I needed to understand it, dissect it, process it, and heal from it, but I was never given that chance until now.
Overcoming Monica’s Inflicted Abuse
What is trauma?
Trauma is being born to parents who never wanted you from the beginning. It’s trying to process and accept that fact as a toddler. It’s being intentionally passed off to anyone willing to take you in, while your biological parents choose to club, use drugs, party, and live freely without the “baggage” of their own children. It’s growing up so emotionally scarred that you silently accept your role as the black sheep. You come to believe that everything you say or do is wrong, that you deserve every punishment. Your uncle makes it clear that you are the bane of his existence—menacing, worthless, a coward in constant need of correction. Once I turned eight, the belts stopped. The fists began. He figured they were more efficient.
My only education during my first ten years on Earth was fear. Say the wrong thing? Beating. Make the wrong move? Beating. Get bad grades? Beating. Beating. Beating.My aunt, bless her heart, was the only one who ever showed me unconditional love and respect. When I turned ten, my father reappeared, a changed man, or so I thought. He wanted to assume responsibility and be a parent. That lasted for about a year. But trauma always seems to return when life starts to feel safe. It creates the illusion of peace, only to test its unsuspecting victims and measure their resilience.
Then one random day, my father simply never came home. A month passed. Our food ran low. My grandmother, calling from Oakland to check on us, was horrified to hear what was going on. She drove straight to Portland and brought my brother and me back to what I call “Super Ass Whuppin Land.” Now I was eleven. Just a week after returning to my aunt’s home, I met my biological mother, Monica Kay Jones-Trumble, for the first time. I thought my trauma was done testing me. The next day, Monica told my aunt she wanted to take my brother and me to go school shopping. My aunt agreed, unknowingly setting our kidnapping in motion. Once we were in Monica’s car, she turned to us and said, “Listen, you’re my kids. You’re coming home with me.”
Eight hours later, we pulled into a driveway where officers were waiting to take Monica to jail and place my brother and me in a foster home. Nine days later, trauma won again. California law says that if someone gives up temporary custody, they can legally reclaim their children whenever they want. So Monica did. I thought maybe, just maybe, the worst was over. How naive I was.
Six months later, I fell asleep in Monica’s bed and woke up to her touching me inappropriately. My eleven-year-old mind didn’t even register it as wrong. She always smelled like old lady piss to me. I felt powerless and insignificant until the day I refused her advances and threatened to tell my teacher what she was doing. Months later, I forced her to let me move in with my girlfriend. I needed to get away from her. I hated her. I wanted to stop everything I had been through. I needed to understand it, dissect it, process it, and heal from it, but I was never given that chance until now. Today, I’ve decided: all the trauma ends with me.
I didn’t deserve the abuse I endured, and I didn’t bring it upon myself. Monica hurt me. Aaron hurt me. You are both forgiven, not for your sake, but for mine. If we are products of our environment and past experiences, then the world deserves to know what you’ve done. And by making peace with it, I no longer allow your actions to control or define me. Now, I live with morals and standards. I strive to be the example, not the excuse. I choose to lead by example and always with principle.
How else can one explain that getting attacked with a lock, upside my head, not only saved my life but changed my thinking, my behavior, and brought my family back into my life? Like a test, God allowed the devil to attack me—and I allowed it to destroy me, because I had lost my faith in everything. My brain surgery had a profound effect on my perception and decision-making. It made me realize how horrible, thoughtless, immature, and selfish I was in the past. I hate who I was. I hate that my childhood trauma turned me into a monster. I was afraid to face it, and I let that trauma guide my decisions. Now, I understand who I was, how I was hurting others, and most of all, how I was hurting myself. My surgery, my mental health work, my therapists, and my desire to be a better person have given me standards and a moral compass. I will never let myself go back to the old me. I pray to God that Christopher, my oldest son, Kimberly, my wife and the mother of my children, and the rest of the world give me a chance at redemption—so I can prove my potential to the son I let down and the woman I truly love. They deserve to know that I am no longer the person who failed them. I have faith that change will come, and I will make it happen because you are all worth it.
I am not my past, as God intended.
San Quentin built me back up.
San Quentin gave me my faith back.
All of this was by design, to open my eyes, change my ways, count my blessings, and live for them and for me.
I am only human, but I thank God every day that I became a Human of San Quentin.
Bio:
I have nine children and am currently married to Kimberly, the love of my life and mother of my three youngest daughters: Daisy, Xaniyah, and Jazmine. For a long time, I let my hurt and trauma lead me to poor decisions. By the time I entered prison, I was tired of hurting myself and others. Through the Enhanced Outpatient Program, ISUDT, brain surgery, and the help of clinicians and therapists, I finally learned that change is possible if I am willing.
I was willing.
I have healed.
I have changed.
