(This post comes from Roger Mann.)
I talked to a friend who was in and out of same-sex relationships because of his abuse. We discussed that other victims speak of the emptiness of same-sex relationships, which leave them depressed and feeling miserable. But neither of us felt that way, and it caused us to wonder.
One thing we have in common is that riding off into the sunset with another male has never been a possibility. It’s not that we haven’t met anyone who’d be willing, but it’s because of the way we responded to our abusers.
Because of who they were, we never considered that what we had between us was anything more than a physical action. (For him, it was an older brother; for me, it was my dad.) It was a “thing” that involved connection and fondness, but also an understanding that it would eventually end. While I might have loved my dad, and my friend his older brother—and the closeness we each felt was great—life continued, and we grew up and moved on.
Part of our experience became a fixed pattern that repeated itself in similar types of sexual relationships. Because of preconditioned attitudes cemented in our impressionable years, our ability to commit intimately to anyone else was almost impossible.
We both knew men who wanted a more permanent situation with us, and while we felt genuine affection for them, a commitment was out of the question. Our idea of fidelity still included our wives.
The abuse rerouted our wiring and compartmentalized that area of our brains. I honestly believe my dad ruined any possibility of my having true fidelity with anyone. I can either love someone or have sex with them. For my wife, love and sex are a package deal—no compartmentalization. I struggle with that, and it’s hurt her.
Now that I’m older, it’s easier to be more faithful, but I fear it’s because of age rather than morality. With God’s help, and as revelation and understanding increase, I’m doing better.
Showing posts with label depression. Show all posts
Showing posts with label depression. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 1, 2019
Tuesday, October 30, 2018
More Results from Forgiving (Part 4 of 7)
As more and more studies document the healing power of forgiveness, they also look at the mentally and physically corrosive effects of not forgetting.
Hanging on to anger and resentment—which makes us live in a state of stress—can damage the heart as well as the soul.
Modern research indicates that failure to forgive may be a risk factor for heart disease, high blood pressure, and a score of other chronic stress-related illnesses.
Medical and psychological studies have also shown that a person holding on to anger and resentment is at increased risks for anxiety, depression, and insomnia, and is more likely to suffer from high blood pressure, ulcers, migraines, backaches, heart attacks, and even cancer.
The reverse is also true. Genuine forgiveness can transform those ailments, thus stress, anxiety, and depression are reduced, as well as the physical disorders.
But then, we’ve known this for millennia, even if we don’t admit it.
For example, Psalm 32 is about someone who refused to receive forgiveness (and I think the other side is also true). “When I kept silent, my bones wasted away, through my groaning all day long” (verse 3).
Health benefits are only the beginning. To forgive is also to release ourselves from whatever trauma and hardship we have experienced and begin to reclaim our lives as our own.
Hanging on to anger and resentment—which makes us live in a state of stress—can damage the heart as well as the soul.
Modern research indicates that failure to forgive may be a risk factor for heart disease, high blood pressure, and a score of other chronic stress-related illnesses.
Medical and psychological studies have also shown that a person holding on to anger and resentment is at increased risks for anxiety, depression, and insomnia, and is more likely to suffer from high blood pressure, ulcers, migraines, backaches, heart attacks, and even cancer.
The reverse is also true. Genuine forgiveness can transform those ailments, thus stress, anxiety, and depression are reduced, as well as the physical disorders.
But then, we’ve known this for millennia, even if we don’t admit it.
For example, Psalm 32 is about someone who refused to receive forgiveness (and I think the other side is also true). “When I kept silent, my bones wasted away, through my groaning all day long” (verse 3).
Health benefits are only the beginning. To forgive is also to release ourselves from whatever trauma and hardship we have experienced and begin to reclaim our lives as our own.
By forgiving, we benefit with improved health.
Tuesday, May 22, 2018
A Note from Ben Franklin
Last year, at age 62, I began seeing a psychiatrist for sleep problems. On my second visit, he told me I showed classic signs of depression and PTSD and asked how long I’d been depressed. I mentioned the verbal and emotional abuse I suffered at the hands of my father, but some of the traumatic events were blocked from my conscious thought.
One day, my wife asked why I was so angry. I told her about flashbacks I had of my father violently raping me as he accused me of being a reminder of two men he had sex with during his time in the army. Because I was named after those two men, he couldn’t forget what he had done.
My wife was dumbstruck. By the time I finished my story, I was huddled in a corner of the patio with tears streaming down my face. I had never told anyone. Who would I tell? Who would believe an eight-year-old child?
Back then I didn’t understand the sexual content. I just knew the physical and emotional pain and the betrayal. After the rape, my father never hugged me again. He never said he loved me, and he belittled my accomplishments until he died.
My psychiatrist transferred me to a psychology resident. He’s been wonderful help along this journey. But while reading your book Not Quite Healed, I realized that many of the trials and tribulations I’ve dealt with all these years aren’t unique to me. I see myself in almost every chapter, and I can usually read only one or two before tears overtake me.
When my therapist asked me what I hoped to get out of our sessions, I told him I wanted to quit hating myself. You’ve helped me take the first positive steps in that direction. Thank you!
My wife is reading your companion book and is trying hard to work through this with me. Just writing this to you has helped. I’m not quite healed, but I’m working on it!
Ben Franklin (not my real name)
One day, my wife asked why I was so angry. I told her about flashbacks I had of my father violently raping me as he accused me of being a reminder of two men he had sex with during his time in the army. Because I was named after those two men, he couldn’t forget what he had done.
My wife was dumbstruck. By the time I finished my story, I was huddled in a corner of the patio with tears streaming down my face. I had never told anyone. Who would I tell? Who would believe an eight-year-old child?
Back then I didn’t understand the sexual content. I just knew the physical and emotional pain and the betrayal. After the rape, my father never hugged me again. He never said he loved me, and he belittled my accomplishments until he died.
My psychiatrist transferred me to a psychology resident. He’s been wonderful help along this journey. But while reading your book Not Quite Healed, I realized that many of the trials and tribulations I’ve dealt with all these years aren’t unique to me. I see myself in almost every chapter, and I can usually read only one or two before tears overtake me.
When my therapist asked me what I hoped to get out of our sessions, I told him I wanted to quit hating myself. You’ve helped me take the first positive steps in that direction. Thank you!
My wife is reading your companion book and is trying hard to work through this with me. Just writing this to you has helped. I’m not quite healed, but I’m working on it!
Ben Franklin (not my real name)
Tuesday, April 4, 2017
Energy, Energy (Part 3 of 4)
I am and have always been a high-energy person, but even people like me have bad days—really bad days. Some mornings it takes immense effort for me to get out of bed and go for a run. Days with rain and freezing weather add another reason to turn over and sleep.
Then I remind myself that I’ll feel much better after running. And I always do. A few times I drag myself out there on the streets early in the morning and I start out wondering why I’m doing it. Even on those days, by the time I’m home and ready for a shower, I know why.
I feel better about myself. It’s that simple. I don’t have to fight negative self-talk or beat myself up emotionally. I realize how blessed I am and enjoy my life. That’s the reason for being able to develop the self-discipline of getting up every morning—and it’s worth the effort.
I kiddingly say to my friends, “I’ve saved $300,000 in therapists’ fees through exercise.”
I’m a self-starter and I realize that some people need others to keep pushing them forward. If that’s you, recruit a friend. Get one or two buddies to run or walk with you or whatever exercise you choose.
I’m a professional writer and work at home. Almost every morning I see others in my neighborhood exercising while I’m at work. One man and his wife jog (which I use to refer to a slower, more relaxed pace). A little later, two wives in their early 30s make the loop in front of my house, which is at the end of a cul-de-sac.
I live 1.3 miles from a high school and sometimes I run there and do a few laps on the track. For the past several weeks, a group of five women have been coming out. They yell at each other, laugh, and I can hear them halfway around the track. They’re having fun.
In an earlier blog I wrote, “Start small.” If there is any secret to an ongoing exercise, that’s it. Don’t set lofty goals of learning to run a 10k race in a week
In my next blog, I’ll give you one more tip on developing an exercise program to push away negativity and depression.
Then I remind myself that I’ll feel much better after running. And I always do. A few times I drag myself out there on the streets early in the morning and I start out wondering why I’m doing it. Even on those days, by the time I’m home and ready for a shower, I know why.
I feel better about myself. It’s that simple. I don’t have to fight negative self-talk or beat myself up emotionally. I realize how blessed I am and enjoy my life. That’s the reason for being able to develop the self-discipline of getting up every morning—and it’s worth the effort.
I kiddingly say to my friends, “I’ve saved $300,000 in therapists’ fees through exercise.”
I’m a self-starter and I realize that some people need others to keep pushing them forward. If that’s you, recruit a friend. Get one or two buddies to run or walk with you or whatever exercise you choose.
I’m a professional writer and work at home. Almost every morning I see others in my neighborhood exercising while I’m at work. One man and his wife jog (which I use to refer to a slower, more relaxed pace). A little later, two wives in their early 30s make the loop in front of my house, which is at the end of a cul-de-sac.
I live 1.3 miles from a high school and sometimes I run there and do a few laps on the track. For the past several weeks, a group of five women have been coming out. They yell at each other, laugh, and I can hear them halfway around the track. They’re having fun.
In an earlier blog I wrote, “Start small.” If there is any secret to an ongoing exercise, that’s it. Don’t set lofty goals of learning to run a 10k race in a week
In my next blog, I’ll give you one more tip on developing an exercise program to push away negativity and depression.
Tuesday, March 21, 2017
Just Move It (Part 1 of 4)
As a survivor, I believe strongly in daily, physical exercise. Most experts on physical fitness suggest some form of aerobic or cardio exercise 3 times a week for about 30 minutes.
Dr. Kenneth Cooper introduced the term in the 1960s, and I’ve been an advocate of his approach since the mid-1970s. He uses the term to refer to exercises that demand the use of oxygen during the workout, such as running/jogging, swimming, cycling, and walking (fast-paced walking).
For survivors I suggest a different approach. Do it every day and as early in the day as possible. (I’m a morning person so that’s easier for me.) I chose running, although I now rotate it with fast-clipped walking. I used to be able to do 15-minute miles walking, but now it takes me 17 to 18 minutes a mile.
The purpose is to get that heart pumping. Not only does it improve our health as Cooper and others have advocated, it improves our mental health, reduces stress, and lowers depression. The experts claim (and so do I) that daily exercise increases our cognitive capacity.
My Merriam-Webster defines cognitive as conscious mental activities (such as thinking, understanding, learning, and remembering).
For those of us who were victimized as children, this is the easiest and least expensive form of therapy. My daily run doesn’t cure anything, but it improves my spiritual and physical outlook.
Dr. Kenneth Cooper introduced the term in the 1960s, and I’ve been an advocate of his approach since the mid-1970s. He uses the term to refer to exercises that demand the use of oxygen during the workout, such as running/jogging, swimming, cycling, and walking (fast-paced walking).
For survivors I suggest a different approach. Do it every day and as early in the day as possible. (I’m a morning person so that’s easier for me.) I chose running, although I now rotate it with fast-clipped walking. I used to be able to do 15-minute miles walking, but now it takes me 17 to 18 minutes a mile.
The purpose is to get that heart pumping. Not only does it improve our health as Cooper and others have advocated, it improves our mental health, reduces stress, and lowers depression. The experts claim (and so do I) that daily exercise increases our cognitive capacity.
My Merriam-Webster defines cognitive as conscious mental activities (such as thinking, understanding, learning, and remembering).
For those of us who were victimized as children, this is the easiest and least expensive form of therapy. My daily run doesn’t cure anything, but it improves my spiritual and physical outlook.
Friday, August 19, 2016
Getting Unstuck
(By John Joseph*)
Plateaus, deserts, valleys—whatever you call them—they’re no fun. The fact that we seem to be bogged down in our efforts to recover from childhood sexual abuse is discouraging, at best, and at worst, leads us to setbacks.
We become restless, listless, and even sleepless. Depression or anxiety begins to creep in and affect everything else in our lives—relationships, work, and recreation. People begin to notice and even wonder why we’re no fun anymore.
We're stuck.
What can we do to get unstuck? What will pull us up out of the mud and put us back on the road to recovery? What will help us re-center and tap into the joy of being alive?
Although the answers may seem elusive, I believe there are a couple of very important things we can do to jump-start the recovery process and start to feel human again.
The first thing I do when I realize I’ve gotten stuck is to gift myself with grace. Grace isn’t an excuse for where I am, but a kind, human-to-human response that I would want to give to anyone else I knew who was stuck. Instead of beating myself up for messing up again, I take a moment to do some healing self-talk that says, “Okay—so we’re stuck a little here. No worries. Just think about it. What do we need to do to get things going?” I don’t know why I always talk to myself in the plural. It just feels good to think there’s more of me here than just "I."
Then I take a little while to journal and meditate, then I wait. Sometimes the very thing I need to get going again shows up in a book or online. Occasionally, it hits me in a conversation with a friend. At other times, I keep pushing into different things and I realize the wheels haven’t really come off the wagon. They’re turning again, even if slowly, and I find myself back up on the road to become the person I am intended to be.
(*John Joseph is a pseudonym of a pastor. He's a regular contributor to this blog.)
Plateaus, deserts, valleys—whatever you call them—they’re no fun. The fact that we seem to be bogged down in our efforts to recover from childhood sexual abuse is discouraging, at best, and at worst, leads us to setbacks.
We become restless, listless, and even sleepless. Depression or anxiety begins to creep in and affect everything else in our lives—relationships, work, and recreation. People begin to notice and even wonder why we’re no fun anymore.
We're stuck.
What can we do to get unstuck? What will pull us up out of the mud and put us back on the road to recovery? What will help us re-center and tap into the joy of being alive?
Although the answers may seem elusive, I believe there are a couple of very important things we can do to jump-start the recovery process and start to feel human again.
The first thing I do when I realize I’ve gotten stuck is to gift myself with grace. Grace isn’t an excuse for where I am, but a kind, human-to-human response that I would want to give to anyone else I knew who was stuck. Instead of beating myself up for messing up again, I take a moment to do some healing self-talk that says, “Okay—so we’re stuck a little here. No worries. Just think about it. What do we need to do to get things going?” I don’t know why I always talk to myself in the plural. It just feels good to think there’s more of me here than just "I."
Then I take a little while to journal and meditate, then I wait. Sometimes the very thing I need to get going again shows up in a book or online. Occasionally, it hits me in a conversation with a friend. At other times, I keep pushing into different things and I realize the wheels haven’t really come off the wagon. They’re turning again, even if slowly, and I find myself back up on the road to become the person I am intended to be.
(*John Joseph is a pseudonym of a pastor. He's a regular contributor to this blog.)
Friday, December 4, 2015
"That Boy Is My Hero"
Someone sent this to me, and I can't find the complete email. (My apology for not giving credit.) He wrote about his younger self having to make decisions no kid should have to make. "That boy had no one but himself to rely on, and as an adult I would never allow such things in my life. . . . That boy is my hero. I love that boy. When I think of that boy now I give him a mental hug and kiss and tell him, ‘It's okay. We made it. We survived.’ I thank him for his ingenuity in keeping me together during a very not-together time in my life. I am proud of him and I tell him so."
"That boy is my hero." What powerful words from a survivor. And they are words of gratitude that we deserve to give to our younger selves. Because of his courage, he survived. We can say the same things: That boy is my hero.
I know too many who may have survived by living, but they experience sad, depressed, and lonely lives.
"That boy is my hero." What powerful words from a survivor. And they are words of gratitude that we deserve to give to our younger selves. Because of his courage, he survived. We can say the same things: That boy is my hero.
I know too many who may have survived by living, but they experience sad, depressed, and lonely lives.
My young boy is my hero.
I embrace him and thank him.
Tuesday, May 5, 2015
Irrational Comparison
(This encore post comes from John Joseph.)
Many men never graduate from the eighth grade. That's usually the year competition begins in earnest between boys, especially in the locker room. We're discovering our bodies in new ways; puberty is raging, and the comparisons of everything from push-ups to penises set the hierarchy in the schoolyard.
I was never going to be the alpha male, of course, and bore the brunt of ridicule for being smaller, uncoordinated, un-athletic, and downright sissy. Eighth grade was hell.
The unfortunate thing for me as a survivor of childhood sexual trauma is that my abusers were like the bigger boys at school. I couldn't measure up to them in any way.
That sick comparison has stuck with me throughout life and has made me miserable. I've constantly compared myself to other men and always come up wanting. My comparisons aren't ever accurate, but the result is always the same: I can never be as good, as strong, as muscular, as sexy, or as secure as any other man I encounter. They always win.
The only way I’ve found to counteract such an irrational comparison is to recognize that, at its root, it's nothing but envy. I want to be as big, strong, muscular, successful, and handsome as they are.
Forgetting the fact that I just may be similar to them in many ways, envy blinds me to my good qualities I may have, and causes unwanted anxiety and depression.
My body works just fine, no matter how big or small it is. To want what someone else has is a sin against myself and even my own body. To recover means to be thankful for who I am and for what I have, even if I still can’t do many push-ups.
I was never going to be the alpha male, of course, and bore the brunt of ridicule for being smaller, uncoordinated, un-athletic, and downright sissy. Eighth grade was hell.
The unfortunate thing for me as a survivor of childhood sexual trauma is that my abusers were like the bigger boys at school. I couldn't measure up to them in any way.
That sick comparison has stuck with me throughout life and has made me miserable. I've constantly compared myself to other men and always come up wanting. My comparisons aren't ever accurate, but the result is always the same: I can never be as good, as strong, as muscular, as sexy, or as secure as any other man I encounter. They always win.
The only way I’ve found to counteract such an irrational comparison is to recognize that, at its root, it's nothing but envy. I want to be as big, strong, muscular, successful, and handsome as they are.
Forgetting the fact that I just may be similar to them in many ways, envy blinds me to my good qualities I may have, and causes unwanted anxiety and depression.
My body works just fine, no matter how big or small it is. To want what someone else has is a sin against myself and even my own body. To recover means to be thankful for who I am and for what I have, even if I still can’t do many push-ups.
Tuesday, December 9, 2014
"I Am a Survivor" (Part 1 of 2)
Cheryll Snow's article appeared in Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Power of Forgiveness. With permission, I've excerpted part of it, which is a letter to an uncle who molested her.
* * * * *
Ashamed as a child because no matter how hard I tried, I never felt good enough. Ashamed of my changing body during puberty, then later using my budding sexuality by acting out with boys, and beating myself up emotionally for years because of it. Even so, I still deal with issues concerning body image, intimacy, trust, inadequacy, and a profound fear of failure.
I give that shame back to you. It is not mine. It's yours.
Tuesday, November 25, 2014
Self-loathing
(This is an encore post from John Joseph.)
One effect of my early childhood sexual abuse has been self-loathing. For the longest time I didn’t understand that was what I was dealing with. I thought I was just so messed up that I didn’t deserve the air I was breathing. I constantly compared myself to others, especially men, and I never measured up. The problem with that perspective is that it kept me from being the best me that I could be.
Self-loathing is an emotional habit rooted in envy. As a child my body was never as big as the men who abused me. They were taller, stronger, and their genitalia were bigger. I could never measure up. I can see clearly now that my lifetime of irrational comparisons was founded in those moments of abuse in which I was weaker and the abusers stronger. It wasn’t a fair fight. I was a child.
My continuum of self-loathing ran from a minor comparison of hair or height to athleticism or financial status. At best, it caused an irritation. At worst, it caused deep anxiety and self-destructive behavior such as addiction or depression. A few times I was so distressed by not being like someone else that I despaired and could have taken my life.
The cure for self-loathing I have found, is to recognize that envy hurts me. I am learning to celebrate myself—my body, and my lot in life. What I have is what I have. Comparing myself to others causes me to devalue myself. As I grow in recovery my goal is to love and appreciate who I am and to resist falling into the abyss of self-loathing.
Self-loathing is an emotional habit rooted in envy. As a child my body was never as big as the men who abused me. They were taller, stronger, and their genitalia were bigger. I could never measure up. I can see clearly now that my lifetime of irrational comparisons was founded in those moments of abuse in which I was weaker and the abusers stronger. It wasn’t a fair fight. I was a child.
My continuum of self-loathing ran from a minor comparison of hair or height to athleticism or financial status. At best, it caused an irritation. At worst, it caused deep anxiety and self-destructive behavior such as addiction or depression. A few times I was so distressed by not being like someone else that I despaired and could have taken my life.
The cure for self-loathing I have found, is to recognize that envy hurts me. I am learning to celebrate myself—my body, and my lot in life. What I have is what I have. Comparing myself to others causes me to devalue myself. As I grow in recovery my goal is to love and appreciate who I am and to resist falling into the abyss of self-loathing.
Friday, May 30, 2014
Forgiving Myself
(This post comes from John Joseph*.)
Forgiving myself for my own sinful responses to abuse has been difficult. I have used the abuse a thousand times to excuse my acting out in sinful (to me) behaviors that have dishonored my body and soul. Those behaviors violate my belief system, my relationship with God, and my commitment to faithful marriage. Even if I didn’t physically engage in acting out, the mental/emotional cycle of addiction-repentance-addiction-repentance is enough to make me crazy.
Forgiveness is the ultimate creative act. It takes the aberration, the “sin”, the thing I don’t want to do but did anyway, into a new space that didn’t exist before, a place that says, “Okay, that happened, but it doesn’t define me. I’m not what I just did.” Forgiveness never ignores the behavior, but recognizes that the behavior is an indicator of a deeper need for connection, renewal, and belonging.
By forgiving myself, I create a new space where I can actually be more of who I really am and not be bound to the acting out of who I’m not, the addict, the broken, the depressed, anxious, or otherwise messed up person. Today, I forgive myself.
Forgiving myself for my own sinful responses to abuse has been difficult. I have used the abuse a thousand times to excuse my acting out in sinful (to me) behaviors that have dishonored my body and soul. Those behaviors violate my belief system, my relationship with God, and my commitment to faithful marriage. Even if I didn’t physically engage in acting out, the mental/emotional cycle of addiction-repentance-addiction-repentance is enough to make me crazy.
Forgiveness is the ultimate creative act. It takes the aberration, the “sin”, the thing I don’t want to do but did anyway, into a new space that didn’t exist before, a place that says, “Okay, that happened, but it doesn’t define me. I’m not what I just did.” Forgiveness never ignores the behavior, but recognizes that the behavior is an indicator of a deeper need for connection, renewal, and belonging.
By forgiving myself, I create a new space where I can actually be more of who I really am and not be bound to the acting out of who I’m not, the addict, the broken, the depressed, anxious, or otherwise messed up person. Today, I forgive myself.
*John Joseph is a pseudonym of a pastor. He's a regular contributor to this blog.
Friday, February 21, 2014
"He Said He'd Take Care of Me"
(an encore post by Cecil Murphey)
I had an email in which a young man, age 19, said he had "done things" with his Sunday school teacher for four years. "He bought me things and took me places."
The boy's parents were both "drunks and pill poppers" who "didn't know I existed unless one of them needed me to grab a cold one from the refrigerator."
He went on to say that the teacher promised, "I'll take care of you. You can't live with me because you're a minor, but when you're older we can live together and I'll take care of you."
After a few more details the boy added, "Just before my 18th birthday I asked him about moving in. He said he couldn't do that. He wanted to but he couldn't."
He told me about his agony and feelings of rejection, especially when the teacher began to make excuses for not getting with him regularly.
"It was all a lie. I reminded him of his promise and he cussed me out and told me I was evil and that he had tried to help me but he had failed."
The young man had attempted suicide once and had undergone psychiatric treatment for depression.
He has emailed me three times, so that encourages me to believe that something positive is going on. He also reads my blog (which is why he contacted me). "You can use my story," he said in his last email, "but you can't give my name."
I wish his story had a happy ending.
Maybe one day it will.
I had an email in which a young man, age 19, said he had "done things" with his Sunday school teacher for four years. "He bought me things and took me places."
The boy's parents were both "drunks and pill poppers" who "didn't know I existed unless one of them needed me to grab a cold one from the refrigerator."
He went on to say that the teacher promised, "I'll take care of you. You can't live with me because you're a minor, but when you're older we can live together and I'll take care of you."
After a few more details the boy added, "Just before my 18th birthday I asked him about moving in. He said he couldn't do that. He wanted to but he couldn't."
He told me about his agony and feelings of rejection, especially when the teacher began to make excuses for not getting with him regularly.
"It was all a lie. I reminded him of his promise and he cussed me out and told me I was evil and that he had tried to help me but he had failed."
The young man had attempted suicide once and had undergone psychiatric treatment for depression.
He has emailed me three times, so that encourages me to believe that something positive is going on. He also reads my blog (which is why he contacted me). "You can use my story," he said in his last email, "but you can't give my name."
I wish his story had a happy ending.
Maybe one day it will.
Friday, January 17, 2014
Denny's Forgiveness Experience
In my previous blog, I asked if someone would write about their experience of forgiveness. This came from Denny.
From preschool to junior high I shared a bedroom with my brother who was four years older than I. I was a "late bloomer" and Matt delighted in ridiculing my sexual immaturity. He insisted that I was less than fully male.
Because of a disability from birth I never attended a gym class, was excused from military service, seldom experienced a locker room as an adolescent or adult. So I believed his words that I was unacceptable as a man. This perceived defect goes far beyond the physical. It has warped my emotional, mental, social, and spiritual view of myself.
Consequently, the relationship between my brother and me has been shallow and cool. We never discussed his abuses. He may have wondered why I remained distant. I think he knew.
About a year ago Matt was hospitalized. During the recovery from surgery an internal infection went undetected. There were several setbacks. After many weeks of hospitalization he was transferred to an inpatient facility where another problem was detected and he was hospitalized again. He eventually died.
I had seen counselors, dealing with impaired masculinity issues, depression, and other struggles. Through counseling and Celebrate Recovery, I realized that none of us deserves forgiveness.
While Matt was hospitalized following surgery I phoned his room. As our conversation neared an end I realized there was no guarantee that there would be more conversations. I told Matt that I loved him. It was the only time in my memory that I had ever said it.
There was a long pause, then he said, "I love you, too, Denny."
* * * * *
From preschool to junior high I shared a bedroom with my brother who was four years older than I. I was a "late bloomer" and Matt delighted in ridiculing my sexual immaturity. He insisted that I was less than fully male.
Because of a disability from birth I never attended a gym class, was excused from military service, seldom experienced a locker room as an adolescent or adult. So I believed his words that I was unacceptable as a man. This perceived defect goes far beyond the physical. It has warped my emotional, mental, social, and spiritual view of myself.
Consequently, the relationship between my brother and me has been shallow and cool. We never discussed his abuses. He may have wondered why I remained distant. I think he knew.
About a year ago Matt was hospitalized. During the recovery from surgery an internal infection went undetected. There were several setbacks. After many weeks of hospitalization he was transferred to an inpatient facility where another problem was detected and he was hospitalized again. He eventually died.
I had seen counselors, dealing with impaired masculinity issues, depression, and other struggles. Through counseling and Celebrate Recovery, I realized that none of us deserves forgiveness.
While Matt was hospitalized following surgery I phoned his room. As our conversation neared an end I realized there was no guarantee that there would be more conversations. I told Matt that I loved him. It was the only time in my memory that I had ever said it.
There was a long pause, then he said, "I love you, too, Denny."
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