An Email from James

The following is an email I received from James Fitzwater in response to the post titled “Naming Myself.” James gave me permission to share his words. (Cec)

* * * * *

Hi, I’m James.

Almost 5 years ago, my wife and I had come to a terrible place in our relationship. I was incapable of developing intimacy. In my mind I blamed her for her disagreeable attitude. Things were spiraling downhill fast as among other things she threatened divorce, left me and the kids a few times, and occasionally slept in the closet. As I tried to understand her behavior, it was suggested that she might have a personality disorder. I became convinced that this was the problem and sought pastoral counseling. When she ran across my email and found out that I had labeled her with a mental illness, she became angrier.

My wife was convinced that I was gay and wanted me to tell her what was going on with me. One night she was determined to get an answer, and under threat of divorce hours into the night—turning lights on and off and throwing water on me—I broke down and confessed that I was sexually abused. I felt relieved to not be in denial, or having to keep my secret any longer.

It has been a long journey of seeking help, joining and leaving a survivor’s group, CR, marriage counseling, and still having significant moral failures before a divorce this year. Now I realize my wife’s issues were primarily brought on by my issues. Beginning in June of this year with Not Quite Healed, I began a real recovery journey finally surrendering to Jesus. Now I’m in therapy, a sex addicts group, Celebrate Recovery, and a home Bible study group.

Sharing my story has been very difficult, the consequences of my sins almost unbearable, but those steps were necessary to get me on a healing journey. They were a tremendous grace extended to me. I am grateful for the mercy I’ve received, the strength to make changes, and the hope that I now have. Taking it one day at a time.

"That Didn't Happen."

One of the hardest blows to our healing occurs when a family member says, "That didn't happen. He would never have done such a thing." Occasionally I receive emails from survivors who've been ostracized from their family for saying such terrible things "about your uncle Harold."

*Eldon had gone through more than two years of counseling, regularly attended Celebrate Recovery, and began to refer to his dysfunctional childhood on his blog. "Until you admit that those terrible things didn't happen, we want nothing more to do with you," his father said. "Unless you stop writing such terrible lies, you're not welcome in our home."

Four years have lapsed and he has no contact with his family of origin.

"Their words hurt," he said, "and I miss them. I still love them." They returned his letters, and because they had caller ID on their phone, refused to answer when he phoned them.

Eldon had a good job, married a co-worker, and they have a three-year-old son and an infant daughter. "No one in my family has ever seen them, and maybe they never will."

As sad as Eldon was in telling me, I admired his courage for not backing down. "It happened to me and I can't deny the truth."

I wonder how many Eldons have been cut off from their families for being truthful.

Even if it's only one, that's still too many.

A Response to "Fractures"

(This post comes from Duane and was written in response to a post from John Joseph called "Fractures.")

My wife read this post and said, "I finally understand the part of your personality where you can be 3 different persons with 3 different ways you act out. At times you were that 5 year old boy again."

My wife has stood beside me but my problems are too much for my family of origin to understand as they don't want to admit that this could of happened. They're the reason I have had a hard time moving on with my life. There is the idea that if people would find out I would bring dishonor to my mother; my father has passed.

I didn't tell anyone until I told my wife. She could not believe I kept this from her for 30 years of our married life. I sometimes ask God, "Why did you let this happen to me?"

Now I feel if I can make it through this and have a family of 5 children and 9 grandchildren. They're my true family that God has seen me through this and he is blessing me in my life.

The last 4 years in therapy have been what I needed, but about the time I think I'm healed and can stop seeing my therapist, I pull back another layer of problems that my abuse started.

The hardest thing I ever did was to talk to my children who are now grown and ask them, "Did I ever abuse you as a child or when you lived in our house?"

Thankfully, they all said no, but I had to be sure because I had learned to block things from my memory that were associated with my abuse. I am here to say that I realize that I am a survivor and that it was something I can't change from my past, but I can choose to rely on Jesus, my wife and children and the friends I have been able to tell. If you need something to help out I think CELEBRATE RECOVERY is a good place to start.

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.

Rebuilding My Core

(This post comes from a reader named Mark.)

Standing in my kitchen, I feel the tiredness of this old house. Almost a decade ago I moved back into my childhood home to take care of my ailing parents. They are gone now; I’m still here.

This house is where my sexual, emotional, and religious abuse and physical neglect took place. During those years, the house wasn't ever clean or orderly. The walls were dirty with faded paint and torn, greasy wall paper. The kitchen ceiling had a gaping hole surrounded by sagging plaster. Old linoleum floors were cracked and peeling.

There’s been a lot of changes made to the house since then. I keep it (mostly) clean and neat. Dirty walls have been updated with fresh paint. The ceiling’s been replaced. The floor covering is new. On the surface, there is little similarity to the house I grew up in. But no amount of remodeling will change the reality of what occurred within these 1,100 square feet.

Many abuse victims try to cover up the damage done to their souls and bodies by pursuing job promotions or more degrees, by investing blood, sweat, and tears into building a killer physique, or by changing relationships, or burying themselves in addictions. I’ve been there. (Not the killer physique part.)

No matter how much effort we pour into making ourselves look good or successful, or how much we try to make our pain stop, we still know that underneath the many layers is a scared child wanting to be loved and accepted. Our hearts are broken.

My heart is healing as I open up my pain and memories to trusted friends and my Celebrate Recovery group. I’m changing for the better as I share what was done to me, and admit the wrong choices I made trying to fix myself. I’ve formed friendships with other men who understand abuse. My relationship with God is growing.

Although the facts of my past won't change, my heart is healing. Repainting the walls of my house doesn't change its core structure; the healing of my heart is rebuilding my core. I accept that I am a man whom God has created with value and worth. A man who forgives, receives and gives love. A man standing for my own freedom, and for the freedom of others.

I may still live in the house of my abuse, but I am no longer defined by its walls.

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."

Denny's Forgiveness Experience

In my previous blog, I asked if someone would write about their experience of forgiveness. This came from Denny.

* * * * *

From preschool to junior high I shared a bedroom with my brother who was four years older than I. I was a "late bloomer" and Matt delighted in ridiculing my sexual immaturity. He insisted that I was less than fully male.

Because of a disability from birth I never attended a gym class, was excused from military service, seldom experienced a locker room as an adolescent or adult. So I believed his words that I was unacceptable as a man. This perceived defect goes far beyond the physical. It has warped my emotional, mental, social, and spiritual view of myself.

Consequently, the relationship between my brother and me has been shallow and cool. We never discussed his abuses. He may have wondered why I remained distant. I think he knew.

About a year ago Matt was hospitalized. During the recovery from surgery an internal infection went undetected. There were several setbacks. After many weeks of hospitalization he was transferred to an inpatient facility where another problem was detected and he was hospitalized again. He eventually died.

I had seen counselors, dealing with impaired masculinity issues, depression, and other struggles. Through counseling and Celebrate Recovery, I realized that none of us deserves forgiveness.

While Matt was hospitalized following surgery I phoned his room. As our conversation neared an end I realized there was no guarantee that there would be more conversations. I told Matt that I loved him. It was the only time in my memory that I had ever said it.

There was a long pause, then he said, "I love you, too, Denny."

"Who Am I?"

(an encore post by Cecil Murphey)

"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.

"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.

Flashbacks and Dreams

(This post is an excerpt from an unsolicited email from Mark and is printed with his permission.)

I recently read your book Not Quite Healed. I have always had a brief memory of sexual abuse that occurred when I was 4 or 5 years old. Two years ago I entered a Celebrate Recovery program to begin to deal with out of control porn addiction, same-sex attraction, and a host of fear and anxiety.

I began to experience flashbacks. At first I didn't understand what they were. My sponsor is an abuse overcomer and was able to get me helpful information on flashbacks.

It wasn't until reading your chapter on flashbacks and dreams that I realized you men were speaking my "language" and describing my experience.

Not only that, but I also realized that given my memories, and the additional evidence of the flashbacks, it is right for me to say that, to the best of my understanding, I was raped as a young boy.

Beginning to use that ugly word rape has brought peace. I'm no longer fighting and doubting myself. I am allowing myself to accept that I was a victim.

Thank you both for your book, for your vulnerable honesty.

Mark

"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.

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."

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.

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."

"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.

Dan Breaks His Silence

(By Dan, Des Plaines, IL)

I never told my story to anybody. I heard you on radio and had to write something. You made me get it that I have to talk about what happened to me. It hurt and I still hurt and I'm 37. My Sunday school teacher started doing things to me when I was only 10. I was big for 10 and maybe that had something to do with it. He kept at it until he got sick with cancer. He told me that no one would ever love me as much as he did.

I know he was wrong and what he did was bad, but I can't forget what he did to me for 13 years.

I go to a different church and they have a group called Celebrate Recovery. I am better because of them but I still hurt.

David Arakelian's Story (Part 2 of 2)

(By David Arakelian)

Liz and I met at a church service in Boston. A short time later, we were married. I told her about my past and she accepted me.

I didn't foresee that a friend would set me up for online porn and cybersex. Almost immediately, I became addicted. The effects of my addiction tore at my soul and at the fabric of our marriage.

As a child I believed in Jesus Christ. My family was both Eastern Orthodox and the United Church of Christ. Before the abuse, I felt that I could go to God for help.
After the abuse, I hated God and believed he was against me and I blamed him for taking my mother when I needed her. I also blamed God for allowing the sexual abuse.

Liz and I went to Hope '99 (a local Christian outreach center), not sure what we were looking for. Ultimately, people prayed with us and led us to the Lord. We were baptized a month later. Jesus knew everything that I'd done and took away my guilt and shame. Despite that, I continued to struggle.

Liz and I joined Real Life Ministries Church. I told our pastor, Jim Putman, about my background and he wasn't put off because of my past. I felt like a leper, and yet Jim hugged me with a pure, brotherly love.

One afternoon, I was scheduled to meet with Jim, but instead met with another staff member. I'd messed up again and felt so guilty I didn't want to meet with either of them.

I was afraid of their responses, so I hurried out of the building. I locked myself in our van. Liz rushed out of the church toward the van with the other staff member behind her. Jim came to the van, talked to me, and convinced me to open the door.

He and I went into the church. We sat in the back pew and he put his arm around me. While I sobbed, he prayed. Jim told me that he expected me to turn my back on engaging in cybersex and looking at online porn—but he loved me and he was proud of me for trying so hard.

I could hardly believe his words: I'd never had another guy tell me that he was there for me, or that he loved me.

Our church started Celebrate Recovery (CR) and I received my 7-year chip in 2009. Jesus used CR to dig the junk out of my life. I have gained lasting friendships with other brothers by having gone through the 12 steps together. I’m co-leading a group, and I'm in seminary to get my MA in pastoral counseling.

Liz and I recently celebrated our 17th wedding anniversary. Other changes have occurred in my life as well. Even though my human father and my abuser gave me warped pictures of God's true nature, I stopped seeing God as waiting to zap me. Instead, he healed me and now uses my woundedness to encourage others.

The Bible says, "[God] 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 1:4, New Living Translation).

David Arakelian's Story (Part 1 of 2)

(By David Arakelian)

I'm a believer who struggles with sexual brokenness and the effects of sexual abuse.
During most of my childhood, my mother was extremely ill, and my father vacillated between being emotionally absent and raging at me. I had no close friends and spent most of my time playing alone in my sandpile.

I had extremely low self-esteem, and believed that I was less than other guys. I have struggled with body-image issues as well.

When I was 13 or 14, my next-door neighbor, the youth pastor of a church, started sexually abusing me. He said he wanted to lead me to the Lord. After he sexually abused me, he'd tell me, "Now we have to repent, or else we'll go to hell."

I was alone in my grief about my mother's passing. The continuing sexual abuse left me feeling hopeless and powerless to stop it. I regularly felt suicidal and developed intestinal symptoms that mimicked my mother's disease. I was convinced that I was going to die at a young age. I was equally certain that I was bound for hell because of my involvement with homosexuality. The idea of death terrified me.

The abuse lasted until I was 17, when I went to college to study for the ministry. Other people seemed to be impressed by my knowledge of Scripture and of doctrine. I had answers for other people, but none for myself.

At the beginning of my freshman year of college, I met my wife. We both came from horribly dysfunctional homes. My wife's father was an alcoholic, who made it known that he was going to divorce his wife as soon as all of the kids were out of the house.

I had my own set of hurts, hang-ups, and habits. People from our church told my wife that it was morally wrong to bring children into this world, because of the overpopulation issues. That drove a wedge between my wife and me.

Her parents didn't like me and kept telling her to leave me. After three years of marriage, my wife left. She refused to talk to our pastor about the issues in our marriage. I didn't want the divorce, and didn't believe the issues were so bad they couldn't have been solved.

After we separated, I discovered adult bookstores, and various other places where sex addicts hung out.

I was hooked.

I became sexually active with other guys—almost daily. I was filled with guilt and shame. I was sure that people would be repulsed if they really knew the extent of my behavior. From other guys, I desperately sought acceptance, affirmation, affection, and a sense of belonging.

Later, I lived in a Christian community in Boston. I'd been horrible to my housemates. As my addiction worsened, I lashed out at them. My room was right off of the kitchen, and I was one of the few housemates that had their own phone. I talked on my phone with my bedroom door wide open. They could hear me telling others I hated my housemates and how much they were trying to restrict my leaving the community to go to my acting-out places.

Finally, members of the community told me that either I had to stop acting out, or I'd have to find a new place to live. I started going to SLAA (Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous) and gained sexual sobriety from involvement with other guys.

I thought that I was over my biggest problem, and that I could get on with my life.

"I'm Afraid"

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.