Social Stigma: A Social Problem Only Society Can Change.

Social Stigma.  This is the greatest fear of the molested child and the mentally disturbed, who despite all that has been thrown at them, and the terrible burdens they bear, find Society putting an even heavier burden upon them – one that cripples them for life, day in, day out, every minute of the day.

I know.  I am one of those people.

Shame the greatest burden of all. Search for the roots of all bad feelings, and you will find it lurking there. From the denying child molester to the man who failed to save his brother; there’s shame.

Imagine an 7 year old child, groomed for sex.  A child needing what all children need: love and acceptance.  Not finding it at home, finds it in the arms of a stranger.  Loving the man.  What the man gives feels like love, even if it isn’t.  With a need so strong for the what’s missing in his life; body and mind abused – he asks; nay, finds himself begging for the man to ‘do it – and cruelly mocked for begging after the man is done.  And yet like a faithful dog, he comes crawling back into the stranger’s lap – again and again and again over the next four years.

How would that child feel?  What is that going to do to that child’s perception of love?  How is that child going to see love and sex?  How is it going to affect that child as an adult?  How do you cure the abuse?  Of all of these questions (and more), only the last one really matters.  We will approach these questions later, for it would take a book to address these subjects in depth.  (If you are interested, see “The Boy*” for insight into this subject matter.)

I have felt the burden.  We know it all too well We have scars; and fought suicide every day for years decades, despite a productive career and a “happy go-lucky” rating by employees from CEO of a global firm down to the Janitor on the floor.  Yes, we learned how to be a chameleon; we put on masks.  (See:

“Why?” I have asked my-selves for many long years, crippled by this shame. Imagine: you cannot say what you feel.  You cannot say what you think.  You cannot tell other people around you; not even family, for they have their own secret shames; yours is linked to theirs and back.  You can’t tell your wife (though I did before I proposed, telling her: “You can back out now.”  She didn’t.  And it goes deeper, ’round and ’round until your inside yourself, in some dark pit in a hole in your head – holding a gun to your temple, or cutting yourself, or taking a box of pills.  I know.  I’ve done it – all three and much more.

Folks, that pit is so dark and hopeless that to save ourselves we came up with this saying:  “When all is hopeless . . . hope for hope.”  (You have no idea what this does to me emotionally even thinking about those times.  Even some ‘inner selves’ are shamed – and we ashamed for putting “that” mind and our body through living hell.)

So where does that shame come from?

Social stigma.  And we are powerless to even nudge it one inch.  Not one fraction of a millimeter.  It’s up to society to do that, and from what we can see: they don’t give a rat’s patoot.  They are too busy caught up in inane games, too busy being greedy, or they’re caught behind some religious or social perspective that just increases the shame exponentally.  Or maybe it’s just me; we are kind of sour on the issue, just in case you haven’t noticed by now.

And I’ll tell you why.

I’ve been shunned.  You don’t think we can see that look in your eye saying: “Warning. This is something f’d up and different.”  That weird look.  I think my fellow survivors can attest to this.  We don’t blame you – we look at ourselves with those eyes a LOT.  We don’t need you adding to that burden.  I’ve had good friends turn away, saying (after asking “what’s wrong? you look sooo sad!”) – and you just hint that perhaps your childhood wasn’t out of the freakin’ Waltons – it was more like Twilight Zone, with a good bit of Rocky Horror Chainsaw Festival thrown in. (And lets not forget my brother, who’s voice was perfectly illustrated by the male actor in “The People Under the Stairs”.  Folks: that WAS him, LOL!

How are  you going to address the 7 year child you love more than life, looking up and calmly saying:  “Oh, by the way — I like sucking ****. I like the taste.”

Huh?  That get you???  Should have.  Cuz’ you got that look in your eyes.  Great.  Now you’re listening.

Let me tell you: we have to change this public perception, and it begins in childhood.  I don’t know how.  It’s not up for me to tell you.  I’m not society: all of YOU are.  I’m just one of your victims – every friggin’ single day of my life.  And I’m sick and tired of it.  You’ve damaged “my victims”, those poor childrens souls I have the burden to bear; the one’s I have to whisper to “it wasn’t your fault, and I love you, and yes, society is trying to get better, it will be one day, I promise.”  Secretly thinking that I’ll die and take these children with me to heaven so that we all can live a better life, free of YOU, the society we grew up in.

If you can’t wrap your head around that, just remember: I’m not “normal”.  Not by any psychologist’s standard.  I’m insane.  Just ask them.  They gave me drugs to deaden my mind.  Maybe that’s part of the reason I’m finally waking up, healing myself, getting better.  I quit listening to the shrinks, and listened with my head and heart.  Screw society.  I’m going to make THEM, my “Children and Crowd” better, despite you, Society, and all your efforts to keep me undone, mouth taped shut by the invisible hand of shame; tied in a padded room.  F-that, to be polite, okay?

And if I can make YOU, my fellow human beings better along the way, then so be it.

It’s for the best, after all.

Sincerely yours, Courtesy of Jeffery and his little angels (and the big ones, too).


*Currently on Kindle, Polished Draft, about 3 bucks.  Reviews welcome.


About jeffssong

JW is an adult childhood abuse survivor with DID*. He grew up in a violent family devoid of love and affection. He is a military brat and veteran. He no longer struggles with that past. In 1976 JW began writing "The Boy". It took 34 years to complete. It is currently on Kindle ( ), or if you prefer hard copy, on Amazon ( JW resides somewhere in the deep South. He is disabled and living with family. Note: Please feel free to take what you need; all is free to all. With that in mind, keep it that way to others. Thank you. We have 3 Blogs - One for our younger days, 0-10 (The Little Shop of Horrors); one for our Teen Alter and his 'friends' (also alters) with a lot of poetry; and finally "my" own, the Song of Life (current events and things)
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