GOD-JESUS-WILD HORSES

By Michael Lee Johnson

God-Jesus-Wild Horses is not your normal story, but rather a culmination of my thoughts and feelings during my first year of intense psychotherapy for childhood-related post-traumatic stress disorder issues, and how my belief in God, Jesus, and wild horses gave me the strength to survive the torture and humiliation I was forced to endure. My therapist asked me to write down my thoughts and when I started, I could not stop. I wrote and wrote and the more I wrote, the more memories and intrusive thoughts would come to mind. It was as if I didn't have any choice in this matter, I had to get the thoughts out of my head and onto paper; otherwise, I was sure I would go completely insane. The more I wrote, the more I was encouraged by my treatment team to publish my writings. My primary goal in publishing is to help others that did go through similar experiences and/or to help those that are currently being abused. My abuse was physical, emotional, and sexual at the hands of my father. I was brought up to honor thy father and mother and didn't fully comprehend what my father was doing was wrong. I thought since he was my father, he had every right to treat me however he chose and my punishment was warranted because I was not able to do anything right. I thought I had a defective brain. The person that was put on earth to love and care for me didn't just abuse me, he tortured me using all means that were available to hurt and humiliate and try to do whatever it took to break my spirit. My father never did break my spirit because God, Jesus, and wild horses were always there for me when I needed them the most.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 18, 2017
• ISBN: 9781640280885

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God-Jesus-Wild Horses

Michael Lee Johnson

ISBN 978-1-64028-087-8 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64028-089-2 (Hard Cover)

ISBN 978-1-64028-088-5 (Digital)

Copyright © 2017 by Michael Lee Johnson

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.

296 Chestnut Street

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Prologue

The material you are about to read is true and was written by my husband, Michael Lee Johnson. My husband has been formally treated for post-traumatic stress disorder since 1986 due to combat-related experiences suffered in Vietnam. Every year, Mike goes through an anniversary period that begins in November and lasts through January of the following year, where he has a difficult time coping with the onslaught of memories and becomes more depressed and withdrawn than usual.

This past year was different. My husband became so depressed and withdrawn that I was very concerned due to the fact he was crawling deeper and deeper into the impenetrable shell he had created around himself. The depression became so severe that eventually my husband also became seriously concerned about his mental state of mind and finally divulged some of the secrets he kept locked up inside his mind for decades; due to the fact, his flashbacks and nightmares had changed from events that occurred during Vietnam, to events that occurred from age two to eighteen.

He had been severely abused when growing up in all three areas—physically, emotionally and sexually. From the time he was two years old, until the time he entered the military, he lived a life that is almost impossible for many of us to believe. I was totally shocked when the truth finally came out about his childhood and I think most readers will be shocked beyond belief.

Mike was two years old in 1951 when the abuse began. The torture he experienced just isn’t allowed to happen in this day and age, but is it?

Even though agencies were in place to aid children that grew up in an abusive home, the rules were different in the land of cowboys and Indians. Several members of the community where he was growing up knew part of what was going on, but just didn’t do anything to stop the abuse. As a rule, most individuals in the area did not want to have anything to do with Mike’s father, Howard R. Johnson, due to the fact he was an alcoholic. As a result, he was always drunk or fighting and gambling and running from the authorities in his fast cars. Although young Michael was asked by various individuals about his life at home, he was too fearful of his father to tell the truth about his experiences, so no one that was able to help him could exert their authority.

Once the truth came to light about my husband’s past, we immediately took steps to seek additional therapy services for my husband, and although it took several months to get set up, he has been in extensive treatment since October of 2015 and will be for an indefinite period of time. He attends four therapy sessions a week, two individual and two groups and little by little, with each week that passes, he is improving. His abuse didn’t end in a few months, or a few years, and neither will his treatment. It will continue for an undetermined length of time.

Early on, his therapists asked him to write down some of his thoughts and feelings, possibly because it is so much easier to write about experiences that hurt, than to initially discuss in person. For whatever reason, he began writing and writing and writing some more and the result is thousands upon thousands of words that will put the reader through a roller-coaster ride of emotions. Much of his writing will undoubtedly anger you that a child should be treated so horrifically. There are portions so sad it may bring tears to your eyes, but there are also sections that may make you laugh out loud.

When you are a child dealing with a sexual predator, you are not in control of your life, they are; and it doesn’t matter what you could or would have done differently, the abuse will continue until such time as you ask for help.

Readers will wonder how the terrible things you are about to read could possibly have happened without someone coming to my husband’s rescue, but the answer is simple. The area he lived in was only populated by a handful of families with all sorts of acreage available where no one could see and/or hear you.

His writings were prepared for his therapists so there is no real chronological order to what Mike wrote. As time passed and more and more people read his thoughts, he was encouraged to publish a book to share the material. My first reaction when he stated he would like to publish his words was we would have to spend a lot of time putting what he wrote into some sort of chronological sequence for the reader. I also suggested cleaning up the writing by correcting the spelling, grammatical errors, and changing the wording on some items. The more I thought about my suggestions, the more I rejected them and aside from adding some caps where they belonged, and making as few corrections as possible, I left what he wrote intact.

My husband wrote what he wrote from his heart, in a way he felt comfortable writing, using words he chose. Who am I, or anyone else to try to change his thoughts and feelings? If his writings were originally intended as a book, then I would feel comfortable making many of the changes myself, or having a professional make the necessary changes but the fact is; the following wasn’t written as a book, it was written as a compilation of his thoughts and feelings during a very dark period in his life and the material should be released as written to have the most impact on those it may come to assist.

Individuals that suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder have difficulty concentrating, which is apparent in my husband’s writings, based on how he skips from one subject to another, and in some instances, repeats himself.

A little background may help the reader follow the sequence: Mike grew up in the Bullard Chapel area, a farming community located approximately eight miles from the town of Tishomingo, Oklahoma, roughly fifty miles from the Texas border. The town of Tishomingo was named after Chief Tishomingo, the Chickasaw Indian Chief that died of smallpox on the Trail of Tears. Tishomingo is the capital of the Chickasaw Nation.

Mike was the eldest of five children, with two younger sisters and two younger brothers. The five children lived with their parents on a 160-acre dairy farm near their paternal grandparents, who lived on a 260-acre farm. His grandparents were pillars of the community. The grandmother taught grade school at numerous local schools, while the grandfather taught at the high school and college level.

Not too long after returning from Vietnam, Mike was hospitalized due to the fact he wasn’t able to keep solid foods down, a result of living with the ARVN’s (Army of the Republic of Vietnam) while in country rather than with the American’s and eating the ARVN diet.

In the early 1970s, after months of PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder) symptoms, he finally sought medical treatment; but PTSD was not added to the DSM, Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, published by the American Psychiatric Association, until the 1980s. As a result, Mike was the recipient of numerous mental disorder labels, and little treatment was available to him for the first fifteen years after he returned from the war. Once PTSD was finally recognized as a disorder affecting many Vietnam veterans, PTSD treatment centers were opened at veterans’ hospitals around the country and in 1986, Mike was admitted for his first in-patient treatment for the disorder.

During the fifteen-year period of sporadic treatment, Mike was married four times for various lengths of time and all four marriages ended in divorce, which is understandable. It’s not easy staying married to someone that has all the symptoms a person with severe PTSD develops.

I am his fifth wife and next year we will celebrate our twentieth wedding anniversary, although we have been together for a much longer period.

I met Mike in 1986 when he was first admitted to the PTSD unit. My mother and I would often bring buckets of Kentucky Fried Chicken up to the patients on that unit and spend the evening visiting with them. Mike and I became card partners and a friendship developed.

Due to circumstances beyond his control, a court-appointed visitation supervisor was necessary, and I became the court-appointed visitation supervisor for his young son, until joint custody was determined by the courts. Since I didn’t know anything about PTSD, I spent a great deal of time studying the disorder, only to realize the medical professionals were also in the dark about the disorder. I was so interested in the disorder that I even telephoned, Jim Goodwin, Psy.D., the author that wrote the brochure published by the DAV (Disabled American Veterans) to bring a greater understanding of the disorder to veterans. That’s when I came to the realization that PTSD treatment was all determined by trial and error. Thirty years later, not very much has changed; treatment is still by trial and error, but one fact is clear. Veterans who have been abused as children have a much higher incidence of developing PTSD symptoms.

With each day that passes, the medical community is learning more and more about PTSD and how to treat it. My husband has been involved in inpatient and outpatient treatment for the past thirty years, with little progress; yet in the past twelve months of treatment by a new treatment team and new methods of treatment, he is showing dramatic progress.

PTSD does not just affect war veterans; anyone that has experienced a traumatic event—police, firefighters, victims of rape, accident victims, etc.—can develop PTSD symptoms and it’s so important to obtain early treatment. Vietnam combat veterans could not obtain early treatment as none was available, but there is new and improved treatment available now and any veteran out there that has problems coping, due to traumatic events experienced, needs to reach out for help. So, if you are a veteran, or if you know of any veteran that is experiencing PTSD symptoms, please reach out as help is available at www.va.gov

When you come to the end of Mike’s material, you will come across pages written by my brother, also a veteran of the Vietnam war, who passed away in 2002. The pages included are from a multi-page letter he wrote to me and my siblings many decades ago. We more or less went our separate ways after our parents passed away and it was my brother’s hope his letter would bring our family back together.

We have included some of the pages from his letter because of Pat’s unique description of the country of Vietnam, the people in the country, and the war. As you will be able to tell from my brother’s words, his unit was the cream of the crop and what I believe is so important about his letter is the fact that even the best of the best were not able to handle the stresses of the Vietnam war.

Mike’s goal is to assist others, and his thinking is perhaps something he wrote will help someone to understand there is help there, but you must put your fears aside and ask for it. A person that has been physically, sexually and/or emotionally abused as a child has very strong feelings of guilt, remorse, shame, and most of all, the feeling they were at fault. If they did something different, that abuse wouldn’t have happened, etc.

The same is true of veterans; there is so much guilt, remorse, and shame associated with war, and most of all, the feeling that if something was done differently, various members of their unit might still be alive, or may not have been injured.

The help these individuals so desperately need is available. If you have been emotionally, sexually, or physically abused, or if you suffered a traumatic event that is coming back to haunt you, please find the courage to finally ask for help, as your life may depend on it.

My husband is interested in the reaction individual readers will have towards his writings so we have set up the following e-mail address for any questions or comments you may have, or any well wishes you may want to send to him: [e-mail]

- PJ

Chapter 1

God-Jesus-Wild Horses

Michael Lee Johnson

My story as written to my therapists on how I survived physical, emotional and sexual abuse as a child and

combat-related post-traumatic stress disorder as an adult

I can remember back to when I was about two years old. I got thrown around and kicked a lot. We lived on the farm with my daddy’s parents, but we lived in a separate old house. It had a sheet iron roof and we had no heat for a while and then later we had a Dearborn Propane Heater. At that time, we didn’t have an outdoor toilet so we went in the woods. We didn’t have toilet paper for some years and then one year, grandad built an outhouse, but first he had me take a shovel and dig a hole for it in the ground. Before that, we had a ceramic bed pot for night and in the daytime, we went in the woods.

When I was about five or six, I got a BB gun and I decided it would be cool to shoot the bedpan and it made cracks in the porcelain in the bedpan and I got whipped with a surcingle. A surcingle is a wide leather strap that hangs over the back of a cow and the bottom of it is steel and you hang the milk bucket on it. I got whipped with the leather part which goes over the cows back. We did not have a pipe line or a milk tank to hold the milk. We had ten-gallon cream cans that would hold ten gallons of milk. So, we poured up all the milk in them and put lids on them and since we had no way to cool it, a Colvert’s orange-and-white milk truck came around late every morning and late every afternoon and the milkman and I would load all the cream cans of milk on the truck. He had to come twice a day because we had no way to cool the milk. And, when I was a teenager, Daddy traded a milk cow for two milk bottling machines and several quart milk bottles.

So, after milking the cows, I would put the milk bottles under the machine and I would pull down a lever which would stamp and seal a white milk top into the bottle. For gallons of milk I would fill them with milk, put a piece of waxed paper inside the screw-on lid and screw it shut. We got 25 cents for a quart of milk and 75 cents for a gallon. After I bottled all the milk, Dad would haul me to the cafés and stuff in the towns and I would deliver all the milk and he would collect the money. We sold a lot more quarts because we delivered to several homes. My dad didn’t believe in credit except for himself so we always collected cash. You didn’t see $10 or $20 bills collecting milk, mostly change or dollar bills.

Then along came the Milk Producers Association. So, we sold some of our milk to them and we kept bottling milk and selling it. So, we sold as much milk as we could that I could bottle and the rest of it to the milk Producers Association.

I was often late for school because I couldn’t go to school until I had delivered all