The Worst Abuse

The worst abuse to any boy can be stated in one word: incest. My online dictionary defines incest as the crime of sexual acts with a parent, child, sibling, or grandparent. I’ve never heard of any culture that affirms incest.

Family members, especially parents and grandparents, are those we naturally trust. We turn to them for love, understanding, and comfort. And if they violate our trust, they confuse us and do irreparable damage to our souls.

Every authority I’ve read says that incest has more far-reaching negative consequences than any other because it occurs within the family system. It’s particularly true when the perpetrator is a parent, because the child grows up trapped in a twisted primary relationship.

Long before I faced my own incestuous abuse, another writer named Mark* told me that when he was a teen his mother raped him. Nearly 40 years later, we met at a conference last year and renewed our relationship.

Mark has now been married four times. His present marriage is rocky, but he’s determined to hold it together. He’s also aware of what his mother did to him. He tried to get closure and peace a few months before she died, but she denied any wrongdoing.

“My head knows all the reasons and explanations for my problems,” Mark said, “but I can’t get my emotions to adapt.” Because of his mother’s actions, Mark has never been able to sustain a relationship with a woman. He and his present wife are getting counseling, but he says, “I can’t open up to her. No matter how hard I try, the trust just isn’t there.” And then he admits, “It’s not because she’s done or said anything. It’s just hard for me to trust any woman.”

“Or impossible,” I said.

He started to disagree, closed his mouth, and stared into space for a minute or so. “Yes, that’s right.”

This is again a plea with incest survivors to get help—a friend, a minister, a therapist. It is possible to overcome the devastating effects of incest.

I know.

Incest?

"I never thought of it as incest."

At least six times, I've heard that statement from survivors. Their fathers, mothers, or older siblings were the perpetrators. They understood it fitted under the title of sexual abuse, but not incest.

"I finally accepted the word rape,” *Barry said two years ago over coffee, "but now I have to face the word incest. Somehow that makes it worse."

To him, the word was limited to a father-daughter sexual relationship. "My mother raped me," he said, "but it didn't hit me until I read the definition in a book about boys being molested. It said that incest refers to sexual activity between close relatives." He paused to wipe tears from his eyes. "How could she do that to me? How could she?"

Although he asked me the question, he didn't expect me to answer (as if I could). For Barry, the word incest was the ultimate evil in any family. "And I was a victim."

As we talked, it was obvious he wanted to make sense out of the situation. Finally he said, "She was lonely because Dad was gone a lot."

"You're excusing her," I said. "I suggest you focus on the crime she perpetrated instead of making excuses."

That shocked him, but then he nodded. "You're right. I have to remind myself that she did an evil, immoral, and illegal act."

Barry and I had coffee together about a month ago. One of the first sentences from him was, "My mother incested me."

Although I wasn't used to hearing the word as a verb, I understood. He had faced the reality of her sexual assault. "Now my struggle is to forgive her."

"Do you want to forgive her?" I asked, "Or is it something you feel you have to do?"

After a lengthy silence, Barry thanked me. "Thanks. My counselor urged me to forgive her—and I know I need to do that, but—"

"But not yet."

"Not yet," he said.

And I admired him for realizing he wasn't yet ready.

One day he will be ready. In his own time.

Why Did I Go Back?

(This post comes from a reader named Roger.)

I have shared with only two people that I did go back—long after I no longer needed to, and long after he was probably through with me. After the divorce from my first wife, I spent a holiday weekend with my parents. That first evening, dad told me I could have his bedroom and he would sleep in their camper/trailer.

Later, I turned out the light to go to sleep. Tired as I was, I found myself alert and lying once again in the dark, a 10-year-old kid in a 33-year-old body. Sometime after midnight, I heard familiar sounds outside my door. Without thinking, I pulled back the covers so he could see me.

Why would I do that? At that point in my life, I was well aware of what we were doing and how wrong it was. What did I want/need from him? It was just as unsatisfying as it was 23 years earlier, but now it was embarrassing, humiliating, and I ended up feeling like crap. Why did I feel the need to surrender access to me? Was it familiarity, guilt, a chance to rewrite history? Or maybe I thought it was a chance to talk about what we were doing.

Of course, the next day it was as if nothing had happened. He was my father and the pastor of my church all my life.

How long would this go on?

Dad took that terrible dilemma out of my hands with his suicide years afterward. But I'm still left with the question of why I went back, and whether I would have continued.

Not many of us incest survivors have to face those questions and doubts, but I understand the terrible pull to accept that phone call, answer that text, or open the door to someone whom I know is going to hurt me.