At the behest of my counselors, my parents did their damnest to keep me preoccupied. Preoccupation was essential and theraputic, when consistent. Give an ADHD’er an hour of unsupervised, unmedicated freedom and bad things happened. I was no different and in a lot of ways, worse. My impulsive actions growing up placed me in a plethora of odd, harrowing and dangerous situations that, by themselves seemed “normal” for that age but soon I realized they happened with an increasing frequency. With the burst of adrenaline associated with these situations, my mind was as clear in that moment as it would ever be. It was euphoric, enlightening and appeared to me (and still does) that I function at my coherant best when facing a “fight or flight” situation. So naturally, I put myself in these situations more and more. I did a lot of bad. Sometimes I got caught but mostly I got away with it. For that instance of adrenaline and endorphine rush, I was the smartest, fastest and coolest person on the face of this earth and I was untouchable. Or so I thought.
I wasn’t untouchable the evening I spent the night at a friends house, sometime during my 5th grade year and decided that at 3 in the morning we would take his fathers keys and drive his car around Lackland Air Force Base. Unfortunately for us we passed an MP without our lights on. He waved at us to stop but we plowed ahead, right into a large metal dumpster. We opened our doors and fled only to be caught and arrested for joyriding. We were only 10 years old. Needless to say my ass looked like that of a baboon for a few days and I was grounded until the next winter solstice.
It was clear then to my parents that I needed more than baseball and school to occupy my time. My violent outbursts at home as well as at school resulted in excessive paddling and many instances of “running away.” Typically, I would disappear for about an hour or two. Sometimes longer. Once it was for 3 months. On more than one occasion I threatened suicide and was even found (as I had planned) hanging by my neck from the clothes rack in my closet by my mother. She slapped me across the head, told me dinner was ready and I lived another day. I never seriously attempted to leave this plane but I’ve never really found it very comfortable living here either.
They enrolled me into piano lessons, arts and crafts, boyscouts, sunday school and church. I went to summer camp, winter camp, baseball camp. All to no avail. Baseball was a given. A ritual necessity for the whole family. But as in all other aspects of my life that too saw the best and worst of me. I was prone to games of brillance, followed by horrendous play. I threw bats, got into fights, was thrown out of games and even disciplined right on the field for my impulsive, angry outbursts. It was a viscious cycle of violence, followed by incredible affection (guilt perhaps). Of a heavenly peace one minute and Damian the next.
While perusing the youth center one day I stumbled across a martial arts class in progress. Not permitted to enter the dojo I sat just outside, watching the syncopated movements, the rapid strikes and kicks and the unison chants of “Ki aye”. The sensei, a portly and short man, who wore a thick beared and had piercing blue eyes, made his way in and around the class as they continued their lesson.
Mark Nichols always spoke in Japanese when speaking to his class. Discipline, it was immediately apparent to me, was the key to success as a martial artist as well as in life, as my parents tried so desparately to show me. I knew in an instant that I would be standing in the next class.
Over the next 4 yrs I would dedicate myself to Mark Nichols and the “Bushido School of the Japanese Martial Arts.” The style was Kobodo-jitsu with an emphasis on combat and weaponry. I immediately became a wiz with the nunchaku and progressed rapidly earning my green belt within 2 years. I also racked up quite a few trophies for placing in weapons kata and kumite (fighting). The pinacle came when I placed 3rd in kumite at the US Amateur Karate Championship in Houston at age 13 in my division. A few hours later I was inches from falling 13 stories from the roof top of our hotel in downtown Houston. Needing an adrenaline fix I took the elevator to the top floor and made my way to the stairs which opened up high on the rooftop of our hotel. Followed closely by an entourage of kids I made my way to the edge and looked over just as a mysterious gust of wind thrust me forward leaving me flapping my arms in reverse as fast as I could, at a 45 degrree on the ledge of the enormous hotel. Then I was pulled back by one of the assistant instructors, who was no older than I. I lay on the deck of the roof for what seemed an eternity. I thought my heart was gonna spring from my chest like “Alien”. I believe I cried for a few minutes and made my way downstairs to the safety of my hotel room. Or so I thought.
Mark Nichols took me under his wing almost immediately. We went everywhere together. He taught me about respect, discipline and self-control. He lectured me about obeying my parents. He even threatened me. He stayed in close contact with my parents and kept them abreast of my training and behavioral issues. Mom and Dad were immediately impressed and noticed a change within the first months of training. They both remember this period as some of the most peaceful and productive of my young life. I stayed in baseball and continue to relish this new peace within. I was in awe of this man who magically “cured” me from my impulsive, angry outbursts and helped me focus my energy on the positive, on the arts and on success and growth. My grades improved, I continued to progress in rank and eventually was helping the new students in the class. On report of a problem at school I would not only get a whipping at home but have to take one from Mark as well. I would bow into to the dojo only to feel Mark’s cold eyes fixed on me up until I was called to the center ring where he punched and kicked me into submission.
This happened more times than I could count. He would also have the other students/instructors punish me in similar fashion. My 6th grade school year was spent in Ft Worth with grandma but after Dad’s return from the Phillipines we moved back to Lackland and continued our life there. I was eager to continue with my training, as my parents were eager for me to resume my tempered behavior, which had become quite irrational up in cowtown during Dad’s absence. Even a heavy dose of good pentecostal discipline didn’t keep me from stirring up trouble at grandma’s house. This culminated in the worst butt-whooping up to this point when I, a sixth grader, pissed off a well-known 5th grade bully (he had 20 + lbs on me) whereby I was punched repeatedly in the face during a football game until I was bloodied and dazed. I remember well my mother standing over me, chewing me out for running my mouth and instigating the whole mess. She needn’t worry, I thought. My lips won’t move for a few days anyway for they swelled so large even Mick Jagger would be envious.
But Dad was back, Mom was happier than she’d ever been and we were heading home to San Antonio. By the eighth grade I was a brown belt. One belt away from black. It was a moment I longed for and knew it was just a matter of time. Mark Nichols continue being my “second father” and continued to impress my parents with his control over me. For a spell, when I became raucheous my folks even resorted in threatening to call Mark and tell him of my antics, which usually stopped the situation or reversed the behavior in it’s tracks. I still had my moments but they were few and far between. Achieving shodan status was the most important goal ever in my life up to that point and I wouldn’t let my erratic behavior jeopardize that.
Everything changed for me after a particular weekend outing at Canyon Lake, although I didn’t realize why until much later. Most of the class had attended this particular outing at our usual spot on the lake. Spread out in 3 cabins along the shore one night, most of the students slept. In our cabin were myself, students Dee, Chris C, Stacey C, Mark, his girlfriend and another male acquaintance. We kids were running around here and there while the adults were sitting at a table consuming large amounts of alcohol and spewing larger amounts of inappropriate sexual lingo. These conversations peaked my interests and I listened intently. I giggled at the talk of sex then proclaimed that I knew more about it than they thought, which I didn’t. No sooner did that lie fly from my lips did I find myself being walked into the back bedroom by Mark’s girlfriend. This was pretty damned exciting for a thirteen year old, I must admit. She immediately challenged my false prowess by removing her pants, then her panties, spreading her legs and slowly pushing my head into her crotch. She gave me a lesson in the fine art of oral sex although she never reciprocated. I am not sure if that pissed me off then but it sure does today. I remember tasting strawberry flavoring, like she had rubbed lip gloss or something down there before my pilgramage into the deep, dark somewhat malodorant forest.
I didn’t remember anything else that happened later that night for a full 15 + years. The pieces were filled in during a recurrent dream of sodomy some years later. That dream then became entrenched in my waking moments. Then one day, it revealed it’s first and only other character besides me. It was Mark Adair Nichols. It was Mark Nichols who entered my room later that night to sodomize me and threaten me if I told anyone. It was Mark Nichols who assured my inherently agressive nature would turn violent, but this time directed not towards inanimate objects as had been the norm but towards those I love, my friends, the innocent. I trusted no one, not even my family. I was now armed and ready. Ready to take on anyone who threatened me in any way. Fear permeated my existence. To build a wall and to stand guard just inside it was my priority now. No one will ever penetrate it’s walls ever again to get to me. Those who would try would face a violent thumping. I enterend a new world after that night on Canyon Lake. I didn’t even realize why until much later. Looking back, it was effective in keeping me safe but I also realized that while it kept the unsavory out, it also kept out those I loved and kept me locked inside a dark, unforgiving, unloving place.
From around the time this particular horror came to light, around age 27, I started carrying a 45 cal bullet with me. I would purchase the gun after determining Mark’s where-abouts. I envisioned the marking M.A.N. on the metal casing for Mark Adair Nichols. For he was no man but a sick freak who would get what’s coming to him, if only I could find him. Subsequently it was determined that Mark Nichols had raped or molested several young boys in that class. One in particular, CB appeared to have gotten the worst of it, when Mark Nichols conned his family into allowing him to stay at their place, where he repeatedly molested CB over a 2 year period.
I suppose because I immediately buried the incident in my subconscious, I stayed with the class and continued towards my black belt. Coincidentally, almost a year to the day later, I receive a “speed letter” from Sensei Nichols stating that I would soon test for my black belt and that I should start my preparations. I was witness to the indoctrination of DDP during her blackbelt testing, the thought of what she endured that day haughted me. DD was pummeled by 3 instructors for a half hour straight. Bloodied and bruised with tears flowing, not from pride mind you but from pain and humiliation, DD gracefully accepted her black belt. Now it was my turn. In hindsite I guess all Mark had on his mind was what was going through mine. Had I snitched on him? What did I remember? Did I know or understand the horrors perpetrated against me that night on Canyon Lake? I hadn’t. It was tucked safely in my subconscious but Mark didn’t know that.
In any event, Mark Nichols, DD and Sensei S. commenced to pounding me into submission. No gloves were used but the fingers were taped to prevent gouging of the eyes. And for one half hour I was beaten to a pulp until I lay on the mat crying uncontrollably and bleeding profusely. After gaining my composure, I was awarded my black belt, oblivious now of the ass whooping I just received but filled with pride at achieving such a distinct honor. I had made it. I would go forward and share my knowledge and skills with others. I would now stand side by side with the other instructors with honor, pride and a new-found discipline that would change my life for the better. Or so I thought.
