Scared Selfless

by Michelle Stevens, PhD

  Even in the most supportive circumstances, children rarely disclose their abuse. I define a “supportive circumstance” as one where a child from a loving home is seduced, but not threatened, by an acquaintance molester who is not close to the parents. In such instances, even if the child is likely to be believed and supported, even if the abuse is suspected by the parents, even if the child has no reason not to tell, most children will never disclose abuse. Even when they are confronted with irrefutable evidence like photographs or videos, child victims still vehemently deny that abuse occurred.

  We don’t know precisely why kids are reluctant to report, but it’s probably a combination of things: embarrassment, guilt, fear of parental reaction, positive feelings for the abuser, amnesia. Keep in mind here that we are talking about molestation by an acquaintance who has not threatened the child. When threats and coercion are involved, or if the perpetrator is a family member, the cost of disclosure goes way, way up. Children in these circumstances routinely face the fear of bodily harm to themselves, their families, or their pets. They may be ostracized by family members or forced out of their homes.

  I faced all of these risks and more. Yet a complete stranger, who was threatening to undermine the only security I knew, questioned me only one time and asked me only one question! Looking back, I wish I’d been questioned in a way that made me feel more at ease, but this was 1985—long before law enforcement realized the massive scope of child sexual abuse and began training personnel in how to investigate these types of crimes and interview child victims. Nowadays, investigators understand that if a person is accused of child molestation he is likely guilty of multiple offenses, including possession of kiddie porn. That’s why any good investigation should include a search of the perpetrator’s home.

  Had investigators searched my family home, they would’ve found the handgun, the stun gun, the wooden paddle, and various S/M devices that were routinely used to terrorize and control me. They would have also uncovered pornographic pictures and videos taken of me and other children by my father, as well as the child pornography produced by Frank. Most important, they would have obtained the names and addresses of Gary’s pervert friends.

  The authorities had a chance to uncover a major child sex ring.

  Instead, by questioning me in such a cut-and-dry manner, they completely terrified their best potential witness and lead.

  On a conscious level, I was afraid of Gary and my mother and what they would do to me if I betrayed them. On a subconscious level, I was afraid of Frank and the ring and being labeled a snitch. Surprisingly enough, though, the people who most terrified me were the police. I feared they would send me to jail for prostitution. Like many victims of child sexual exploitation, I didn’t see myself as a victim. Due to brainwashing, I sincerely believed I was Gary’s willing accomplice. I thought I was guilty of horrible crimes and would be locked up if the truth came out—a belief Gary was all too eager to support.

  When I got home from school that day, I wrote a letter to the judge on Gary’s case. In it, I said my father was a good and loving man who’d never done anything to harm me or anyone else. Gary obviously encouraged me to do this, as he’s the one who provided the name and address of the judge—not to mention the stamp and envelope. He didn’t coerce me into writing the letter, though. In my brainwashed and terrified state, I felt it was my duty to protect my master, much like abused cult members protect their leader.

  I wasn’t the only one who rallied behind Gary. At his elementary school—the school I had attended—a petition was created to support his innocence. Nearly every teacher signed it and, in doing so, essentially accused their own students of lying. One teacher who refused to sign was Nancy Bennett, by far the most dedicated, supportive, encouraging teacher I ever had. She had been my middle school English teacher and was singularly responsible for steering me toward academic success. While she didn’t know about the abuse, she cared enough to notice my suffering.

  A few years ago, she told me, “I just couldn’t sign that petition. I didn’t know what, exactly, was going on, but I knew you were a very unhappy kid.”

  As for Gary, at first he pled not guilty to the charges against him. In fact, he was so adamant about his innocence that he offered to take a lie detector test—a testament to his unbridled arrogance and narcissism. Not surprising, he didn’t pass. Based on those results, as well as the testimonies of the victims, he decided to accept a plea bargain in which he admitted guilt on two of the charges. Nowadays, a person convicted of molesting two children under the age of twelve might serve serious jail time. Back in 1985, Gary got the requisite slap on the hand. He was sentenced to three years’ probation and lost his teaching license. He was also ordered into court-appointed psychotherapy. During the time that I lived with him, though, I don’t remember him seeing the probation officer or the court-appointed therapist more than once.

  Financially, the conviction created some hardship for our family. Gary lost his annual salary and pension. My mother, who’d become a bus driver at Gary’s school, lost her job too. Much of their savings was eaten up by legal fees. Still, they were able to make ends meet through Gary’s various businesses—businesses where Gary continued to employ young girls.

  Other byproducts of the case weren’t so easy to overcome. We lived in a small town. The case was big news in the local paper, turning us all into social pariahs. One might think that the daughter of a convicted child molester would be treated with an extra dose of kindness, especially by the adults around her. But nothing was further from the truth. I expected all the jeers and snide remarks I received from other students. What I didn’t expect was the seeming indifference of every adult I knew. No parent of a friend ever asked me how I was doing. No social worker or school guidance counselor ever met with me. Even close friends and teachers erected a wall of shaming silence.

  —

  THANK GOD, by the time the whole thing was over, I was already seventeen and a senior in high school. I had completed most of my credits and had to go to school for only a few hours each morning. I had my driver’s license and Gary’s old ’77 Pacer, which I used to get to my job at the local copy shop. I worked there every day from about eleven a.m. to five thirty p.m. At six p.m., I started my night job as a grocery-store cashier, a shift that lasted until midnight. In the morning, I had to be in school by seven a.m., and the whole thing started all over again. While this schedule allowed no time for school work or extracurricular activities or a social life, I didn’t really care. I felt that everyone at that high school had let me down. I wanted nothing to do with them or my family or anyone else in my life. I just wanted to get away.

  My dream was to move to New York and reinvent myself. I wanted to be a writer and was grateful to be offered a partial scholarship at New York University. In August of 1986, I packed up my typewriter and escaped to Greenwich Village. It was time to start a new life and forget all about the old one.

  Memories, though, are hard to erase. And the bad ones have a way of sticking around, rearing their ugly heads long after the horror has passed. I thought that in getting out of New Jersey I could get away from Gary. What I couldn’t comprehend at the time was that the damage had already been done. Gary had left his hideous mark on my mind, body, and soul. And no matter how far I ran, I would never fully get away from him.

  The Village Idiot

  In the Broadway musical 42nd Street, a young dancer named Peggy Sawyer hops a bus for Manhattan to seek fame and fortune. Cast as a chorus girl in a big new show, Peggy is soon plucked out of obscurity and given the leading role. When the show becomes a hit, Peggy magically transforms from a broke nobody into a celebrated star. Her talent and moxie have made her the toast of New York.

  As I drove through the Lincoln Tunnel to start my new life in the city, I figured that’s just how things would happen for me.

  I wasn’t a dancer, nor did I harbor ambitions to act or sing prof
essionally. But I was a writer with visions of making it on the Great White Way. I was going to be the next Neil Simon, minus the hair loss and the Jewish mother. First stop, Greenwich Village. Next stop, the Tony Awards.

  Of course, anyone who’s ever opened the Preppy Handbook knows that my low-brow show-biz ambitions are nowhere to be found on its plaid pages. As the Preppy, I should’ve been headed to Vassar with dreams of winning a tennis tournament, not a Tony. But the Preppy wasn’t in charge anymore. During high school, the identity I call Mooch had taken over as the dominant personality and was now running the show.

  In DID, the alternate personality who can best handle a situation is usually the one who is “out.” In high school, as I began to experience personal conflicts, it made sense that the hardened Mooch started to take charge. When a person has multiple personalities, distinct emotions like joy, contentment, or rage are often divvied up among the alters. Mooch holds anger and ambition. She’s the fighter in my personality system. So when it came time to fight my way to the top, she naturally took charge.

  Mooch, like Michelle, was a teenager. Like all adolescents, she went through the natural process of defining herself, of asking, Who am I? In Mooch’s case, she was an outgoing, outspoken diva who thrived on drama. So she set her sights on the stage. She defined herself as the Writer—a witty, urbane New Yorker, blunt and street smart, who liked big sweaters with patches on the elbows, used bookstores, and black coffee. Like the Preppy, the Writer was pure stereotype. She was based on writer characters in plays like Deathtrap and Brighton Beach Memoirs and movies like Manhattan and Hannah and Her Sisters. (My father was a big Woody Allen fan. Hmm.) Never mind that all these characters were middle-aged men. Never mind that their experiences in the city had nothing to do with my rural white-trash life. The Writer didn’t come from white trash. She was a Manhattan sophisticate. At the age of sixteen, she already had a subscription to the New Yorker and scanned the real estate section of the New York Times on a regular basis to ascertain which Upper East Side apartment she would soon buy.

  Remembering this now, I can chuckle at my airs and naïveté. As teenagers, we do and think some silly things while figuring out who we will be in life. With DID, though, things get out of hand. Having no core sense of self, I didn’t try on affectations; I became whatever role was necessary to get through life. These roles were cast subconsciously by my psyche to ensure my safety. As I contemplated adulthood, life felt precarious. I had no money and was keenly aware that even a minor crisis could render me homeless. In order to feel safe, I needed money. Idiot that I was, I thought the road to riches was paved with words. (Oh, how I wish my mind had created the Investment Banker instead!)

  There’s another reason I felt unsafe. Having been a victim, I believed that people were generally malicious. In my mind, everyone was out to hurt me, and I felt powerless to protect myself against a cruel world. Young people who feel disempowered, as I did, are at a serious disadvantage. In order to alleviate our feelings of weakness, we tend to glom on to others who seem strong. This makes us susceptible to abusive partners, charismatic cult leaders, gangs, even hostile political and religious movements. Those who lack the social skills to team up with stronger individuals—loners—often attempt to take back their power by seeking revenge on whoever they believe stole it. Most school shootings are committed by these types of people. Many serial rapists and murderers are also motivated by a need to exert power over the types of people they once felt powerless against.

  I never wanted to hurt anybody, but I couldn’t stand feeling powerless either. In my mind, I was a Nobody, and Nobodies are vulnerable to all manner of ill treatment. In order to be safe, I subconsciously deduced that I needed to become a Somebody. In my teenage world, Somebodies were entertainment types—actors, singers, writers. So my psyche created the Writer, an identity hellbent on acquiring fame and fortune. She was ready for a fresh start, one unencumbered by the baggage of the past.

  —

  IN THE SITCOM VERSION of the story, that plan might have worked. But in the real world, trauma is not so easily overcome. Violence has psychological consequences for victims. And a whole lot of violence has a whole lot more. When you see the happy faces of people who have just escaped atrocities—kidnapping victims, Holocaust survivors, soldiers returning from war—their smiles are just the start of a long road ahead. Relief before reality sets in.

  The reality is this: Violence changes a person in permanent, profound, existential ways. Once you experience the horrible things one human being can do to another, it’s hard to trust anybody ever again. Once you’ve faced death, you never really feel safe. And once you know that atrocity exists, it shatters your faith in God and humanity. As a result of this darkened worldview, people emerge from trauma with predictable symptoms. They are detached from others. They feel that they are in constant danger, and they fear that life has no meaning.

  So, despite my desire to magically morph into a carefree college student, I was anything but. The problems started the minute I walked into my dorm room, a ridiculously small space that was not built for the three girls it was going to house. Being the last to arrive, I was forced to take the top of a bunk bed. The normal bed—already claimed by the first girl to move in—was pushed against the only window. I could’ve lived without the view and probably made peace with the bunk. What I couldn’t stand was my roommate’s television. From the minute I walked in the room and heard the blare of amplified voices, my heart sank. My stomach twisted into knots.

  I already knew I hated the sound of TVs. At home, my mother kept one on nonstop. The incessant noise bothered me, especially when I tried to sleep, and I often begged her to turn the damn thing off. Irritation, though, was not what I was feeling on the first day in that dorm room. The small room, coupled with the noise of the television, made me feel like the walls were closing in. My heart raced; my body shook. I started to feel nauseated. I dumped my bags and got the hell out as fast as I could.

  I spent the first few weeks of college avoiding the room as much as possible. I hung in the rec room or the laundry room or the hallways—anywhere I could feel calm. The problem was: The sound of a television wasn’t the only thing that freaked me out. I could be in class, in the cafeteria, out on the street when, seemingly out of nowhere, I’d be crawling out of my skin. My breath would quicken. My vision would narrow. The whole world would turn darker, as if an ominous cloud were about to envelop me.

  I didn’t understand what was happening at the time, nor would I for many years. But what I was feeling was anxiety—so severe that it often escalated into full-blown panic attacks. Never knowing why or when these attacks would occur became a terror of its own. I found myself doing anything to avoid them. That meant drastically restricting my life. I couldn’t join clubs. I couldn’t go to parties. Hell, I could barely go to class! My failure to assimilate made me lose hope in the future. I sunk into a cavernous depression.

  These are classic symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder, the disorder soldiers bring back from war. I’d been through a war on the domestic front, so PTSD made sense. Except I didn’t know I’d been through a war. I still had traumatic amnesia. So instead of recognizing the effects of abuse, I just thought I was crazy.

  Eventually, my inability to live with roommates forced me to give up my bed in NYU’s coveted dorm in the Village and move to a hotel the school was renting nearly thirty blocks from campus. The Hotel Seville was in a dicey neighborhood filled with drug addicts and hookers. But, hey, I got my own room.

  I thought living alone would be easier, and in many ways, it was. I didn’t have to deal with the blare of a television or the gum snapping of a roommate. The hotel, which was in the process of being remodeled, was practically vacant, so there were no loud parties and hardly any talking in the halls. As long as I stayed alone in my room, I felt pretty safe.

  —

  UNFORTUNATELY, IN THE ABSENCE of anxiety, de
pression took center stage. How could it not with my sitting alone day after day in a dingy hotel room? I had no friends back home to call and no family. There were no more early-morning coffee runs to the dorm cafeteria and no late-night talks with other coeds. I just sat in that room feeling empty and lost and hopeless. Was this the great college experience in New York I had dreamed about? Was this my big escape? All of the drive and determination I had mustered to get away from Gary seemed to disappear. Without his control, I felt like a hollow shell.

  I needed something to occupy my time. I needed pleasure. Comfort. I found all of these things in food. There was a twenty-four-hour deli across the street from the hotel. It was filled with cookies, candy, ice cream, cakes. At first, I bought these things because I was hungry. Then I started to buy them because I was lonely and bored. But after voraciously downing an entire bag of Vienna Fingers one day, I found that the old panicky feeling returned. I was worried about gaining weight. So I went to the bathroom, put my head over the toilet, and put my finger down my throat. I threw up the cookies, which made the panic go away.

  Almost immediately, this became my daily routine. First once, then twice a day. Pretty soon the entire day felt like a nonstop binge. Go to the deli, pick up the food, bring it back to the privacy of my room, shove it in my mouth fast and methodically, wait for the nauseous feeling to wash over me, go and throw it all up. Exhausted, sleep for a few hours. Repeat. This is how I spent my days during freshman year. It gave me a way to occupy myself and allowed me to hide the deeper hunger inside.