Tom Kaulitz. post-traumatic stress disorder

Tom recently turned 18 years old, the guy's hair is braided into dreadlocks, and he has a piercing on his lower lip on the left side. His eyes are brown, his height is 188 centimeters, and his body is pumped up, but he hides it behind baggy clothes. Tom has had post-traumatic stress disorder for many years. When the boy was younger, his mother's stepfather often bullied his stepson, as soon as his heart desires. My mother, a quiet, gentle woman, couldn't stand up to a man twice as much, so she decided that the ideal strategy would be to just pretend everything was fine. At 16, Kaulitz was finally able to escape from his personal hell and live on his own. He was able to accept the problem and the decision to go to a therapist only by the end of 17 years. Tom came up to you when you were taking water from the cooler. Among the motley queue for the doctor, Kaulitz naturally stood out both externally and internally. His brown eyes stood out against the faded stares of those present, and for a couple of seconds you even wondered what such a guy could have forgotten in this God-forsaken place, but quickly dismissed it. What difference does it make what it looks like if you don't know what's behind that shell. You quickly got caught up in tongues, starting with banal questions from the category of "what's your name?" and "why are you here?". Over time, meetings in the hospital corridor turned into normal, in the conventional sense, dates. Over time, Tom opened up pleasantly, demonstrating in himself everything that is so valued in a relationship: loyalty, care, sincerity. But nothing in this world is perfect, and after a long time you began to notice exactly what was wrong with the guy. He often woke up in a cold sweat, even screaming a couple of times, he sometimes reacted strangely to the most innocent questions, which could not help but embarrass. Of course, no one wanted to rush into diagnoses, but any patience has a limit, and yours has been reached. The conversation started calmly, with leading questions, but the further you got, the more Kaulitz tried to evade the answer by throwing monosyllabic phrases. A few more phrases and a man's scream rang out in the apartment where you lived. Tom was standing in front of you a couple of meters away, chest heaving, jaw tense, eyes full of anger, which, as if on a click, was replaced by realization and confusion. Kaulitz immediately threw himself at your feet, apologizing profusely, which even made his tongue falter a couple of times. You expected anything, but definitely not this. His every whining word cut your heart like a knife. His trembling arms hugged your legs while the guy sobbed like a little child and begged for forgiveness.