Excess Baggage

The following article is from my April newsletter. I've had such good feedback from it that I decided to post it here. Next week I'll share Roger Mann's response. If you're interested in receiving my monthly newsletter, send me an email request at cec.murp@comcast.net. (Cec)

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As I stood in line at Delta’s baggage check-in, the agent said to the woman in front of me, “You’re nineteen pounds overweight. You’ll have to pay for the excess weight or take out some of the goods.”

The woman dropped out of line to repack and stuff items into her large purse.

As I watched, I thought of the excess luggage most of us carry—hurts, slights, betrayals, and rejections. We haven’t let them go, even though they weigh us down. For example, whenever someone mentions a person we haven’t forgiven, we feel a heaviness inside. Even anger.

Those thoughts reminded me of Greek mythology and Atalanta, the fleet-footed goddess. Her father, King Schoeneus, wanted her to marry, but she refused. Finally, she agreed to marry only if her suitor could outrun her in a footrace. If the challengers lost, they would be put to death. Many young men tried, lost the race—and their lives.

Hippomenes became the next suitor and asked the goddess Aphrodite for help. She gave him three golden apples.

The race began and Atalanta was soon twenty yards ahead. Hippomenes rolled one apple in front of her, and she stooped to pick it up. A little later, he rolled out the second and she grabbed it. And the third.

By then, Atalanta was so weighted down, Hippomenes passed her and won the race.

The story teaches us that we self-sabotage by holding on to “golden apples” of anger, resentment, and unforgiveness. They hinder by weighing us down in successfully running life’s race.

We know they’re there, and we know they hold us back. Even so, it’s not easy to cast off those hurt feelings and rejection. With God’s help and opening ourselves to individuals we trust, we can dispose of the things that weigh us down.

I'm running a race of life.

I rid myself of every kind of excess baggage. 

Feeling Compassion for Me

“Be kind to yourself,” my best friend, David Morgan, said. “Show Cec a little sympathy.”

His words sounded odd, and I hardly knew how to respond.

“You empathize with others. Don’t you think you deserve a little of that same level of caring?”

It took me a few minutes to absorb David’s words, but I knew he was right. I still didn’t know how to show compassion for myself.

“Think of that little kid who was molested. He survived and he didn’t give up on you, did he? You’re who you are today because of him.” David reminded me that my two younger brothers became alcoholics. When I spoke about them, he pointed out that I spoke understandingly.

And then I understood.

Self-compassion was another term he used. I had set higher standards for myself than I did for others. When they failed, I didn’t judge them, but accepted their being human.

I couldn’t do the same for Cec. “You know better,” was something I said accusingly to myself back then.

Now I’m learning self-compassion. I wish I could say it’s been easy, but it hasn’t. Each day I say several statements about myself. They’re all true and the more often I say them, the more I affirm them.

I accept and embrace who I am.

I treat myself with compassion.

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Are there questions or specific topics you'd like Cec to address in upcoming blog entries? If so, please send an email to his assistant at the following address: cecilmurphey(at)mchsi(dot)com.

Embracing Myself

Sometimes the loving rebuke of a friend does wonders for us. Immediately I think of one powerful experience. Four years ago in telling my best friend, David, about an incident, I called myself an idiot for something I had said.

"Why do you talk that way about yourself?" he asked. "You're not stupid and it hurts me when you speak that way."

That's an example of a loving rebuke—and I needed to hear it.

As we continued to chat together, I realized how often I criticized myself. Then David said, "You don't talk about others with that critical tone. Don’t you deserve the same kindness as you give them?"

His words shocked me, but they were exactly what I needed. I was kinder to other people than I was to myself. (And that's probably true with most of us.)

The next day I began to make a self-affirming statement every morning: "I like who I am; I like who I used to be; I like who I am becoming." And I repeated it several times. I still say those words every single morning.

I needed to learn to embrace myself—to love myself and to be patient and kind to Cec. It wasn't easy because I've long held him to a much higher standard than I have others. But I also prayed for God to help me feel compassion for Cec. I tried to envision him as something apart from myself.

That's when I realized he deserved my acceptance and my loving embrace.

I like who I am;

I like who I used to be; 

I like who I'm becoming.

Reusing Pain

I hate that I was sexually assaulted and physically beaten as a child. So many times I've wished it hadn't happened. But it did.

Despite the fact that I've been on the healing path for years, I continue to learn about myself and how my painful childhood has carried into my adult years.

One wonderful insight has emerged: I've learned to reuse my pain. That may not be a sophisticated way to say it, but it helps me to think in those categories. Recently, people have said many nice things to me about being a good listener, encouraging them, and being compassionate.

For a long time I tried to stop them and said, "That's not who I am." I knew my heart, and when I thought about qualities such as compassion I'd grade myself about a C minus. I'm sure that's because I still struggled with my lack of self-esteem.

Then it hit me. When I was a child, no one listened to me, especially when I tried to talk about serious things. I don't recall anyone encouraging me or expressing compassion. Perhaps a few individuals did listen, encourage, or express sympathy, but I wasn't aware.

As I’ve acknowledged those positive qualities others perceive in me, I think of it as reusing my pain. That is, I give to others what I didn't receive. I turn my pain inside out. That wasn't a conscious decision, but it was a healthy reaction in coping with my painful childhood.

I was abused and hurt as a child;

as an adult, I reuse my pain by caring for others.

"You're Nothing"

I don't recall that anyone ever said, "You're nothing," although I believed I was worthless and a really bad kid. My baby brother, Chuck, whom I am sure was also sexually assaulted, once said—in a moment of rare insight while drunk—"I'm nobody. Nothing. Worthless. And I hate my life."

We were at a family gathering at a park and Chuck turned and walked away from me. That incident happened about six years before memories of my abuse sneaked out of the hidden caverns. And yet I vividly remember his words and the pained expression on his face. Chuck was hardly the introspective type and that was quite an admission from him.

Since then I've met many men who received that message of worthlessness—some being told, others absorbing the concept. Regardless, we believed a terrible lie.

None of us is worthless, but I can't convince anyone of that by words. As I see it, only by our being loved and valued by someone who cares about us can we escape that untruth.

When I know I'm loved,

I know I'm of value.

I Like Who I Am

(By Cecil Murphey)

The first time I said aloud (and meant the words), "I like who I am," it was a shock. I spoke those words when I was on my normal, early morning run.

"I like who I am."

The words felt right. I did like myself. I repeated the sentence several times and smiled. I had been on my healing journey about a decade before I made that simple declaration. That was one of the powerful moments in my recovery. I'm still learning to appreciate who I am and to enjoy being Cec Murphey.

Since then, here's the sentence I say aloud every morning: "I like who I am, I like who I used to be, and I like who I am becoming."

The words were a long time in coming, but they're true and they express the deep self-love and self-appreciation each of us needs.

I like who I am; 

I'm growing in my self-appreciation.

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

Female Perpetrators

I received a personal email from Andrew Schmutzer after my last blog entry posted:

As a male survivor, I’ve really appreciated the brief and potent thoughts you consistently share in Shattering the Silence. Regarding this entry, I thought I would mention that females are also perpetrators—against both men and women. Because some male survivors feel doubly estranged by this reality, may I suggest that you ‘open your description’ to more than a bald ‘He?’ A one-size-fits-all offender can be very difficult for some men to stomach.

Females are perpetrators, and I appreciate Andrews's comments. My first perpetrator was a woman, and I've heard many others echo the same statement. I recently read that 38 percent of male abusers are females (I have no idea how to validate that figure).

Gary Roe, who is my co-writer on our soon-to-be released book, Not Quite Healed, was (like me) molested by both a female and male.

As Andrew points out, being molested by a female does double damage to survivors.

Those of you who have been molested by females: Will you email me personally about your experience, especially the ongoing after-effects? cec.murp@comcast.net.

Why Me?

(By Cecil Murphey)

Why did he choose us? What did we do to make him single us out?

Although complicated, here's the most direct and simple answer I know: We were needy kids. Those four words sum it up. We may not have realized our neediness. After all, how many four-year-olds or ten-year-old boys are mature enough to reflect on such issues?

We were needy kids. Whether we came from impoverished homes or our parents were millionaires, unless we felt deep within ourselves that we were loved, we were open to anyone who showed us kindness or affection.

Our perpetrators reached out in such ways that we were ensnared. They gave us gifts or took us places. They spent time with us. They listened to us and made us feel important. They deceived us, but we didn't know.

We were needy kids. I'm not blaming parents, saying only that we didn't feel the warmth we yearned for. Perhaps they were unable to give it to us (as was true with my parents) or they didn't express it in a way that convinced us of their love.

We were needy kids. Maybe we need to repeat those words in first person. I was a needy kid. The absence of affirmation or acceptance, love or affection—whatever I was lacking—made me vulnerable.

I was a needy kid; 

someone took advantage of my neediness and my innocence.

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

When Does It End?

(By Cecil Murphey)

I've jokingly said that if I knew how long and how painful the healing journey was, I wouldn't have started. Some days that's how I feel, and I ask myself, "Why did I start this journey?"

In my worst moments, it seems as if the healing takes place one day at a time, or perhaps even one small step a year. And yet I know I'm moving forward. My healing is taking place.

The intense anguish and sometimes stinging feelings tell me that I am moving forward.

On my best days (and they're becoming increasingly more often) I tell myself, “I’m glad I struggled and fought for my healing. It’s been worth re-experiencing the pain."

The pain is still real; 

The pain would be worse if I didn't deal with it.

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

"I'll Never Forgive You."

(This entry from Cec Murphey was originally posted on Mariska Hartigay's Joyful Heart Foundation site on 10/25/12.)

For several days, one sentence has continued to trouble me: "I'll never forgive you." Those words were spoken by the man identified only as Victim 4 at the Jerry Sandusky sentencing on October 9, 2012. His emotional cry says several things to me.

The most obvious is that he expresses the unhealed pain that comes from betrayal. At the trial itself, Victim 4 and other survivors referred to the gifts and personal attentiveness from Sandusky, who became their role model. Then came the molestation. Until then, Sandusky had probably been the most trusted man in their lives. His wooing them through seductive actions and evil motives caused an unrelenting pain that still remains.

Perhaps the words are also an unconscious cry to the perpetrator to admit what he did. If I faced someone and shouted those words, it would signify an unconscious or unspoken plea: "Please tell me you're sorry for how deeply you wounded me. Help me understand why you would hurt me." When the victimizer is someone we admire and love, the hurt becomes far more intense.

The words also speak of despair. What Victim 4 lost as a boy won't ever be restored, even if his perpetrator confesses. As a survivor of sexual molestation, I know how abuse damages us for life. We're emotionally shattered and we don't know how to trust others. We're suspicious of the motives when someone treats us kindly. We push away many good people because one bad person took advantage of our naïveté and youth.

Possibly the words are also a threat. It's as if to say, "You want absolution for your wrongdoing but you'll never, never get it from me." They seem like words to withhold forgiveness and that will punish the guilty.

Even worse, the words mean we carry the pain and refuse to offer compassion for the wrongdoer. I call myself a serious Christian and many of my peers would jump on Victim 4's words and insist, "You must forgive him."

If I could speak to Victim 4, I'd say, "Feel your pain. Don't release it until you're ready. If you move forward to find your own healing, the day will come when you'll shed your anger and freely offer your forgiveness (even if you never tell him).

I think of his statement as much like people who grieve after the death of a loved one—an awareness of the abuse is like death—the end of a powerful, emotional relationship.

"Number 4, grieve as long as you need to. Don't push yourself or allow anyone to nudge you toward letting go. When you're ready, you won't need prodding."

"We Didn't Know."

(This entry from Cec Murphey was originally posted on Mariska Hartigay's Joyful Heart Foundation site on 7/5/12.)

"We didn't know," the civilians said when asked about the gas chambers after World War II.

"We didn't know," neighbors say when they learn that the man across the street had molested a boy.

"We didn't know," parents say when their adult children talk about their past sexual abuse.

When I began to deal with my abuse, I told my three older sisters. They said the same thing.

I don't think they were lying. I think they couldn't accept the enormity of the revelation. If they had known, perhaps they wouldn't have been able to face the personal guilt for doing nothing.

What about abused kids' point of view when they hear those responses? One of the witnesses against Jerry Sandusky said he never told anyone. Asked why, he repeated an answer that rang true to me and to many others, "Who would believe a kid?"

When the perpetrator is a prominent person in the community, leads a scout troop, teaches Sunday school, or runs a charitable organization for kids, who wants to hear such stories?

The answer: No one wants to hear such stories.

Perhaps the question should be, Who needs to hear such stories?

When asked that way, the answer is obvious. Parents, religious and civic leaders need to hear. But too often they don't.

Sandusky's wife said she never heard the boy screaming in the basement. Apparently, she also didn't know when their adopted son said Sandusky molested him repeatedly for several years.

When will they believe us?

When will the cries of bruised and raped boys be heard?

Until they are, the survivor on the witness stand has spoken for all of us who were abused in the past. He speaks for those who are or will be molested.

"Who would believe a kid?"

"You Shouldn't Feel . . . "

(This entry from Cec Murphey was originally posted on Mariska Hartigay's Joyful Heart Foundation site on 5/10/12.)

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: Emotions don't listen to logic.

Why Am I Still Not Healed?

(This entry from Cec Murphey was originally posted on Mariska Hargitay's Joyful Heart Foundation site on 3/15/12.)

"Why haven't I worked through all these issues? Why am I still not healed?" Most of us survivors ask ourselves that question many times. "I've been on this journey for five years. When does it end?" Those are the questions we ask on our worst days.

On our better days, we examine our lives and remember where we started. In those self-reflective times, we admit we've come a long way. A friend said to me, "In those depressing times when you tell yourself that you ought to be farther down the road, you're probably more healthy than you know."

Maybe he was correct, but it doesn't stop us from asking the question. Why not? Why not?

For myself, I can say this. I keep discovering the insidious consequences of my sexual abuse. It's a good thing I didn't recognize all the effects in the beginning, or it would most likely have overwhelmed and immobilized me. In my darkest moments, it seems as if the healing takes place one day at a time, or perhaps even slower—one small step a year.

I've jokingly said, "If I'd known in the beginning that this would be such a hard, painful journey, I probably wouldn't have started."

In my early days of grappling with the issue, I felt that way because the feelings were too intense, and too brutal. But now I add, "I'm glad I struggled and fought. It's been worth re-experiencing the pain. I've learned more about myself. I've not only accepted who I am but I honestly like the person inside me." Here's something I say to myself regularly, I am not quite healed; I am a healing-in-progress.

Goliath Won

After his sentence on October 9, 2012, Jerry Sandusky wrote a letter to Judge Cleland in which he compared his court trial with the biblical encounter of David and Goliath. "I was supposed to be David but failed to pick up the slingshot. Goliath won . . . "

He's right—Goliath won.

However, Sandusky was Goliath—a giant—when he abused those small boys, who didn't have slingshots and stones with which to fight. He won again when he denied his guilt. A third win was the re-victimizing of those boys in court when they were forced to recount their molestation in front of strangers and doubters.

No one knows how many little Davids suffered because of that one overpowering giant. But a few finally picked up slingshots. With tears and deep-seated anguish, those brave Davids testified about their abuse. And the jury believed them. The words at the sentencing make it clear that Judge Cleland believed it was time to punish Goliath.

For a few of us, there is justice.

But what about the cost to those once-innocent children? Those survivors again faced shame, rejection, pain, as well as criticism and denial for justice to prevail.

Want to Help?

Last summer, When a Man You Love Was Abused came off the press. Two months later, my editor asked me for a follow-up book. "I've written everything I know," I said.

That was before I started doing this twice-weekly blog. Since then, three things have changed my mind.

1. Several of you posted to the blog or emailed me. I marveled at your openness and you encouraged me to become even more transparent.

2. The book has gone into its second printing and I've heard from readers with concerns I didn't address or did so only briefly.

3. I've grown since I wrote the book. I've learned more about myself and faced issues of which I was unaware a year ago.

I've proposed a new book with the working title, Not Quite Healed.

Healing from sexual molestation is a process—a long, long process. I keep learning and so do many of you.

Will you help me?

If you struggle with areas I didn't address in the book or we haven't fully discussed on this blog, I'd like to know. What insights have you gained about yourself?

If the publisher accepts my second book and if I want to use your material, I'll ask your permission. If you agree, I'll use your name only with your permission.

Please email me privately at cec.murp@comcast.net.

A Testimony from Graham Bell

The following testimony is from Graham M. Bell, West Yorkshire, UK (and I've retained his British spellings).

I'm almost 47. When I was 9 or 10, then from the ages of 11 to 14, I was groomed and used systematically for the sexual gratification of three men. One was a neighbour, another his lodger, and the third, a teacher whose school I'd started a term late. Hence, I was the new boy.

My recovery has begun in earnest of late. How I've not ended my life—directly or indirectly—already, I have no idea. I pray lots. I've made a Christian commitment. I hold back...but I'm closer than ever to purging the wounds, and I'm still reluctant to trust even God.

I never realised how numbed I'd made myself. Then, suddenly (after 35 years!) I found Cec's book. My wife wept through it. I did, too.

I'm giving up alcohol for Lent. My promise to God is to use my gifts to create something—something in return for Him having spared my almost-suicidal life.

If I do finish the book, it won't usurp Cec's!

Thank God for humour.

Love to Cec, and his bloggers.

"Killing the Inner Child?"

I watched the third show about male sexual abuse in childhood on Oprah Winfrey. I can't speak more highly of the program and hope it will come out on DVD for others.

One thing did bother me. Near the end, a dark-complexioned man stood and said that the abuser had killed the boy inside him. One guest said that the child hadn't died, but had been so hurt he couldn't be what he might have been.

I don't agree. Perhaps it's because of my strong Christian theology, but here's how I see this. I was abused by a female relative and later by an old man who lived with us. My father beat me often and brutally.

I'm a survivor—but I'm more than a survivor. I hate what happened to me. Not only did I live in pain for years, but I caused pain to others by my confusion and silence. But today, I'm a stronger, healthier person for having gone through the abuse. St. Paul said it far better than I could: "God is our merciful Father and the source of all comfort. He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others. When they are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us" (2 Corinthians 1:3–4, New Living Translation).

"Walking in the Rain"

I taped the second Oprah Winfrey show where she dealt with male sexual abuse and watched the program that same night. She had two hundred sexually assaulted men in her audience. I was touched by their openness (and their tears).

Afterward, I thought about what I had seen, and I went emotionally numb. I haven't had that kind of emotional freeze for years. The last time it had happened was when I watched a PBS program on sexual abuse—a documentary by a Canadian woman who had been a victim of incest by her father. After watching her documentary, I wasn't able to talk afterward and went for a long walk late at night.

A similar thing happened after the Oprah segment and I went for a walk in the dark. Even before I was out of my yard, I had a flashback.

I was somewhere between 12 and 14 years of age. I lived on Second Street but at night I often walked down Third because it was darker and I wanted to be alone. During those walks I felt the pain of childhood—not the molestation because I had "forgotten" that. I felt useless and unloved.

As I walked, I felt totally alone. "No one cares about me," I said aloud as I walked along. If I died, I didn't think anyone would miss me. I assumed my mother would cry, but she cried about many things, and she would soon forget me.

A few times I walked in the rain and that caused me to feel even more alone. The rain pelted my face and my clothes and I didn't care.

The brief flashback after the Oprah show reminded me of the pain of my teen years. I had forgotten about those walks, but somewhere, deep inside, the memory had lay hidden.

After my walk I tried to talk to Shirley and called my best friend. With both of them I stammered, trying to find words to explain, and finally quit trying to put my emotions into words.

I went into our guest room and lay on the bed. I kept thinking of that kid walking in the dark, and his pain washed over me again. "I'm with you," I whispered to that confused, miserable teen inside me. "I'm here now and we're both safe."

Eventually I relaxed and fell asleep. Perhaps an hour later I awakened. The pain was gone but the memory remained vivid.

I share this because it reminds me that there seems always to be just a little more hidden pain. But these days I'm older and I feel compassion for that lonely boy who walked in the dark.

"What We Didn't Get"

I wrote an email to a hurting friend, who suffers from the effects of terrible things he's done to others. I'm sorry for his pain, but delighted he's facing himself. It takes courage to look at ourselves and admit that we committed acts we condemn in others. (In fact, condemning others for those very acts is often the way many try to cope with their issues.)

When I faced my childhood physical and sexual abuse, I learned an invaluable lesson. I don't know if I read it, someone told me, or if God whispered it to me, but here's the lesson: What we don't receive in childhood, we spend our lives seeking—usually on an unconscious level.

Like most people I focused on the symptoms—not doing things I knew were wrong. Years ago while visiting an AA meeting, I heard the term "dry alcoholic" and that sums it up for me. Dry alcoholics no longer drink but their behavior doesn't change.

I figured out that "unacceptable behavior" (a nice term to cover compulsive problems) is a painkiller. My dad and brothers killed their pain with beer. The most notorious gossip I've ever known died recently. Many times I've thought that carrying the latest news (true or not) gave her a sense of feeling significant, perhaps even important. The "medicine" each of them took for temporary relief usually worked temporarily.

Because of a loving God who worked in my life through my wife and my best friend, I was able to accept, struggle, and to have those needs fulfilled.

I was a lonely kid who felt different from those around him. When I was 18 months old, a dog attacked me and left terrible scars on my face. Plastic surgery took care of most of the visible scars, but the invisible ones remained for years.

The worst part of my childhood is that I never felt loved. As I ponder some of the things I did which made me feel guilty and ashamed, I now say to myself, "It was my way of searching for what I didn't receive as a child."

I'm probably no different from some of you, so I repeat the sentence that pushed me to face reality: What we don't receive in childhood, we spend our lives seeking—usually on an unconscious level.

A Couple of Resources

Here are a couple of resources that might interest you:

On Wednesday, October 6, Kyria’s editor, Ginger Kolbaba, talked with bestselling author and physical and sexual abuse survivor Cecil Murphey on the subject of abuse. Cecil is also the author of When a Man You Love Was Abused (Kregel Publications). If you missed this powerful and important webinar, sponsored by Kregel Publications, check it out here in its entirety: http://blog.kyria.com/2010/10/overcoming_physical_and_sexual.html

Tuesday, October 5, was the debut of the Cec and Me radio show. The topic was sexual abuse, and the podcast can be heard at http://toginet.com/shows/cecandme