Even If You Don't Talk About It, It Exists

When I was growing up, there were a number of popular sayings and adages that were frequently tossed around.

“What would the neighbors say or think?” was one of the most popular although “Buck up” and “You’ve got to pull yourself up by the bootstraps” seemed in a dead heat for second place.

Giving those a run for their money, however, was “If you don’t talk about it, it doesn’t exist,” which people somehow managed to say with a straight face because they really seemed to believe it. I never understood it necessarily but eventually it seemed to be woven into the fabric of my being.

I was reminded of this recently when the opportunity arose to speak at the college that I briefly attended.

I was 16-years-old when I started my senior year at and hadn’t the slightest interest in going on to college at that particular point in my life. I certainly believed in the value of continued education but also felt that after 12 years of continuous learning that a respite might be in order so that I might make an informed decision as to what I wanted to pursue next and where.

This opinion was expressed to the school’s guidance counselor who clearly questioned my sanity and urged me to involve myself in extensive prayer for guidance.

“If you don’t have a college plan in place by the time you graduate, you’ll be looked at pretty much as a failure,” Sister Leonard cautioned.

It did indeed seem that far more than getting top grades, the college you were accepted at ranked higher in the perception of others as to your degree of success as you prepared to march down the aisle to “Pomp and Circumstance.”

I reluctantly agreed to attend a school in Alabama which ended disastrously after two weeks as the other students drove the “Yankee” from their midst.

Fearful of what the neighbors might think, I immediately enrolled at a school closer to home and began an experience that almost made me long for the Deep South, despite a seeming lack of the fabled “Southern Hospitality.”

Despite “bucking up” and “pulling myself up by those bootstraps”, the nightmare that enfolded was more tantamount to a night terror that refused to unleash its grasp even during the daylight hours.

I was sexually assaulted several times, the last time at knife point. By that point I had adopted a “zombie-like” way of existing. I moved through life not completely feeling anything as I went from point A to point B. It was the only way to survival since Brady had not taught us coping skills for dealing with a situation like that.

That college experience ended under cover of darkness, as I hastily packed my bags, slipped out of the dorm and caught a bus back to Concord.

In those seemingly innocent days of more than 40 years ago, there were no pamphlets available or information at your finger tips for girls who were similarly assaulted, much less men. You couldn’t go online and find answers to the questions you had. Instead you were left with issues that you couldn’t sit down and comfortably discuss with anyone and forced to pretend that it didn’t happen as you attempted to go on with life.

For nearly a decade and a half I “existed,” enjoying some wonderful experiences – or at least pretending to – and convincing myself in the process that by ignoring what had happened, I was actually coping well and had overcome any residual effects.

In October 1984, I sat with Elizabeth Taylor at a dinner in Los Angeles honoring our mutual friend, Sydney Guilaroff.

Elizabeth had recently rehabilitated her life after a stint at the Betty Ford Clinic and was once again looking and feeling great. We chatted at length about overcoming our demons, accepting our missteps and finding greater meaning once we did some emotional housecleaning.

It was a wake-up call for me and I sought immediate assistance in determining why I sometimes felt as though I were being stalked by the darkness.

Jim MacKay, a longtime member of the House of Representative, a former Concord Mayor and an advocate for Mental Health, is also a distinguished therapist in the Concord community.

With his help, I was able to open the floodgates and begin the process of understanding what had happened and why I needed to talk about it and not present a permanently stoic face to conceal my pain.

And talk about it I did, feeling that the only way to address the inevitable elephant in the room was by being honest and forthright about what had happened and the resultant mistakes – some the result of the assault and some the result of stupidity on my part. I reasoned that perhaps my own experiences might help provide guidance or direction to someone else. Perhaps, too, there might be a conversation around someone’s dinner table about some of the situations I faced.

When I wrote about what happened in my book, “Was That a Name I Dropped?” it was surprisingly easy to be candid. I realized, nonetheless, that I had also carefully avoided returning to the college town, possibly out of fear of what it might unleash. Until I do that, I will not be fully rehabilitated.

And so I decided to go and speak in April and confront the last of those demons associated with that time when, as a 17-years-old, I believed that life was indeed a Disney movie.

We all need to talk to others – whether family, friends or professionals, when events occur that threaten to undermine our very existence. Keeping things in may read well on the written page when writing about noble characters, but reality is not so neatly tied up with a pretty bow.

I’ll let you know how it goes as I continue my own personal growth.

Next: The GSSO – Is it Concord’s best kept secret?