The Room

(This post comes from a reader named Mark.)

I realized it was time to ask my Celebrate Recovery sponsor to visit the room where I was abused as a child. I wanted him to see that room. I needed him to see it.

"The room" is a bathroom. It’s remote, mostly unused, unseen. It appears as if it is in a house that has been long abandoned. For me, that room has been the family secret.

As I led the way, I cried. I was shocked, anxious, and relieved with the choice to allow someone to see the room.

My sponsor stood in the middle of that place and said something I was unprepared for. "So tell me what happened here."

"This is where I was raped."

The room doesn’t hold as much power now. By exposing that room, I’m not as afraid of my memories. I don’t need to cower in shame from the abandonment that the room represents. The room is no longer my secret.

"Who Would Believe Kids?"

(an encore post by Cecil Murphey)

"Who would believe kids?"

I read those words in the newspaper as part of the testimony of a then-12-year-old boy who testified in the Jerry Sandusky sexual abuse trial.

Since then, I've pondered those words.

It's strange how it works with parents. We know those overly protective parents who believe anything their children say and become angry over the slightest injustice they suspect someone has done to their precious child.

It's the other kind of family that troubles me. "Who would believe kids?" That's the cry of a child in pain, a boy who knew he wouldn't be believed and didn't have an adult to stand up for him.

Why wouldn't he ask that question?

His words haunt me because it's a question I might have asked. It didn't occur to me to tell an adult—any adult. I didn't feel anyone cared enough so why would I consider telling? I felt totally alone.

I wonder how many molested kids have asked, "Who would believe kids?"

Isolation Is Emotional Solitary Confinement

(This post comes from a reader named Roger and is used with his permission.)

Isolation is where I've lived most of my life. That's why I felt alone and sad much of the time. Even when I was in a crowd or with a group of friends I felt out of step with everyone, just not quite connecting on the level everyone else seemed to.

Abuse immediately isolated me. At first, the need for secrecy and knowing I was sharing in something no one else could know about gave me a sense of superiority. I felt special, privileged (for a while anyway). Later I felt used and eventually worthless.

At first we can feel pretty special, but later we realize we've taken on a burden we can't seem to throw off. I ended up feeling different and weird, and thinking no one else could possibly have those kinds of thoughts, feelings, or desires. After that came the longing to be normal—whatever that was supposed to mean. I was left outside, stealing glances at other families who seemed happy and normal.

That led to a lot of overcompensating and arrogance and not a little amount of anger, which I tried to repress unsuccessfully. I felt trapped, alone, and unable to break free to interact with my closest friends. There was always a wall there that I couldn't tear down.

With God's help and those who love me and understand, I'm learning new ways to break through the barriers. I appreciate their patience because the trust thing is difficult for me to navigate after all these years.

That turmoil began when I was very young. When young, we're like clean slates; everything that happens to us is written on those slates in capital letters and indelible ink. We don't have the experiences and maturity of adults to dilute the impact. I suspect that's why things can become more deeply ingrained and why, as adults, we have such a difficult time recovering from them.

It's also why I wish I could have received help when I was younger—before the cement dried.

Why Am I So Hard on Myself?

My friends used to say to me that I was too tough on myself. I smiled and said something innocuous like, "Maybe you're right." I didn't believe them, but that was my way to avoid any discussion.

Why couldn't they grasp that I knew my responsibilities and my standards? If I didn't live up to them, why shouldn't I castigate myself? I knew the right thing to do and I didn't do it.

Like many men who were assaulted in childhood, I grew up with unrealistic self-expectations. (I didn't realize they were unrealistic.) I suppose I needed to prove to myself that I was a moral and caring person. Too often, after I failed to live up to my exacting standards, I sank into a pitiful state, rebuking myself for failing. I had no idea how to show myself mercy—let alone think I deserved it. How could I show myself kindness when I had received so little of it as a child?

As I look back, I'm aware that I'm slowly—very slowly—able to believe that I am worthwhile and don't have to be perfect. My friend Jeff wrote a maxim that helped me: "Demand perfect; accept excellent."

The odd thing—at least to myself—was that I didn't hold others to the exacting standards. I often made excuses for them or reminded myself, "She did the best she could."

Trust

(This post comes from a reader named Roger.)

Trust has always been a huge issue for me. My father was very strict, very harsh at times, and I would become self-protective. Then at night he would sneak into my room and be so touching and caressing. I opened up and welcomed his advances like the starving child I was, only to find him distant and angry again the next day.

It became such a part of my life not to trust that I didn't even notice it until others began to tell me of how they dealt with it in their lives. It was like, oh man I do that too! For instance, I would walk into any room and gravitate immediately toward the corner or seat facing the door, back to the wall. Until a friend spoke about his realizing why he was doing it, I was totally unconscious of it myself.

Or the matter of personal space--being stopped in a hallway to chat and putting my back to the wall. And a thousand other odd things like assuming when someone said they wanted to speak to me it meant something bad. Assuming all compliments were preemptive for someone wanting something.

At the same time, being so gullible that when a compliment seemed to be sincere, I would fall for some kind of rip-off scheme because I desperately wanted to believe this person liked me. I know that sounds paradoxical but there was always this waiting for the other shoe to drop and yet wanting desperately to believe this time it would be something different.

I was so untrusting, yet desperately wanting to trust, needing to believe I was worthy of another’s kindness and becoming an easy mark. I suspended rational thought because of that need and fear of trusting. That was an area of my life that was invisible to me until I talked with other survivors. Our stories are different, but our wounds are familiar.

Sometimes when reading others’ stories I can’t help but wonder what other areas of my life, personality, behavior, and character are the real me or which came as the results of my abuser.

The healing must still continue.

Who Am I?

(This is a guest post from a reader named Roger.)

The assaults I suffered in childhood and as an adult left me confused as to who I was. I read a lot of science fiction in middle school and high school and thought I would like to be a physicist and study the nature of our universe. I was fascinated by science and I wanted to be part of that.

But that wasn’t to be. After high school, Dad insisted I go to Bible college, probably hoping God could undo the mess my father’s incest had made of my life. But I was a lost soul at that point. No vision. No more dream and emotionally too messed up to focus on any goal. I settled to just go from one day to the next, trying to keep it together so no one would see how totally messed up my thinking and attitudes were.

I became a social chameleon. I became whomever I was with. I desperately wanted to fit in somewhere, but deep down knew I couldn’t. So I faked it, and in doing that I lost whatever sense of who I was.

I lived that way for decades, and it wasn’t until I came back to my faith in God that I began to heal. God has helped me see that regardless of what happened to me, I’m still His creation. God can’t undo all that has happened, but He can make something beautiful out of it if I allow Him and give up trying to change myself into something I’m not.

I don’t have to be like everyone else or what others think I should.

The Archaeologist

(The author of this post has given permission to print it but chooses to remain anonymous.)

You are an archaeologist. You're digging through the past, sifting through everything oh-so carefully. Reverently even.

Like an archaeologist, you need to be outfitted with the proper tools. Rather than a shovel, trowel, and sifter, you've equipped yourself with godly counsel, accountability partners, and the armor of God.

There are times when you're actively seeking something. You know it's there! You're digging intently until blisters form on your palms. There are other times when your shovel unexpectedly collides with a foreign object. Sometimes you come upon skeletons. Sometimes only fragments of skeletons. When that happens, you have to dig deeper—yet carefully—to find the missing pieces. Only then are you able to fit the whole structure together into something that makes sense.

Like an archaeologist, you also uncover some priceless treasures as you're digging. You discover good memories, positive moments, experiences that have helped form your character. You unearth long-buried gifts and find new pleasure in exploring them once again. You share these treasures with the world, and the world is richer for it.

While the skeletons may not seem as valuable as the hidden jewels, they themselves are priceless treasures. These bones reveal important information about the past. However, like the artifacts collected by an archaeologist, the memories that you dig up don't define the present. Like dinosaur bones or shards of ancient pottery, the memories you're discovering explain what life was like in the past. They fill in the gaps and answer lingering questions.

Specimens from excavation sites aren't cataloged and analyzed overnight. The process takes time, research, patience. Sometimes the archaeologist must collaborate with other scientists. He needs their input to make sense of his discoveries. As an archaeologist curates a collection of his artifacts, guiding others through his finds, you will also have an opportunity to share your knowledge and experience. As your discoveries equip you to truly live, you are also learning how to guide others.