"I Could Never . . ." (Part 7 of 7)

All of us have harmed others, and we’ll do it again. We probably find it easier to forgive ourselves for those simple, thoughtless deeds. We tell ourselves, “I was having a bad day.” Or, “I received a bill for a huge amount and couldn’t find the cash to pay it.” Or, “Our son got in trouble with the police last night.” Our self-excusing goes on endlessly. We provide the rationale behind our foolish actions.

That’s not to equate what was done to us as minor. Our tendency is to condemn our abusers by focusing on the horror of what they did to us. “I would never . . . ,” we say. Or, “I could never . . .”

I think of a Bible verse I memorized many years ago: “The heart is deceitful above all things and beyond cure. Who can understand it?” (Jeremiah 17:9).

We’ve all made mistakes and harmed others; we will again. We may rightly call them minor, but it’s only a matter of degree.

We find it easier to practice forgiveness when we can imagine that the roles could have been reversed. Each of us could have been the perpetrator rather than the victim. Each of us has the capacity to commit the wrongs that were done to us. Although I might say, “I would never . . . ,” genuine humility answers, “I hope that, given the same circumstances, I wouldn’t . . .”

But can we ever really know? “Let him who thinks he stands take heed lest he fall” (1 Corinthians 10:12).

Because I’ve learned to forgive the simple things I’ve done to others, 

I can learn to forgive the serious things others did to me.

Forgiving Unconditionally (Part 6 of 7)

Forgiving unconditionally is different from forgiving with conditions. True forgiveness is a grace—a gift not deserved.

Forgiveness on our part frees the perpetrator who inflicted the pain. That’s where some falter, unable to let go. I understand that, but by letting them go, we also give up all claims to waiting for them to change or to confess they’ve hurt us.

By the simple act of wiping away their evil deeds from our hearts, we also free ourselves. We no longer feel a gnawing ache when the other person is mentioned. The tension leaves our body. It becomes like an old toothache—we may remember the experience, but we’re free from the agony.

I’ve learned that I need to have experienced undeserved pardon before I can pass it on. For me, as a Christian, that’s at the core of my faith. I didn’t deserve divine forgiveness, but I joyfully accept it.

Only as I understand unconditional forgiveness for myself 

am I able to offer it to someone else.

It's Not Up to Them (Part 5 of 7)

“When he admits what he’s done, then I’ll forgive.”

“I’m willing to forgive him for molesting me, after he admits what he did to me.”

We’ve all heard people say those words. What they can’t seem to accept is that forgiveness isn’t dependent on actions of others.

Of course, it’s easier to forgive when the perpetrator expresses remorse. Then we can feel as if we’ve been paid back in some way.

For many, forgiveness is the understanding that we offer to someone—a gift—but it has strings attached. The if-you-will condition is implied.

By adding conditions, they become the chains that bind us to the person who harmed us. We may set the conditions for granting forgiveness, but the person who harmed us decides whether the conditions are too costly.

If we wait for those who harmed us to repent, 

we may never be healed.

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.

By forgiving, we benefit with improved health.

Self-interest of Forgiving (Part 3 of 7)

Not long ago, I read research about the results of forgiving. In report after report, statistics pointed out that those who forgive had fewer health and mental issues, physical problems, and felt less stress.

If we think of forgiving our perpetrators as doing something for ourselves—to promote our healing—we’re on the right path.

This solidifies the idea that forgiving is a loving act of compassion for me—a benefit for myself.

Sounds simple, doesn’t it? So why is it difficult for some?

Because I care about myself, 

I release my anger toward my perpetrator.

The Old Forgiveness Road (Again)

(This post comes from Roger Mann.)

Forgiveness? Seriously? Still?

It seems that lately every time I talk to someone about my dad’s abuse of me, which gratefully isn’t often, this subject comes up. I don’t know if I’m coming across angry, resentful, or what. I believe I’ve forgiven him and my mom, and even my sis for the small role she had. Although, honestly, I have other reasons for not feeling warm and fuzzy with her that have nothing to do with the abuse.

I’ve honestly tried to forgive, forget, and let go of any bad feelings about it all. I know it just hurts me and no one else. There are times, however, when I seem to feel angry for no reason. It could be that I’m a jerk at times due to some genetic propensity for such. I really don’t know.

Anyway, I’d like if next time the subject comes up I didn’t have to go over the old forgiveness road again. I realize it’s an obvious place to go when first dealing with someone who has been abused, and it should be a vital part of the healing process somewhere down the road when one is ready. But after ten or more years, do I still need to visit this again?

I suppose it’s possible that I just don’t understand how the process works and/or maybe I’ve done it wrong and it didn’t take or something, but it sure keeps coming up. I think that may be what prompted the previous post about moving on.

If anyone has tips or positive experiences with this issue, I’d love to hear about it. The whole thing makes my stomach hurt.

Just my thoughts.

Hurting Back (Part 2 of 7)

As I continue to learn about forgiving, I’m able to say that people who hurt often hurt others. That may not be obvious to us who were molested. Perhaps not every perp was first victimized, but something caused deep pain or need in their lives, and finding temporary sexual satisfaction was their form of self-medication.

Even knowing that, for some of us it’s still hard to forgive. The anguish is too deep. The traumas of our childhood remain stuck in our memories.

Hurting back doesn’t satisfy. We may think it will, but it doesn’t. If I sock you after you struck me, it doesn’t lessen the sting I felt. Nor does it diminish my sadness that you hit me. At best, retaliation gives a momentary respite from pain. The only way to experience healing and peace is to release the pain—that is, to forgive.

Until we can forgive, we’re in a prison, padlocked in our heartache and locked out of the possibility of experiencing healing and freedom. In short, we’re unable to experience peace because we’re still bolted to the past.

Someone wisely said, “Without forgiveness, we remain tethered to the person who harmed us. We’re bound by chains of bitterness and vengeance. Until we can forgive the one who harmed us, we’re unable to grab hold the key that frees us from our prison. Our perpetrators are still inflicting agony and despair. That person is our jailer.”

When we forgive, we take control of our lives and feelings. We become our own liberators.

Above all, we don’t forgive to help our perpetrators. We forgive for ourselves. Forgiveness is the best form of self-interest.

The best way to win over our oppressor is to forgive him 

and not allow him to continue the torment.

Deserving Forgiveness (Part 1 of 7)

“He doesn’t deserve to be forgiven,” my friend Neal said years ago. He added, “For a long time, I held in the anger and unforgiveness toward the perp who stole my innocence.”

My friend hadn’t been very open, but I remember saying one sentence: “There’s no one who can’t be forgiven.”

Nearly five years later, Neal and I were talking about his abuse. He reminded me of the words I had spoken. “You’re right. It’s more than just forgiving him, but it also means I can move on from my pain.”

Although glad for where he was, I wish I had also said, “When you’re ready to forgive or to release the hurt, you’ll see it differently.”

He smiled and nodded. “I felt that by not forgiving I was withholding something from him—giving him pain for his evil deeds. Perhaps that seems incredulous, but I wanted him to suffer.”

It’s sad, but that’s the confused reasoning of many. We want them to hurt; we want them to feel the agony they caused us.

Life just doesn’t work that way. We forgive for our own sake. As long as we hold on to the hurt they caused, healing doesn’t take place.

I need to forgive those who hurt me, 

and when I’ve hurt enough, I will.

On Forgiveness

(This post comes from Roger Mann.)

Another abuse survivor wrote, “I have some people . . . from my past who I need to forgive. I have never been ready to and really have never wanted to.”

I struggled with forgiveness as well. Suppressed rage filled me a good part of my adult life. Initially, I believed it was aimed at my father. At times, I also sensed anger toward God. Then I suspected I was angry at my young self for letting it happen.

Later, I realized I was angry at me—an adult who wasn’t handling life well. I made excuses, blamed others for my circumstances, and blamed the abuse for all my mistakes and bad choices. I hated myself for not accepting responsibility.

I’ve learned that what happens to me isn’t as important as how I deal with it. God is developing character in me, and trials and hardship don’t build character; they reveal it. The Holy Spirit uses them to refine me, which usually involves pain. Apparently, I needed a lot of refining.

Understanding that has helped me to forgive. I started with myself, then the boy who was, and finally the father who was never a dad. It was a long and tortuous road but one I needed to travel.

Now, when things get ugly and I get frustrated, I step back and remind myself of why I’m here. Because I’ve been broken and angry, I can reach out to others who are broken and angry. When I recognize myself in others, God works in us both. It’s one of the ways God reveals Himself to me. His love for me, in spite of all that I am and have been, helps mitigate my anger and raises what I call my “stupidity threshold” back to a safe level.

That love followed me through all my flailing and attempts at finding myself. More than anything, it’s enabled me to finally forgive, and has released me from the ghost of my father’s touch. I’m free and at peace (as much as one can be these days) because I’m able to see that love as I look back through those years. It’s a journey, not a destination, and I have always had a faithful—though often unappreciated— companion with me.

Just my thoughts.

The Shock

(This post is from Roger Mann.)

* * * * *

I still remember the slow creeping shock that came over me when I first began to realize (or maybe I should say accept) what had happened to me as a boy. I had this fantasy of such a wonderful childhood that I clung to all my life. Clung to so desperately that it made my chest ache at times. Every time I heard about someone else’s wonderful childhood, I’d get angry and irritable and not know why. I should have been happy for them, but I was confused and angry and just wanted to go away.

I lost so much.

I can’t begin to tell you how sad and betrayed I felt. It took me awhile, going from weeping to rage and back to weeping for a week or so. I guess it was a grieving process, and I’m still not done. I’m almost 69 years old now, and it still stings. I’m tempted to list all of the might-have-beens that go through my mind still today, but I won’t.

It doesn’t matter. It is what it is.

Since the death of that denial somewhere back in early 2000, I have spent my life reluctantly but sincerely reaching out to others hurting from similar wounds and betrayal with sympathy and encouragement that I admit sometimes I didn’t feel myself. I share what was shared with me when I came looking for help with the pain. I share my experience as one who has traveled a well-worn part of this journey, pointing out pitfalls and traps that can keep one stuck in a particular sadness.

And I know those places well. I’ve had to learn how to recognize that I’m stuck and learn how to get unstuck and move on, even when I wanted so badly just to stay and wallow. And I’m not against a certain amount of wallowing. I earned it in spades.

But to heal, I have to crawl out of the pit and move on, which usually means climbing the ladder of forgiveness one more time. I sometimes hate that ladder, but it’s the only route for me to freedom and moving on.

Just my thoughts.

Roger

The Impact of Your Story

In a previous blog, I told you the question Paula’s husband asked. She’s a writer, and he asked her a second question: “What kind of impact do you think your story might offer those who’ve been wounded as you have been or who are still living in abusive situations?”

Powerful question, and I answer only for myself. In my case, I faced the molestation and have learned to talk freely about it. Would it make a difference if I specifically revealed the name of my first perpetrator? The only “good” I could see is that I would have been transparent. I don’t think any further revelation would significantly impact readers.

If she were still living, would I confront her? Perhaps. But first I’d have to decide what I expected to gain. If I wanted to force her to admit her acts, I’m not sure she’d do that. Even if she did, so what?

For me, the only reason I can think of for confronting that woman or the elderly pedophile, would be to say something like, “I know what you did, and I’ve come to tell you that I’ve forgiven you.”

Honoring or Protecting?

My friend Paula said her husband asked, “Are you honoring your mother or protecting your abuser?”

In my writings I refer to my first abuser as a female relative—which is true. I’ve not identified her even though she’s now dead. I’ve held back because she has still-living children and grandchildren. I also learned that she, herself, was a survivor of sexual abuse.

I chose not to state her relationship to me—not to protect her and certainly not to honor her. My reason was to avoid tainting her memory in the minds of her children and grandchildren.

Was I right? She died before I faced my childhood and I never had to face whether to confront her. But I’ve chosen to protect her memory in their lives.

More than that, I realized my not revealing her relationship means I’ve forgiven her. That’s what’s important. Even so, occasionally I ask the question: “Are you honoring or protecting your abuser?” I’m learning to say, “It’s neither. I don’t want to destroy others’ faith in her.”

How would you answer the question?

I Deserve Compassion

I can now say the words, “I deserve compassion,” but it took me a long time to admit that. For years, I tried to be self-loving and self-forgiving, but a voice in the back of my head whispered, “You know all the wrong things you did. You’ve earned your pain.”

In one sense, of course, none of us merits anything good in life. (That sentence reveals my theological basis of everyone being a sinner.) What I failed to understand is that God loved me and forgave me. Once I truly accepted divine forgiveness, that led me to forgive others and feel compassionate toward others. Why couldn’t I love and befriend Cec the same way?

Although the process I went through is too complex to relate, for me, it came down to this. I didn’t warrant compassion until I saw myself as a beloved child of God. If that was true, I didn’t have to prove anything or do anything to make myself lovable.

I have three children and I love them very much. If I look at their lives, I can easily point to their flaws or take note of the ways they disappointed me. Instead, I knew I loved them and thereby I accept each of them as they are.

The hardest words I recall saying to myself were these: “I am loveable.” Although I said them aloud to myself daily, for almost a month I wanted to add, “because I . . .” and list my good deeds. Or I’d have to fight myself by adding, “But look at . . .”

I know I’m loved and worth loving.

I’m loveable;

I can show myself compassion.

Turning the Abuse Around

(By Gary Roe)

I’m inspired by the Old Testament story of Joseph. He came from a highly dysfunctional family. His father had two wives and was a deceiver who played favorites. Joseph’s brothers hated him and sold him into slavery. Over the next 13 years he was carried off to a foreign land, mistreated, falsely accused, imprisoned, and forgotten.

Through a series of miraculous events, Joseph the Hebrew slave became second-in-command of the powerful nation of Egypt. Several years later, a famine struck the region and when Joseph’s brothers come to Egypt for food, they find themselves face-to-face with their long-lost brother.

Joseph could have done whatever he wanted with them. His brothers were terrified and expected death, but Joseph embraced and welcomed them. He chose to forgive. "You intended to harm me, but God intended it all for good," Joseph said (Genesis 50:19).

Joseph believed evil could be turned around and used for good. He chose to look at the positives instead of dwelling on his brothers’ rejection and abuse. He refused to be controlled by the past. He forgave his brothers, and in doing so freed himself.

That story tells me I can shed the abuse of the past. I know it happened, and I accept that. Now I’m trying to turn it around and use it for good, in my life and in the lives of those around me.

I can find ways to turn the abuse around
and use it for good.

"I Felt as if God Himself Had Molested Me"

"I felt as if God himself had molested me." Objectively and intellectually, he knew the reality, but he said that from an emotional perspective. His pastor was like God to him. "He represented everything I believed and cherished," he said.

He sounded like other church throwaways. I call them throwaways because they have no respect for the church, for ecclesiastical hierarchy, and can't comprehend a loving and compassionate God.

I wouldn't argue with such people. I would hope they could reach the emotional level of forgiving "God" for hurting them and enabling them to turn to the true lover of their souls.

God didn't molest me.

Someone who was supposed to represent God molested me.

(This post was adapted from Not Quite Healed, written by Cecil Murphey and Gary Roe.)

Knowing and Not Knowing

On February 19, 2016, I posted a blog called ”Unpleasant Things” about families refusing to know about sexual assault in the home.

Andrew Schmutzer, a frequent responder to this blog, commented, “They don’t know, because they don't want to know. This is an ETHICAL issue, not a cognitive one.” His response resonated with me.

Immediately I thought of the trial of Jerry Sandusky of Penn State. He sometimes took his victims into his basement, and one survivor said he screamed for help. Sandusky’s wife testified that she never heard any cries.

I can only conclude Sandusky’s wife didn’t want to hear.

We often don’t hear or see those terribly unpleasant things. Too many men have told me that other family members didn’t believe them or insisted, “You’re angry and making up things.” Or “He would never have done such a thing.” Those words add more pain. Like Andrew says, “They don’t want to know.”

In the film, A Few Good Men, Colonel Jessup (Jack Nicholson) is asked to tell the truth. He ends his diatribe by shouting, “You can’t handle the truth!”

Too often those who should believe us can’t accept the truth. But then, I realize that all of us have some of that not-knowing-the-truth.

When any criticism or accusation is something we’re not ready or unable to hear, we deny it. I think of many times my friends or enemies tried to tell me something distasteful or repulsive about myself. Until I was open, I never “heard” them.

I make this point to say, we also need to learn to forgive those deniers. They help victimize us without realizing their wrongdoing.

I forgive my perpetrators;

I also forgive those who hurt me by being unable to face the truth.

* * * * *

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.

Forgiving Myself

“But it felt good and I liked it,” Gerald Ray[1] said.

“Of course it did. Whenever you stimulate your penis, it’s pleasurable,” I said. “Someone older than you took advantage of your innocence. He did things to you that no child should ever have to experience.”

“But I should have—“

I stopped Gerald right there. “The adult part of you is speaking. You’re looking at who you are now and how you would react if it happened at age 35.” I pointed out that he was an innocent child and his perpetrator (his father) took advantage of him.

Gerald nodded in agreement, but he couldn’t seem to absolve himself as a participant. He understood the logic of his innocence, but he couldn’t get past the emotional resistance. “My dad kept saying he did it to me because I liked it and wanted it.”

“Do this, then,” I said. “Forgive yourself, even though you were an innocent child. Whenever you feel self-condemned, or think of anything you did or might have done, say three words: I forgive myself.”

I’m writing this as a serious Christian and have long believed God forgave me. However, like Gerald, and like many other survivors, it was myself I couldn’t forgive. So for a long time, I spoke the three words I urged Gerald to use.

I forgive myself.

[1] Real named used by permission.

* * * * *

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.

Innocence Lost

I used to wonder why victims of molestation feel responsible for the damage done to them by sexual abuse. I was one of those who felt responsible even though I had no control over my innocence being stolen from me.

In my own story and in the stories I know of other men who have been molested in childhood, we felt guilty. We were unable to reason out that the wrong was done to us, not that we were wrong. The self-blame seemed to come from realizing we suddenly "know too much." The culpability I accepted kept me from talking to anyone, or seeking safe adults to whom I could talk.

An insight, which helped overcome my sense of guilt, was to realize that I wasn’t the one who was tempted to do something that went against the laws of nature and God. Something abusive was done to me. By realizing that truth in my journey of seeking healing from the damage of the abuse, it becomes easier to believe that it wasn’t my fault and there was nothing I could have done differently.

I’ve also considered how my own abuse isn’t an excuse for actions that I’ve taken because of my brokenness. I’ve never sexually abused anyone, yet I’ve acted out of my own woundedness and I have hurt those I love the most. If people can still love me in spite of that, who am I to withhold love, grace, and forgiveness when I’ve been wronged?

I was never a perpetrator, but I might have been.

They assaulted us, and they are also victims.

Our Perpetrators (Part 1 of 2)

I'm not a perpetrator, but I might have been. As I've examined my life and heard the testimonies of many abused men, I understand that some violated others because it was learned behavior. They tended to do to others what was done to them. They followed a pattern they learned through their own sad victimization.

Instead of remaining victims, they became the victimizers. I don't think it was an intentional, deliberate decision. It seems like a natural progression.

The injured boy grows up and practices what he knows as a form of sexual or emotional satisfaction. He copies what he observed and what was done to him.

He wouldn't think in those terms, but by reversing roles he becomes the person with power. He reaches for what he wants and he learns how to do it because he was once the prey.

Think again about ourselves as children. For a few minutes at a time we felt loved because we were needy boys who received physical intimacy. We had some awareness of what it felt like to be loved. It was false and transitory, but the experience was real. Those may have been the only tender expressions we experienced in childhood. At least for me, they're the only ones I remember.

I'm not trying to excuse exploiting children, but I am trying to understand those who do such heinous acts. It helps me to compare them with those who are addicted to drugs or alcohol. The honest ones speak of what it's like when they got high. They tell me they were free from worries, able to forget the misery of their lives, their lack of feeling loved, or the awareness of hating themselves.

I'm not excusing the behavior of perpetrators, but I've determined to understand. I want to open myself to forgiving those who hurt me. In doing so, I move further down my own healing path. I can't be responsible for their decision, but I can forgive them.

My perpetrators were victims of their own compulsions;

as I seek to understand their actions, I also seek to forgive them.

To Forgive Myself

(This blog post comes from Chris.)

I am a 43-year-old male and a survivor of sexual molestation by my older brother and another male at my foster home. My story must be told to help me heal.

It started at age 5. I remember that it felt good but wrong at the same time. This went on until I was about 14 years old. I was their plaything, and when it was happening to me I felt numb. When they were molesting me, I blocked everything out. I didn't want them to be upset with me.

I didn't tell my foster parents because I was scared of what they would think. In my teenage years, I was angry at the world. I had trouble finding a girlfriend and I had a hard time finding or keeping friends. For a time, I thought I was a homosexual but never really felt feelings toward men.

I got married at the age of 20 and had a daughter. I struggled with what my brother and that guy did to me when I was young. I hated them and I hated what they did to me. I became what I hated the most.

On March 15, 2009, I was sentenced to 5 to 10 years for molesting a female child. I felt like a monster, a pedophile. I didn't crave children, but my victim was very dear to me. I lost everything!

I believe God forgave me, but I couldn't forgive myself. I still have a hard time forgiving myself, for I know how much damage I've caused that little girl and her family and even my own family. I am slowly forgiving myself for the harm I've done.

I've been out of prison for six years. It may take the rest of my life to forgive myself. I have a great support team that helps me when I fall, and now that I have briefly told my story the healing can really begin.