Another argument used to silence women who claim to have been sexually harassed is, “She didn’t fight back.”
Yet when people are robbed or mugged, no one asks them, “Why didn’t you resist?” That argument assumes that any person who didn’t want to be fondled would struggle and try to overcome the advances. I smile (ruefully) when I read such arguments. Occasionally, I’ve heard male survivors blame themselves.
“If I were a real man, I wouldn’t have let it happen.” Or they say, “I must have wanted it,” and then blame themselves for the sexual assault. As with women, we were physically overpowered by someone bigger and stronger when we were boys. Most of those women who kept silent did it out of fear—fear of losing their jobs, fear of being laughed at, fear of not being believed.
With us, it means that, as adult males, we look back and assume our younger selves to have been strong enough to fight. What could we have done? Cried out? Screamed? Kicked? Perhaps, but there’s something else with us. Our perps targeted us. They knew we were vulnerable. They waited until they had won our trust.
We were the ignored, unloved, unwanted boys. All anyone had to do was show us love and affection. We were too immature to reason out that they were only satisfying themselves and not truly caring for us.
Research used to refer to the fight-or-flight response to danger. A better way to put it today is to refer to fight, flight, or freeze. Victims become paralyzed as their body's protective response. Too often we punish ourselves, believing we know how we should have reacted.
Instead, we need to be kind and loving to ourselves. We did the best we knew how.
And we survived.
Did you blame yourself for not fighting back?
Showing posts with label painful memories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label painful memories. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 5, 2019
Tuesday, February 26, 2019
Is Sexual Harassment Different for Men? (Part 6 of 9)
Another cruel argument against the women who claim to have been sexually harassed are these five words: her story doesn’t add up.
Because of a few inconsistencies in reporting, does that make the molestation invalid? It’s normal, especially when we finally speak up. Time has lapsed and the memories have abated, even though the pain lies dormant inside.
For many of us, the agony is too severe to recall every step in the sexual rape we endured. When I reflect on the abuse by a female, I can’t give details. Two things stand out in my memory. First, the smell of the powder she wore, and second, her breath as she put her face next to mine.
What people often don’t understand is that when we tell an experience, we don’t tell it the same way twice. With each telling, we add details or omit something. That’s human nature. One therapist said that when he hears a traumatic story and the person tells it exactly the same way each time, that causes him to doubt them. “If they’ve memorized the details, that often points to false accusation.”
Some truly harassed adults or molested kids don’t get heard properly because of those inconsistencies. It’s easier to disbelieve than to be open to the victimization of the speaker. It takes courage to speak up.
I hope authorities will recognize that, listen, and truly hear our painful tales.
Do you struggle/have you struggled with trying to remember every detail?
For many of us, the agony is too severe to recall every step in the sexual rape we endured. When I reflect on the abuse by a female, I can’t give details. Two things stand out in my memory. First, the smell of the powder she wore, and second, her breath as she put her face next to mine.
What people often don’t understand is that when we tell an experience, we don’t tell it the same way twice. With each telling, we add details or omit something. That’s human nature. One therapist said that when he hears a traumatic story and the person tells it exactly the same way each time, that causes him to doubt them. “If they’ve memorized the details, that often points to false accusation.”
Some truly harassed adults or molested kids don’t get heard properly because of those inconsistencies. It’s easier to disbelieve than to be open to the victimization of the speaker. It takes courage to speak up.
I hope authorities will recognize that, listen, and truly hear our painful tales.
Do you struggle/have you struggled with trying to remember every detail?
Tuesday, January 15, 2019
Loss of a Secret
(This post comes from Roger Mann.)
In January 1995, I received a 2:30 a.m. phone call from my hysterical sister. “Dad shot Mother while she was sleeping. Then he shot himself in the front yard.”
Because she thought Mother to be alive, my wife and I got to the hospital as fast as we could. I was such a mess, all I could say was, “No, no, no.”
The rest of the month was a blur, and the next two or three years a roller coaster. Eventually, I settled into a working funk that slowly faded. Yet, at this time every year, I have an ache that won’t go away. I miss Mom and probably always will. I left so many things unsaid.
More than that, I grieve the loss of my secret. I kept it as a good boy should, but I cherished the fantasy I had made of it. In my mind I romanticized it as something other than abuse. It was a secret that was just for Dad and me and no one else. If I couldn’t have the healthy relationship I needed and wanted from a father, at least I could console myself that I had the secret of our “special times.”
After that January night, I had nothing but the truth. I wasn’t special—I was just more convenient. It wasn’t love—it was selfish, abusive, and damaging.
Along with my mother, Dad’s bullet took away everything I thought I had. I suspect I’ve been afraid to mourn Mom because I’d have to mourn all the rest. So, every January I just ache until I can push it back and move on to what the new year brings.
Some losses stick with us a long time.
In January 1995, I received a 2:30 a.m. phone call from my hysterical sister. “Dad shot Mother while she was sleeping. Then he shot himself in the front yard.”
Because she thought Mother to be alive, my wife and I got to the hospital as fast as we could. I was such a mess, all I could say was, “No, no, no.”
The rest of the month was a blur, and the next two or three years a roller coaster. Eventually, I settled into a working funk that slowly faded. Yet, at this time every year, I have an ache that won’t go away. I miss Mom and probably always will. I left so many things unsaid.
More than that, I grieve the loss of my secret. I kept it as a good boy should, but I cherished the fantasy I had made of it. In my mind I romanticized it as something other than abuse. It was a secret that was just for Dad and me and no one else. If I couldn’t have the healthy relationship I needed and wanted from a father, at least I could console myself that I had the secret of our “special times.”
After that January night, I had nothing but the truth. I wasn’t special—I was just more convenient. It wasn’t love—it was selfish, abusive, and damaging.
Along with my mother, Dad’s bullet took away everything I thought I had. I suspect I’ve been afraid to mourn Mom because I’d have to mourn all the rest. So, every January I just ache until I can push it back and move on to what the new year brings.
Some losses stick with us a long time.
Tuesday, December 25, 2018
Speaking Out
(This post comes from Roger Mann.)
When I was 21, I suffered from some stomach ills and depression. My employer had employee assistance programs that would pay for counseling. I decided to take advantage of it and made an appointment with a psychologist. Everything was going smoothly, and then out of the blue she asked me about my father and our relationship. In seconds, I turned white in the face, became dizzy, and had to put my head down and do some deep breathing. We ended right there and I never went back.
I carried the secret of our relationship for decades. But into my late 40s, things had gotten worse for me and I realized I should see someone and talk about it. It was slow going until one day I just blurted out about what he did and how I felt it had affected me. It was painful. I must have cried for ten minutes before getting control. I felt like a fool.
Later, I felt better— better than I had in years. I went back and began the long tedious and painful process of unpacking it. Since then I have been selectively open about my abuse with certain people and situations. I feel it benefits others. I’ve sought to analyze why I feel the need still to talk about it. It hurts my wife to hear about this stuff, and I seldom bring it up with her.
But when I found a website exclusively for men who have been abused and are dealing with the effects, I was thrilled to have a place to actually talk about it freely with people who understood. I opened up about things that I hadn’t told anyone before. Getting validation for those feelings and thoughts was absolutely huge.
When I think about just shutting up and dropping any reference to it, I remember back when someone told me these words:
When I was 21, I suffered from some stomach ills and depression. My employer had employee assistance programs that would pay for counseling. I decided to take advantage of it and made an appointment with a psychologist. Everything was going smoothly, and then out of the blue she asked me about my father and our relationship. In seconds, I turned white in the face, became dizzy, and had to put my head down and do some deep breathing. We ended right there and I never went back.
I carried the secret of our relationship for decades. But into my late 40s, things had gotten worse for me and I realized I should see someone and talk about it. It was slow going until one day I just blurted out about what he did and how I felt it had affected me. It was painful. I must have cried for ten minutes before getting control. I felt like a fool.
Later, I felt better— better than I had in years. I went back and began the long tedious and painful process of unpacking it. Since then I have been selectively open about my abuse with certain people and situations. I feel it benefits others. I’ve sought to analyze why I feel the need still to talk about it. It hurts my wife to hear about this stuff, and I seldom bring it up with her.
But when I found a website exclusively for men who have been abused and are dealing with the effects, I was thrilled to have a place to actually talk about it freely with people who understood. I opened up about things that I hadn’t told anyone before. Getting validation for those feelings and thoughts was absolutely huge.
When I think about just shutting up and dropping any reference to it, I remember back when someone told me these words:
It was not your fault.It's great to be heard and not just listened to. Here I am on this blog, spilling my guts, getting validation, and hopefully giving some too. To know you are not alone and can share the pain with someone who really gets it is beyond price.
You are not alone.
I understand, and I hear what you’re saying.
Tuesday, December 18, 2018
It's Not Too Late to Have a Happy Childhood
I first read those words as the title of a book by Claudia Black, and I scoffed. "More psychobabble," I mumbled. But the words stayed with me, and it took me a long time before I grasped what she meant. (Then I read the book, which I found helpful.)
Obviously, I can't redo my youthful pain; I don't want to rewrite my early experiences. But I can emotionally embrace that crushed, beaten-down, pain-stricken part of me from my childhood.
I've learned to show myself compassion and to understand my defenselessness. Instead of hating that part of myself, I'm able to emotionally hold that wounded boy tightly.
Because I've become a strong believer in self-affirmation statements, here's one thing I say several times each morning: "I love who I am, I love who I used to be, and I love who I'm becoming."
And I learned, as Black pointed out, that it wasn't too late for me to heal that traumatized little boy.
Obviously, I can't redo my youthful pain; I don't want to rewrite my early experiences. But I can emotionally embrace that crushed, beaten-down, pain-stricken part of me from my childhood.
I've learned to show myself compassion and to understand my defenselessness. Instead of hating that part of myself, I'm able to emotionally hold that wounded boy tightly.
Because I've become a strong believer in self-affirmation statements, here's one thing I say several times each morning: "I love who I am, I love who I used to be, and I love who I'm becoming."
And I learned, as Black pointed out, that it wasn't too late for me to heal that traumatized little boy.
I love who I am, I love who I used to be, and I love who I'm becoming.
Lord, thank you for making me the person I am.
Lord, thank you for making me the person I am.
* * * * *
This post is excerpted from Cec's book More Than Surviving: Courageous Meditations for Men Hurting from Childhood Abuse (Kregel, 2018).
Tuesday, December 11, 2018
Rewriting Life
The speaker referred to "strategies for protection from painful memories." He said many of us, unable to face the reality of horrible childhoods, unconsciously rewrote our family history and called that period of life by many terms, such as happy, conventional, nearly perfect.
Yes, I thought, I was one of them. In seminary, we had to take courses in pastoral counseling. In a personal interview, the lead professor asked me about my childhood.
"My mother was warm and accepting; my dad was quiet. I had a conventional, happy childhood." I said more than that—and thought I was telling the truth.
Years later, I was showering and realized I had not seen my family the way they truly were. "My mother was hard-hearted and unloving!" I yelled at my wife. "My dad was mean and brutal!"
Shirley hugged me and said, "Several times I heard you talk to others about your warm, loving family. I thought your mother was one of the coldest individuals I've ever met."
That opened me up. I had deceived myself (or I could call it lived in denial) and used words like conventional or happy to express my childhood. From that day onward, I began to accept my real family history. A year later, I could admit that I had been physically, verbally, and sexual assaulted as a child and that neither of my parents expressed affection.
This post is excerpted from Cec's book More Than Surviving: Courageous Meditations for Men Hurting from Childhood Abuse (Kregel, 2018).
Yes, I thought, I was one of them. In seminary, we had to take courses in pastoral counseling. In a personal interview, the lead professor asked me about my childhood.
"My mother was warm and accepting; my dad was quiet. I had a conventional, happy childhood." I said more than that—and thought I was telling the truth.
Years later, I was showering and realized I had not seen my family the way they truly were. "My mother was hard-hearted and unloving!" I yelled at my wife. "My dad was mean and brutal!"
Shirley hugged me and said, "Several times I heard you talk to others about your warm, loving family. I thought your mother was one of the coldest individuals I've ever met."
That opened me up. I had deceived myself (or I could call it lived in denial) and used words like conventional or happy to express my childhood. From that day onward, I began to accept my real family history. A year later, I could admit that I had been physically, verbally, and sexual assaulted as a child and that neither of my parents expressed affection.
God, help me not to rewrite my childhood history.
Instead, help me to accept the real one.
* * * * *
This post is excerpted from Cec's book More Than Surviving: Courageous Meditations for Men Hurting from Childhood Abuse (Kregel, 2018).
Tuesday, December 4, 2018
Abuse and Intimacy
(This post comes from Roger Mann.)
For those of us who have been abused and exposed to some of the sordid sex practices, it’s difficult to be intimate with the woman we love. In our heads, sex has become something shameful and full of guilt. Sometimes the idea of intimate contact can bring up shameful memories and really ruin the moment.
Many times, I have spent the day at work thinking about coming home to the lady of my life and being passionate and affectionate. Then I’m driving home and, as I’m thinking about initiating intimacy, memories begin to creep back into my head. By the time I pull into the driveway, I’m a mess again. The spirit is willing, as they say, but the flesh is weak and difficult to respond.
In my teenage years and beyond, I became obsessed with sex. Discovering porn inflamed it even worse, until I realized one day that my wife and I had not been intimate in a long time. That’s when I began to look for help. I found help, but damage was done to the relationship and that marriage ended.
I swore I wouldn’t marry again, but eventually I did. I thought I was okay by then. However, during the first week of our honeymoon, I began to pull away and became irritable and angry and didn’t understand why.
Later, during a conversation, I looked at her and realized I really cared for her a lot. She was attracted physically to me and I was shutting her down. She became confused and hurt.
We’re doing better now, but there are still times when the memories intrude, and I have to push through them to stay with her in the moment. I do that by consciously focusing on just my immediate sensations.
My therapist suggested that I needed to re-sexualize myself. I think he's right, but it's difficult to do and talk about with my wife whom I love and respect. We get there, but we both have to be in the right mood at the right time. I suspect the only way to overcome this is talking it out together.
Many times, I have spent the day at work thinking about coming home to the lady of my life and being passionate and affectionate. Then I’m driving home and, as I’m thinking about initiating intimacy, memories begin to creep back into my head. By the time I pull into the driveway, I’m a mess again. The spirit is willing, as they say, but the flesh is weak and difficult to respond.
In my teenage years and beyond, I became obsessed with sex. Discovering porn inflamed it even worse, until I realized one day that my wife and I had not been intimate in a long time. That’s when I began to look for help. I found help, but damage was done to the relationship and that marriage ended.
I swore I wouldn’t marry again, but eventually I did. I thought I was okay by then. However, during the first week of our honeymoon, I began to pull away and became irritable and angry and didn’t understand why.
Later, during a conversation, I looked at her and realized I really cared for her a lot. She was attracted physically to me and I was shutting her down. She became confused and hurt.
We’re doing better now, but there are still times when the memories intrude, and I have to push through them to stay with her in the moment. I do that by consciously focusing on just my immediate sensations.
My therapist suggested that I needed to re-sexualize myself. I think he's right, but it's difficult to do and talk about with my wife whom I love and respect. We get there, but we both have to be in the right mood at the right time. I suspect the only way to overcome this is talking it out together.
Tuesday, October 2, 2018
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 21, 2018
What I Missed the Most
(This post comes from Roger Mann.)
I saw an ad on the MSN home page about Chuck Connors, the guy who starred for five years as The Rifleman back in the fifties. The show still airs on MeTV in our area from time to time.
I was instantly curious to read about the backstories on the series, and especially his little co-star Johnny Crawford, who played his son. It was an unusual story line for back in those days—a single dad raising a son whose mother had died. Most shows had the usual formula for families: dad, mom, and kids.
I was intrigued because my dad loved this series and never missed it. I loved it too, but not to the extent he did. As I pondered and read about the personalities, I understood why he was a dedicated fan. It was the idea of the healthy father-son interaction. The two characters portrayed great love and affection, and I wonder if my dad was missing that as much as I.
I wished my dad was like Connor's character, who wasn’t afraid to hug and talk and listen to his son. They were both fiercely loyal to each other and had many sweet, tender moments throughout the series.
Knowing what I know now helps me look back and identify things I never noticed at the time. I was the same age as the character Johnny played when I became aware I was being nocturnally molested. I will probably never get over missing the relationship that should have been between my dad and me but never was.
I can't go back, but I can stop the cycle.
I was instantly curious to read about the backstories on the series, and especially his little co-star Johnny Crawford, who played his son. It was an unusual story line for back in those days—a single dad raising a son whose mother had died. Most shows had the usual formula for families: dad, mom, and kids.
I was intrigued because my dad loved this series and never missed it. I loved it too, but not to the extent he did. As I pondered and read about the personalities, I understood why he was a dedicated fan. It was the idea of the healthy father-son interaction. The two characters portrayed great love and affection, and I wonder if my dad was missing that as much as I.
I wished my dad was like Connor's character, who wasn’t afraid to hug and talk and listen to his son. They were both fiercely loyal to each other and had many sweet, tender moments throughout the series.
Knowing what I know now helps me look back and identify things I never noticed at the time. I was the same age as the character Johnny played when I became aware I was being nocturnally molested. I will probably never get over missing the relationship that should have been between my dad and me but never was.
I can't go back, but I can stop the cycle.
Tuesday, August 14, 2018
Past Tense of Abuse
A few weeks ago, I compared the rape of 15-year-old Maya, to that of male assault. She’s a major figure in the novel, Beartown. Today I finished reading the sequel, Us Against You.
It’s now months after her rape and the author shows us her heart—and her pain.
Once my memories of childhood rape came back to me, I relived them for months. I’m glad no one said to me, “that was the past. Just move on.” I couldn’t have moved on any faster.
Until we start healing inside, there is no moving on and no past tense. We feel it, and like Maya, we live and re-live it.
For me, it took more than a year before the worst flashbacks and memories stopped tugging at me. But gradually the healing showed. I can now say that my abuse has become past tense. Still back there, but no longer controlling my emotions.
Perhaps I’m not fully healed, but I keep getting a little closer to that goal. I rarely feel the pain—at least not the way I did “back then.”
I still hear from survivors who may not use the present tense, but it’s obvious, it’s still part of them. I want every survivor to live in the past tense. Even better, to live in the past perfect tense—an action fully completed in the past.
[1] Us Against You by Fredrick Backman (Atria Books, 2017), page 255.
It’s now months after her rape and the author shows us her heart—and her pain.
When people talk about rape, they always do so in the past tense. She “was.” She “suffered.” She “went through.”Obviously, I made a comparison and realized the relevance. For us men, our assault remains present tense for a long, long time.
But she didn’t go through it, she’s still going through it. She wasn’t raped, she’s still being raped. For Kevin it lasted a matter of minutes, but for her it never ends. It feels as though she’s going to dream about that running track every night of her life. And she kills [Kevin] there, every time. And wakes up her nails dug into her hands and scream in her mouth.
Anxiety. It’s an invisible ruler.[1]
Once my memories of childhood rape came back to me, I relived them for months. I’m glad no one said to me, “that was the past. Just move on.” I couldn’t have moved on any faster.
Until we start healing inside, there is no moving on and no past tense. We feel it, and like Maya, we live and re-live it.
For me, it took more than a year before the worst flashbacks and memories stopped tugging at me. But gradually the healing showed. I can now say that my abuse has become past tense. Still back there, but no longer controlling my emotions.
Perhaps I’m not fully healed, but I keep getting a little closer to that goal. I rarely feel the pain—at least not the way I did “back then.”
I still hear from survivors who may not use the present tense, but it’s obvious, it’s still part of them. I want every survivor to live in the past tense. Even better, to live in the past perfect tense—an action fully completed in the past.
For a long time I lived in the present tense of pain.
Now I’m experiencing it as a past event
and getting closer to it being a past-perfect tense.
[1] Us Against You by Fredrick Backman (Atria Books, 2017), page 255.
Tuesday, July 31, 2018
Contemplating My Father (Part 1 of 2)
(This post comes from Roger Mann.)
Although my father’s been dead for years, I’m still contemplating his life. This year has been more insightful as I look backward. Maybe because I’m now older than he was when he killed himself.
My father could have been great; he never was. He always pastored small churches and never made a lot of money, even though he was in sales and was good at it. He reached a successful level, then stalled and moved on to something else. He had many casual friends, but his closest and most intimate were always of an odd or sexual nature.
He knew a lot about the Bible but had trouble applying it to his own life.
He was a control freak, but it was tempered by his faith. He never became violent, didn’t drink alcohol, and kept up the appearance of happy husband, father, and minister. Still he never really connected with anyone like I have on the level we have on this blog.
He was secretive and led a double life fairly successfully most of the time until the end. He never really connected with me emotionally.
As I pondered his life, I couldn't help but notice the similarities between us—especially in the area of achieving a certain level of success and then coming to an abrupt halt and moving on. I was always trying not to gain too much attention. My life couldn’t have stood a lot of scrutiny.
Whether it's shame, guilt, or pride, I too have trouble applying truth to myself successfully and consistently. The posts that I read on this site have helped in gaining insight to what is wrong and what needs to be done to correct it.
And thanks guys, BTW. You're all amazing.
Although my father’s been dead for years, I’m still contemplating his life. This year has been more insightful as I look backward. Maybe because I’m now older than he was when he killed himself.
My father could have been great; he never was. He always pastored small churches and never made a lot of money, even though he was in sales and was good at it. He reached a successful level, then stalled and moved on to something else. He had many casual friends, but his closest and most intimate were always of an odd or sexual nature.
He knew a lot about the Bible but had trouble applying it to his own life.
He was a control freak, but it was tempered by his faith. He never became violent, didn’t drink alcohol, and kept up the appearance of happy husband, father, and minister. Still he never really connected with anyone like I have on the level we have on this blog.
He was secretive and led a double life fairly successfully most of the time until the end. He never really connected with me emotionally.
As I pondered his life, I couldn't help but notice the similarities between us—especially in the area of achieving a certain level of success and then coming to an abrupt halt and moving on. I was always trying not to gain too much attention. My life couldn’t have stood a lot of scrutiny.
Whether it's shame, guilt, or pride, I too have trouble applying truth to myself successfully and consistently. The posts that I read on this site have helped in gaining insight to what is wrong and what needs to be done to correct it.
And thanks guys, BTW. You're all amazing.
Tuesday, May 15, 2018
Self-confidence
Roger's post below originally came in as a note to me, but I felt it needed to be read by everyone.
When I read his comments, several memories flooded me.
I’ve been there—too many times. I assume most of you men have had such experiences.
Here’s mine:
One time the table was full, but I pulled up a chair and joined the group. Several of them nodded or acknowledged me, but no one spoke to me or invited me to join the two or three conversations going on around me.
I was surrounded by people I knew and yet totally alone. I ate my meal, got up, said “Excuse me,” and left. No one acknowledged my leaving.
That happened in 1990. Why do I still remember? The pain. The rejection. Those two things hit me, and yet, had I asked, I’m sure each of the people would have been shocked that I felt rejected.
READ ON.
I’ve been there—too many times. I assume most of you men have had such experiences.
Here’s mine:
One time the table was full, but I pulled up a chair and joined the group. Several of them nodded or acknowledged me, but no one spoke to me or invited me to join the two or three conversations going on around me.
I was surrounded by people I knew and yet totally alone. I ate my meal, got up, said “Excuse me,” and left. No one acknowledged my leaving.
That happened in 1990. Why do I still remember? The pain. The rejection. Those two things hit me, and yet, had I asked, I’m sure each of the people would have been shocked that I felt rejected.
READ ON.
(Cec)
Not sure if it’s shame or fear of rejection, but when I was at a church sponsored men’s conference this weekend I felt awkward and had difficulty joining in. If it was a meeting where we were all supposed to be there or a small group like in our cabin where all were expected to be present, then I was okay walking in late and joining. It was expected. But to just walk up to a group and join the conversation, I was not comfortable.
At one point, we were all sitting around a table and talking before breakfast. I went to the bathroom, and when I came back everyone had gone to the tables where they served breakfast. No one looked for me or waved me over. I finally saw them all the way across the room and felt completely abandoned. All the seats at their table were taken, so I got a plate and sat at an empty table. I finished eating and went for a walk.
I just couldn’t bring myself to walk all the way over there and look for a seat. I was afraid there wouldn’t be one and it would be awkward. I’m not shy, but I found myself angry that I could let myself get in that situation. All of them are good guys. Why couldn’t I go over and ask to sit with them?
(Roger Mann)
* * * * *
Not sure if it’s shame or fear of rejection, but when I was at a church sponsored men’s conference this weekend I felt awkward and had difficulty joining in. If it was a meeting where we were all supposed to be there or a small group like in our cabin where all were expected to be present, then I was okay walking in late and joining. It was expected. But to just walk up to a group and join the conversation, I was not comfortable.
At one point, we were all sitting around a table and talking before breakfast. I went to the bathroom, and when I came back everyone had gone to the tables where they served breakfast. No one looked for me or waved me over. I finally saw them all the way across the room and felt completely abandoned. All the seats at their table were taken, so I got a plate and sat at an empty table. I finished eating and went for a walk.
I just couldn’t bring myself to walk all the way over there and look for a seat. I was afraid there wouldn’t be one and it would be awkward. I’m not shy, but I found myself angry that I could let myself get in that situation. All of them are good guys. Why couldn’t I go over and ask to sit with them?
(Roger Mann)
Tuesday, May 8, 2018
The Two Sides of My Abuser
(This post comes from Mark Cooper.)
* * * * *
We may still deal with that confusion. How do we reconcile our conflicting memories of pain and pleasure?
If we enjoy photographs taken with that person, or if we value a gift they gave us, are we betraying our inner wounded child? If we face the evil they did to us, are we betraying what was good about them?
I’ve had less depression, increased energy, a greater sense of purpose and peace about myself as a man, and more confidence in my relationships as I’ve accepted that my abuser indeed abused me and caused great harm in my life. But then I’d remember the turtle shell he showed me when I was ill, the time he gently held my hand to remove a painful splinter, or the oak plant stand he made for me.
Enjoying the good memories filled me with guilt. If he had been kind to me even once, then how dare I call the other times abuse? Admitting he hurt me caused me to feel as if I were to blame for the pain, just as it did when I was a child.
One day my friend Jason laid a pen on the table in front of me. He said, “The way you’re thinking makes as much sense as saying, ‘There is a pen on the table; therefore, I wasn’t abused.’” He explained what he meant. “Just like this pen has nothing to do with whether you were abused, his doing something good for you has nothing to do with whether you were abused. You were abused because he abused you!”
Now, when I start down my old pathway of thinking, I remind myself that a good memory doesn’t undo the abuse. Neither does the abuse void the good my abuser did. The truth is, my abuser did cause deep pain and damage in my life. He also did good and gave me memories that I still enjoy.
My inner peace grows as I accept that my abuser was capable not only of evil but also of good. I knew both sides of him.
Tuesday, March 27, 2018
Looking Backward
This post is excerpted from Cec’s new book, More Than Surviving, which will be published this week. It’s available through Amazon and many other retailers.
* * * * *
When I was living in Africa, early one morning I watched an African with his ox pulling a plow through his fields. The lines were straight, and for the twenty minutes or so I stared at him, his gaze never focused anywhere but straight ahead.
I thought of that after I read an inspirational message that urged us not to look backward. Looking backward means going backward, the person implied.
Sounds like good advice in farming, but I’m not sure it’s helpful with wounded people like us. We need to look backward. That’s where our problems began. Unless we go back to the source, we stay so busy moving forward—but our childhood injuries stay unhealed and keep pace with us.
Going back to that damaged childhood isn’t easy. And it takes courage—a lot of courage—to re-experience those wounds. But as one authority said, The only way out is through. He meant that if we want release—true healing—we have to push ourselves to revisit that pain. The big difference is that we can accept our pain and let it help us move forward as mature adults.
We can learn to say things to ourselves like this:
- I didn’t ask for that. I didn’t want it.
- I was a kid with no way to defend myself.
- That bigger person overpowered me and stole my innocence.
- I felt unloved and unwanted and someone took advantage of me.
Those statements aren’t cure-alls, but they can help us feel tenderness toward that isolated child. Here’s a statement I’ve said to myself many times when I’ve revisited my childhood: I did the best I could.
For me, that statement means that I took care of myself through innate-but-immature wisdom and survived. No self-blame or recriminations. Being a six-year-old kid with no one to help him, I remind myself that I handled myself the best I could.
Now I can walk—and run—along the healing path.
For me, that statement means that I took care of myself through innate-but-immature wisdom and survived. No self-blame or recriminations. Being a six-year-old kid with no one to help him, I remind myself that I handled myself the best I could.
Now I can walk—and run—along the healing path.
Lord, instead of condemning my childhood,
teach me to say, “I did the best I could.”
Tuesday, March 13, 2018
From a Wounded Man
This comes from Tommy, who gave me permission to post it on the blog. I think it would be wonderful if some of you would comment words of encouragement to him. (Cec)
Through my wanderings searching for help, I found you on the internet and am about halfway through Not Quite Healed.
I am 58 years old, successful, married for 34 years to a terrific woman who I am crazy about, and absolutely devoted to my Boston Terrier who helps keep me sane because he loves unconditionally and is with me nearly all the time.
I have known for many years through a vague and foggy memory that I was severely physically, emotionally, and verbally abused. And yet every psychiatrist I saw asked the same question (paraphrasing): “Do you remember sexual abuse?” I didn’t. But when I read the characteristics of men who had been abused as boys, I met 17 or 18 of the 20 or so bullet points. And then my mom passed away, and as I was going through her things, I found a semi-pornographic picture (for the 1960s) of me. And I felt a flood of memories that were new but still the same fog and vagueness.
Since then, I can remember as clear as day never having privacy in the bathroom no matter what I was doing. I can remember my dad showing me his genitals. I remember “baths” with Dad. And I remember that picture. That picture haunts me. And I remember my mother forcing me to sleep in the bed with her until, at 18, I just said no and left.
I have nightmares. Awful nightmares. Snakes. Demons. Rickety high towers and ladders that make me feel like I’m falling. Rushing water that seems to overtake me. Sleep paralysis that has me neither sleep nor wakeful and yet I see the door to my bedroom opening. That’s all. Just an opening door.
I have inexplicable fits of rage. I have weeping that makes no sense, at a movie, for example. And I have sampled all the evil that this world has to offer, and it makes me sick to my stomach. I know God loves me, but I don’t know how to let God love me. I don’t blame God for what happened, but I do wonder why He let it happen. God help me!
I guess I would have to say that I am either on my first step or maybe a few steps into the realization that “my little boy” was really badly abused. My wife is a bit of a picture person, and there are pictures of me as a youth of various ages around the house. Sometimes I pick one up, with my wife present, and sob, asking, “How in the world could someone do that to that little boy?” My wife is completely supportive and yet clueless as to what to do, as am I.
I suppose I have many years of work to get through this horror that we have all felt and endured. But knowing that others have, helps me know that I can too.
I am seeing a therapist who has helped me get to the point that I am. We will slog on.
Thank you, and God bless you for your work with us.
* * * * *
I am 58 years old, successful, married for 34 years to a terrific woman who I am crazy about, and absolutely devoted to my Boston Terrier who helps keep me sane because he loves unconditionally and is with me nearly all the time.
I have known for many years through a vague and foggy memory that I was severely physically, emotionally, and verbally abused. And yet every psychiatrist I saw asked the same question (paraphrasing): “Do you remember sexual abuse?” I didn’t. But when I read the characteristics of men who had been abused as boys, I met 17 or 18 of the 20 or so bullet points. And then my mom passed away, and as I was going through her things, I found a semi-pornographic picture (for the 1960s) of me. And I felt a flood of memories that were new but still the same fog and vagueness.
Since then, I can remember as clear as day never having privacy in the bathroom no matter what I was doing. I can remember my dad showing me his genitals. I remember “baths” with Dad. And I remember that picture. That picture haunts me. And I remember my mother forcing me to sleep in the bed with her until, at 18, I just said no and left.
I have nightmares. Awful nightmares. Snakes. Demons. Rickety high towers and ladders that make me feel like I’m falling. Rushing water that seems to overtake me. Sleep paralysis that has me neither sleep nor wakeful and yet I see the door to my bedroom opening. That’s all. Just an opening door.
I have inexplicable fits of rage. I have weeping that makes no sense, at a movie, for example. And I have sampled all the evil that this world has to offer, and it makes me sick to my stomach. I know God loves me, but I don’t know how to let God love me. I don’t blame God for what happened, but I do wonder why He let it happen. God help me!
I guess I would have to say that I am either on my first step or maybe a few steps into the realization that “my little boy” was really badly abused. My wife is a bit of a picture person, and there are pictures of me as a youth of various ages around the house. Sometimes I pick one up, with my wife present, and sob, asking, “How in the world could someone do that to that little boy?” My wife is completely supportive and yet clueless as to what to do, as am I.
I suppose I have many years of work to get through this horror that we have all felt and endured. But knowing that others have, helps me know that I can too.
I am seeing a therapist who has helped me get to the point that I am. We will slog on.
Thank you, and God bless you for your work with us.
Tuesday, March 6, 2018
The Disconnect
(This post comes from Roger Mann.)
I never questioned what was happening to me. Not really. We had a normal family and a normal family life. In fact, because we were Christians and deeply involved in church, at times I felt a quiet sense of superiority over some of the other kids I knew whose parents argued, drank a lot, or were divorced.
Normal is just what is going on around you.
As I got older, the disconnect became uncomfortable. I looked around at others my age and discovered that my experiences were not common; sometimes they even appeared rare.
At high school age, it’s difficult feeling different, wondering if others think and feel like you do. But when you KNOW you’re different, it’s a whole new level of crazy. That crazy pushed me, and I pushed back. I won most of the time, I thought, but around 28 or so I began to lose the war. I was tired, alone, and so confused. At some point, I gave up and allowed myself to experience all that had been going through my mind in the quiet darkness.
And the darkness, quiet or not, will get you. It sure got me. I spiraled down until I was suicidal enough to really try and end it all. But it didn’t work, and I realized I needed to get help. I tried a few therapists, but I just couldn’t form the words. They would stick in my throat, and all I could see was that I was betraying my father.
Weird, huh? Especially when considering he’s the one who betrayed me.
Eventually, it was get help or get out, and I finally was able in a session to blubber out the truth as I understood it. I can’t describe the relief and sense of betrayal that I felt, but it was worth it. After the dam broke, the tide came pouring out, and together we began to sort it out.
Painful? You bet. But as they say, pain is weakness leaving the body. The more we sorted, the stronger I began to feel. Truth hurts at times; it also heals if you let it.
I never questioned what was happening to me. Not really. We had a normal family and a normal family life. In fact, because we were Christians and deeply involved in church, at times I felt a quiet sense of superiority over some of the other kids I knew whose parents argued, drank a lot, or were divorced.
Normal is just what is going on around you.
As I got older, the disconnect became uncomfortable. I looked around at others my age and discovered that my experiences were not common; sometimes they even appeared rare.
At high school age, it’s difficult feeling different, wondering if others think and feel like you do. But when you KNOW you’re different, it’s a whole new level of crazy. That crazy pushed me, and I pushed back. I won most of the time, I thought, but around 28 or so I began to lose the war. I was tired, alone, and so confused. At some point, I gave up and allowed myself to experience all that had been going through my mind in the quiet darkness.
And the darkness, quiet or not, will get you. It sure got me. I spiraled down until I was suicidal enough to really try and end it all. But it didn’t work, and I realized I needed to get help. I tried a few therapists, but I just couldn’t form the words. They would stick in my throat, and all I could see was that I was betraying my father.
Weird, huh? Especially when considering he’s the one who betrayed me.
Eventually, it was get help or get out, and I finally was able in a session to blubber out the truth as I understood it. I can’t describe the relief and sense of betrayal that I felt, but it was worth it. After the dam broke, the tide came pouring out, and together we began to sort it out.
Painful? You bet. But as they say, pain is weakness leaving the body. The more we sorted, the stronger I began to feel. Truth hurts at times; it also heals if you let it.
Tuesday, February 20, 2018
I Dreamed
(This comes from an anonymous reader.)
I awake to a memory of a girl I worked with. Can’t remember how it came up, but she was bragging that she couldn’t be raped because being limber she could cross her legs and lock them so no one could spread them. I just shook my head and walked away, remembering my arms locked around my legs, my knees under my chin lying on my back.
I don’t remember the pain. I do remember the smells: sweat, Old Spice, and poop. I remember the shock of cold as I was cleaned up. I remember using a bar of soap and hot water on the cloth in the morning so no one would see what was on it. I remember using the same cleaning technique on underwear when necessary. I remember telling myself it didn’t happen.
There are things I’ve locked away in a dark corner of my mind never to be remembered. Things I promised to take to my grave. But some things won’t stay. Truth can set you free, but it can also break your heart over and over. So what does one do with such things?
I write them out, trying to get them out. I try not to be numb about it, but I’m afraid. I’m afraid that if I let myself feel I’ll be unable to stop the tears ever.
.
I don’t remember the pain. I do remember the smells: sweat, Old Spice, and poop. I remember the shock of cold as I was cleaned up. I remember using a bar of soap and hot water on the cloth in the morning so no one would see what was on it. I remember using the same cleaning technique on underwear when necessary. I remember telling myself it didn’t happen.
There are things I’ve locked away in a dark corner of my mind never to be remembered. Things I promised to take to my grave. But some things won’t stay. Truth can set you free, but it can also break your heart over and over. So what does one do with such things?
I write them out, trying to get them out. I try not to be numb about it, but I’m afraid. I’m afraid that if I let myself feel I’ll be unable to stop the tears ever.
.
Tuesday, February 6, 2018
Words
By Roger Mann
Every now and again I hear a word or phrase that triggers me for some reason. The other night in a playful mood my wife said something about me deciding to attack her or not. Don’t really remember the whole thing but that word attack hit me cold.
I’ve been attacked. I don’t remember ever attacking anyone else. I was always pretty sensitive to whether someone was “interested” or not, and if not then nothing happened.
I don’t want to attack anyone. I want everything to be mutual and feel good. I’m not into pain at all. Been there, done that, applied the ointment.
Words, a song, even someone just looking at me in a certain way can stir emotions spontaneously. I guess this is normal. I don’t know.
I do know it's annoying and sometimes disruptive. I’m trying to desensitize myself by examining and being mindful of what's going on when that occurs. I don’t want to be so sensitive that I miss out on good moments by having something ugly pop up all the time and throw me for an emotional loop.
Every now and again I hear a word or phrase that triggers me for some reason. The other night in a playful mood my wife said something about me deciding to attack her or not. Don’t really remember the whole thing but that word attack hit me cold.
I’ve been attacked. I don’t remember ever attacking anyone else. I was always pretty sensitive to whether someone was “interested” or not, and if not then nothing happened.
I don’t want to attack anyone. I want everything to be mutual and feel good. I’m not into pain at all. Been there, done that, applied the ointment.
Words, a song, even someone just looking at me in a certain way can stir emotions spontaneously. I guess this is normal. I don’t know.
I do know it's annoying and sometimes disruptive. I’m trying to desensitize myself by examining and being mindful of what's going on when that occurs. I don’t want to be so sensitive that I miss out on good moments by having something ugly pop up all the time and throw me for an emotional loop.
Tuesday, November 21, 2017
"You Shouldn't Feel . . ."
In conversation with my friend Beth, I mentioned that even though I knew the molestation in childhood wasn't my fault, I still felt shame and guilt over my abuse as if I had failed in some way. "I keep thinking that only if I—"
"You shouldn't feel that way," Beth said.
Before I could respond, she listed my achievements (as if I didn't know them) and told me how much she admired me for the way I had dealt with my painful childhood.
"But still—"
"You don't deserve to feel that way."
Beth was trying to encourage me and I appreciated her concern; however, nothing she said was helpful. She tried to persuade me with logic and tell me how unreasonable it was to feel as I did.
I knew that, but I also knew that emotions don't listen to logic.
Beth could have told me a thousand times not to feel as I did because of what someone did to me. I would have agreed, but nothing would have changed.
What I also hear from well-meaning friends when I speak of my painful feelings is, "Just get over it!"
Easy words, but meaningless and powerless.
Do they think I want to hold on to my painful emotions? Do they believe I want to wallow in self-judgment?
One time when I spoke about the lingering feelings of shame, my late friend Steve Grubman-Black, also a survivor of sexual abuse, said, "Be kind to yourself. Accept those feelings because they're real. When you're able to feel compassion for that innocent child you were, those negative feelings will begin to dissipate."
Steve was right, even though it took at least three more years for me to become aware of the change.
These days whenever I feel a negative, condemning emotion, I remind myself that I can't argue myself out of feeling as I do. But here's something I tell myself: "I accept myself the way I am."
I also remind myself that emotions don't listen to logic.
"You shouldn't feel that way," Beth said.
Before I could respond, she listed my achievements (as if I didn't know them) and told me how much she admired me for the way I had dealt with my painful childhood.
"But still—"
"You don't deserve to feel that way."
Beth was trying to encourage me and I appreciated her concern; however, nothing she said was helpful. She tried to persuade me with logic and tell me how unreasonable it was to feel as I did.
I knew that, but I also knew that emotions don't listen to logic.
Beth could have told me a thousand times not to feel as I did because of what someone did to me. I would have agreed, but nothing would have changed.
What I also hear from well-meaning friends when I speak of my painful feelings is, "Just get over it!"
Easy words, but meaningless and powerless.
Do they think I want to hold on to my painful emotions? Do they believe I want to wallow in self-judgment?
One time when I spoke about the lingering feelings of shame, my late friend Steve Grubman-Black, also a survivor of sexual abuse, said, "Be kind to yourself. Accept those feelings because they're real. When you're able to feel compassion for that innocent child you were, those negative feelings will begin to dissipate."
Steve was right, even though it took at least three more years for me to become aware of the change.
These days whenever I feel a negative, condemning emotion, I remind myself that I can't argue myself out of feeling as I do. But here's something I tell myself: "I accept myself the way I am."
I also remind myself that emotions don't listen to logic.
* * * * *
A note from Cec's assistant: A big thanks to those of you who have responded to our request for influencers for Cec's upcoming book, More than Surviving. Some of you have asked what's involved in being an influencer. It's basically just helping get the word out about the book to people you think might have an interest. That could be through social media, blogging, writing reviews, word of mouth, or any other way. If you are interested, please send Cec an email with your contact info at
cec.murp@comcast.net. The publisher will send you a free copy of the book when it's due to be released.
Tuesday, August 8, 2017
“You’re Not Alone” (Part 2 of 2)
Others can help by their presence and caring. A common biblical story inspired me when I was going through a dark period. In the book of Exodus, chapter 17, the Israelites are fighting their first battle with the Amalekites, led by Joshua. The leader, Moses, stands on a mountain with his hands raised as a symbol of victory. Joshua’s troops are winning.
Moses’ arms grow tired and he starts to lower them. When he drops his arms, the Amalekites prevail. Two men, Aaron and Hur, make Moses sit on a boulder and they get on either side of him and hold up his arms. And that continues until they thoroughly defeat their enemy.
Holding up our tired arms makes a powerful image for me. We get frustrated, confused, and feel lost. One of my problems was that as memories came back, my deep resistance was to say, “That’s only your imagination. That’s not true.” But when I told the two people who held my arms, they helped me accept the truthfulness of my flashbacks and memories.
When I doubted that I’d ever get healthy, they assured me that I would. They held up my weak, weary, and discouraged hands until my biggest battles were over. We all need those caring people who are there to lift up our arms.
Who is holding up your arms?
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