Most of my childhood has been lost to time, but from 8 on my lax nature has allowed me to take most of my experiences in stride, and I've had the fortune of not having much in the way of terrible times. However, my most traumatizing moment was simultaneously one of my best.
Midnight, April 23, 1993. I woke up to the sound of someone blundering around the house, followed by hushed voices. Automatically jumping to the conclusion of a burglar, I grabbed my bokken (as I've always been more into martial arts than sports) and snuck out of my room. As it turns out, I was right.
There was a burglar, and he had woken my parents. Rather than fleeing, however, he was holding them at gunpoint. A roaring, fearless nine-year-old made him turn around. A hit to the knees, then to the left arm, then to the head. He was immobilized, disarmed, and knocked unconscious in quick succession. A quick 911 call later, and he was gone.