I'm 5-years-old and it's time for my first "trauma memory". I'm sleeping in my original 6-by-8 bedroom. This room was the official second bedroom in what was called a "railroad" apartment--4 rooms in a straight row with no enclosed hallways. It had a window between the kitchen and main bedroom (hard to call it "master" at 8-by-10) and another window between the "Front" (living) Room and the tiny second bedroom--to this day I do not know the purpose of those windows--my mom hid them with curtains on both sides of each. I would soon move to the front room to sleep on a "studio" couch, where I remained for the next 15 years. It was sometime during the night when I woke up to my father ranting and my mother crying in the kitchen which was approximately 15 feet from my bed. Suddenly, I heard my mother pleading, "please don't" and then saw her run around my bed. My father followed with a knife in his hand, he on my left and my mom on the right. Mom dropped to her knees, held onto my right arm, and pleaded to me: "Sidney, please help me". I didn't know what to do or say--now I draw a blank. My next recollection was the feeling of helplessness and guilt for not being able to protect my poor defenseless and saintly mother. I do distinctly remember vowing to become my mother's protector and I actually prayed for the strength to fulfill my newly-appointed role. That day came 10 long years later, much too late to save my mom from hundreds of incidents of both physical and mental abuse. During each incident following the nightmare night, I remember wanting to jump in and hurt my father as he had hurt my mom. I did jump in at one point, not with fists raised, not with threats, but with a demand: "Leave my mother alone". As expected, he came after me, but my mother wouldn't allow it and had to suffer another beating. In these very early years I learned quickly that any protective action on my part would only lead to further abuse of my mom. Unfortunately, my inability to act only magnified my hatred and rage and led me to fantasize on how and when I would end the madness. I wasn't contemplating a "kill", but I had a committed plan to hurt my father, badly hurt him, so that he would no longer be capable of touching my mother. At this point, a short tribute to my mother is important to disclose. She was a woman devoted to her children. She was one of those battered women, whose profile was the belief that she could change an alcoholic into a fully-functional and productive human being. My father was a fully-developed alcoholic when she met him. Had she had known then what we know now, she might have had some clue that reforming a "lost cause drunk" was next to impossible. Neither she nor my father had any idea of what alcoholism was and its long-term devastating impact on the family unit. She feared leaving my father because she had no family support system or job to feed and shelter her children--she was trapped and even now, in the 21st Century, there are battered women who still believe there is no way out. Yet, she claimed to love him--she didn't mourn his passing--she was now in peace--she did however, visit his grave regularly. She was never supportive of my obsession to see him die a painful death, and I too was resentful that she didn't have the courage and foresight of the life-long devastating impact on my sister and me, to leave. However, I choose to stifle my resentment and rather, respect my mom's belief that there was no way out. I can't honestly blame her for the emotional repercussions that resulted in my sister’s isolation. The only bright spot was my obsession to escape--escape from mental abuse, escape from an environment that fostered the behavior of my father and his cronies, and the sheltered borders of the old "New York Neighborhoods" that fostered no incentive to seek refuge and opportunities outside the "neighborhood". I do take credit for being a fighter and a survivor who had the courage to escape and seek the life portrayed on TV programs like "Father Knows Best", "The Donna Reed Show" and "Ozzie and Harriet". There is one undisputable fact, however, that my life had dramatically changed that night of near murder.