought to myself, He must be dying. That is when she took my hand and whispered into my ear seven of the worst words I could ever here.

 Those words were “Your daddy has Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.” 

The very first thing I screamed to my poor heartfelt mama right there was “He’s no daddy of mine!”

 I ran to my room and locked it.  I locked it knowing that he was never going back to the way he was before, the loving caring man who always knew how to cheer up a crowd. Now, he is the man who stays home in pain without a need to smile. The next thing I did, which I don’t regret but wish I could, I jumped out that window and ran and ran and ran. I was in tears; I couldn’t control them knowing I’d never be “Daddys little girl” again.

I didn’t understand a thing about this disorder or what it really is. I kept thinking to myself, I’m not going back. All I knew is the diagnosis of PTSD took my love for my father, and that it hurt. It hurt a lot, and it still does today. Five hours later, I returned home after many tears. It was 11 pm and everyone had already gone to bed assuming I had been in my room the whole time when I was really at my friend Hannah’s house letting her comfort me.

Running back home was the most difficult thing to do, knowing soon I’d have to confront my parents about this. Still in tears as I climbed back through that window, I wondered when the next time would be that I’d wake up to his screams. Even after all these years it still hurts to watch him slowly break down, losing himself and me.