DENIAL

A Personal Tragedy

  This is a true story of a type of child abuse rarely mentioned.

  It involves denying the very *existence* of a child.

  It's what I did to this kid.

  For YEARS, I wouldn't have anything to do with him, just shut him out of
my life completely, ignored his cries for help, didn't even admit the kid
existed.

  As you may have guessed, the kid is me. And just as soon as possible
after a bunch of psychopaths left the kid feeling virtually worthless,
dirty, undeserving of human decency, the "adult" finished off the job by
simply ignoring the fact that something horrible had been DONE to him.
After all, the stupid little shit deserved it! He didn't wear his hair
like the rednecks did, didn't listen to shitkicker music like they did,
and walked around like he thought he was as good as anybody else! And what
the hell, these guys were just a bunch of harmless farm kids, having a
little fun, no big deal. But this little pain in the ass, probably the
shortest, skinniest, and most immature kid in school, STILL acted like he
thought he was as good as they were, even after their standard
"initiation"! Obviously, *something* had to be done to show this little
bastard, once and for all, just what he was! Well, there's always a way.
Threats oughtta work. Still not? Ooooooook. I know how, we'll just carry
out a few of those threats.

  THERE! Now he looks good and scared! Hell, he looks like a hunted
animal, I don't think we're gonna have any more trouble with him thinking
he's a good person.........

  Well, it worked, all right. They even got me to deny myself.

  I started getting good and drunk every weekend I could arrange it, and
although I don't remember it, my parents tell me that I gave them an
ultimatum. Either they let me quit school, or I was going to kill myself.

  I did quit, and did graduate, via a correspondence course.

  But at some point before that, I shut out the kid, got drunk more and
more, and by the time I'd reached the ripe age of 18, I was drunk
constantly. Why not? I'd already gotten through the correspondence, even
enjoyed the courses. And the worst the drinking could do was kill me, no
big deal. Well, it finally almost did, at the age of 25. 4 days of detox,
complete with seizures, hallucinations, the whole bit.

  I went into therapy as soon as I quit, had a great therapist who helped
me in innumerable ways. One of the things he was most persistent about was
trying to get me to talk about high school. But I either couldn't or
wouldn't, I don't know. He then suggested that I write it down. But I
still just couldn't..... That was all over and done with, and I sure
didn't want to start thinking about it *again*!

  Still denying that there was a hurting, pleading child buried somewhere
within me. So I went on, feeling as worthless and ashamed that I even
existed, as ever.

  A lot of those years went by when I didn't even *think* about being
worthless, it was just a part of existence, and for the most part I could
bury myself in my hobbies.

  Just once in awhile, something would happen, some minor thing that
brought the worthlessness to the surface. During those times, I usually
just stayed in bed most of the time.

  And, as incredible as it seems to me now, I NEVER ONCE thought that this
was the result of what was done to me in school. Sure, I hated them, even
said so often. I told anybody who would listen about the brutality that
went on down there. But I never mentioned what had *really* happened. I
didn't even *think* about it, not really. And as it turned out, I not only
didn't think about it, I actually succeeded in burying the worst of it.
I'd hidden it, even from myself! More denial.

  After I finally *did* break the silence and got back into therapy, the
denial aspect of it was devastating. Because as soon as my therapist
mentioned it, I KNEW it. I knew and felt it, like a sudden slap in the
face.

  My first reaction was anger at myself. That's one hell of a thing to do
to yourself, to just deny that part of you exists!

  So I started trying to get back in touch with that little kid, and it
shocked me how *easy* it was! It was also a little scary, like wondering
if I was losing my mind!

  All I know is that I have tried every relaxation exercise in the books,
every method for fighting off panic attacks, and nothing has ever had the
slightest effect.

  But talking to my "inner child" has been so incredibly relaxing that I
thought it had to be a coincidence the first few times I tried it. So now,
whenever I start getting really panicky, or start to feel the anxiety
build, I try to stop and think what I've been doing that might have
triggered it. Sometimes I can't figure it out, so I just start trying to
reassure the kid that it's OK, whatever it is, I can handle it, he doesn't
have to try to cope with it. And it works. The only time it didn't was
when I had simply lost contact with that part of me. It took awhile to
figure out why, until I thought about my plans at that time, which
included a visit to that high school. NOTHING could have been more
calculated to scare the hell out of that kid! Which should have been
pretty obvious, even to me!
  This isn't meant as a guide for anyone else, it's just a part of my
story that I've wanted to tell for a long time. I never could decide how
to go about it, and finally decided to simply tell it as it is, without
attempting to explain the irrationality, inconsistency and possibly just
plain nonsense included in it.
  As my therapist has told me numerous times, you simply *can't* apply
logic to something that falls completely outside the realm of any normal
human logic.
  I may write more on this subject as time goes by, for now I'm
emotionally exhausted, but glad that I've gotten this far.


     Stephen Stocker
     June 13-14, 1997


  Note: As things turned out, I didn't get this on my page when I intended to,
and I have a couple of things to add.

  First, and by far the most important, I've found that I kinda like this kid.
He did nothing wrong, has nothing to be ashamed of, and I'm proud of him. He
survived.

  And he is, and always was, a good, kind, caring kid. Not perfect by a long
shot, but overall a good kid.

  Secondly, the subtitle, "A Personal Tragedy", isn't meant as a
sympathy-seeker. It's simply the truth.


     October 2, 1997

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