PTSD

WARNING:  Physical abuse of a child, discussed in general terms.

Summary: Malcolm, as a young man, reflects on abuse suffered as a child.

Author's note: Some eerie sections of "Silent Enemy" and "Shuttlepod One" inspired this story.

From Silent Enemy: (writer: Andre Bormanis):

MARY REED [on monitor]: Is he all right?
ARCHER: He's fine.
STUART REED [on monitor]: Is he in some kind of trouble?
ARCHER: No, sir. Malcolm's doing a great job. I'm sure you know it's his birthday in a couple of days.
MARY REED [on monitor]: Yes, yes, it is. September 2nd.
STUART REED [on monitor]: We haven't seen our son on his birthday for quite a few years.
MARY REED [on monitor]: He called from San Francisco to let us know he'd been assigned to Enterprise but we haven't heard from him since.
STUART REED [on monitor]: What are Malcolm's duties on your ship, Captain?
ARCHER: He's my Armoury Officer.
STUART REED [on monitor]: Well, his grandfather would be pleased. He was an ordinance officer himself in the Royal Navy.
ARCHER: It must be in Malcolm's blood.
MARY REED [on monitor]: The Reeds have been navy men for generations.
STUART REED [on monitor]: Until Malcolm decided to join Starfleet. I suppose the ocean wasn't big enough for him.
ARCHER: He's a long way from home in any case, Mister Reed. I'd like to do something for his birthday, make him a special dinner. I was hoping you could tell me what he likes to eat.
MARY REED [on monitor]: Captain, Malcolm's never been comfortable making requests.
ARCHER: I'm not sure I understand.
STUART REED [on monitor]: He always ate whatever was put in front of him.
ARCHER: Are you saying he doesn't have a favorite food?
MARY REED [on monitor]: Not that he's ever told me.

From Shuttlepod One (writers: Brannan Braga and Rick Berman):

(Malcolm is presumably writing a letter to his parents):

MALCOLM REED: Captain Archer claims you told him you weren't even aware that I was serving on Enterprise. I find that difficult to believe . . . . [Y}ou must have spoken to Aunt Sherry during that period, and I know she received my letters. I would hate to go to my death thinking that either of you felt I was trying to avoid . . .

  No offense intended towards any person.

 PTSD

The man's heart is a shriveled prune. Certainly my father has some excuses  He was never coddled as a child, as he never ceases to remind us. Indeed, at family gatherings Grandma often waxes poetic about the salutary effects of a "good old-fashioned flogging." 

My father's obvious discomfort with these tales was not enough to dissuade him from continuing the tradition.    

"Get the strap!" my father would bellow, at random peaceful moments. Years later, I still cringe at the sight of anything similar.

In the Reed "home" a searing assault on the backside was fair punishment for . . .  well . . . almost anything. Once I had left my socks on the floor. Once I took a bite of my pudding before the whole family had been served. . .  .

Ironically the biggest crimes of childhood went under the radar. Maddie and I were adept at secrecy.  It had seemed more prudent to steal that old holo-viewer, rather than explain why it suddenly listed a "viewed program" not on the history channel.   

If Stuart had been paying more attention, he might have noticed how we stashed his viewer with the cleaning supplies. He might have been amused to learn that his boy's worst vice was a fascination with the stars of Inter-World Westling. He might also have noticed that his strict upbringing had produced a boy who was unfailingly polite, stoic in the face of physical pain, and committed to duty.

He should have been proud, but he was clearly disappointed.  

And it wasn't as if the man was incapable of love. Stuart seemed to love Maddie. With my sister, he'd been merciful. Her few "floggings" ended quickly. My father would wilt at the first howl of pain.  "Let that be a warning!"  he'd shout with mock sternness. The only time she really got it good was the time she vainly tried to intercede on my behalf.

And where was mom on that occasion? Off  wailing in some corner.  

I suppose, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. I no longer need his approval. I'm certain that I can serve more productively in space than on Earth's oceans. (No offense to the Navy men.)  

I'm a credit to my family, whether they ever acknowledge it or not.  

It was Aunt Sherry who saved me. Almost no one knew what was happening. Why would a child publicize his "flogging"? The few friends I told seemed startled. "Don't you mean a 'spanking'?" Calvin asked me warily. It all sounded incredible to playmates who'd never experienced anything worse than a few swats on the bottom.  My father seemed so civilized.

One day in the 6^th grade, I had to spend a weekday at Aunt Sherry's house. I'd been suspended from school. While in her care, she noticed bruises and started asking questions.  Reluctantly, I spilled the story, torn between hope and shame.  Perhaps I'd found an ally who could help me out of this nightmare?      

I'd wrestled a bully at school. Brought him to the ground with a Vulcan V-Hook and finished him off with Gornzilla Tail Slap. Of course I expected the suspension, but crazily I also expected a wink and a pass from the man who'd often bragged about his schoolyard brawls. Instead, my father reacted by hurting his adolescent son worse than any bully ever would again.

Aunt Sherry told me I needn't be ashamed. At least not of my punishment.  My father was the one who ought to be ashamed.  Floggings in the Royal Navy were illegal, she reminded. Had been for centuries. And didn't a 12-year-old boy have at least as much right to safety as sailors in the Royal Navy?

I stayed with my aunt two days. Following a flurry of hushed phone calls, she pulled me aside: "I've put your father on notice. He's promised to never hurt you again, and if he does, you must tell me."  I nodded solemnly, leaking tears of relief. Then remarkably, my stern aunt hugged me.

My father regarded me gruffly when I returned home. "Sherry thinks I've been a little rough on you, boy. So I've agreed to try it her way. I hope I'm not making a mistake." It was the closest thing to an apology that I would ever get.

Years later, I learned that my father could have been dishonorably discharged if domestic abuse charges had been filed and proven. If that had happened, I would have never seen Malaysia, would have never been a Navy brat, could not have used my Navy preparedness as a stepping stone to Starfleet. Yet I sometimes fantasize about an alternate reality in which my father was forced to face what he'd done.

In Malaysia, the horrors of the past faded like a bad dream. My life improved dramatically for a number of reasons. Primarily because I discovered girls.  The comings and goings of various girlfriends through the house put Mr. Reed on his best behavior, and he seemed impressed with their quality. Once I even heard him remark to my mother, "I never dated anyone that pretty." A moment later he amended:  "Other than you." Both my parents laughed. It seemed as if I'd joined a normal family.

But I don't entirely trust that.

Part of my motivation for joining Starfleet is to be part of something larger than myself. I do want to make my family proud, but failing that, I will strive to make you all proud.

So that's my story. The health instructor suggested this assignment might help with my PTSD.

Malcolm Reed, Starfleet Recruit.   

*********************************************************************************************************************

 Malcolm read the paper over several times. He was satisfied. He pushed "DELETE"