One of the most difficult (and painful) steps is to identify ourselves by name. I can still remember—vividly—what it was like to give my name to a group of men, all of whom had been sexually molested.
Identifying myself and not worrying who knew was a powerful healing step.
Here’s something I’d like some of you readers to respond to: Tell us your experience in telling about yourself. When was the first public admission? What brought it about? How did you feel?
As you do so, think about the newer readers of this blog. Think how you could help them by sharing your experience.
Showing posts with label support groups. Show all posts
Showing posts with label support groups. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 28, 2017
Tuesday, September 19, 2017
No Self-judging Allowed
On a hand-painted sign I saw those words in a friend’s den. “I think I understand the words,” I said, “but is there a story here?”
“Yes!” Alan Jennings said. “I made up that sign for what I hoped would be an opportunity to tell people about my abuse.” The sign had been up almost two years and only a handful of visitors had asked about it.
“It began in a group therapy session,” he said. Alan was condemning himself for allowing an older boy to sodomize him. Before he sought help, he talked about allowing the horrible things done to him.
Another member of the group interrupted him. “Don’t you have any compassion for that little boy? He did what he had to do to survive.”
When Alan started to protest, others in the group also urged him to be kind to the abused child.
“I had been in and out of therapy for addictions,” he said, “but I realized I hadn’t been kind to my little boy.”
“You survived because of him,” one man said. “You may have done things you’re ashamed of now, but that hurt, despised little boy kept you alive.”
For quite a while we talked before Alan said, “I put up that sign to remind me and to help me to be kind and understanding to my younger self.
“Every night, even now I stare at my reflection in the mirror and think of the eight-year-old boy and say to him, ‘Thank you for helping me survive.’”
He smiled, “I no longer have to say no self-judging allowed. Now I leave the sign up in the den, hoping it will help others.”
“Yes!” Alan Jennings said. “I made up that sign for what I hoped would be an opportunity to tell people about my abuse.” The sign had been up almost two years and only a handful of visitors had asked about it.
“It began in a group therapy session,” he said. Alan was condemning himself for allowing an older boy to sodomize him. Before he sought help, he talked about allowing the horrible things done to him.
Another member of the group interrupted him. “Don’t you have any compassion for that little boy? He did what he had to do to survive.”
When Alan started to protest, others in the group also urged him to be kind to the abused child.
“I had been in and out of therapy for addictions,” he said, “but I realized I hadn’t been kind to my little boy.”
“You survived because of him,” one man said. “You may have done things you’re ashamed of now, but that hurt, despised little boy kept you alive.”
For quite a while we talked before Alan said, “I put up that sign to remind me and to help me to be kind and understanding to my younger self.
“Every night, even now I stare at my reflection in the mirror and think of the eight-year-old boy and say to him, ‘Thank you for helping me survive.’”
He smiled, “I no longer have to say no self-judging allowed. Now I leave the sign up in the den, hoping it will help others.”
Tuesday, January 13, 2015
Self-Pity
(This post comes from John Joseph.)
D.H. Lawrence once wrote “I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself. A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough without ever having felt sorry for itself.” (Complete Poems of D. H. Lawrence). I wish he could say the same for me. Of all the issues raised by my lifelong recovery from childhood sexual abuse, self-pity is one of the most pernicious and destructive. Would to God that it would drop from the bough, but it doesn’t.
The best that I can do with self-pity is to manage it like an addiction. Addictions have a mind of their own, a life of their own, and exercise control over me by promising relief from existential, mental, or emotional distress. Unfortunately, addictions never deliver what they promise. They can’t. The details may differ addiction to addiction, but the results are always disastrous and lead me to a mouthful of corn husks with a pig pen for a penthouse. They just never pay off. And that’s where managing them comes in, especially in recognizing that feeling sorry for myself is a slippery slope into addictive behaviors. I’m so predictable.
If you’ve never attended a Twelve Step meeting, it’s difficult to describe the inherent power of Step One—admitting that you and I are powerless over whatever is controlling us. A billion words or more have been written about this first step, yet few ever come easily to them. We mostly come crawling to them after waking up in the dregs, bruised, bleeding, and drenched in the sledge of whatever’s gotten hold of us, whatever we’ve given ourselves over to for the umpteenth time, be that heroin or hatred. To finally admit that something has control of us is just the admission that God, our Higher Power, is waiting to hear.
Once we can bring ourselves to admit that we aren’t the center of the universe and admit that we’ve surrendered all of our self-control over to a substance, a feeling, a destructive behavior, or to another human being, healing and freedom can break in. For me, admitting that self-pity is not only unattractive but overwhelmingly destructive and controlling is a great first step to freedom from it and from all the awful things that come with it.
D.H. Lawrence once wrote “I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself. A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough without ever having felt sorry for itself.” (Complete Poems of D. H. Lawrence). I wish he could say the same for me. Of all the issues raised by my lifelong recovery from childhood sexual abuse, self-pity is one of the most pernicious and destructive. Would to God that it would drop from the bough, but it doesn’t.
The best that I can do with self-pity is to manage it like an addiction. Addictions have a mind of their own, a life of their own, and exercise control over me by promising relief from existential, mental, or emotional distress. Unfortunately, addictions never deliver what they promise. They can’t. The details may differ addiction to addiction, but the results are always disastrous and lead me to a mouthful of corn husks with a pig pen for a penthouse. They just never pay off. And that’s where managing them comes in, especially in recognizing that feeling sorry for myself is a slippery slope into addictive behaviors. I’m so predictable.
If you’ve never attended a Twelve Step meeting, it’s difficult to describe the inherent power of Step One—admitting that you and I are powerless over whatever is controlling us. A billion words or more have been written about this first step, yet few ever come easily to them. We mostly come crawling to them after waking up in the dregs, bruised, bleeding, and drenched in the sledge of whatever’s gotten hold of us, whatever we’ve given ourselves over to for the umpteenth time, be that heroin or hatred. To finally admit that something has control of us is just the admission that God, our Higher Power, is waiting to hear.
Once we can bring ourselves to admit that we aren’t the center of the universe and admit that we’ve surrendered all of our self-control over to a substance, a feeling, a destructive behavior, or to another human being, healing and freedom can break in. For me, admitting that self-pity is not only unattractive but overwhelmingly destructive and controlling is a great first step to freedom from it and from all the awful things that come with it.
Friday, May 23, 2014
Healing in Community
(This post comes from John Joseph*.)
Recovery from childhood sexual trauma doesn’t happen in isolation. Of course, we want it to, hoping that we’ll never have to share the grisly details of our abuse or have to feel awkward that there was some part of it we may have enjoyed. Childhood violation is a very complicated thing and always requires the love, understanding, and intercession of a community to progressively heal.
Telling our story in a safe environment is one step toward healing. Being able to receive the love and encouragement of others is also a healthy step. Coming to the place where we can own what happened, own our responsibility for our sinful responses, and even moving slowly toward forgiveness are important progressions often facilitated in a healing community.
The abuse happened in secrecy, but the way out is by acknowledging it and sharing it with others in safe environments. Much of my own healing has occurred in 12-Step meetings or one-on-one counseling or prayer encounters in which I could safely share what happened and how it has affected me.
*John Joseph is a pseudonym of a pastor. He's a regular contributor to this blog.
Recovery from childhood sexual trauma doesn’t happen in isolation. Of course, we want it to, hoping that we’ll never have to share the grisly details of our abuse or have to feel awkward that there was some part of it we may have enjoyed. Childhood violation is a very complicated thing and always requires the love, understanding, and intercession of a community to progressively heal.
Telling our story in a safe environment is one step toward healing. Being able to receive the love and encouragement of others is also a healthy step. Coming to the place where we can own what happened, own our responsibility for our sinful responses, and even moving slowly toward forgiveness are important progressions often facilitated in a healing community.
The abuse happened in secrecy, but the way out is by acknowledging it and sharing it with others in safe environments. Much of my own healing has occurred in 12-Step meetings or one-on-one counseling or prayer encounters in which I could safely share what happened and how it has affected me.
*John Joseph is a pseudonym of a pastor. He's a regular contributor to this blog.
Tuesday, May 6, 2014
"Don't Touch Me!" (Part 1 of 2)
(an encore post by Cecil Murphey)
About four years into my healing journey, I began to hear men speak about not wanting to be touched. I heard it the first time after I became a member of the Men's Gathering in Louisville, Kentucky.
We met on alternating Saturday mornings. To help newcomers feel comfortable, two or three of us stood in front of the building and welcomed them. Don hugged every man that came his way. I'm a hugger, but once in a while it didn't feel right for me to embrace someone I didn't know.
"Don't touch me!" one man yelled at Don and started to turn away. I stopped him and said, "It's all right. Not everyone here is a hugger."
"I hate being touched," he said, but he allowed me to escort him to our meeting room.
He was the first man I met who said those words aloud. I had encountered others who allowed themselves to be embraced but their bodies grew stiff. I assume physical touch—any kind of touch—thrusts them back into the painful memories of abuse.
I told Don (the hugger) and I've since told others, "Trust your guts. If you sense the other person is open to a hug, give it. But if you intuit resistance or you're unsure, don't touch."
About four years into my healing journey, I began to hear men speak about not wanting to be touched. I heard it the first time after I became a member of the Men's Gathering in Louisville, Kentucky.
We met on alternating Saturday mornings. To help newcomers feel comfortable, two or three of us stood in front of the building and welcomed them. Don hugged every man that came his way. I'm a hugger, but once in a while it didn't feel right for me to embrace someone I didn't know.
"Don't touch me!" one man yelled at Don and started to turn away. I stopped him and said, "It's all right. Not everyone here is a hugger."
"I hate being touched," he said, but he allowed me to escort him to our meeting room.
He was the first man I met who said those words aloud. I had encountered others who allowed themselves to be embraced but their bodies grew stiff. I assume physical touch—any kind of touch—thrusts them back into the painful memories of abuse.
I told Don (the hugger) and I've since told others, "Trust your guts. If you sense the other person is open to a hug, give it. But if you intuit resistance or you're unsure, don't touch."
The wrong touch can cause great damage.
Friday, April 25, 2014
"How Long Will It Take?"
(an encore post by Cecil Murphey)
An old joke says a man went to a therapist, and after being diagnosed, the new patient asked, "How long will it take?"
"Come in once a week and it will probably take about a year."
"But if I come in twice a week, can I do it in six months?"
The joke is that it's not the number of times in the therapist's office, but the inner work the man does for himself. And the issues of life can't be rushed.
After I publicly stated that healing is a process, one man came to me and said, "That was exactly what I needed to hear. I kept asking my therapist how long it would take, and he avoided giving me an answer. Now I understand."
It's not the length of time in therapy, as a member of a support group, or doing individual work. It's the quality—the extent—of grasping and internalizing the insight.
Twenty years ago, when I first began to work on my own abuse, I was part of a small group. "John" had been in therapy for 15 years before we met. I moved away after four years. And many of the things John said in our final meeting were almost the same words he had spoken four years earlier.
It's not the length of time, but the quality of the work that counts.
An old joke says a man went to a therapist, and after being diagnosed, the new patient asked, "How long will it take?"
"Come in once a week and it will probably take about a year."
"But if I come in twice a week, can I do it in six months?"
The joke is that it's not the number of times in the therapist's office, but the inner work the man does for himself. And the issues of life can't be rushed.
After I publicly stated that healing is a process, one man came to me and said, "That was exactly what I needed to hear. I kept asking my therapist how long it would take, and he avoided giving me an answer. Now I understand."
It's not the length of time in therapy, as a member of a support group, or doing individual work. It's the quality—the extent—of grasping and internalizing the insight.
Twenty years ago, when I first began to work on my own abuse, I was part of a small group. "John" had been in therapy for 15 years before we met. I moved away after four years. And many of the things John said in our final meeting were almost the same words he had spoken four years earlier.
It's not the length of time, but the quality of the work that counts.
Tuesday, March 4, 2014
Howard
(an encore post by Cecil Murphey)
"We buried Howard last week and he was 59 years old," the email began. "He never talked about his abuse, but I knew because our oldest brother did it to both of us. He didn't talk to me about it and I didn't talk to him."
The writer went on to say that Howard had been a civilian who worked for Army Intelligence. "He knew how to keep military secrets. He also kept his own. They said he died of a heart attack and that's probably true, but it wasn't the kind of heart attack that medicine can treat."
The man spoke of his sadness, and that he had gotten help through AA and Celebrate Recovery. He said he wished he had talked to Howard. "It might not have done any good, but at least I could have tried."
"We buried Howard last week and he was 59 years old," the email began. "He never talked about his abuse, but I knew because our oldest brother did it to both of us. He didn't talk to me about it and I didn't talk to him."
The writer went on to say that Howard had been a civilian who worked for Army Intelligence. "He knew how to keep military secrets. He also kept his own. They said he died of a heart attack and that's probably true, but it wasn't the kind of heart attack that medicine can treat."
The man spoke of his sadness, and that he had gotten help through AA and Celebrate Recovery. He said he wished he had talked to Howard. "It might not have done any good, but at least I could have tried."
Tuesday, October 29, 2013
"I'm Afraid"
(an encore post by Cecil Murphey)
Those were Evan's first words to me when he talked about his abuse. He had been in a support group through Celebrate Recovery and had come a long way in less than a year.
He was afraid, he said, that he might become an abuser and perpetrate what had been done to him. Because I didn't know what to say, I let him talk.
He had talked to his former pastor and the man said, "You be careful now. Most molesters were once abused as children."
"You mean you're afraid because of what the pastor said and not because of any urges or desires?"
"I wouldn't want to hurt kids. Why would I bring such pain on them after what I've gone through?"
Probably I could have said, "Your fears are unfounded," or "Your former pastor is a jerk." Instead I said, "As long as that troubles you, it may be a good sign that you don't want to molest others."
Evan stared at me for what seemed like a long time. Then he smiled. "You know, that feels right. If I wanted to hurt kids I wouldn't be afraid, would I?"
I think Evan understood a powerful lesson about life.
Those were Evan's first words to me when he talked about his abuse. He had been in a support group through Celebrate Recovery and had come a long way in less than a year.
He was afraid, he said, that he might become an abuser and perpetrate what had been done to him. Because I didn't know what to say, I let him talk.
He had talked to his former pastor and the man said, "You be careful now. Most molesters were once abused as children."
"You mean you're afraid because of what the pastor said and not because of any urges or desires?"
"I wouldn't want to hurt kids. Why would I bring such pain on them after what I've gone through?"
Probably I could have said, "Your fears are unfounded," or "Your former pastor is a jerk." Instead I said, "As long as that troubles you, it may be a good sign that you don't want to molest others."
Evan stared at me for what seemed like a long time. Then he smiled. "You know, that feels right. If I wanted to hurt kids I wouldn't be afraid, would I?"
I think Evan understood a powerful lesson about life.
Tuesday, October 22, 2013
"Something Is Wrong with Me"
(an encore post by Cecil Murphey)
One of the saddest, most painful meetings I had with a group of men who had been sexually abused was when I heard Ron say, "Something is wrong with me."
In the past, I had said those words to myself many times. I had learned that such a statement wasn't true, and I didn't want another man to repeat such a self-indictment.
"No, you aren't wrong or bad!" I probably shouted those words. "Something wrong and bad was done to you!"
The others nodded but Ron shook his head. The tears began to fall as he said, "I liked what he did. I hated it but I liked it."
George, the therapist in the group, leaned toward him. "You mean it was pleasurable? That you responded with an erection or that it felt good when you were abused?"
Ron nodded and more tears came.
Slowly and softly George explained, "It's a physiological response and it's automatic. You stimulate the penis and you get an erection."
I marveled at the compassion in his voice as he tried to make Ron realize that his reaction had been normal.
And he spoke healing words for several of us.
One of the saddest, most painful meetings I had with a group of men who had been sexually abused was when I heard Ron say, "Something is wrong with me."
In the past, I had said those words to myself many times. I had learned that such a statement wasn't true, and I didn't want another man to repeat such a self-indictment.
"No, you aren't wrong or bad!" I probably shouted those words. "Something wrong and bad was done to you!"
The others nodded but Ron shook his head. The tears began to fall as he said, "I liked what he did. I hated it but I liked it."
George, the therapist in the group, leaned toward him. "You mean it was pleasurable? That you responded with an erection or that it felt good when you were abused?"
Ron nodded and more tears came.
Slowly and softly George explained, "It's a physiological response and it's automatic. You stimulate the penis and you get an erection."
I marveled at the compassion in his voice as he tried to make Ron realize that his reaction had been normal.
And he spoke healing words for several of us.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
He Thought He Was Gay
Brian told me about his abuse as a child and said, "For years I thought I was a homosexual." Because he seemed to be a rather well-adjusted heterosexual, I asked, "Any idea what made you feel that way?"
Without hesitation he said, "Because I enjoyed it. From the first time I had an erection and it felt good." When he was a little older, he ejaculated. "If it was that awful, why did I enjoy it? I thought I was gay."
Without hesitation he said, "Because I enjoyed it. From the first time I had an erection and it felt good." When he was a little older, he ejaculated. "If it was that awful, why did I enjoy it? I thought I was gay."
Until he was in his early twenties and after Brian "tried sex with a man once," he spoke of enjoying it and hating it at the same time. He didn't try it again and found it revolting to think about.
"Am I gay or not?" he asked himself.
Shortly after that, Brian visited a group that focused on male survivors of sexual abuse. "The penis responds to stimulation," the leader says. "That feels good, and that's absolutely natural to get aroused. But it doesn't mean you're gay. It means you have responded in a normal, natural way."
That was the day Brian started to say, "I'm a healthy, heterosexual male." It was also the beginning of a new life for him.
"Am I gay or not?" he asked himself.
Shortly after that, Brian visited a group that focused on male survivors of sexual abuse. "The penis responds to stimulation," the leader says. "That feels good, and that's absolutely natural to get aroused. But it doesn't mean you're gay. It means you have responded in a normal, natural way."
That was the day Brian started to say, "I'm a healthy, heterosexual male." It was also the beginning of a new life for him.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
"Don't Touch Me!" (Part 1 of 2)
About four years into my healing journey, I began to hear men speak about not wanting to be touched. I heard it the first time after I became a member of the Men's Gathering in Louisville, Kentucky.
We met on alternating Saturday mornings. To help newcomers feel comfortable, two or three of us stood in front of the building and welcomed them. Don hugged every man that came his way. I'm a hugger, but once in a while it didn't feel right for me to embrace someone I didn't know.
"Don't touch me!" one man yelled at Don and started to turn away. I stopped him and said, "It's all right. Not everyone here is a hugger."
"I hate being touched," he said, but he allowed me to escort him to our meeting room.
He was the first man I met who said those words aloud. I had encountered others who allowed themselves to be embraced but their bodies grew stiff. I assume physical touch—any kind of touch—thrusts them back into the painful memories of abuse.
I told Don (the hugger) and I've since told others, "Trust your guts. If you sense the other person is open to a hug, give it. But if you intuit resistance or you're unsure, don't touch."
We met on alternating Saturday mornings. To help newcomers feel comfortable, two or three of us stood in front of the building and welcomed them. Don hugged every man that came his way. I'm a hugger, but once in a while it didn't feel right for me to embrace someone I didn't know.
"Don't touch me!" one man yelled at Don and started to turn away. I stopped him and said, "It's all right. Not everyone here is a hugger."
"I hate being touched," he said, but he allowed me to escort him to our meeting room.
He was the first man I met who said those words aloud. I had encountered others who allowed themselves to be embraced but their bodies grew stiff. I assume physical touch—any kind of touch—thrusts them back into the painful memories of abuse.
I told Don (the hugger) and I've since told others, "Trust your guts. If you sense the other person is open to a hug, give it. But if you intuit resistance or you're unsure, don't touch."
The wrong touch can cause great damage.
Friday, February 24, 2012
"How Long Will It Take?"
An old joke says a man went to a therapist, and after being diagnosed, the new patient asked, "How long will it take?"
"Come in once a week and it will probably take about a year."
"But if I come in twice a week, can I do it in six months?"
The joke is that it's not the number of times in the therapist's office, but the inner work the man does for himself. And the issues of life can't be rushed.
After I publically stated that healing is a process, one man came to me and said, "That was exactly what I needed to hear. I kept asking my therapist how long it would take, and he avoided giving me an answer. Now I understand."
It's not the length of time in therapy, as a member of a support group, or doing individual work. It's the quality—the extent—of grasping and internalizing the insight.
Twenty years ago, when I first began to work on my own abuse, I was part of a small group. "John" had been in therapy for 15 years before we met. I moved away after four years. And many of the things John said in our final meeting were almost the same words he had spoken four years earlier.
It's not the length of time, but the quality of the work that counts.
"Come in once a week and it will probably take about a year."
"But if I come in twice a week, can I do it in six months?"
The joke is that it's not the number of times in the therapist's office, but the inner work the man does for himself. And the issues of life can't be rushed.
After I publically stated that healing is a process, one man came to me and said, "That was exactly what I needed to hear. I kept asking my therapist how long it would take, and he avoided giving me an answer. Now I understand."
It's not the length of time in therapy, as a member of a support group, or doing individual work. It's the quality—the extent—of grasping and internalizing the insight.
Twenty years ago, when I first began to work on my own abuse, I was part of a small group. "John" had been in therapy for 15 years before we met. I moved away after four years. And many of the things John said in our final meeting were almost the same words he had spoken four years earlier.
It's not the length of time, but the quality of the work that counts.
Friday, February 17, 2012
"I Kept My Secret"
"I kept my secret about being molested," Alvin said after a Celebrate Recovery meeting. "I never told anyone." He went on to say that he kept telling himself if he ignored what happened he'd get better.
"But I never forgot."
I'm convinced as Alvin was (finally) that the more the abuse is hidden or denied the more it makes itself felt in different ways. Alvin confessed that he had never had a satisfactory relationship with a woman. After three divorces, he was ready to seek help.
"I'm dating a woman now and she knows about my abuse." He talked about the help he had received from a survivors' group. Alvin doesn't know where this relationship will go, but he does know he's thrown off constraints and fear.
Getting help means just that: help. It's not curing or setting free.
"But I never forgot."
I'm convinced as Alvin was (finally) that the more the abuse is hidden or denied the more it makes itself felt in different ways. Alvin confessed that he had never had a satisfactory relationship with a woman. After three divorces, he was ready to seek help.
"I'm dating a woman now and she knows about my abuse." He talked about the help he had received from a survivors' group. Alvin doesn't know where this relationship will go, but he does know he's thrown off constraints and fear.
Getting help means just that: help. It's not curing or setting free.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
My Problem
(This post comes from Neal of North Chicago, Illinois.)
He was my role model. He was handsome and kind and everyone looked up to him. He was about the smartest teacher I ever had and he liked me. He invited me to his house one day to help me with my math problems.
He kept telling me how special I was and how much he liked to look at me. I kept wondering why he'd like to look at me so much. He put his hand on my knee while he talked and stared right into my eyes.
I won't give the details but that's how it started and I made weekly trips to his house for almost a full semester. One day I saw him in the hall at school and he said, "Don't come by this week."
He said the same thing the next week and didn't seem to want to talk to me. That confused me because of all the things he had said to me. I finally asked him what was wrong.
"I helped you as much as I could," he said. And he walked away. After that he ignored me and I also found out that he invited other boys to his house. That hurt even more.
My buddy Joe must have figured out something, but I don't know or at least I don't remember if he ever said anything. Joe gave me the book Victims No Longer. I didn't want to read it at first but I started and that's when I understood that he was a pedophile. I knew the word before then, but I didn't know that's how it was. I thought they only went for kids who were four or five years old. I was sixteen.
I'm now thirty-one but I still think about him. I don't want to see him again. But even now, after all these years, I still miss him, even though that sounds weird.
I'm getting help in a group and the other guys understand and they assure me that I'll get past this problem. I hope they're right.
He was my role model. He was handsome and kind and everyone looked up to him. He was about the smartest teacher I ever had and he liked me. He invited me to his house one day to help me with my math problems.
He kept telling me how special I was and how much he liked to look at me. I kept wondering why he'd like to look at me so much. He put his hand on my knee while he talked and stared right into my eyes.
I won't give the details but that's how it started and I made weekly trips to his house for almost a full semester. One day I saw him in the hall at school and he said, "Don't come by this week."
He said the same thing the next week and didn't seem to want to talk to me. That confused me because of all the things he had said to me. I finally asked him what was wrong.
"I helped you as much as I could," he said. And he walked away. After that he ignored me and I also found out that he invited other boys to his house. That hurt even more.
My buddy Joe must have figured out something, but I don't know or at least I don't remember if he ever said anything. Joe gave me the book Victims No Longer. I didn't want to read it at first but I started and that's when I understood that he was a pedophile. I knew the word before then, but I didn't know that's how it was. I thought they only went for kids who were four or five years old. I was sixteen.
I'm now thirty-one but I still think about him. I don't want to see him again. But even now, after all these years, I still miss him, even though that sounds weird.
I'm getting help in a group and the other guys understand and they assure me that I'll get past this problem. I hope they're right.
Friday, October 28, 2011
"I Did It!"
"I did it!" He yelled into the phone. "I did it! I got help!"
I met him nearly twenty years ago when I lived in Louisville, Kentucky. I had talked to him about abuse—which I had just begun to deal with. He didn't say anything then, but something about the way he responded made me think he had probably been victimized.
After I moved back to Atlanta, he called me three or four times a year. He admitted he had been abused but insisted it was too hard to ask for help. "I feel weak and ashamed. Men aren't supposed to feel that way."
"Maybe not," I said, "but we do. And we'll stay weak and confused until we get help." He never wanted to talk much but he'd always say, "You're a friend. You give me hope."
He is in therapy and will soon join a group of other survivors of sexual assault.
"Why did I wait so long?" he asked.
The only answer I could give him—and I think it's true—was this: You weren't ready to be healed.
I met him nearly twenty years ago when I lived in Louisville, Kentucky. I had talked to him about abuse—which I had just begun to deal with. He didn't say anything then, but something about the way he responded made me think he had probably been victimized.
After I moved back to Atlanta, he called me three or four times a year. He admitted he had been abused but insisted it was too hard to ask for help. "I feel weak and ashamed. Men aren't supposed to feel that way."
"Maybe not," I said, "but we do. And we'll stay weak and confused until we get help." He never wanted to talk much but he'd always say, "You're a friend. You give me hope."
He is in therapy and will soon join a group of other survivors of sexual assault.
"Why did I wait so long?" he asked.
The only answer I could give him—and I think it's true—was this: You weren't ready to be healed.
Friday, October 21, 2011
Howard
"We buried Howard last week and he was 59 years old," the email began. "He never talked about his abuse, but I knew because our oldest brother did it to both of us. He didn't talk to me about it and I didn't talk to him."
The writer went on to say that Howard had been a civilian who worked for Army Intelligence. "He knew how to keep military secrets. He also kept his own. They said he died of a heart attack and that's probably true, but it wasn't the kind of heart attack that medicine can treat."
The man spoke of his sadness, and that he had gotten help through AA and Celebrate Recovery. He said he wished he had talked to Howard. "It might not have done any good, but at least I could have tried."
The writer went on to say that Howard had been a civilian who worked for Army Intelligence. "He knew how to keep military secrets. He also kept his own. They said he died of a heart attack and that's probably true, but it wasn't the kind of heart attack that medicine can treat."
The man spoke of his sadness, and that he had gotten help through AA and Celebrate Recovery. He said he wished he had talked to Howard. "It might not have done any good, but at least I could have tried."
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
From Pastor Peter
"When I was fifteen, I drank my first beer and then my second. It was strange but I didn't worry about anything. I had fun and it seemed like everything I said was witty." That's how Peter, a Southern Baptist pastor, started his email to me.
He went on to write that drinking kept him detached from his emotions. "When I was twenty-one, I almost washed out of college. What I thought was witty my career counselor told me was silly and often incoherent."
Peter went to an AA meeting to please his counselor and so he could finish the semester and stay in college. An older man in the meeting said he had been an alcoholic for fifteen years. "It was the only way I could forget that I had been abused," the man told Peter.
"That clicked!" Peter wrote. He said he felt as if someone had punched him in the gut. "That's when I knew why I liked getting drunk. I could forget."
Peter never took another drink because he didn't need the booze. He graduated from college. "I wasn't at the top of the class, but I was at least part of the class."
He not only became sober, but he found a fine therapist who helped him cope with the trauma of childhood abuse. He's now a pastor in Texas and has gotten his church to start a Celebrate Recovery group.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
A Confederacy of Silence
Phil Leftwich, a Presbyterian pastor, who recently retired as a church executive, wrote a letter to members of an organization called The Healing Trust. This is from a recent letter to members.
A Confederacy of Silence
As president of The Healing Trust, if I have learned nothing else in 2010 it is that our primary task is to break apart the confederacy of silence that surrounds people who are wounded by sexual, physical, emotional, and spiritual abuse. The abused don't choose to remain silent. They live in silence out of fear rooted in deep shame and believing that others won't listen, will be frightened if they do talk, or will reject them if they listen to the horror of their stories.
They protect themselves, even with those they trust—even with those who share their most intimate lives—because of their shame and fear of rejection. They're afraid the graphic details of their lives are so horrifying that others cannot bear to listen and will turn away.
Sadly, there are still few safe places or people for the wounded to share the innermost secrets of their lives. They often can't find safety and help as hard as they try because the help is so rare.
That’s where the work of The Healing Trust is unique. We
• provide the resources of support groups for men and women who have been scarred by abuse.
• train and certify local counselors with a high degree of specialization in helping those traumatized by abuse.
• provide scholarship fees for those who can't afford such counseling.
• produce public events for educating helpers, especially pastors and church leaders, in understanding the signs and nature of abuse.
• are fiercely committed to protecting children and youth from being abused through educating adults in watching for the signs and symptoms.
• offer special seasonal services to give voice to the wounded in churches that have made commitments to bring openness in talking about abuse. Some are host sites for support groups that meet weekly. For many of the wounded, those groups are the first places they have ever felt welcomed and safe.
Last year, I participated in a service called "Grace for the Wounded." I vividly recall the church’s pastor standing in the rain as night was falling around us. Although “church” had been the place of their abuse and shame, he assured two women who were on the edge of taking a giant step back into a church that they would be accepted.
The pastor shared that he understood because he had also been abused and his church was a safe haven. He accompanied them into the church’s chapel with gentle and inviting warmth that allowed them to know that they were safe in that particular sanctuary.
As a pastor, I cling to the term sanctuary that derives from the Latin, Sanctus, or holy. We know that sanctuaries, whether churches, our homes, or places of retreat, are supposed to be holy spaces to protect and shield us from many of life’s hardships. They are meant to be holy ground that reviles the sickness and brokenness of the world. They are intended to allow the freedom to share life’s deepest hurts. They stand as places of healing and comfort that lead us into becoming the healed and whole people God wants us to be.
A Confederacy of Silence
As president of The Healing Trust, if I have learned nothing else in 2010 it is that our primary task is to break apart the confederacy of silence that surrounds people who are wounded by sexual, physical, emotional, and spiritual abuse. The abused don't choose to remain silent. They live in silence out of fear rooted in deep shame and believing that others won't listen, will be frightened if they do talk, or will reject them if they listen to the horror of their stories.
They protect themselves, even with those they trust—even with those who share their most intimate lives—because of their shame and fear of rejection. They're afraid the graphic details of their lives are so horrifying that others cannot bear to listen and will turn away.
Sadly, there are still few safe places or people for the wounded to share the innermost secrets of their lives. They often can't find safety and help as hard as they try because the help is so rare.
That’s where the work of The Healing Trust is unique. We
• provide the resources of support groups for men and women who have been scarred by abuse.
• train and certify local counselors with a high degree of specialization in helping those traumatized by abuse.
• provide scholarship fees for those who can't afford such counseling.
• produce public events for educating helpers, especially pastors and church leaders, in understanding the signs and nature of abuse.
• are fiercely committed to protecting children and youth from being abused through educating adults in watching for the signs and symptoms.
• offer special seasonal services to give voice to the wounded in churches that have made commitments to bring openness in talking about abuse. Some are host sites for support groups that meet weekly. For many of the wounded, those groups are the first places they have ever felt welcomed and safe.
Last year, I participated in a service called "Grace for the Wounded." I vividly recall the church’s pastor standing in the rain as night was falling around us. Although “church” had been the place of their abuse and shame, he assured two women who were on the edge of taking a giant step back into a church that they would be accepted.
The pastor shared that he understood because he had also been abused and his church was a safe haven. He accompanied them into the church’s chapel with gentle and inviting warmth that allowed them to know that they were safe in that particular sanctuary.
As a pastor, I cling to the term sanctuary that derives from the Latin, Sanctus, or holy. We know that sanctuaries, whether churches, our homes, or places of retreat, are supposed to be holy spaces to protect and shield us from many of life’s hardships. They are meant to be holy ground that reviles the sickness and brokenness of the world. They are intended to allow the freedom to share life’s deepest hurts. They stand as places of healing and comfort that lead us into becoming the healed and whole people God wants us to be.
—Contact Phil at pwleftwich (at) yahoo (dot) com or Dr. Max Haskett at m44haskett (at) comcast (dot) net.
Friday, January 21, 2011
A Former Addict
One former addict wrote me, "I stayed zapped and blocked from my feelings for nine years. When I decided to face my issues, my therapist said, "Your drug addiction probably saved your life."
He went on to say that he was convinced the only reason he didn't kill himself was that the street drugs made the pain bearable.
"A guy I grew up with invited me to Celebrate Recovery. He had been on booze but got sober and stayed that way."
The writer said he went to his first CR meeting and didn't like it very much but he promised his friend he would go back at least once more. Here's his comment about his second visit: "In the small group, one man spoke about being abused by a neighbor. As I listened, I felt he was talking about me. I started to cry."
The anonymous writer went on to say he hasn't been on drugs for nearly two years. "I'm happy to be alive. I guess I'm also lucky to be alive."
He went on to say that he was convinced the only reason he didn't kill himself was that the street drugs made the pain bearable.
"A guy I grew up with invited me to Celebrate Recovery. He had been on booze but got sober and stayed that way."
The writer said he went to his first CR meeting and didn't like it very much but he promised his friend he would go back at least once more. Here's his comment about his second visit: "In the small group, one man spoke about being abused by a neighbor. As I listened, I felt he was talking about me. I started to cry."
The anonymous writer went on to say he hasn't been on drugs for nearly two years. "I'm happy to be alive. I guess I'm also lucky to be alive."
Friday, November 19, 2010
"Who Am I?"
"I didn't know who I was," Mac said to me after I spoke to a Celebrate Recovery group. "Being molested messed with my brain," he said.
Mac didn't have a lot formal education but he said it well. Abuse affects all parts of our lives. I'm constantly amazed in my own life when I have a jarring realization of something I say or do that connects to my abuse.
Here's an example. I recently spoke with "Matt" about his abuse. He made me uncomfortable because he invaded my space—standing about six inches away from me—far too close.
In our conversation I put my hands on his shoulders as I took a step back, and said, "I'm uneasy when you stand so close." Before he could say anything, I added, "but I think it speaks about your need for intimacy."
Those words rushed out of my mouth without my consciously thinking of them. Tears filled Matt's eyes and he nodded slowly. "I know, but I can't help myself. I feel I have to move close to people and yet they move away from me."
I thought of buzz words like lack of boundaries and a number of things to help him, but instead, I heard myself say, "I'll bet you wished someone would hug you—a lot."
He nodded. "And when they do, I don't want to let go and that makes them not want to hug me again."
In that moment, I realized how many times I've wanted to be held, hugged, or even touched. It became clear to me that I had felt a similar need as Matt, but I reacted to it differently. When I hugged, I did it with great intensity (perhaps I still do). But the difference is that back then I tried to signal that I wanted the same intense embrace I gave them. Instead, I think I made them feel uncomfortable.
Like Mac, I continue to realize how much my being molested messed with my brain.
Mac didn't have a lot formal education but he said it well. Abuse affects all parts of our lives. I'm constantly amazed in my own life when I have a jarring realization of something I say or do that connects to my abuse.
Here's an example. I recently spoke with "Matt" about his abuse. He made me uncomfortable because he invaded my space—standing about six inches away from me—far too close.
In our conversation I put my hands on his shoulders as I took a step back, and said, "I'm uneasy when you stand so close." Before he could say anything, I added, "but I think it speaks about your need for intimacy."
Those words rushed out of my mouth without my consciously thinking of them. Tears filled Matt's eyes and he nodded slowly. "I know, but I can't help myself. I feel I have to move close to people and yet they move away from me."
I thought of buzz words like lack of boundaries and a number of things to help him, but instead, I heard myself say, "I'll bet you wished someone would hug you—a lot."
He nodded. "And when they do, I don't want to let go and that makes them not want to hug me again."
In that moment, I realized how many times I've wanted to be held, hugged, or even touched. It became clear to me that I had felt a similar need as Matt, but I reacted to it differently. When I hugged, I did it with great intensity (perhaps I still do). But the difference is that back then I tried to signal that I wanted the same intense embrace I gave them. Instead, I think I made them feel uncomfortable.
Like Mac, I continue to realize how much my being molested messed with my brain.
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