For their 2017 “Person of the Year,” Time magazine chose “The Silence Breakers”—women who triggered a #MeToo national outcry over sexual harassment. They showed photographs of four famous women and the intentionally obscured face of a fifth. She represented those who hadn’t yet gone public.
I applaud that—and wish there were more males speaking up, such as actor Anthony Rapp, who rang the bell on Kevin Spacey.
The public still seems stuck on the idea that sexual attacks are committed by strangers in dark alleys. Despite being told repeatedly through the media, most of us males (and the recent influx of females claiming sexual harassment) knew our perpetrators.
Our abuse came from people we trusted (or should have been able to trust). People can lie and make up things, and some individuals get caught in the false-memory syndrome of believing abuse when there was none. But, again, those are rare.
Think of what the victim must endure to go public. And many have horror stories to relate. Why would any of us want to subject ourselves to such painful scrutiny and unbelief? Why would we expect to be believed?
When you first spoke out, were you believed?
Showing posts with label false memories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label false memories. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 29, 2019
Tuesday, February 14, 2017
Why the Memories and Flashbacks Now? (Part 3 of 3)
“How do I know the memories and flashbacks are real?” one man said. “I’ve always had a good imagination.”
My answer: You know the difference. The question isn’t “Are they real?” but “Can I accept them?” When the memories first started pouring into my heart and mind, like many others, I didn’t want to believe them as being authentic. But I knew.
No matter how hard I tried I couldn’t convince myself that I had made them up. I knew.
I didn’t have a lot of flashbacks—where childhood memories forced themselves into my head. What I had most were dreams—nightmares—and I awakened in a sweat and sometimes shaking. Those dreams were quite literal, as opposed to what I call the hamburger-and-onion type—the kind that troubles me over something I ate.
In the dreams, I was a child again and I relived most of the tormenting, painful abuse.
Particularly, I remember the old man who rented a room from us. In the nightmares, he was ugly and I was afraid, but I went up to him anyway. When I was awake, I thought of him as having a kind face and he smiled often.
In my dreams I especially remembered his male-pattern baldness with no hair except on the sides of his face. Unless he went outside, he wore sleeveless undershirts and tufts of white, curly hair showed over the top of the shirt.
I mention the hair because he knelt down (or in some dreams he put me on his lap) and had me feel this hirsute chest. My dreams never went beyond that, but I knew—I knew it was real because I couldn’t face what followed.
Dream after dream came to me over a period of months. Each time I awakened abruptly, feeling frightened, and sometimes couldn’t go back to sleep.
Once I learned to accept the reality of those scenes, they went away. I don’t need them because I faced the pain and betrayal, and mourned the loss of my childhood.
Through the help of God and my friends, I’ve stayed on the healing path. I’m closer to the end of the recovery road. Until then, I have to say, “I’m not quite healed. But close.”
My answer: You know the difference. The question isn’t “Are they real?” but “Can I accept them?” When the memories first started pouring into my heart and mind, like many others, I didn’t want to believe them as being authentic. But I knew.
No matter how hard I tried I couldn’t convince myself that I had made them up. I knew.
I didn’t have a lot of flashbacks—where childhood memories forced themselves into my head. What I had most were dreams—nightmares—and I awakened in a sweat and sometimes shaking. Those dreams were quite literal, as opposed to what I call the hamburger-and-onion type—the kind that troubles me over something I ate.
In the dreams, I was a child again and I relived most of the tormenting, painful abuse.
Particularly, I remember the old man who rented a room from us. In the nightmares, he was ugly and I was afraid, but I went up to him anyway. When I was awake, I thought of him as having a kind face and he smiled often.
In my dreams I especially remembered his male-pattern baldness with no hair except on the sides of his face. Unless he went outside, he wore sleeveless undershirts and tufts of white, curly hair showed over the top of the shirt.
I mention the hair because he knelt down (or in some dreams he put me on his lap) and had me feel this hirsute chest. My dreams never went beyond that, but I knew—I knew it was real because I couldn’t face what followed.
Dream after dream came to me over a period of months. Each time I awakened abruptly, feeling frightened, and sometimes couldn’t go back to sleep.
Once I learned to accept the reality of those scenes, they went away. I don’t need them because I faced the pain and betrayal, and mourned the loss of my childhood.
Through the help of God and my friends, I’ve stayed on the healing path. I’m closer to the end of the recovery road. Until then, I have to say, “I’m not quite healed. But close.”
Tuesday, July 12, 2016
Did It Really Happen?
I "forgot" (that's denial) about my abuse until I was 51 years old. For several months after the memories began seeping back into my consciousness, I kept trying to convince myself that the abuse hadn't happened.
I hadn't gone to a counselor or therapist, but that happened around the time we heard so much about the false-memory syndrome. Therapists had inadvertently planted false memories in some of their clients.
I wanted mine to be false memories.
But they weren't.
I hadn't gone to a counselor or therapist, but that happened around the time we heard so much about the false-memory syndrome. Therapists had inadvertently planted false memories in some of their clients.
I wanted mine to be false memories.
But they weren't.
I was molested.
Because I can accept that fact, I can overcome the pain.
(This post was adapted from Not Quite Healed, written by Cecil Murphey and Gary Roe.)
Tuesday, March 29, 2016
False Memories
There’ll always be accusers who claim they were sexually assaulted but weren’t. In recent years, we’ve become familiar with the false-memory syndrome. They’re “suggestible” individuals who claim to have suddenly remembered their childhood abuse, usually under hypnosis or guided imagery.
To suddenly remember the events of childhood isn’t unusual. Many of us had no memories of our abuse. A century ago, Freud pointed out that we block out those memories that are too painful to accept.
On TV, I recently watched the 1973 film, and heard Barbra Streisand sing the movie’s title “The Way We Were.” One line says that what was too painful to remember, we chose to forget.
But when I think about the false-memory syndrome, I’ve encountered three people who told me such horrendous tales of abuse, including infant sacrifices, that they strained my level of credibility.
How do we, the survivors of childhood trauma respond? Do we believe their words? Or even more, how do we help them?
I don’t know the answers, and my only response is, “Show compassion.” I write that because even if molestation didn’t literally occur, the person still has serious needs.
The most healing thing I can do is to listen. To care. To express compassion.
To suddenly remember the events of childhood isn’t unusual. Many of us had no memories of our abuse. A century ago, Freud pointed out that we block out those memories that are too painful to accept.
On TV, I recently watched the 1973 film, and heard Barbra Streisand sing the movie’s title “The Way We Were.” One line says that what was too painful to remember, we chose to forget.
But when I think about the false-memory syndrome, I’ve encountered three people who told me such horrendous tales of abuse, including infant sacrifices, that they strained my level of credibility.
How do we, the survivors of childhood trauma respond? Do we believe their words? Or even more, how do we help them?
I don’t know the answers, and my only response is, “Show compassion.” I write that because even if molestation didn’t literally occur, the person still has serious needs.
The most healing thing I can do is to listen. To care. To express compassion.
Even if the person lies or it’s a false memory,
I can never go wrong by being compassionate.
* * * * *
Are there questions or specific topics you'd like Cec to address in upcoming blog entries? If so, please send an email to his assistant at the following address: cecilmurphey(at)mchsi(dot)com.
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