PTSD

Christopher "PC" Smith

The ConTextos Authors Circle was developed in collaboration with young people who are at risk of, victims of or perpetrators of violence in El Salvador. In 2017, this innovative program expanded into Chicago to create tangible, high-quality opportunities that nourish the minds, expand the voices and share the personal truths of individuals who have long been underserved and underestimated. Through the process of drafting, revising and publishing memoirs, participants develop self-reflection, critical thinking, camaraderie and positive selfprojection to author new life narratives.

Since January 2017, ConTextos has collaborated with the Cook County Sheriff's Office to implement Authors Circle in Division X of Cook County Department of Corrections as part of a vision for reform that recognizes the value of mental health, rehabilitation and reflection. These powerful memoirs complicate the narrative about violence and peace-building, and help author a hopeful future for these men, their families, and our collective communities.

While each memoir's text is solely the work of the Author, the images used to create this book's illustrations have been sourced from various print publications. Authors curate these images and then, using only their hands, manipulate the images through tearing, folding, layering, and careful positioning. By applying these collage techniques, Authors transform their written memoirs into fully illustrated books.

In collaboration with

P.T.S.D. Christopher (Pc’baby) Smith

t? Were someone you are supposed to trus Have you ever been betrayed by ever feel like giving up? looked at but not seen? Did you

you ever

Therapists said that time would hea l me but, that hasn’t been my exp erience. Here is my story!

I grew up in a single parent home raised by my grandmother. In a neighborhood called Killa Ward, one out of many poverty-stricken neighborhoods in the Aubur n Gresham community on the south side of Chicago.

Apparently, my mother didn’t want me or felt she was unable to raise me because I left the hospital with my granny after I was born, and she became my legal guardian. My mother didn’t let granny know who my father was because she prolly ain’t know.

So, I was just another bastard child with no knowledge of his father.

I rarely saw my mother as a child, as far as I can remember. I would have been lucky to see her twice a year. When I did see her, she never spent any real time with me. She would converse with Granny for a while and would take me to the local candy store and spend a few dollars on me.

all, but I wante That was cool and chip bag. wind like an empty

y mother before d more time with m

she disappeared in

the

I felt by her birthing me I deserved more of her time, but since I got all the love and affection from Granny, I thought, “To hell with my mother.” Then my mother passed away when I was 9 years old from Sickle Cell Anemia. Seeing my deceased mother in that shiny black coffin with gold trimming affected me mentally and emotionally, even though she ain’t want shit to do with her only son.

I felt betrayed, broken, confused, inconsolable, neglected, resentful.

My mother would never be able to make up for all those years she missed of my young life. She would never be able to tell me “sorry�. She would never be able to tell me why.

Why didn't she love me?

I was halfway through the 4th grade at the time of my mother’s passing, and it was a very hard time for me. I was a very tense, wounded, angry little boy. I couldn’t really focus on learning or anything else. I was in such a dark place. I was disrespectful in school, cursing, throwing things, starting fist fights, you name it.

This was an ongoing fiasco and the grammar school I attended, Scott Joplin on 79th and Honore street, was fed up with my behavior. Time outs, calling home, and revoking recreational activities did not work. That shit only classified me as the bad boy in class and hyped my lil ass up more.

My Granny is a compassionate, principled, and understanding woman, but you couldn’t pay her to whip my behind. She didn’t know what to do with me, other than give me punishments like taking away my WWF action figures and my Nintendo 64 video games.

School counselors at Scott Joplin referred me to outpatient treatment at Hartgrove. Granny hesitantly agreed. A dirty grey van with gang graffiti from the facility picked me and several other troubled kids up from around the city from our homes 3 times a week: Monday, Wednesday, and Friday from 4:30 to 6:30 PM.

There I would work on homework, participate in group therapy on stress and anger management, shoot pool, and be fed snack packs which consisted of a sandwich, chips, a juice bar and cookies. I got assigned a psychiatrist. Her name is Dr. Murray, a tall, Amazonian, dark-skinned, long haired beauty, who I fell in love with. I stopped liking her black ass after she prescribed me medication. Asendin, then lithium for anxiety and depression, because after one-on-one clinical sessions, she diagnosed me with PTSD.

I had to take medication twice a day, mornings and evenings only after I had eaten something. I took my morning medication on weekdays during school hours after lunch around 10:50 am. School counselors would interrupt my teacher’s lesson to administer the meds to me. No privacy at all.

Some classmates had smirky faces. Some had sympathetic faces. Others had puzzled faces, and didn’t give no fuck what I was doing. But at the end of the day, it made me look different amongst my peers. I felt humiliated, hurt, and offended by the school counselors.

I wanted every school counselor in coffins, side by side next to my mother. All of their asses were Deceptacons.

sn’t up and told them I wa fed t go I till ht aig str h nt and or I wn on my ass for a mo linary action. Granny would have to underst The counselors got do cip I didn’t care about dis taking another pill and was gone run away.

As I got a lil older, I found different avenues to cope with the pain that I was trying to mask. At age 11, I started playing basketball and became good at it. I tried out for the 5th and 6th grade team and made it. I really like basketball and wanted to always play, so I got good enough grades just to stay on the team.

I started having sex at the age of 12. I used females for their bodies and disregarded their feelings. I intentionally tried to hurt every female’s feelings I dealt with. Hurt people, H-U-R-T P-E-O-P-L-E!

By the time I turned 13, I was already in a gang with my own lil clique called “80’s Babies.”

In one way or another, me and the other members were connected through a trauma.

Now, almost 20 years later after my mother’s passing and that b.s. at school with those counselors, I’m in the Cook County Jail with the same mental health illness. It never went away and never will. Damn!

r of my 9 year old

Also, I experienced the loss of many more loved ones. The mothe daughter, 2 cousins, and 13 childhood friends were murdered.

I’m still trying to heal. You have to know that healing is a journey, continue healing and making sense of pain is a full process.

not an event. To

I have to face “The Hurt” and remain positive each and every day towards healing.

in order to continue

Medication is not always the answer when dealing with grief, espec ially for young children. That messes children up more mentally, speaking from experience. I always thought something was wrong with me.

Those who grieve, want and need to be heard, NOT FIXED. Grief isn’t something you just pop an antidepressant pill for and get over.

A therapist once said that time would heal me, but I’ve learned that healing is a continuous process over time. Today I have a clearer understanding of PTSD and I now know how to cope in healthy ways.

Christopher “PC” Smith I am from 80th & Marshfield

From Humor and Leadership

From slice of pizza and fries from Nick’s

I’m from Oakdale Covenant, a temple of Christ

I am from the house that’s cleaner than the White House

I’m from St. Bernard Hospital on the southside of Chiraq

Shiny, hardwood floors, you can see your reflection in

Lasagna, fried chicken

I am from the thorn bush, The bush that scarred my face for life

The brave, honest, hardworking, loving, beautiful Granny

I’m from generosity and determination

Whose dining room’s brown cabinet held

From Ruth and Vernon

All of my pics, academic and athletic accomplishments

I’m from Spirituality and Gratitude

From the heart of Granny’s kitchen every night

That meant everything to her

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