Feeling Empathy

(an encore post by Cecil Murphey)

Two people abused me, both of whom were dead before I began to deal with my abuse. I wanted to forgive them, but it took me a couple of weeks of daily, intense prayer (it may take you only days or possibly years, because we're all different).

I don't know how God accounts for sins. The woman who abused me was a prominent Christian. I doubt that the old man ever went to church. But I prayed—fervently—that God would enable me to forgive them.

As my next step I thought of the prayer of Stephen, the first martyr of the church, who prayed, "Do not lay this sin to their charge." It took a lot of guts, commitment, and love for that man to pray that way for the people as they stoned him to death.

Eventually I was able to pray in the same way as Stephen did. I sincerely felt some of their pain and misery. That's not to overlook their awful acts, but it is to say, "God, their addiction imprisoned them. Surely they were tortured by their behavior. Forgive them for the terrible things they did."

Does such praying do anything for the perpetrators?

I don't know, but it did something good for me: I was free.

Moving Beyond the Abuse

(An encore post by Cecil Murphey)

"It's the past. Forget it and move on," my youngest brother, Chuck, said to me. We had both been sexually assaulted by the same person. He didn't admit being sexually molested, but he didn't deny it either. On the few occasions when I tried to talk to him about it, his answer was, (1) "You can't undo the past," (2) "We don't have to think about those things," or (3) "That stuff happened back then." His words implied that we need only to forget the past, leave it behind, and it's gone.

If only it were that simple.

Chuck died after years of trying to cure his pain through alcohol. I don't know if the pain he tried to medicate was the abuse, but I suspect it was. On rare occasions when he was drunk, he made oblique references to "that mess in childhood."

Outwardly, Chuck wanted to get past the sexual molestation and get on with his life. So why didn't he "move on" with his life?

I had a second brother named Mel, also an alcoholic. He was married five times and died of cirrhosis at age 48. Unlike Chuck, Mel wouldn't talk about our childhood. "There's nothing back there to talk about," was the most he ever said.

I write about my two brothers because both of them seemed determined to get past the abuse of childhood by forgetting, denying, or ignoring. That approach doesn't work.

We don't forget—not really. We don't forget because childhood abuse affects our lives and shapes our attitudes about people and relationships. Some guys want to hurry and get over it, but it's not something to get over and to move on.

Abuse happened to us. Until we accept it and face what it has done to our lives, we don't really move forward. We only live unhealed lives.

Family Secrets

(By Cecil Murphey)

I dealt with my sexual assault for at least two years before I told my family of origin. I made dozens of excuses for myself, such as:

* It no longer matters.

* They don’t care.

* What difference does it make?

* I talk about it to others; why should I have to bring in my siblings?

* It will only stir up anger and hurt.

* They probably won’t believe me.

Despite all the excuses, I knew that speaking to the people among whom I had grown up was something I had to do. For me, it was a significant barrier to overcome on my healing journey.

I finally spoke up and, to my surprise, my three surviving sisters understood. I felt such great freedom in opening up. Maybe my siblings didn't need to hear as much as I needed to tell them.

To tell my family about my abuse—

regardless of their response—

can be a powerful healing experience for me.

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

What's Wrong with Me?

(By Cecil Murphey)

I cringed when I heard other men speak of their painful childhoods, especially when they talked about how they hated what was done to them. I hated those things too. But it took me a long time to admit they were also telling my story.

Even at six years of age, something inside told me the abuse was wrong; another part of me admitted that it felt good. For a few minutes, it seemed that another person loved me. I was worthwhile and acceptable.

But afterward. After my perpetrator was finished with me—that's when reality struggled to the surface. I felt confused and condemned. That man did something terrible to me. As an adult, I told myself that I should have hated it, struck out at him, yelled, or pushed him away. Instead, I had gone back the next time he offered a snack to come into his room.

What's wrong with me? I didn't ask myself that question when I was six or even when I was ten. And yet the question was always there. If it had been such a terrible experience, why did I enjoy it?

Now I know. I needed the emotional connection—even though it was false and temporary, I needed to feel loved. I still needed those things after he pushed me aside.

What's wrong with me is that I was a normal human being. The wrong person deceived me and made me believe he was offering affection and compassion—that he cared about me. He cared about me as a means to satisfy his lustful needs.

Nothing was wrong with me;

Something wrong happened to me.

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

Emotional Confusion (Part 1 of 2)

When a close relative abuses us, many of us experience emotional confusion. We love our aggressor—whether it's a parent, a sibling, or a brother-in-law. That person showed us attention and seemingly gave us the interest and affection we didn't receive from the rest of the family.

And yet we also hate that person. We detest him because he used our body for his own gratification, he violated the trust we put in him, and he destroyed our innocence.

As a result, we became confused and are unable to sort our contradictory feelings. How can we love someone we hate? How can we hate someone we love?

We deal with it in several ways, and the most common (in my opinion) is that we blame ourselves for the abuse. We don't know how to feel about our perpetrator so we turn on ourselves.

Here's part of my story. An old man rented a room from us, abused my sister and me, and my sister told. Dad beat him and threw him and his possessions out of the house. I was perhaps seven years old.

A few weeks later I was on a different street and saw my perpetrator sitting on a porch and yelled a greeting. He got up, turned his back on me, and went inside the house.

I wondered what I had done wrong. I didn't understand then what he had done to me and I felt some affection. And yet, because Dad threw him out of the house, I realized he had done something bad.

That's emotional confusion.

Conspiracy of Silence

Since the publication of my book When a Man You Love Was Abused, I've done more than 30 interviews on radio and six times TV on the topic. (One radio program canceled because the subject was "inappropriate" for their audience.)

A question that has come up several times goes something like this: What do you mean by a conspiracy of silence?

It's not an original term, but it fits. Conspiracy of silence means that those whom we would normally expect to support and encourage us erect a wall between us (or perhaps we do it ourselves). Sometimes we who were victimized try to break through and we're rebuffed by being ignored or they don't believe us.

For me to break the silence in my own family of origin was difficult. To my surprise when I did, two of my three widowed sisters immediately affirmed me. The first had been abused by the same pedophile. The other said she hadn't known but suspected. "We didn't know what to do about those things back then," she said. And I think she spoke the truth.

A few months ago. the third sister read my book on sexual abuse and we spoke on the phone. She remembered a few details that I had forgotten. I felt such a glow from talking to her. At last, I thought, the silence has been driven away. I'm freer now than ever.

I'm the father of three grown children. I hadn't spoken to them about my abuse before I wrote my book. (I'm not sure why.) I gave each one a copy and said, "I want you to read this."

Since then, all three read the book and they've talked openly with me. They know and they love me. That's what counts.

The important people in my life know about my abuse. The conspiracy is more than silenced: It's dead.

"My Inner Dialogue"

A therapist on the third segment of the Oprah Winfrey show on male sexual abuse brought out something I've done, but I haven't written about. He spoke about the wounded inner child. My friend David refers to it as "my little kid."

A few months after I began my healing journey, I had several dreams one night. In the first, I saw myself as an adult and I held an infant in my arms. I knew it was myself and I said to him, "I'm Cec and you're little Cecil. I'm sorry I wasn't able to take care of you in childhood, but I'm here now."

In the second, little Cecil was a toddler and sitting in a high chair. I stroked his cheek and said, "I couldn't help you then, but I'm here now."

In each dream the little child was older. In the final dream, Cecil must have been a teen, although he was still shorter than Cec. I took his hand and we walked down the street together. "You were so brave," I told him. "You survived and you're healthy. Your brothers didn't make it, but you did. I'm proud of you."

I stopped, turned to him, and hugged him. Then I awakened.

The meaning was obvious, but it started an inner dialogue with me. Even today, probably 20 years after that dream, I still talk to the boy. I remind him of his survival and thank him for not committing suicide (which he tried to do once).

"I like who I am now. I like who I am because you were brave and kept fighting. You didn't let Dad or others defeat you. You were alone and had no one but you kept on. I'm strong today because you were strong then."

Years ago I read something by Marsha Sinetar in which she wrote about the "invulnerables," whom she referred to as those who survived an oppressive childhood and by every law of human behavior should have failed.

I'm an invulnerable.

And I'm grateful to little Cecil, who showed his courage and refused to quit.

"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

Going Public

For adults who were abused as children, telling our stories can be powerful for us. It can be powerful for others, too, especially for those who haven't begun to talk about their traumatic past. They often have to cope with much shame and denial. To open up and shatter the silence of our past isn't easy, and some men never speak of it. They die with the secret buried deep inside.

Until I was able to talk openly about my abuse, I'd been haunted by the question: Will I ever be normal? I wondered if I would ever be acceptable to myself and to God. For many years I felt I wasn't worthy of God's love. Once I was able to stop thinking of myself as abnormal and unworthy (and it took a long time), I slowly accepted myself as worthwhile. I had moved from victim to survivor to victor.

When we tell the wrong people, we risk setting ourselves up to be mistreated again. As adults, however, we have choices. We don't have to tell anyone. We don't have to tell, but if we find the right people at the appropriate time, it can be extremely liberating.

Some men have been more prudent about choosing whom and when to tell. The second therapist at our state-sponsored group said at our final meeting, "Tell it on a need-to-know basis. If you think it will make the relationship better or clear up problems, tell. Refuse to give information to people for whom it would have little meaning."

--excerpted from When A Man You Love Was Abused by Cecil Murphey, Kregel Publications, 2010, pages 152 and 153.

"Will It Ever End?"

I asked that question a few months into what we now call my recovery period. The pain was intense. In some ways I felt victimized a second time. "I had to go through that as a kid," I said to my wife. "Now that I understand what was going on, it hurts even worse."

Maybe it wasn't worse; maybe it only felt worse.

And the pain went on a long time. I didn't keep any record, but the most intense period was probably about two years. I had opened the door and I couldn't shut it. I knew I had to keep going.

I've long moved past the pain. The memories have begun to dull the way most memories do. That's one powerful reward for pushing forward. But there's more.

I have healthier relationships with my wife and my family. I understand friendship on a deeper level than ever. But most of all, I have a good life. I like being alive and I like who I am.

The journey has been worth it, even with the pain.

When Is Healing Complete?

Is any man totally healed from childhood molestation? I don't know. I can speak for myself and say, "Not quite." I no longer feel the pain. Occasionally--and less frequently as time goes by--I have a flashback of an episode from my childhood. Even when I have one, it comes more like a memory of something that happened in the past with no heavy emotion tangled up with it. Despite that, I can sincerely say I've been healed....

First, I can usually talk about my sexual abuse without tearing up. I don't feel strange or odd when talking about the experience. To the contrary, speaking about male sexual assault, and especially when I tell about my own, strengthens me.

Second--and some men never make this stage--I look back and thank God. I'm not thankful for the abuse, but I am thankful for the good things that have come out of my dealing with it.

--excerpted from When A Man You Love Was Abused by Cecil Murphey, Kregel Publications, 2010, page 162.

Moving Beyond the Abuse

"It's the past. Forget it and move on," my youngest brother, Chuck, said to me. We had both been sexually assaulted by the same person. He didn't admit being sexually molested, but he didn't deny it either. On the few occasions when I tried to talk to him about it, his answer was, (1) "You can't undo the past," (2) "We don't have to think about those things," or (3) "That stuff happened back then." His words implied that we need only to forget the past, leave it behind, and it's gone.

If only it were that simple.

Chuck died after years of trying to cure his pain through alcohol. I don't know if the pain he tried to medicate was the abuse, but I suspect it was. On rare occasions when he was drunk, he made oblique references to "that mess in childhood."

Outwardly, Chuck wanted to get past the sexual molestation and get on with his life. So why didn't he "move on" with his life?

I had a second brother named Mel, also an alcoholic. He was married five times and died of cirrhosis at age 48. Unlike Chuck, Mel wouldn't talk about our childhood. "There's nothing back there to talk about," was the most he ever said.

I write about my two brothers because both of them seemed determined to get past the abuse of childhood by forgetting, denying, or ignoring. That approach doesn't work.

We don't forget—not really. We don't forget because childhood abuse affects our lives and shapes our attitudes about people and relationships. Some guys want to hurry and get over it, but it's not something to get over and to move on.

Abuse happened to us. Until we accept it and face what it has done to our lives, we don't really move forward. We only live unhealed lives.

Cecil Murphey's Story (Part 2 of 2)

I want to point out why I think my healing began when it did. Shirley had been the first person in my life that I ever felt loved me without reservation. I didn't have to be good, act nice, or behave in a way to win acceptance. I had that simply because she loved me. Although it took me a number of years to trust that love, I know I couldn't have faced my childhood if she hadn't been there to encourage me and to hold my hand.

David was the second person. We had been friends for eight years before my memories began to return. When I tentatively opened up, he didn't push or try to fix me. Although I can't explain how, he enabled me to trust him and to open up.

From Shirley and then from David, I slowly began to trust others. I could never have done it without that supportive love behind me.

Over the next three years, I shared my abusive childhood with a few others. One of them, Steven, led the small, weekend group at Oglethorpe University in Atlanta, Georgia. He lives in the northeast, but we regularly phoned, wrote, and later e-mailed. Five times, he and I met for a weekend just to talk about our childhoods and to open ourselves to further healing. During those early years, some events were so overpowering I cried more than I talked. More than once I wished I were dead.

At the time, I was so filled with my own pain I had no realization of what Shirley was going through. She was hurting and she had been hurting for years. Whenever one of my odd acts of behavior occurred, she blamed herself for doing something wrong, even if she couldn't figure out what it was. Yes, both of us had become victims of my childhood abuse.

Once I crept out of the morass, I realized three important facts. First, I was safe and no longer feared the terrors of childhood. Second, Shirley understood as much as anyone who hasn't had the same experience could understand. Third—and the most important—Shirley loved me without demands or conditions. Because of her, I had finally found a safe place grounded in reality. When I wanted to deny that the abuse had really happened, she infused me with courage. When I wanted to quit striving for wholeness, Shirley affirmed me by little things, such as holding my hand or letting me see the tears in her own eyes.

Shirley's unconditional love helped me go through the stages from anger to acceptance and eventually to forgiveness of my perpetrators (both now dead).

I'm thankful for David's loving friendship, but Shirley was the person I lived with, and the one individual with the most power to have hurt me. Not once did she reproach me or lash out, and I'm thankful to her for that. The quality of that love enabled me to accept God's unconditional love. Because of my wife's support, I slowly moved forward until I could say, "I know that God loves me, that I'm worthwhile, loved and accepted by my Heavenly Father."

Through the years, Shirley suffered because of the effects of my abuse. Even now I sometimes feel sad because of the pain she's had to go through, especially during those dark years when she had no idea what was happening. She silently accepted blame and wrestled with her own issues of self-esteem and failure. It was so unfair, and I owe her so much for being there, for being God's instrument, and most of all for being the human link that joined my hand with that of a loving Father.

Cecil Murphey's Story (Part 1 of 2)

In some ways I'm one of the lucky male survivors: I forgot what happened to me. As I would realize later, it became my method of survival. For years the pain of abuse lay buried deeply. Despite the repression (which is what forgetting is), I grew up living with the effects of the abuse, even though I no longer remembered my abuse until a series of emotional disruptions in 1985 brought them to the surface.

My memories didn't begin to surface through the intervention of a therapist. An area of controversy today, called the False Memory Syndrome, suggests that many who claim childhood abuse have "false" memories inadvertently planted by therapists. Even though my best friend, David Morgan, was with me from the beginning of my healing, he carefully avoided any intervention. One of my brothers and two of my sisters later corroborated many of my childhood memories.

Those abusive experiences had left their mark on my life. Like thousands of other abuse victims, I struggled because of my

• lack of trust
• fear of abandonment
• sense of loneliness and aloneness

I became a serious Christian in my early twenties. Months after my conversion, I met Shirley and we later married. We had five or six problem-free years, but a single event changed our marriage. I had been gone for nearly two weeks and when I came home, Shirley was in bed. I climbed in beside her. In the dark, she turned over and touched me. I froze.

Feelings of anger and revulsion spread through me—such a thing had never happened before in our marriage. I couldn't talk about it, and I couldn't respond to her. I pushed her arm away and mumbled something about being exhausted.

I lay awake a long time trying to figure it out. What's wrong with me? I asked myself repeatedly. No matter how much I prayed, I couldn't understand my reaction.

Over the next several years, occasionally I had similar reactions. Looking back, I realize it happened only when she initiated any affection that I hadn't anticipated. Each time I froze, I felt guilty, questioned my masculinity, and silently begged God to show me what was wrong with me. Slowly my seemingly irrational feelings decreased, and life seemed to take on a loving normalcy again.

One day I went out for a 12-mile run. I came home crying. The painful past finally broke through. I had a memory—vague, unclear, but a memory nonetheless—of the old man undressing and fondling me. I also remembered the female relative who assaulted me. Over the next few months, other childhood memories crowded into my consciousness. Those remembrances hurt, and I had never before felt such inner pain. Even though engulfed by shame, embarrassment, guilt, and a sense of utter worthlessness, I had to talk to someone. Haltingly, nervously, I told Shirley.

Once she got over the initial shock, she said exactly what I needed to hear. "I don't understand this, but I'm with you."

Of course she didn't understand. How could she? I didn't even understand myself.

I also told David and he hugged me. I don't recall anything he said, but I knew he was there with me and would be at my side as I slayed the dragons of my past.

Introduction to Shattering the Silence

If you've been sexually abused or you love someone who was abused, this blog is for you.

I started this blog to reach out to men who face the hurt and sometimes the shame of childhood sexual abuse. Several other male survivors have agreed to join me in sharing their journeys and the lessons learned.

We invite you to tell your story or to ask questions to help you in your recovery. You may use your name or post anonymously.

I begin with my story.

For a long time I felt different, as if something inside me hadn't been wired correctly. "What's wrong with me?" I must have asked myself that question thousands of times over the years.

Some days I felt as if I wanted to die; other days I didn't know if the struggle was worth it. I can now say it was worth the fight. I also believe the only way we can find healing from our stolen childhoods is to face our suffering and abuse.

I didn't face up to the reality of my sexual abuse until I hit 50. The hurt and damage of the past finally broke through—slowly and with fragmented memories. Later I spoke with one of my sisters, who confirmed many of those painful memories.

I had been fondled regularly by a female relative until I was about four years old. When I was six, an elderly man rented a room in our house. He abused me and my sister, who was four years older. She told on him and Dad beat up the man, threw him out of the house, and threatened to kill him if he saw him again.

My father was also an alcoholic—a brutal one when he drank. Out of seven children, three of us became his primary targets for regular beatings.

With that kind of background, I sometimes wonder how I lived within the range of normalcy. My only response is that God was with me and took me through that horrendous time.

When I was ready to face my past, two people accepted my brokenness. My wife, Shirley, and my best friend, David, lovingly supported me, allowed me to cry, and reminded me that they loved me.

Later I met other men who had been abused and as I disclosed my pain, they trusted me with their stories. Many of us found healing through talking with other survivors.

We invite you to share with us on this blog. We're open to discuss any topic that pertains to male sexual abuse.